I’ve always loved the story of the walk to Emmaus. One thread I notice in it is risk. Jesus risked appearing as a stranger. He risked asking questions, being curious. “What are you discussing with each other while you walk along?” The travelers, in turn, risked talking to this unknown companion about their loyalty to a crucified man. This was a dangerous, treasonous revelation, one that, made to the wrong people, could have gotten them killed. They also risked revealing their deep disillusionment. “We had hoped that he was the one to redeem Israel.”

Then the stranger risked sharing a surprising and challenging interpretation of scripture and tradition. It was necessary, he said, for the Messiah to suffer. To be a companion instead of a hero, a midwife rather than a military leader. To free people not through force but with love. To refuse to be a rescuer, instead calling his followers to cultivate community, resurrection community that just rise up again and again to overcome deathly forces of isolation, fear and oppression. And then, having said his piece, he seemed ready to walk on. The travelers urged him to stay instead—to share the most intimate of spaces—a meal at home, a night’s rest. That choice to risk showing hospitality changed everything. As they sat down to eat, Jesus took one more risk, usurping the role of the host: “[H]e took bread, blessed and broke it, and gave it to them. Then their eyes were opened, and they recognized him…”

This gesture resembles the communion ritual, and the Jewish blessing of bread at the Sabbath meal. It reminds us that the table is a central setting for Jesus’ life and ministry in Luke’s Gospel. As one commentator quipped, in Luke, “Jesus is either going to a meal, at a meal, or coming from a meal.” ¹ Jesus notes at the beginning of the Gospel that people were accusing him of being a “glutton and drunkard”—an attempt at slander for sure but probably also suggesting how much he liked to enjoy himself (Luke 7:34). Jesus ate and drank with everyone—rich and poor, religious leaders, tax collectors, sinners, and women. Today’s story demonstrates that there was something revelatory about breaking bread with Jesus. Throughout all the discussions on the road, the disciples’ hearts burned, and yet their eyes remained veiled. It was only while at the table with Jesus that they finally recognized him.

I believe the risks that both Jesus and his followers chose to take in this story are important. This element of mutual risk is what makes walking, talking and eating with Jesus a unique and revelatory experience. Mutuality is a posture of body and soul that challenges society’s hierarchical power dynamics and forms a truly equitable and just community. Mutuality requires vulnerability and trust, truth-telling, solidarity and sharing.

To be honest about my own disillusionment and despair, my own need for resurrection in this Easter season, I feel more and more like humanity is on a runaway train speeding toward some kind of a cliff. Artificial intelligence is happening to us; we cannot or will not collectively claim time and space to reflect on its meaning, or to actively choose between its good and bad effects. In multiple overlapping ways, we are living beyond the ecological boundaries that sustain life on this planet, overwhelming our own life support systems. And the choice to provoke war? Has this escalating set of conflicts unleashed an unstoppable chain of destruction?
I want to expand on some things I said at the Maundy Thursday service. Ever since our experience of metro surge, I’ve been thinking about mutual aid. We’ve taken great risks this winter to care for each other, freely sharing food, money, and various other practical supports; offering presence, witness and protection. I’ve been wondering if the time is ripe to turn this emergency response into a way of life. Is this a unique moment of opportunity? A time when we can lean into nurturing alternative economies? An opening, in the face of all the forces beyond our control, to grasp agency, to develop sustainable local networks that are concerned with mutual flourishing rather than mindlessly devoted to profit and growth?

Mutual aid surely isn’t a new idea. Searching for a definition, I came across an excellent article titled “Mutual Aid 101” published by the CUNY Urban Food Policy Institute. They emphasize that mutual aid is solidarity, not charity. The charity model operates with an “us” vs. “them” mentality, treating people as victims and furthering dependencies while promoting white saviorism. Mutual aid instead calls for a collective, systemic struggle as a rallying point. Mutual aid groups involve all members in collaborative decision-making and leadership and look for collective rather than individual solutions. ²

What makes mutuality real is the element of risk, the fact that everyone involved is risking something. There’s nothing safe or comfortable about it. And yet, taking these risks is essential to our well-being. Because independence is a dangerous illusion. In Braiding Sweetgrass, Robin Wall Kimmerer, declares: “What happens to one happens to us all. We can starve together or feast together. All flourishing is mutual…” It strikes me that one important way to lean into the counter-cultural practice of mutuality is through storytelling. At last Saturday’s story slam, folks shared amazing stories about failure—which were also stories about gender, and about living with autism, about divorces, dating, eating disorders, about how society’s norms fail us and why we define success in such toxic ways, about the trap of expectations and the power of letting go, about how failure is necessary if we are to gain wisdom or build muscle. These stories risked being deeply personal while also revelatory in ways that truly resonated for the whole community.

During this season of Easter, as we continue to consider what it means to risk mutuality, to form cultures of community care, the worship team would like to invite you to tell a short story, a short, short story. We’re looking to hear from a variety of folks at the time of the offering in upcoming services—we’re looking for 60-90 seconds, 150 words or less. On the insert in your bulletin there are some prompts. Your story could be about … what mutual aid is what you need from community; what you want to give to create community; how we are inter-connected; a person whose ability to give or receive support is a model for you. If you have a story you’d be willing to share from the microphone sometime, reach out to me. If you would like to share your story anonymously, as part of a litany we’ll create, just write it on your piece of paper and put it in the offering plate sometime in the next couple of weeks.

Friends, in this Easter season, may we come to recognize the resurrecting presence of Jesus—as stranger and host, companion and guide, journeying alongside us, teaching us to bless, break and share, calling us to risk setting the table for our own mutual flourishing. Amen.

¹ “Commentary on Luke 24:13–35” by Greg Carey on Working Preacher
² “Mutual Aid 101: History, Politics, and Organizational Structures of Community Care” from CUNY Urban Food Policy Institute