Fourth Easter, 2005:

An old fellow was sitting beside his one-room shack alongside a country road and a lost tourist drives up and asked rather rudely, “How do you get to Roanoke?”

The old man takes his pipe out of his mouth and says, “Well, sometimes I walk, and sometimes my son-in-law takes me in his pickup truck.  I’m not sure how you’re going to get there.”

Cleopas and his unnamed companion knew the way from Jerusalem to Emmaus.  They had walked the seven-mile distance many times.  This time they stuck to the shadows, looking over their shoulders, and averting their eyes any time another traveler met them along the way.  Bad things had happened.  Their rabbi had been arrested, tried, and killed for sedition and they were his students.  Guilt by association might be enough for them to be the next ones arrested.  Maybe the best thing was to get out of town and let things die down a bit.

So, Cleopas and his fellow disciple head west, walking into the sunset, and talking about the horror of it all.  Exhaustion, stress, that empty feeling and just plain heartache can lead any of us to the assumption that a change of scenery would be just the ticket to deal with the problem.  People with addictions very often deal with their disease by taking what is called in the recovering community “the geographic cure.”  Unfortunately, geographic cures seldom work, because we generally take the problem with us.

Cleopas and his friend head toward Emmaus.  It seemed safer to be away from Jerusalem and the terrible things that had happened to their rabbi.  So, they seek a geographic cure.  It would be better in Emmaus.  Maybe they could find some solace and peace there.  The lengthening shadows of sunset brought some comfort, but the air also had a chill to it.

A journey, begun in complete gloom and despair, would become for these two a walk into absolute joy.  At some point along the way, the two were joined by a third traveling companion and he would make all the difference in the world to them.  Look at what happened.

As Cleopas and his friend walked and talked with Jesus certain things occurred.  First, their despair and heartache was relieved.  St. Luke tells us that the two men were depressed and dejected.  Most of the time, when those are the dominant emotions, we stand with heads and eyes cast down.  Jesus asked what they were talking about and Cleopas says, “Are you the only stranger in Jerusalem who does not know the things that have taken place there is these days?”  A stranger in Jerusalem, indeed!  Jesus is not trying to be coy or pedantic with them in his questions.  He just wants to know how they are interpreting the events of Holy Week and the first Easter day.  As they explain the events and as Jesus reflects on them with the two and as they looked back on the experience, they were able to say, “Were not our hearts burning within us while he was talking to us on the road, while he was opening the scriptures to us?”  The discussion with Jesus slowly filled them with new hope and joy.  When we find ourselves depressed and dejected we are invited to remember the internal dialogue that the Lord Jesus wishes to have with us.  Rarely can we bring joy to ourselves.

The second thing that happened to Cleopas and his friend was that the scriptures were opened to them.  There are many voices calling for our attention in this noisy world.  Some whisper despair and division, some call us to pay attention to only those like us, and others speak of giving up on things ever getting any better.  If we would hear the voice of Jesus speaking to us it will be as we read, mark, learn, and inwardly digest Holy Scripture.  It will be as we pray and meditate and strive to hear that still, small voice speaking to the inner person, the one down deep where we live and move and have our being; the one that has given us pretense and the charade we sometimes project to the world.  Jesus speaks to the honest person who is in need of comfort and direction and guidance.  Cleopas and the other disciple allowed the Lord Jesus to see and speak to that deep-down person.

The third thing that happened to Cleopas and the other man was that they issued an invitation.  “Stay with us,” they said.  Because of that invitation Jesus was able to serve as host at an ordinary meal, in an ordinary house.  There Jesus took ordinary bread and blessed it, broke it, and served it to them in a manner that they knew beyond doubt who he was.

Jesus can and very often does reveal himself to us in the usual and the unusual.  He may come to us in the caring touch of a friend in a moment of sadness, a phone call to wish us a good day, a card on a birthday, or a moment when a friend just sits with us and helps us get our bearings.  Of course, Jesus comes to us in times of worship and in the bread and wine of the Holy Eucharist.  Because of that invitation, “Stay with us,” Jesus was able to abide with them.  One of the most consistent things about Jesus is hat of gentleness.  He does not violate our personality, does not crash our party, and will not push himself on us.  We have been loved enough to have been given free will.  The famous painting, “I Stand at the Door and Knock,” indicates in a vivid, visual way, the absolute truth of the manner in which Jesus the Christ operates in this world; there is no knob on the outside.  If the door is to be opened it will be as the person on the inside hears and opens and invites him in.  That is true of us, as well.  We have the ability to ask Jesus to stay with us and can know that he will do just that. 

Cleopas and his companion learned a valuable lesson on the road to Emmaus.  Jesus is always a traveling companion.  He is the shadowy third in any conversation, the real presence to comfort and guide, and operates on the basis of invitation only.  Inviting him is may well mean that our eyes will be opened, our hearts may be set on fire, and our lives may take on new purpose and meaning.  And we will know him as he breaks bread for us and feeds us with his own broken body and shed blood.  It is that nourishment that allows us to get back on the journey toward life.  Amen.