
What connection can there be between today’s gospel, Luke 24.13-35, and the General Election, to say nothing of the illustration, which shows a very Jewish Jesus at table with his disciples? Is this to be another of those highly-contrived discourses one occasionally hears from the pulpit when the clergy try very hard to be ‘relevant’? I hope not. In any case, I’m more preached to than preaching, being only a nun; but the gospel must speak to our everyday lives, which include politics, or we are living in a little bubble of our own making from which, for all our piety, we effectively exclude God.
The disciples on the road to Emmaus had an odd experience. Someone walked with them in their sorrow and distress whom they did not recognize, but to whom they instinctively warmed. True to their values of hospitality and welcome to the stranger, they invited him into their house to share their supper, and knew him then, as if for the first time. So far, so good. We all know those moments of recognition, I call them ‘Emmaus moments,’ when we have a kind of private epiphany. They tend to be both wonderful and challenging at the same time. For Cleopas and the other disciple, they were a revelation — not only of who Jesus was, but of the way in which the scriptures were to be interpreted in relation to him. Then, as with any biblical theophany, they were left apparently alone with a mission to fulfil, which involved another long walk that same evening, back to Jerusalem, to share their news with the Eleven. A moment of privileged insight also comes with great responsibility.
The calling of a General Election has been greeted with the usual amount of comment and instant interpretation. Some of it is predictably lightweight; some rather more substantial; and some a little troubling. For example, some of those weary of party politics have said they will not vote or will spoil their ballot papers as a protest. I myself find that questionable. It is not just that people died to win us the right to vote; not just that the recent Referendum in Turkey shows how fragile parliamentary democracy can be; but that the protest implied by not voting or spoiling one’s ballot paper is not really, to my way of thinking, a protest at all. It provides a comfortable feeling of not being part of the messy political process, but I question whether we have the right to do that, and whether it actually achieves anything. We keep our own hands clean, as it were, and leave the rest to go their own way, a bit like Pilate washing his hands at the trial of Jesus. I daresay there are some who can endorse every word of their chosen party’s manifesto; most of us probably have to decide which, on balance, we believe would be in the best interests of the country as a whole, the common good in other words, and that can mean swallowing some very unattractive policy pledges along with those we think right. We vote with many an internal hesitation but we do so because we believe that not to vote is worse.
How do we decide what will be in the best interests of all, of the common good? We can reread Populorum Progressio, one of the outstanding expositions of Catholic Social teaching of the last fifty years; or we can simply think about today’s gospel. The disciples on the road to Emmaus were clearly people of integrity. They read the scriptures; they lived good lives; they welcomed the stranger. Crucially, they put their values into practice. They were seekers of truth; and once they were convinced, they acted. We cannot dismiss the General Election as of no consequence to us or take refuge in a kind of moral isolationism. For all of us there is the prospect of several weeks of thinking really hard about matters many of us understand imperfectly, if at all. It will be hard work — especially if we are convinced we already have all the answers — but I don’t see how we can avoid it. With the right to vote comes the duty to exercise it responsibly.
And what about that illustration? I think it challenges many of our preconceptions. We tend to think of the rediscovery of the Jewishness of Jesus as a twentieth century phenomenon. To learn that it comes from twelfth-century England is amazing, and we can spend time thinking about the history of anti-semitism in this country and all the injustices perpetrated over the centuries. This morning, however, I would suggest another and simpler question to consider. What does it teach us about the welcome we extend to the stranger and alien, not just as individuals but as a nation state? What does the Emmaus story have to teach us about the values we will bring to making our electoral choices?







Most thought provoking. Thank you. It’s such a lovely story to dwell on and to ponder on our own ‘Emmaus’ moments.
Thank you.
The first time I have commented on your writings which I read regularly! It’s fine to sit and eat with strangers but I see the road to No 10 as dangerous. I might be sitting with the devil in which case my chances of converting him/her(!) are pretty remote. I shall be working and praying for the conversion of England to the common good which can never be found in the devilish capitalist policy of austerity x
Thank you for being a reader, and for commenting. The trouble is, as I know you know only too well, over the next few weeks we shall be treated to radically different assessments of what constitutes the common good and its diabolical opposite.
I will be praying that all those in England eligible will vote and pray they ask God to direct their hearts to make the right decision.
Thank you.
Ah sister, never underestimate the impact of your preaching here, breaking the written word for us to share. Even with tongue in cheek, there’s no place for the word ‘only’ in front of the word ‘nun’! Thank you for urging us to take up the mantle of our social responsibilities as we journey through Easter and Emmaus towards a general election. When listening to politicians, I ask ‘Who is resonating with the beatitudes?’, ‘Who stands with those who are on the edge, suffering, hungry, seeking refuge, dying?’ and ‘Who would stand in the shadow of the cross, outcast, mocked, but steadfast?’ “Who wants to extend the message ‘peace be with you?’ The gospels remind us to consider that anyone written off by society as a dead loss can be full of surprises.
Blush! But we really do need to do a lot of praying before the General Election, as well as thinking.
Once again, thank you for your teaching. I agree with the previous comment by “Galanthus” who states that you do not need to use “only” before your position of “nun”. As we might say in the U.S.A. using an enthusiastic African-American phrase:”Preach it, Sister!”
I have a question, though, about the art work. What are the features of this painting that identify Jesus as Jewish? Is it the hats that all are wearing? I’d love to know more about the way the artist has depicted Jewishness in this painting.
The notes accompanying the MS illumination state that ‘all are wearing … the characteristic Judenhut or Jewish hat’. I don’t know enough about English art of the period to know whether that is correct or not, although the depiction of Jewish men in later medieval Spanish art show a very similar hat being worn. It would be interesting to know whether wearing such a distinctive hat was obligatory or freely chosen. Perhaps an authority on English medieval history could oblige?
To me, the crucial statement is in your last two sentences, which to me encapsulate the fundamental issue of this election – the issue on which I will base my vote. Thank you for your clarity.
A footnote to the Emmaus story — I like to think of the two disciples as husband and wife; this would explain why Luke or his source do not give a personal name to the other disciple, and is more plausible than having two bachelors sharing a house. I see them as elderly, perhaps with poor eyesight and hearing, who don’t recognise Jesus until the lamps are lit and the table laid. As an eighty-two-year-old, I applaud their grit in making the long journey by night back to Jerusalem.
As ever, your understanding gives others insight as they travel forward.