Over the past couple weeks of Easter we’ve looked at two of those amazing post-resurrection
encounters between Jesus and His followers. First we had the first appearance of the risen Christ to
the two Mary’s, whose account wasn’t initially believed by the disciples. Then, after Jesus had
appeared convincingly to ten of the eleven remaining disciples, we had that dramatic encounter with
Thomas, who’d missed that first appearance. From that episode we now turn back the clock once
again to Resurrection Sunday. This time we have Jesus’ post-Resurrection visit with two people,
deep in thought, returning from Jerusalem to their hometown of Emmaus, two days after Jesus’
death. This particular account is only found in Luke’s Gospel.
In addition to being another case of historical evidence for the Resurrection, the sequence of events
which Luke describes carries with it a pattern that I think speaks volumes to our own circumstances
today. I’m indebted to Henri Nouwen’s wonderful book, With Burning Hearts, which I found to be very
inspiring.
There are five phases in this story involving the actions of Jesus and the response of these two
sojourners, Cleopas and the other one whose name is lost to history. As they walk the road, the
travelers’ minds are numbly darkened, but they’re also unsettled.
Because just that morning they’d heard of the strange account of the empty tomb, and angels
talking about Jesus actually being alive again. I can only imagine how surreal this all is to them.
They know without a doubt that Jesus had been killed—there was no question about Roman skill at
accomplishing this kind of task, and their own eyes certainly hadn’t deceived them. And these
accounts of him being alive must have been disquieting. Was this some kind of wishful thinking by
people stupefied by grief? Was it an effort to make sense of the unthinkable? Or dare they
entertain even an inkling of hope that this report could be true?
As the sun’s afternoon rays slant toward their faces, they walk and ponder, and things get even
stranger. Because a man overtakes them on the road. In their exhausted and grief-stricken state,
the travelers dimly see him as a stranger. As this stranger asks what they’re discussing with each
other, Cleopas pours out their story, but with a hint of exasperation. He’s astonished that this man
doesn’t even seem to be aware of the events that had just darkened the holy city. He says, “Are
you the only stranger in Jerusalem who does not know the things that have taken place there in
these days?” He describes the horrors witnessed just two days before, and the rumors of Jesus
being alive.
Then, an interesting thing happens. This man chides them for not putting two and two together. He
says, “Oh, how foolish you are, and how slow of heart to believe all that the prophets have
declared!” Then he explains that everything that had happened, needed to happen in order to fulfill
the Old Testament prophecies. What he does is that He reveals the truth about himself, the
Messiah. This is the first phase of the Emmaus story. He opens the Scriptures to them. Jesus
basically tells the story of himself, but there’s still no indication that they recognize him. The only
hint that something noteworthy is happening comes a bit later, when in wonder the travelers exclaim,
“Were not our hearts burning within us while he was talking to us on the road?”
So, as these things are being revealed, there’s something burning within their hearts. Yet they still
don’t recognize Him. Is this not the way it started for many of us? We all have our own diverse
stories of finding and being found by our Lord. For many of us, did we not first hear things about
Jesus, and experience a burning in our hearts--some intuitive recognition that something terribly
important was afoot? Here I can’t help but think of C. S. Lewis in his autobiography, describing this
keen sense of yearning within a fleeting moment of crystal clarity--the experience he called “joy.”
This feeling certainly doesn’t answer all the questions; it isn’t the fulfillment of the spiritual quest, but
it’s an ineffable nudging toward the One who alone is the fulfillment of our journey. The information
is there. We can put together an explanation of the Scriptures, and it tugs at us, yet something’s still
missing.
This leads to the second phase of the process. In Luke’s story the next thing that happens is this:
Jesus looks as if he intends to keep walking when the travelers come to their village. And the
travelers, at that moment in time, make a decision. They respond to the burning in their hearts and
say, “Wait!” In a breathless moment of yearning and the merest, tingle of hope, they urge him
strongly, they plead with him, “Stay with us, because it’s almost evening and the day is now nearly
over.” And in that deepening twilight, Luke reports that Jesus went in to stay with them.
Let’s look at what’s happening here. As Jesus reveals the meaning of the Scriptures and the role of
himself in fulfilling the prophecies, the travelers feel an indefinable urgency, and at the moment at
which they might part, they invite him to stay with them.
Jesus doesn’t invite himself, but as a gentleman, he waits for them to invite him. Remember that, as
of yet, they still don’t recognize him. But when they do invite him, he wordlessly joins them in their
home. And does he not do the same with us today?
We hear an explanation of the Scriptures. Something draws us to this story, to this man. We don’t
really know him yet, we don’t really know just who it is that’s created this burning in our hearts. Yet
there’s something familiar about him. We feel strangely compelled to invite him, and he accepts the
invitation, and comes and stays with us.
But the process is not yet complete. Because something dramatic happens as the travelers gather
in the comfort of home. There’s a role reversal. The ones who thought they were in charge find
that they’re really not. In fact, the guest becomes the host. When they’re gathered at the table, it’s
Jesus who takes the bread, blesses it, breaks it, and gives it to them.
I hope these words sound familiar to you. It appears that they’re familiar to Cleopas and his
traveling partner. Remember this: When he fed the 5000, Jesus had taken the loaf, given thanks,
and given it to them. And then a miracle had happened. For by the lavish generosity of God
incarnate there was food for all who hungered. And of course this action was repeated and
magnified on that blessed night on which Jesus instituted the sacrament of Holy Eucharist, the night
before his death. Jesus took the bread, and broke it, and gave it to them. Gave it to us. And
another miracle happened. Now, there’s food for all who hunger.
In John’s Gospel Jesus says “I am the bread of life; whoever comes to me will never be hungry, and
whoever believes in me will never be thirsty.” Jesus is the host, and the bread he gives brings us
eternal life. At the breaking of the Bread the meaning of his life and the pouring out of his life for us
is enacted, and even embodied. We’ve heard the story, we’ve invited the One who quickened our
hearts to stay with us, and the guest we’ve invited actually becomes our host, and He has a
wonderful surprise for us.
In Emmaus, as Jesus voices the words of blessing and Breaks the bread, the eyes of the travelers
are opened. The burning of recognition in their hearts is fanned into flame. The abstract markings
on the page are transformed into the face of Jesus! Can you remember when Jesus first put the
pieces together and revealed himself to you? For some it was like lightning. I’m lucky enough to be
one of those. For others, it was more subtle. Michele speaks of kind of “oozing into the Kingdom.”
But whether we’re oozers or lightning rods, Jesus reveals himself to us in response to our despair,
our seeking, our intense desire to have the spiritual pieces fit together in our lives. When we invite
Him, he responds, and he becomes the host. He becomes our truth-bearing Lord who himself is the
truth. He becomes our life-giving Savior who himself is the life. He becomes the only One for whom
our most apt response is delighted surrender, for the Lord of the universe has come into the heart
of our home to break bread and share Himself with us, and now we know him.
For us, as it was for the travelers to Emmaus, the moment all of this comes together is a peak
experience in our lives. And the certainty of its truth need never be taken away from us, because
we know that we know that we’ve had an encounter with the Lord through whom we were made.
This is vital, because notice what does not happen next in Luke’s narrative. He doesn’t write, “And
they all lived happily ever after.” Instead, Luke writes, “Then their eyes were opened, and they
recognized him; and he vanished from their sight.”
They’ve broken bread with the Savior, and just as quickly he disappears from their sight. Isn’t this,
too, how it often is for us? We have a dramatic experience of the Lord’s presence, and then just as
quickly he seems to disappear, at least for a while. How did the travelers respond? Did they
despair? No, they looked at each other in the reassurance of Jesus’ victory and said, “Were not our
hearts burning within us?” And “the same hour they got up and returned to Jerusalem; and they
found the eleven and their companions gathered together.” Luke doesn’t record any dialogue here,
but I picture Cleopas and his buddy looking at each other, and without hesitation, saying, “What are
we waiting for?” And they may be tired and it may be the end of the day, but their message simply
can’t wait. If they don’t tell someone soon, they’ll probably burst.
This is the fifth and final phase of the Emmaus story: They go and tell what the Lord has done for
them. What else can you do with the best news imaginable? You see, when we’re challenged by
fatigue, or by doubt; when this all temporarily seems pretty unlikely, what we can do is to remember
that precious instant when the Lord revealed Himself to us. We embrace this memory as the truth
that it is, whether or not it feels like the Lord is with us at the moment. We hit “reverse” and then
“replay” on the DVD player of our experience, and relive the assurance that we do have a
relationship with the Host at our table, and we invite Him back to our table, to His table.
We’ll once again be making that invitation in a few minutes as we celebrate Holy Communion. Then,
as we’ve been saying in our Eucharistic liturgy in the Sundays leading up to Easter, in our hearts let’
s invite Jesus to “be known to us
in the breaking of the bread.” Amen.
encounters between Jesus and His followers. First we had the first appearance of the risen Christ to
the two Mary’s, whose account wasn’t initially believed by the disciples. Then, after Jesus had
appeared convincingly to ten of the eleven remaining disciples, we had that dramatic encounter with
Thomas, who’d missed that first appearance. From that episode we now turn back the clock once
again to Resurrection Sunday. This time we have Jesus’ post-Resurrection visit with two people,
deep in thought, returning from Jerusalem to their hometown of Emmaus, two days after Jesus’
death. This particular account is only found in Luke’s Gospel.
In addition to being another case of historical evidence for the Resurrection, the sequence of events
which Luke describes carries with it a pattern that I think speaks volumes to our own circumstances
today. I’m indebted to Henri Nouwen’s wonderful book, With Burning Hearts, which I found to be very
inspiring.
There are five phases in this story involving the actions of Jesus and the response of these two
sojourners, Cleopas and the other one whose name is lost to history. As they walk the road, the
travelers’ minds are numbly darkened, but they’re also unsettled.
Because just that morning they’d heard of the strange account of the empty tomb, and angels
talking about Jesus actually being alive again. I can only imagine how surreal this all is to them.
They know without a doubt that Jesus had been killed—there was no question about Roman skill at
accomplishing this kind of task, and their own eyes certainly hadn’t deceived them. And these
accounts of him being alive must have been disquieting. Was this some kind of wishful thinking by
people stupefied by grief? Was it an effort to make sense of the unthinkable? Or dare they
entertain even an inkling of hope that this report could be true?
As the sun’s afternoon rays slant toward their faces, they walk and ponder, and things get even
stranger. Because a man overtakes them on the road. In their exhausted and grief-stricken state,
the travelers dimly see him as a stranger. As this stranger asks what they’re discussing with each
other, Cleopas pours out their story, but with a hint of exasperation. He’s astonished that this man
doesn’t even seem to be aware of the events that had just darkened the holy city. He says, “Are
you the only stranger in Jerusalem who does not know the things that have taken place there in
these days?” He describes the horrors witnessed just two days before, and the rumors of Jesus
being alive.
Then, an interesting thing happens. This man chides them for not putting two and two together. He
says, “Oh, how foolish you are, and how slow of heart to believe all that the prophets have
declared!” Then he explains that everything that had happened, needed to happen in order to fulfill
the Old Testament prophecies. What he does is that He reveals the truth about himself, the
Messiah. This is the first phase of the Emmaus story. He opens the Scriptures to them. Jesus
basically tells the story of himself, but there’s still no indication that they recognize him. The only
hint that something noteworthy is happening comes a bit later, when in wonder the travelers exclaim,
“Were not our hearts burning within us while he was talking to us on the road?”
So, as these things are being revealed, there’s something burning within their hearts. Yet they still
don’t recognize Him. Is this not the way it started for many of us? We all have our own diverse
stories of finding and being found by our Lord. For many of us, did we not first hear things about
Jesus, and experience a burning in our hearts--some intuitive recognition that something terribly
important was afoot? Here I can’t help but think of C. S. Lewis in his autobiography, describing this
keen sense of yearning within a fleeting moment of crystal clarity--the experience he called “joy.”
This feeling certainly doesn’t answer all the questions; it isn’t the fulfillment of the spiritual quest, but
it’s an ineffable nudging toward the One who alone is the fulfillment of our journey. The information
is there. We can put together an explanation of the Scriptures, and it tugs at us, yet something’s still
missing.
This leads to the second phase of the process. In Luke’s story the next thing that happens is this:
Jesus looks as if he intends to keep walking when the travelers come to their village. And the
travelers, at that moment in time, make a decision. They respond to the burning in their hearts and
say, “Wait!” In a breathless moment of yearning and the merest, tingle of hope, they urge him
strongly, they plead with him, “Stay with us, because it’s almost evening and the day is now nearly
over.” And in that deepening twilight, Luke reports that Jesus went in to stay with them.
Let’s look at what’s happening here. As Jesus reveals the meaning of the Scriptures and the role of
himself in fulfilling the prophecies, the travelers feel an indefinable urgency, and at the moment at
which they might part, they invite him to stay with them.
Jesus doesn’t invite himself, but as a gentleman, he waits for them to invite him. Remember that, as
of yet, they still don’t recognize him. But when they do invite him, he wordlessly joins them in their
home. And does he not do the same with us today?
We hear an explanation of the Scriptures. Something draws us to this story, to this man. We don’t
really know him yet, we don’t really know just who it is that’s created this burning in our hearts. Yet
there’s something familiar about him. We feel strangely compelled to invite him, and he accepts the
invitation, and comes and stays with us.
But the process is not yet complete. Because something dramatic happens as the travelers gather
in the comfort of home. There’s a role reversal. The ones who thought they were in charge find
that they’re really not. In fact, the guest becomes the host. When they’re gathered at the table, it’s
Jesus who takes the bread, blesses it, breaks it, and gives it to them.
I hope these words sound familiar to you. It appears that they’re familiar to Cleopas and his
traveling partner. Remember this: When he fed the 5000, Jesus had taken the loaf, given thanks,
and given it to them. And then a miracle had happened. For by the lavish generosity of God
incarnate there was food for all who hungered. And of course this action was repeated and
magnified on that blessed night on which Jesus instituted the sacrament of Holy Eucharist, the night
before his death. Jesus took the bread, and broke it, and gave it to them. Gave it to us. And
another miracle happened. Now, there’s food for all who hunger.
In John’s Gospel Jesus says “I am the bread of life; whoever comes to me will never be hungry, and
whoever believes in me will never be thirsty.” Jesus is the host, and the bread he gives brings us
eternal life. At the breaking of the Bread the meaning of his life and the pouring out of his life for us
is enacted, and even embodied. We’ve heard the story, we’ve invited the One who quickened our
hearts to stay with us, and the guest we’ve invited actually becomes our host, and He has a
wonderful surprise for us.
In Emmaus, as Jesus voices the words of blessing and Breaks the bread, the eyes of the travelers
are opened. The burning of recognition in their hearts is fanned into flame. The abstract markings
on the page are transformed into the face of Jesus! Can you remember when Jesus first put the
pieces together and revealed himself to you? For some it was like lightning. I’m lucky enough to be
one of those. For others, it was more subtle. Michele speaks of kind of “oozing into the Kingdom.”
But whether we’re oozers or lightning rods, Jesus reveals himself to us in response to our despair,
our seeking, our intense desire to have the spiritual pieces fit together in our lives. When we invite
Him, he responds, and he becomes the host. He becomes our truth-bearing Lord who himself is the
truth. He becomes our life-giving Savior who himself is the life. He becomes the only One for whom
our most apt response is delighted surrender, for the Lord of the universe has come into the heart
of our home to break bread and share Himself with us, and now we know him.
For us, as it was for the travelers to Emmaus, the moment all of this comes together is a peak
experience in our lives. And the certainty of its truth need never be taken away from us, because
we know that we know that we’ve had an encounter with the Lord through whom we were made.
This is vital, because notice what does not happen next in Luke’s narrative. He doesn’t write, “And
they all lived happily ever after.” Instead, Luke writes, “Then their eyes were opened, and they
recognized him; and he vanished from their sight.”
They’ve broken bread with the Savior, and just as quickly he disappears from their sight. Isn’t this,
too, how it often is for us? We have a dramatic experience of the Lord’s presence, and then just as
quickly he seems to disappear, at least for a while. How did the travelers respond? Did they
despair? No, they looked at each other in the reassurance of Jesus’ victory and said, “Were not our
hearts burning within us?” And “the same hour they got up and returned to Jerusalem; and they
found the eleven and their companions gathered together.” Luke doesn’t record any dialogue here,
but I picture Cleopas and his buddy looking at each other, and without hesitation, saying, “What are
we waiting for?” And they may be tired and it may be the end of the day, but their message simply
can’t wait. If they don’t tell someone soon, they’ll probably burst.
This is the fifth and final phase of the Emmaus story: They go and tell what the Lord has done for
them. What else can you do with the best news imaginable? You see, when we’re challenged by
fatigue, or by doubt; when this all temporarily seems pretty unlikely, what we can do is to remember
that precious instant when the Lord revealed Himself to us. We embrace this memory as the truth
that it is, whether or not it feels like the Lord is with us at the moment. We hit “reverse” and then
“replay” on the DVD player of our experience, and relive the assurance that we do have a
relationship with the Host at our table, and we invite Him back to our table, to His table.
We’ll once again be making that invitation in a few minutes as we celebrate Holy Communion. Then,
as we’ve been saying in our Eucharistic liturgy in the Sundays leading up to Easter, in our hearts let’
s invite Jesus to “be known to us
in the breaking of the bread.” Amen.
The Road to Emmaus
Aprul 06, 2008
Fr. Dan Tuton
Fr. Dan Tuton