“Stay With Us”

Road to Emmaus - Luke 24:13–35

(With thanks to Debie Thomas)

There is a phrase at the heart of this Gospel which is so simple, and yet so devastating, that it reaches across centuries and finds us exactly where we are.

“But we had hoped.”

“But we had hoped…”

Those are the words spoken by Cleopas and his companion as they walk away from Jerusalem. Away from the place of crucifixion. Away from shattered dreams. Away from everything they thought God was doing.

And if we are honest, we know those words.

We had hoped for peace ….and instead we see war.

We had hoped for stability…..and instead we see fear, division, uncertainty.

We had hoped the world would be kinder, safer, more just.

“But we had hoped…”

Debie Thomas one of my favourite theologians talks beautifully on this passage and she says this is the language of disappointment, bewilderment, and grief   - it is the language we speak when our expectations collapse and the future feels uncertain. 

And so these two disciples walk the road to Emmaus…not just a physical road, but a spiritual one. A road of disillusionment and grief. A road of leaving.

And it is there….precisely there…. that Christ meets them.

Not in the temple.

Not in triumph.

Not in blazing glory.

But on the road of disappointment.

And perhaps this is the first thing to notice.

The resurrection does not begin with certainty.

It begins with confusion.

I don't know about you, but I often imagine Easter as clear and radiant…..lilies, alleluias, everything resolved.

But Luke tells us something different.

On the very day of resurrection, these disciples are walking away. Still grieving. Still lost.

You see, sometimes personal resurrection takes longer than three days. 

And perhaps that is a word we need to hear.

Because we live in a world that still feels unfinished. Still broken. Still waiting.

Easter has happened.

But it is still unfolding.

Now notice what Jesus does.

He comes alongside them….but they do not recognise him.

And that is important.

Because it tells us something about the risen life of Christ.

He is present….but in some way and for reason hidden.

Near….but unrecognised.

Not absent. Never absent.

But not always obvious.

And this, too, is part of our experience. Well mine anyway…maybe yours as well? 

Christ walks beside us in the ordinary.

In the stranger.

In the conversation we didn’t expect.

But we do not always see him.

But then something extraordinary happens.

Jesus does not interrupt them.

He does not correct them immediately.

He does not say, “You’ve got it all wrong.”

Instead….he asks a question.

“What are you discussing?”

And then…..he listens.

He lets them tell their story. Their confusion. Their grief. Their disappointment.

Debie calls this the healing power of being heard.

Christ allows them “the balm of articulation.” 

And that is deeply important.

Because before resurrection becomes something we understand, it is something we are allowed to speak into. To question. To be confounded by. 

God is not afraid of our disappointment.

God is not threatened by our doubt.

God does not rush us past our grief.

He walks with us in it.

And only then….only then…..does Jesus begin to speak.

And what does he do?

He tells the story again.

But differently.

He takes their shattered narrative…..and places it inside the great story of God.

Beginning with Moses and all the prophets, he shows them that this was always the way.

That suffering is not the end.

That death is not the failure of God’s plan…..but somehow, mysteriously, part of it.

He widens their vision.

Because despair can often narrow our story.

It makes everything small. Immediate. Overwhelming.

But Christ expands it again….until their lives are held within something vast. Something eternal. Something hopeful.

And then Luke gives us one of the most beautiful lines in all of Scripture:

“Did not our hearts burn within us…?”

Not because everything is resolved.

But because something is awakening.

And then we come to the heart of this story.

They reach Emmaus.

Jesus makes as if to go on.

And this is extraordinary.

The risen Christ does not force himself upon them.

He waits.

He honours their freedom.

He “will not impose… will not coerce.” 

He waits for an invitation.

And they say:

“Stay with us.”

Stay with us, Lord…..because it is evening.

Stay with us…..because the day is nearly over.

Stay with us…..because we do not yet understand, but something in us longs for more.

Stay with us.

And it is then….only then…..that everything changes.

Not on the road.

Not in the conversation.

But at the table.

He takes bread.

Blesses it.

Breaks it.

Gives it.

And suddenly…..they see. They know

They recognise him.

In the breaking of the bread.

And for a parish such as St Margaret's that is sacramental, we know this is not incidental.

This is the heart of it.

Christ is made known:

In Scripture….yes.

But also, decisively and fully, in the Sacrament.

As the tradition has always held:

• He is present in the Word proclaimed,

• And in the Bread broken. 

This is Emmaus.

This is the Mass.

We gather.

We listen.

We are fed.

And our eyes are opened.

Our hearts set afire and healed.

And yet…even here….there is something wonderfully subtle.

Because the moment they recognise him….

He vanishes.

Why? Its difficult to know why.

Maybe its because now they know how to see.

They no longer need to cling to the visible presence…because they have learned to recognise him:

In the breaking of bread.

In the telling of the story.

In the burning of the heart.

And so they rise.

They turn around.

They go back.

Because encounter should always leads to mission. To sharing the good news. 

Despair sent them away from Jerusalem.

Hope sends them back.

So where does this leave us?

It leaves us on the road.

In a world that still says, “But we had hoped.”

But here is the good news:

That road is not empty.

Christ walks it.

Quietly. Gently. Patiently.

He listens to our grief.

He can if we let him reshape our story.

He waits for our invitation.

And he makes himself known…

Not in spectacle,

But in the sacramental life:

In bread and wine.

In word and prayer.

In companionship and conversation.

As Debie Thomas reminds us, God is present - sometimes...maybe often in the small, the everyday, the easily overlooked. 

So the question is not: Is Christ present?

He is.

The question is:

Will we recognise him?

Will we invite him?

Will we say:

Stay with us.

Stay with us, Lord, in this troubled world.

Stay with us, in our uncertainty and fear.

Stay with us, in our longing for peace.

Stay with us….

Until our hearts burn,

Our eyes are opened,

And our lives are turned again toward hope.

Amen