Were not our hearts burning within us?
No one is sure where Emmaus really is, or where it was, 2,000 years ago. There are three ancient sites that scholars point to as possibilities, located anywhere from three and a half to twenty miles west of that city that all Jewish people of the day, including Jesus’ disciples, saw as their Holy City – Jerusalem, a place of celebration and faith and renewal, but, following the crucifixion of Jesus, a terrifying, deadly place, the city that kills its prophets, a place where the disciples must remain in hiding or flee entirely.
Many of us know the iconic story in today’s Gospel – the Road to Emmaus. Two of Jesus’s disciples – one, Cleopas, is named, but the other never is – are traveling together, away from Jerusalem, a few days after Jesus’ crucifixion; they are desolate and without hope, unable to believe the news the women brought them, the rumors that the tomb is empty, that angels have appeared and Jesus is no longer dead.
The Road to Emmaus is a story that has followed me the last few years – because of our three-year lectionary cycle, this story kept showing up in the Sunday readings at moments when it seemed exactly what I needed to hear, moments when I was about to embark on my own journeys and was reminded that, even invisible, God traveled with me, a reassurance as I stepped into unknown territory, onto my own uncertain Emmaus roads, wondering if I was reading the map correctly, or if I had the right directions.
The Road to Emmaus is a powerful story in particular when we think and pray and reflect on life experiences through the lens of journey or pilgrimage, as we have been doing this past Lent – five of us, including Father AJ, literally on pilgrimage, about to finish walking the Camino de Santiago. Journeys, literal and metaphorical, change how we see ourselves and the world – journeys are challenging, exhausting, exhilarating by turns, and they always require us to give up something, sometimes to risk something. Journeys do not always go as planned, if they are planned to begin with. Journeys by their very nature pull us out of our comfort zones into places that are unfamiliar, landscapes that can be daunting as well as inspiring.
And yet, the Road to Emmaus is a story that isn’t just not about Emmaus – it is also not, at its heart, about the Road, at least not primarily. The story of the Road to Emmaus is not so much about the trip, but about who takes the trip with us. It is about relationship. And it is, as all journeys are, about transformation.
Two disciples, desolate and without hope, sad. They are walking west, away from Jerusalem. The man they trusted and believed in, followed, became friends with, has been executed. They are in danger themselves. The city they loved has become the city they fear, and they can’t set aside that fear to believe that perhaps the women were right – the tomb is empty. Maybe not all hope is lost. And then all of a sudden a stranger appears, walks with them, seems to know nothing about what has happened these last few days, which is odd, because who hasn’t heard about the crucifixion of Jesus? The irony is that this strange man who walks with them on the road actually knows much more than the disciples know about what has happened in the last few days. He knows that the crucifixion is not the end of his own – Jesus’s – journey. He knows, first hand, that resurrection happened. Even after this stranger listens to their story, and then gently admonishes them, “Oh, how foolish you are, and how slow of heart to believe all that the prophets have declared!” – the disciples still cannot see hope.
But they invite him, this person they know nothing about, to eat with them, to stay with them, overnight. It is growing dark, the evening has come, the day is nearly over, come eat with us. And it is when the stranger accepts their invitation, sits down at the table with them, shares a meal, lifts the bread and breaks it, that they see him for who he is – their friend and teacher is not only alive again, but he has been traveling for miles with them, sharing the grief and anxiety of their difficult journey, their heads turned away from the sacred city of Jerusalem. And the stranger whom they invited to be their guest has become their host, breaking the bread – because they invited him, he has now turned around and welcomed them back in the simple gesture of a meal. The guest becomes the host; the stranger who is shown hospitality shows hospitality in return; the stranger who is shown love gives love back.
The body of Christ, the bread of heaven.
Once again, everything is turned upside-down. The stranger turns out to be the most beloved of friends. The one who seemed to know nothing turns out to know everything. The one we thought lost was found, and he sits with us, radiating love, stepping back into the labor and rest and fellowship of our days, breaking a simple loaf of bread that is nourishment enough for the end of a day of walking, and the end of a day of grieving.
In the early days of the Church, those who chose to become baptized spent the 40 days of what we celebrate as Lent in study and meditation, preparing for baptism, searching their hearts, devoting their hours to growing closer with God and learning about the life they were about to step into. And when the day came, in the liturgy of baptism, they began facing west – the setting of the sun – and then they turned east, the direction of the dawn, turning, as Christ did, to new life in the breaking of the day.
And that is what Cleopas and the unnamed disciple do next, following this meal that feels a little bit like Eucharist, a little bit like another baptism. Jesus breaks the bread, opening their eyes to see him for who he is, and then he disappears. All at once, they see him clearly, and then they do not see him at all. And after this miraculous thing that has happened, the disciples, instead of staying put for the night, processing what has just happened, finishing up their dinner and getting sleep before starting on the road again the next day, they change direction – they set aside the journey to Emmaus they had planned, and they return to the road, after dark, setting their faces eastward again, heading back to the Holy City, to Jerusalem, which, while undoubtedly is still dangerous, is once again for them a place of hope and sacredness. As theologian N.T. Wright puts it, “…they turn around, to see the sun shining in full strength in the very place they least expected it.” Instead of resigning themselves to the coming of the night, the disciples turn back towards the morning.
A number of questions emerge from this story that we might ask ourselves today.
What is our Road to Emmaus? What is our current pilgrimage, exhausting and exhilarating by turns, taking us through unfamiliar, challenging places? What are the the things that grieve us, that set our faces toward evening instead of towards morning? What fears are blinding us to love? What anxieties and pain make us forget God’s constant presence with us?
And, in what strangers’ faces do we miss the face of Christ? When do we ignore those who travel the way with us? And when have we found that by inviting a stranger to share a meal, to share our journey, have we been unexpectedly nourished in return? What fellow pilgrims do we need to invite to share the table with us?
Let us pray.
Creator God, no matter how fearful our travels, you are ever present along the way; remind us that in welcoming the stranger we welcome you, and that in sharing the journey, we are nourished. Turn us ever toward the light of morning. In the name of your risen son, Amen.
Image: Duccio, 1308–1311, Museo dell’Opera del Duomo, Siena.
Sermon by the Rev. Cara Ellen Modisett, Easter III, 2023.
Resources:
William Barclay, The Gospel of Luke
Mikael C. Parsons, Luke
John Nolland, Word Biblical Commentary: Luke 18:35-24:53
Shannon Michael Pater in Feasting on the Word
C.F. Evans, Saint Luke
N.T. Wright, Twelve Months of Sundays
Amy Seibert, Jesus, the Stranger, Guest and Host
