Were Not Our Hearts Burning Within Us?
Luke 24:13-35
Two disciples walk a dusty road, their hearts heavy with grief. The dream they dared to hope for—the Messiah who would redeem Israel—has ended in a brutal cross and a sealed tomb. Now they make their way to Emmaus, seven miles from Jerusalem, not just in distance but in despair.
And then, a stranger joins them.
He listens to their confusion, their pain. “We had hoped,” they say. Three simple words that carry the weight of every broken dream and every unanswered prayer. We had hoped the cancer would go away. We had hoped the relationship would heal. We had hoped the job would come through. We had hoped the war would end. We had hoped…
The stranger doesn’t dismiss their pain. He walks with them through it. He opens Scripture, not like a weapon but like a balm. And their hearts begin to stir, even before they recognize him.
It isn’t until they reach the table, when he takes the bread, blesses it, breaks it, and gives it to them, that their eyes are opened. In that moment, the stranger is revealed to be Christ himself. And just as suddenly, he vanishes.
But the vanishing isn’t the point. The recognition is. Christ is risen. He has been walking with them all along.
And so they run. Back to Jerusalem, back to community, back to the others, breathless with wonder: “The Lord has risen indeed!”
The Road to Emmaus is more than a resurrection story. It’s a story of how Jesus continues to come alongside us, especially when we least expect him. He meets us in our grief, in our doubt, in our “we had hoped.” He speaks not only through Scripture but through companionship, through shared meals, through acts of hospitality.
We may not always recognize him at first. Sometimes Jesus shows up disguised as a stranger, a refugee, a neighbor in need. Sometimes he is found in the Word, and sometimes in the breaking of bread at a Eucharistic table or a kitchen table.
This story invites us to look again—at the road we’re on, the conversations we’re having, the people we meet along the way. It reminds us that resurrection doesn’t just happen in a garden tomb. It happens on the road. In our walking. In our wondering. In our breaking and sharing.
So today, wherever your road may lead, keep your eyes open. The Risen Christ still walks beside us. And when we dare to make room at our tables—for the stranger, for the weary, for the grieving—we just might find that our hearts begin to burn again.
Christ is Risen. Christ is Risen indeed. Alleluia.
