The Stranger on the Road (A Meditation on Luke 24:13-34)

Bryan McInnis

Introduction:

As it is for many, college was a spiritually formative season of my life. Two

weeks before beginning my freshman year at Saint John’s University in

Collegeville, Minnesota, I was baptized into a faith that had failed to compel the

allegiance of my parents. As an only child, the Church became a sort of adoptive

family, and the primary voice leading me through those formative years. Saint

John’s is an institution with deep Catholic roots, still technically owned and

primarily operated by the Benedictine monastic community which has resided

on the shores of Lake Sagatagan for over 150 years.

Throughout my four years at Saint John’s, I found myself both enchanted

and disturbed by my experience within a Catholic community. The rhythms and

rituals were, for some, deeply meaningful and served as gateways into the

presence of God. But from my perspective, the religiosity seemed for most a

frantic attempt to appease a God whose default disposition was one of anger.

This concept of God didn’t pair with my personal experience. Like any spiritual

community, Saint John’s was a mix of saint and sinner, sacred and profane. It

was the writing of dusty devotees that formed in me a deep appreciation for the

Catholic tradition. And of those writers, it was Henri Nouwen who offered words

that spoke the clearest into the many-faceted experience of my four years in

college. Henri’s words speak to me still, and I hold a certain reverence for the

now tattered copies of his volumes I’ve proudly displayed on my living room

bookshelf.

During the spring of my junior year, I found myself caught in the onset of

an almost two decade battle with anxiety. I wasn’t sleeping well, had difficulty

navigating social interaction (even while leading the largest student-led ministry

on campus), and found myself wondering where God was in all of it. I would

often wind up scouring the shelves of the campus bookstore in a seemingly

hopeless search for answers. Several months earlier I had been introduced to

the writings of Henri Nouwen by our ministry’s worship leader, Nate. Nate and I

had roomed together for a semester…barely. Conflict between preachers and

worship leaders is so common it’s practically cliche; however, this was different.

Nate and I rarely had difficulties ministering together. We shared a deep respect

for the gifts God had given one another. The problems surfaced when we were

forced to spend extended periods of time together, which is inevitabile when you

live with someone. The conflict came to a head one evening. I was suffering

from a particularly difficult bout of anxiety, sitting on the couch in our one-room

apartment with dimly lit lamps creating a melancholy hue around me. Nate had

returned from a late dinner and must have felt the weight of my pain the moment

he walked through the door. “What’s wrong?” he asked as he discerned my

frame from across the room, “Nothing. I’m fine,” I snapped back. I’ve always

been a bad liar, but this time my lying was so poorly executed that it was

borderline offensive. I could feel Nate’s seething frustration as the moments

dragged on and he quietly sat at his desk to begin his homework. I finally broke

the silence, “Why can’t we just be friends, Nate?” My words had opened a flood

gate, and I knew it the moment those seven, single-syllabled words raced off my

tongue. Nate’s fingers ceased their tapping on his keyboard and he turned

toward me, “Because you don’t want to be my friend, Bryan,” he said sharply. I

was caught off guard by his honest words, “Of course I want to be your friend!

Why do you think I wanted to be your roommate?!” Nate spat back,

If you wanted to truly be my friend you would tell me why I

sometimes walk into the room and find you crying in the corner or

sitting alone on the couch with the lights off. If you wanted to be my

friend you would tell me why I hear you tossing and turning all night.

See Bryan, friends tell each other stuff like that.

Nate was right, I hadn’t let him in. And to this day, he likely has no idea that our

short conversation almost fifteen years ago set my life on a new trajectory. As

the anxiety deepened, I took Nate’s advice and turned to Henri. So there I was,

wading through the shelves of the bookstore hoping to find solace in some new

words. I’m not sure what caused my fingers to fall on Henri Nouwen’s tiny

volume, With Burning Hearts, but they did. I paid for the book before settling

into one of the blue leather couches just outside the bookstore. There were a

hundred places on campus that would have been better suited to embark on

such a journey, but my feet would only shuffle so far before Henri’s words

reached out to take hold of me.

With Burning Hearts serves as Henri’s meditation on the Eucharist (or

Communion) through the lens of Luke’s Easter Sunday story in chapter twenty-

four of his gospel. The story speaks of two heartbroken travelers on the road

leading out of Jerusalem toward a forgotten town called Emmaus. Emmaus was

probably located somewhere in the Judean Hill County—a breathtaking slice of

land which rises and falls before finally settling on the Sharon Plain, the

threshold of the Mediterranean Sea. With Burning Hearts remains the only

meditation on this particular Easter Sunday story I’ve ever come across. Over

the past fifteen years, I’ve recognized that the account of these travelers’

journey provides a sketch of what ought to happen before, during, and after we

eat the bread, drink the wine, and obey the words of Jesus who said, “Do this in

remembrance of me.” But I’ve come to realize that this story speaks of so much

more. Simply put: the Emmaus journey is the journey of faith, the road from

sorrow, to revelation, and finally, to mission. In other words each of us are

somewhere on the road.

Since summer is traditionally a season when we tend to spend a

significant amount of time on the road, whether heading to cabins, vacation

destinations or across bike paths, my hope is that this devotional will serve as a

tool with which, no matter how much of the summer you spend on the road, you

might discover (just as the two travelers in Luke 24 did) Jesus is traveling with

you. So, please use this short booklet as a devotional journey through Luke

24:13-35. At the end of each chapter, you’ll find questions which will require

some consideration, and are specifically designed to be pondered individually,

or discussed with friends on fishing boats, the ends of docks, around campfires,

or to waste time during those long road trips.

As a pastor and member of the Aspen Grove Network, my prayer is that

these words (both the words of Scripture and the significantly less important

words I provide) will inspire a new depth of intimacy with Jesus, a new gratitude

for wherever God has us on the road, and a new commitment to return to

“Jerusalem” with burning hearts when summer has ended and our souls are

rested.

A Word of Warning

When I was a freshman in college my English professor, Sister Mara

Faulkner took her first look at a poem I had written. I was young, naive, and

relatively certain of my budding literary genius. Sister Mara read the poem and

coldly stated, “Bryan, we’ve got to get the lard out of your writing.” In other

words, I tend to waste a lot of words. My writing remains prone to obesity, and I

continue to learn that greatness is rarely found in the abundance of adjectives.

Forgive me.

In a “tip of the cap” to my favorite English professor, I’ve committed to

offering each chapter as a sort of daily devotional, limiting myself to no more

than 1,000 words. This hopefully ensures two things: First, that you’ll read (and

keep reading). Second, I’ll make Sister Mara proud. After all, writing (like a

vacation) is measured by quality, not quantity.

May God bless your summer, may His Spirit spur you on in acts of

kindness, humility, and generosity, and may you know the height, width, length,

and breadth of Christ’s love for you.

01 | Backstory

Now that same day two of them were going to a village called Emmaus, about

seven miles from Jerusalem. They were talking with each other about everything

that had happened.

Luke 24:13-14

I committed my life to following Jesus when I was seventeen years old. It

was April 7th, 1997. Like many who came before and after me, the moment I

first decided to follow Jesus came on a youth choir retreat. We had just finished

up a concert in a suburb of Dallas, Texas. Our 240 person ensemble had

successfully performed a catalogue of homegrown Christian songs thoroughly

laden with cliche and accompanied by hand motions—think: white gloves and

black lights. It was the 90’s, and I was too naive to know any better. Besides, all

the cute girls at my high school were part of the youth group, so even if I had

known how many stereotypes I was reinforcing through my participation in this

group, I wouldn’t have cared.

Some say it’s impossible to prove the existence of God. I laugh at their

ignorance. Here’s my rationale: my life was changed through the aforementioned

youth group. Despite the props, quasi-musical offerings, and the fact that the

audience at every concert we gave consisted exclusively of church staff (who

were probably forced to be there), the elderly (who are always supportive of

young faith), and distant relatives. If God can use this sort of spectacle I was a

part of, He’s definitely real. End of story.

I left our concert that night with deep-seated conviction that I was loved;

not loved like you know your grandma loves you, this was a weighty, equilibrium

shifting, destiny shaping love. After we had arrived back at our hotel, I shared

with my 240 peers what I believed God was doing inside me. I simply said, “I

feel loved like I never have before, and I know that this love is God’s love.” After

the sharing time was over (others followed me, speaking of similar experiences)

my youth pastor, an exuberant, authentic, mullet-toting and mustache-wearing

man named Pastor Paul, pulled me aside and explained a story: Jesus…Love…

Healing…Crucifixion…Resurrection…Restoration…Eternity. It was a story I had

never fully heard. And as Pastor Paul shared, I knew it was the truest story I’d

ever been told, a story that would shake bedrock of my existence, holding me in

its relentless grip throughout all the years that I have left. Today I’m thirty-four

and this rhythm: Jesus…Love… Healing…Crucifixion…Resurrection…

Restoration…Eternity is the rhythm I still choose to define me.

After Pastor Paul and I spoke, he gave me a token by which I might

remember the weightiness of what had occurred within my soul on that Texas

night: A purple W.W.J.D. bracelet, which, like those white gloves, I wore with

pride.

Looking back on that moment over eighteen years ago, I find myself

grateful God met me on that particular youth retreat and grateful my faith took

root at a time and in a place where faith in Jesus is a celebrated reality, where

Christianity is an accepted identity. Two thousand years prior to my moment in

that suburban Dallas hotel, there was a rebel named Jesus who claimed to be

the savior of the world. His fate was sealed when the High Priest asked him,

“Are you the Messiah, the Son of the Blessed One?” Jesus responded:

I am…And you will see the Son of Man sitting at the right hand of

the Mighty One and coming on the clouds of heaven” (Mk.

14:61-62).

Jesus’ usage of the Messianic prophecy from Daniel 7 to refer to his identity

sealed his fate. Jesus was deemed a blasphemer, heretic, and the sort of social/

political/religious threat that required execution, which of course meant His

disciples were also at risk. Though Jesus had predicted on three separate

occasions He would rise from the dead (Lk 9:22, 44; 18:32-33), those of us who

have experienced tragedy know how thick the fog can be which stands between

our eyes and the promise of hope.

Roughly thirty-six hours had passed since Jesus cried out, “It is finished.”

And certainly, in a different sense than Jesus meant, life seemed sufficiently

“finished” for the two travelers we meet in Luke 24. While they were not part of

the illustrious twelve, these heavy-hearted men were no less invested than Peter,

John, and Andrew. Jesus was never interested in calling half-hearted followers.

As Dietrich Bonhoeffer poignantly put it, “When Christ calls a man, he bids him

come and die.” This was as true then as it is today. Matthew, who left his tax

booth with money still on the table, Peter, who left his boat with so many fish

filling his nets that his boat was in danger of sinking, did what every subsequent

follower of Jesus must do: surrender everything.

On Sunday morning, after dawn had finished its slow advance down the

Mount of Olives, bathing Jerusalem in light, two travelers prepared to return

home. For the better part of three years they had followed the wild-eyed

Nazarene they had hoped might be the Messiah as he led them along the dusty

roads that wind throughout Israel—teaching, laughing, loving, and healing. At

night around campfires they would whisper to one another dreams of where all

this was headed—war, political upheaval, spiritual renewal, peace, the land

restored to its people. And now, all of it had vanished like the morning dew, a

faint memory of better times.

The two downcast travelers heading toward Emmaus that first Easter

morning had no idea what awaited them. Like me on that mid-nineties youth

ministry excursion, I hit the road with my peers expecting to enjoy a week away

from the soggy Minnesota spring. I, like the Emmaus Road sojourners, would

return with heart aflame and a life turned upside-down.

Questions:

1. Recall a time of failure in your life. Did you believe anything good would

come out of your pain? How does the benefit of hindsight change your

perspective on how God may have been present in the midst of your failure?

2. If you had to name the road you are currently traveling down in life, what

would you call it? Why?

3. In all likelihood, the Emmaus Road travelers were traveling back to their

hometown to start over. Talk about/journal about a time in your life when you

had to start over.

Words for further inspiration:

Lamentations 3:19-27 & Romans 5:1-8

02 | A Stranger

As they talked and discussed these things with each other, Jesus himself came

up and walked along with them; but they were kept from recognizing him.

Luke 24:15-16

Before our two friends experienced their hearts aflame with love (v. 32),

we find them filled with sorrow. And so it goes for many who inevitably walk the

road of faith: sorrow often provides the fertile ground for future joy. But grace is

difficult to discern when it begins whispering. Grace is best seen in hindsight,

because it has a precarious way of sneaking up on us. The two travelers,

immersed in trading tales of heartache, are approached by a stranger who at

first appears content to merely listen in on the various renditions of their pain.

Several months ago I attended a prayer session at a ministry founded to

help people process past moments of pain in their lives. I was eager to have

memories from my childhood, experiences that I had come to realize were

darkening my present, brought to the light of God’s love. Throughout the prayer

time, the ministers allowed me to explain each memory: the environment, what I

felt and thought, everything I could remember. I found it difficult to allow the

flood of emotions that had been buried beneath all those years to flow once

again. But the purpose of this ministry isn’t to simply remember the pain. That

would be cruel. Instead, after describing each memory, the minister would

encourage me to ask Jesus where He was in that moment of my life. Initially, the

exercise seemed odd. Each painful moment I described occurred prior to me

becoming a Christian. Jesus, I assumed, was probably hanging out with

someone else, someone who knew about Him. And yet, I found that each time I

asked, “Jesus where were you in that moment?,” I was shown He was invariably

close: protecting, comforting, and restoring my soul. I realized the greater pain I

could have experienced in those already painful moments was held at bay by a

love I didn’t yet know, but was present.

Two travelers journey back home with heads hung low, kicking stones

atop the broken ground as they make their way. A stranger approaches. And

even though their eyes kept from recognizing their beloved teacher and friend,

their ignorance doesn’t change the fact that He’s in their midst. Just because

God may seem distant, disinterested, or distracted from whatever it is you are

facing today doesn’t mean he isn’t walking in-step with you, matching your

tears, sharing the weight of your sorrow. The climax of the Emmaus Road story, I

pray, will help us find a bit of hope in the promise that, as we look back on

whatever fog of melancholy veils our eyes today, we will recall, as the two

travelers did:

Remember? Our hearts were burning with love the entire time…we

just didn’t recognize it.

Our two friends came from a long line of those who believed their sorrow to be

unending. The Jewish people had lived under the shadow of numerous empires

from 722 B.C. to 1948 A.D., almost 2,600 years of homelessness. When Jesus

stepped on the scene, this extended occupation was merely in its adolescence.

Jesus was a beacon of hope in a dark and cruel world. But Jesus wasn’t the

only young leader who drew a following. Israel’s legacy of loss and pain

frequently gave rise to wild-eyed radicals eager to restore Israel to its former

glory. Every couple of years some charismatic charlatan would lead a group of

misguided followers to rebel against the authorities, prompting the occupiers to

make them yet another bloody testimony to the cost of treason. The book of

Acts offers a brief snapshot of this pattern,

Some time ago Theudas appeared, claiming to be somebody,

and about four hundred men rallied to him. He was killed, all his

followers were dispersed, and it all came to nothing. After him,

Judas the Galilean appeared in the days of the census and led a

band of people in revolt. He too was killed, and all his followers

were scattered (Acts 5:36-37).

As the two headed West from Jerusalem on that first Easter morning, they were

beginning to believe Jesus was simply another emboldened revolutionary that

had been destined for destruction. The two had little hope their lives would bear

any significance beyond their years. They were scrambling to prepare their

hearts to suffer the mockery of those they had left in Emmaus the day the fiery-

eyed Rabbi passed through and invited any who were willing to follow Him.

Perhaps it was naivety, misguided youthful zeal, or a selfish desire to experience

more of life than their tiny village could offer them; whatever it was that drove

them to the feet of Jesus, they were now on their way home with their tails

tucked between their legs. The moment they met the “stranger” was the very

moment their lives probably felt as far from significance as they ever had, and

yet, in the darkest night of their souls, they were closer to hope, to truth, to

adventure than they could have imagined.

Questions:

1. Think of a painful moment from your past. Close your eyes and ask Jesus,

“Show me where you were in this? What were you doing?” Wait on Him and

write down what you see. Share it with someone you trust.

2. Have you ever been forced to admit embarrassing defeat to someone? What

was that experience like?

3. Have you ever heard the phrase, “The night is darkest just before the

dawn.”? Do you agree with that statement? Why/why not?

Words for further inspiration:

Isaiah 43:1-4 & Romans 8:31-38

03 | Questions He asked them, “What are you discussing together as you walk along?” They

stood still, their faces downcast. One of them, named Cleopas, asked him, “Are

you the only one visiting Jerusalem who does not know the things that have

happened there in these days?” “What things?” he asked.

Luke 24:17-19

One of the more problematic passages in the Bible (at least for those

interested in practicing the rhythms of Christianity) is found in Matthew 6:7-8.

Jesus says:

And when you pray, do not keep on babbling like pagans, for they

think they will be heard because of their many words. Do not be

like them, for your Father knows what you need before you ask

him

Jesus’ words beg a very important question, “If God already knows what we

need, what’s the point of praying?” I wonder what happens in your heart when

you are confronted with the fact that your prayers are never news to God? Most

Christians settle on one of two options: Either they throw up their hands,

perplexed by the apparent senselessness of prayer and resign themselves to

spiritual apathy while waiting around for God to give them (or not) what He

already knows they need. Or they settle into a religious rhythm fueled by the sort

of prayer aimed at getting God off their backs. Perhaps they’ll admit their

petitioning isn’t informing God of anything He doesn’t already know about;

nevertheless, since they are commanded to pray, they pray.

But what if there were a third way? In Luke 24, the stranger asks the two

traveling toward Emmaus a simple question: “What are you discussing together

as you walk along?” Long before recognizing the stranger as Jesus, Cleopas

(the only named member of the pair), responds to the stranger’s question with

one of his own, aimed specifically at making Jesus feel smaller than even

Cleopas felt in that moment (which is hard to imagine)

Are you the only one visiting Jerusalem who does not know the

things that have happened there in these days?”

Travelers had streamed into Jerusalem the previous week to prepare for the

Jewish holy day of Pesach (Passover). However, the thrill of that annual

celebration and the electricity of a city bursting with pilgrims from across the

known world was overshadowed by a single event: the crucifixion of Jesus.

It’s unthinkable in the minds of the two travelers that anyone could have spent

the weekend in Jerusalem and not been well aware of the Galilean’s crucifixion.

Let’s keep in mind who this stranger is walking alongside the two

travelers: Jesus, God clothed in flesh. And no matter how phenomenal or

infinitesimal any event appears, God is aware. The stranger doesn’t need to ask

questions. He already knows all the answers. This is a passage thick with irony,

though irony is not the point of the passage. Why doesn’t Jesus cut to the

chase? Why doesn’t he merely reveal himself: “Hey guys, no worries. It’s me! I’m

alive! No need to be bummed out.” Instead, Jesus remains concealed and

allows the two heartbroken disciples to spill their sorrow upon the wind.

What is the point of praying to a God who already knows what we need?

What if the answer had nothing to do with information and everything to do with

transformation? The Old Testament character, Job, experienced heartache on a

level we cannot fathom. His children, possessions, and health were all taken

from him in one fell swoop. But Job still had a few faithful friends and a well-

meaning wife. Job’s entourage descended on him amid his sorrow to offer

unhelpful advice that merely added insult to injury. When Job was given a

chance to put words to the sorrow he felt, his friends and wife took it upon

themselves to correct his theology. Job rebuked them,

Teach me, and I will be silent; make me understand how I have

gone astray. How forceful are upright words! But what does reproof

from you reprove? Do you think that you can reprove words, when

the speech of a despairing man is wind? (Job 6:24-26)

In other words, there will be time for setting things straight, theologically

speaking, if it remains necessary after the pangs of sorrow are dulled. But for

now, Jesus does what Job’s wife and friends were unwilling to do: He simply

listened.

What if prayer isn’t about information transfer? What if it had everything to

do with relationship architecture? One of the many lessons I’ve learned in being

married to Jessica is that, sometimes, love looks like listening to people even

when you already know the details of what they are wanting to tell you, and even

(and especially) when you assume you already have all the answers. More

healing is accomplished by an empathetic friend through the absence of words

than in the abundance of them.

Jesus enters our pain taking on the very posture we’d expect the most

compassionate, merciful, loving, and patient being in the universe to assume: He

listens. The answers can wait. Correction will get its turn. But Jesus honors the

hearts of two hurting men by allowing them the space to share their loss.

Because even if hope is staring them in the face, hope can never negate the

reality of our loss. Today, let’s be thankful for Jesus, who despite having all the

answers, is patient and kind enough to simply listen to whatever it is we want to

talk about.

Questions:

1. How would you describe your motivation to pray? Has this chapter

reinforced or challenged this motivation?

2. Think about a time when someone comforted you by simply listening. How

was that experience helpful?

3. Why (or why not) does it matter that Jesus is willing to simply listen?

Words for further inspiration:

Psalm 139:1-18 & Matthew 6:25-34

04 | Identity “About Jesus of Nazareth,” the replied. “He was a prophet powerful in word and

deed before God and all the people. The chief priests and our rulers handed him

over to be sentenced to death, and they crucified him; but we had hoped that he

was the one who was going to redeem Israel. And what is more, it is the third

day since all this took place.”

Luke 24:19-21

Luke 24:19 serves as a turning point in the journey toward Emmaus. The

two travelers are invited to move beyond their pain and their unmet

expectations. They do so by sharing the larger story of which they are a part.

Verse nineteen serves as their confession of faith regarding Jesus, Cleopas

says, “He was a prophet powerful in words and deed before God and all the

people.” Note the difference between this confession and that of Thomas’ in

John 20:28, “…my Lord and my God.” There was one major difference between

the travelers on the road and Thomas: while the travelers were mysteriously

“kept from recognizing him”, for Thomas, the veil had been lifted. Thomas was

invited to place his hands in the nail marks and side-wound still present on the

resurrected body of Jesus.

The majority of people I strike up conversations with in coffee shops and

pubs believe they have better things to do on Sunday mornings than attend

worship (like wash their hair and clip their toenails). And yet, most of these folks

find Jesus, at minimum, an interesting historical character. Primetime television

series such as The Bible and A.D. point to a growing fascination with the Biblical

narrative even as Christian spirituality in America continue to slowly decline. If

asked, “Who do you think Jesus was?” these spiritual-seekers would likely

identify with the Emmaus road travelers’ confession: “He was a prophet

powerful in words and deed before God and all the people.” Many assume

Jesus is honored by being confirmed with a lofty title like, “prophet” or “miracle

worker”. But Jesus wasn’t crucified for being a prophet or a miracle worker:

“We are not stoning you for any good work,” they replied, “but for

blasphemy, because you, a mere man, claim to be God” (John

10:33).

Before revealing his identity to the downcast travelers, Jesus is not understood

as God, and we get a sense in the travelers’ confession that they had been

mistaken about his identity all along. In Luke 24:21 the two voice their

expectations regarding Jesus’ ministry, “But we had hoped that he was the one

who was going to redeem Israel.” Having seen compelling leaders rise and fall,

the now heartbroken men had expected Jesus to simply be a better version of

those who had failed before him. But now Jesus was dead (or so they thought),

their expectations unrealized, and in their minds, Jesus would certainly fade into

obscurity as the years fled by.

Cleopas and his companion didn’t suffer from an unfounded inflation of

Jesus’ identity; rather, their understanding of Jesus simply wasn’t massive

enough to encapsulate the grave and the space beyond. Perhaps if the two had

been convinced Jesus was and is God, they could have understood his death as

a necessary detour on the road to glory. Because if Jesus is God, even death is

subject to his authority. But if he’s simply, “a prophet powerful in words in deed

before God and all the people”, then death can only be the tragic end to an

admirable life unnecessarily cut short. And let’s face it, we’ve all seen that

scenario play out too many times.

What we believe about the true nature of Jesus matters deeply. The only

way we can make sense of Jesus’ death is by acknowledging that He had and

has the power over death—this age-old enemy that humanity has time and

again battled with inevitable futility. All of our attempts to thwart, trick, and

postpone death’s grip have proven God alone has the power to do so. Jesus’

resurrection served as death’s eviction notice, and could only have been

delivered by a God momentarily succumbing to it so that he could prove his

power over it.

Just as the realization of the nature of Jesus will eventually transform the

two travelers’ experience of mourning into a cause for unrestrained joy, so too,

our embrace of Jesus’ divinity will give us fresh perspective on the tragedy in

our lives. Jesus’ resurrection proves that whatever momentary affliction which

trips us up will finally fade in the light of Jesus’ appearing. But more than this,

Jesus’ divinity forces us to have a higher view of ourselves. If Jesus is merely a

powerful prophet, his gracious disposition toward us is, at most, hopeful

sentimentally. But if we’re talking about the Creator of the universe living, loving,

dying, and rising for our sake, it says something about our worth. David says it

well in Psalm 139:13-14:

For you created my inmost being; you knit me together in my

mother’s womb. I praise you because I am fearfully and wonderfully

made; your works are wonderful, I know that full well.

If David, a man whose life stood 1,000 years prior to God’s full revelation of

grace and love could pen these words, how much more should we who stand

before a cross and an empty tomb understand our value in God’s eyes? The

Emmaus Road travelers are about to have their lives changed, and we ought to

understand that this transformation will be ignited by a two-fold revelation: the

divine nature of Jesus and the elevated nature of the human who trusts in Jesus.

Questions:

1. Spend some time drawing a picture of how you imagine God. Seriously, do it!

After you’re done with your work of art, spend some time thinking about how

what you drew speaks to your understanding of God.

2. If you had to guess at one emotion God is feeling toward you right now, what

would you guess? Why?

3. Which statement is harder for your to accept: “God is loving.” OR “God sees

you as loving.” Why?

Words for further inspiration:

John 10:27-30 & Ephesians 3:14-21

05 | Hope

Luke 24:22-24 In addition, some of our women amazed us. They went to the

tomb early this morning but they didn’t find his body. They came and told us that

they had seen a vision of angels, who said he was alive. Then, some of our

companions went to the tomb and found it just as the women had said, but they

did not see Jesus.”

Our two travelers had apparently already made a very important choice

which defined their perceived reality. The crucifixion of Jesus was, in their

minds, the end of the story. Now, they were headed back to Emmaus in order to

start over, begin a new story, one almost certainly rooted in a felt need to pay

penance for their misguided religious zeal. While their previous story was full of

excitement, passion, a sense of divine guidance; their new story would center

on proving to friends and family that were capable of living a calculated and

disciplined life.

This was a choice they had made in response to disappointment. No one

forced them to leave Jerusalem. And what if they had remained? It wasn’t as if

hope had been completely snuffed out. In the wake of their grief, pain, and

shock, there emerged a strange story told about two devoted women who had

visited Jesus’ grave in the early hours of that Sunday morning. The women had

surprised the grieving disciples by sharing news that the Roman seal covering

Jesus’ tomb had been broken and the body was gone. Their claims were then

substantiated by others. Hope had been heated and was beginning to bubble.

The story would have surfaced just before the two men set off toward Emmaus.

And yet, the two maintained their Emmaus trajectory.

We live in a peculiar spiritual reality various theologians and spiritual

writers have called: the “already-not yet” Kingdom of God. In other words, we

live in the tension between Emmaus and Jerusalem. We read the Gospels, hear

Biblical writers like Paul testify to the power of the Holy Spirit, read John’s

Revelation, and hold fast to the promises of Jesus returning in bodily form to

restore all things. We receive these promises and cherish them, even as our

world frenetically bounces from one tragedy to the next. We see those around us

experience the grace and forgiveness of God through Jesus. We witness

addictions broken and purpose unleashed in the lives of those who are willing to

trust in the power of God. All the while, the hungry bellies of children across

every continent whisper: “This is a broken world.”

It would seem that we have a choice. We will inevitably play one of two

roles: the cynic or the optimist. Neither are inherently healthy dispositions. The

cynic can willingly face the gritty and grotesque issues of the day, but refuses to

behold the beauty emerging from cracks in the pavement. The optimist may

cause others to take pause amid the glory of a sunset or a moonbeam, but

stands unwilling to face the fact that the beautiful colors streaming across the

sky are sometimes the result of humanity polluting the atmosphere. Cynicism

and optimism are by themselves flawed categories. The issue is not whether I

see the glass half-empty or half-full. The issue, rather, is where the foundation of

my assessment is found. If I am convinced that because Jesus has risen from

the dead, death does not have the final word, then I have the ballast I need to fix

my gaze on the harbor no matter how violently the winds slam my vessel.

Because of Jesus, I am an optimist. But I am not a naive optimist who is

intimidated by the injustices plaguing our world; rather, I am confident that

injustice (a symptom of death) will eventually be put to death. Because of Jesus,

I can point to the empty tomb and confidently assert, “This is why I refuse to

slide into a hopeless cynicism or a naive optimism.”

The path to Emmaus is an easy one to set out on. Many have done so.

We’ll all find it much more difficult to choose to listen to the whispers of grace

amid the bloodshed. And it’s never easy to speak into places of apathetic

comfort with prophetic words, as Amos did “But let justice roll on like a

river, righteousness like a never-failing stream!” (Amos 5:24). Still, like the two

travelers who chose to leave Jerusalem, we all have a choice. Will we allow the

testimony emerging from the empty tomb to define our response to a beautiful

and broken world, promising that God is making all things new? Or will we allow

rootless, emotionally-driven cynicism or optimism form our posture before this

world?

Questions:

1. Which is easier for your to see in our world: beauty or pain? Why?

2. Looking back on your life thus far, would you say that you’ve mostly been a

cynic or an optimist? How has your disposition affected your relationships

with those closest to you?

3. Which story that you’ve been a part of would you point to as proof that God

is alive and active in the world?

Words for further inspiration:

Romans 8:18-21 & Revelation 21:1-4

06 | Trail Guides

He said to them, “How foolish you are, and how slow to believe all that the

prophets have spoken!

Luke 24:25

I was introduced to the importance of the Scriptures as a brand new

Christian. Already an avid reader, it was comforting to me that the heart and will

of the God who was changing my life was communicated through words on a

page. Those who stood a bit further down the road in their faith journey directed

me to the Gospels and the writings of Paul as wonderful starting points to gain a

correct understanding of both who I am and who God is. But the muse of

curiosity took hold of me and I soon found myself venturing into uncharted

Biblical territory (at least for most seventeen year olds). I became captivated by

the prophet Ezekiel and his willingness to spend 390 days lying on his left side

(Ez. 4:9). I was inspired (though not to the point of imitation) by David’s half-

naked romp around the Ark (2 Sam. 6:12-20). And I wondered how, if God is

indeed good, He could prohibit people from eating bacon (Lev. 11:7-8).

As I began to share my discoveries with those in my community I was met

with a general indifference toward the Old Testament. They called themselves,

“New Testament Christians,” which is probably an unnecessary clarification,

since there are no Christians in the Old Testament. Over time, however, I’ve

come to realize that without the authoritative words of the Old Testament, which

are the fertile soil out of which the longing for a Savior emerge, we wouldn’t

know whether Jesus is the long-awaited One or what specifically He came to

accomplish. I’ve also learned how the pillars of the Christianity spoken of

throughout the pages of the New Testament put their faith in Jesus as the

Messiah specifically because what He said and did paired so beautifully with the

promises of the Old Testament.

Folks such as the Apostle Paul did not have New Testament texts to build

their confidence in the nature of Jesus. Their Scriptures were exclusively those

we now refer to as the Old Testament. So when Paul says, “All Scripture is God-

breathed and is useful for teaching, rebuking, correcting and training in

righteousness,” (2 Tim. 3:16) he’s talking about the Old Testament—the New

Testament wouldn’t exist in its current form until about 250 years later.

Jesus’ words to the two travelers seem harsh, “‘He said to them, ‘How

foolish you are, and how slow to believe all that the prophets have

spoken!’” (Luke 24:25). But perhaps our discomfort with Jesus’ abruptness lies

in the lack of weight we give the Hebrew Scriptures. The Old Testament is

saturated with glimpses into God’s plan that would eventually be fulfilled in

Jesus. The Apostle Paul, speaking to a largely non-Jewish audience, a

community that would have had very little familiarity with the Old Testament,

said this:

With all wisdom and understanding, he made known to us the

mystery of his will according to his good pleasure, which he

purposed in Christ, to be put into effect when the times reach their

fulfillment—to bring unity to all things in heaven and on earth

under Christ. (Ephesians 1:8-10)

Jesus is the goal, the point toward which all of history (including the Old

Testament) is racing toward. Jesus is the foundation from which the words of the

New Testament derive their meaning. This is what gives Jesus the right to be so

frustrated with the two men headed toward Emmaus. For us who stand on the

other side of the completion of Scripture, perhaps it would do us some good to

spend some time soaking in the words of the prophets who, through cracked,

scuffed, and clouded glasses caught glimpses of the carpenter from Galilee.

As we do, one reality we’ll find ourselves confronted with is that God is

not in a hurry. He has slowly woven His story like an aged weaver atop a loom,

watching as it spins and runs, taking on unexpected hues and patterns before

eventually emerging as a cross-shaped garment. Jesus is the point of it all. And

if we were to attempt to mine another cornerstone from the Hebrew narrative,

Jesus could (and should) rightly rebuke us as, “foolish…[and] slow to believe.”

Unlike the prophets we have seen the culmination of all their dreaming and

groaning, we’ve experienced the point of their side-lying and naked dancing. Let

us immerse ourselves in those ancient words that carry our hearts toward the

manger, the cross, and the empty tomb.

Questions:

1. In what ways do you find it difficult to make sense of the Old Testament in

light of the New Testament? In other words, what are some stories/passages

that you have a hard time pairing with Jesus?

2. When you started following Jesus, what was your understanding of the Old

Testament? How has that changed?

3. What are some of the ways you see the Old and New Testaments fitting

together?

Words for further inspiration:

Jeremiah 31:31-34 & Micah 5:2-4

07 | Lamb Power Did not the Messiah have to suffer these things and then enter his glory? And

beginning with Moses and all the Prophets, he explained to them what was said

in all the Scriptures concerning himself.

Luke 24:26-27

Our culture has a growing fascination with superheroes. The abundance of

X-Men films alongside the constant rehashing of Superman, Batman, and

Spiderman sagas make it clear how we like our superheroes: well-built, well-

financed, and constantly flaunting other-worldly powers. We like our

superheroes to have suffered some sort of childhood setback, to know what it’s

like to deal with the stuff we all have to deal with, and, most importantly, we like

our superheroes to ensure that the folks responsible for their own pain and the

pain of others suffer extravagantly. And while Jesus perhaps fulfills a few of the

prerequisites for superhero status, we often find him veering far off the expected

path.

Our modern day prerequisites for superheroes aren’t all that different from

the expectations the first century Jews had for the Messiah: He must be

charismatic, have an appetite for war, and descended from greatness (to name a

few). Enter scene: Jesus. When you think about it, Jesus had options. Instead

of being born in a barn, surrounded by manure and flea-infested animals, He

could have emerged from the womb with a solid gold crown on His head (I can’t

imagine the difficulties that would have posed in Mary’s labor process). Instead

of spending the first three decades of his life shrouded in obscurity, He could

have stepped through the veil separating heaven and earth as a fully grown, fully

competent, adult with His war pain already applied. This was the kind of

Messiah the two men on the road to Emmaus were looking for. They had bought

into the lie that the only way to fight “Rome power” was with more “Rome

power”.

The Roman Empire was merely the newest rendition of imperial

occupation in Israel. The Assyrians first arrived in 722 B.C., securing control

over the Northern Kingdom of Israel, which had broken away from the Southern

Kingdom of Judah a couple hundred years earlier. After the Assyrians came the

Babylonians, who ruled the whole of Israel. Soon after the Babylonians came the

Persians, then the Greeks, and finally the Romans. After centuries of having

witnessed power displayed exclusively through violence, our two friends can

hardly be blamed for being a bit disappointed by Jesus. Their experience and

the cultural milieu out of which they emerged didn’t make room for Jesus’ brand

of power. It would take a dramatic encounter for these two travelers to

experience Jesus’ power as something that, before destroying His enemies,

could cause the hearts of his friends to burn.

In John’s Revelation, the aged disciple who has been exiled to Patmos is

enraptured by a vision of heaven’s throne room. There are sights and sounds

which defy language’s ability to articulate. In Revelation 5, John’s attention is

directed toward a scroll which has been sealed by God and who no one in

heaven or on earth has been found who is worthy to open. John begins weeping

at the prospect that the scroll would stay forever shut. We get the sense that

whatever is written on the inside of the scroll will bring profound healing and

restoration to the tumultuous world in which we live. And so we weep with John,

because, like him, we are acquainted with the pangs of daily life. Suddenly,

John’s tears are hushed as a voice proclaims,

Do not weep! See, the Lion of the tribe of Judah, the Root

of David, has triumphed. He is able to open the scroll and its

seven seals (Rev. 5:5).

Of all the animals, one might assume the lion is best suited for superhero status.

He is, after all, “the king of the jungle.” You can almost imagine “The Lion of the

tribe of Judah” racing down the Mount of Olives, through the Kidron Valley, and

into Jerusalem before tearing apart the Roman oppressors. It all makes sense.

But before John’s imagination has a chance to race too far down that path, he

pauses to behold this lion,

Then I saw a Lamb, looking as if it had been slain, standing

at the center of the throne, encircled by the four living creatures

and the elders (Rev. 5:6).

John expects “lion power” (i.e. violence and brute force) to serve as the means

for restoring all things to God’s intended harmony, the kind of harmony we see

at the bookends of the Bible (Gen. 1; Rev. 21-22). But as we take an honest

account of the world we’ve created, we’re compelled to admit that violence has

rarely been an effective tool for securing lasting peace. Instead, violence usually

begets further violence. The narrative of Scripture points to a better, deeper

fount from which eternal peace and rest will come.

Jesus begins to unpack the unwavering words the two travelers would

have been steeped in through their Jewish heritage. Somehow they had

misunderstood the Scriptures. They had allowed their perceived reality to feed

them the lie that the only way to dethrone a violent oppressor is by restoring to

an even greater violence; the kind of violence only a superhero could wield.

But that dirty barn in Bethlehem, its disheveled floor and putrid air tell a

different story, speaking of what C.S. Lewis refers to as “a deeper magic”:

Jesus’ love and grace culminating in His bloodied cross and an empty tomb.

Jesus, the Lamb who was slain and now sits on the throne, offers us a less-

traveled but truer path to lasting power. While history, our culture, our engrained

assumptions point us to the preeminence of “Rome power”, Jesus invites us to

follow him into a deeper magic, this, “Lamb power”.

He was oppressed and afflicted, yet he did not open his mouth;

he was led like a lamb to the slaughter, and as a sheep before

its shearers is silent, so he did not open his mouth (Isaiah

53:7).

Questions:

1. Consider the culture we live in. What are some examples you see of “Rome

power” and “Lamb power”?

2. Assuming you and I will never be nailed to a cross, what are some ways we

can embrace “Lamb power”?

3. Why do you think it’s easier to express power in violence rather than strength

in weakness?

Words for further inspiration:

2 Corinthians 12:7-10 & Mark 10:42-45

08 | The Invitation As they approached the village to which they were going, Jesus continued on as

if he were going farther. But they urged him strongly, “Stay with us, for it is nearly

evening; the day is almost over.” So he went in to stay with them.

Luke 24:28-29

As the unidentified Jesus listened, asked questions, challenged, and

opened the Scriptures for the two Emmaus-bound men something happened:

He had earned their trust. By the time the three reached Emmaus, completing

their seven-mile journey, the daylight was likely beginning to fade. But as the

world around them began preparations for evening, lighting lamps to battle the

impending dark, the souls of the two men were just beginning to awaken.

Throughout the listening, questioning, challenging, and preaching, Jesus was

also engaged in a deeper work, as we’ll see at the end of our story: He was

causing their hearts to burn.

But before the two men could come to grips with the stranger’s true

identity, they had to risk something. They had to let him into their home. Roads

like the one meandering from Jerusalem to Emmaus were historically famous for

carrying robbers and raiders who preyed on unsuspecting travelers. It’s one

thing to converse with a stranger along the road, quite another to invite him into

your home, especially to spend the night. Who knows what physical harm he

may cause or precious items he might steal? These men took a risk inviting the

stranger into their home.

You and I have the benefit of hindsight, we’re aware of the stranger’s true

identity long before the travelers. Early on in the journey Luke lifts the veil for his

readers:

…Jesus himself came up and walked along with them; but they

were kept from recognizing him (v. 15).

Jesus of course would be the last person we’d expect to rob an innocent

sojourner at knifepoint or rob a generous host in the middle of the night. And

yet, why is it that while we wouldn’t hesitate to invite Jesus into our homes, we

are experts at coming up with excuses for refusing to let him into our hearts?

I realize that the majority of those reading these words have, at some

point in their life have, “declare[d] with [their] mouth, ‘Jesus is Lord,’ and believe

in [their] heart that God raised him from the dead” (Romans 10:9). But Jesus

isn’t simply looking for a one-time invitation into our lives. Praying a “salvation

prayer” is a wonderful thing, but merely amounts to a “Get Out of Hell Free” card

if that’s all the further we go. Jesus isn’t interested in a word on the road, he

wants a spot at our table. For many of us, that’s a scary thought. Why? Because

we all have hidden lives; thoughts we think, temptations we battle, pasts that

have left us with scars and baggage. We wonder, What would Jesus do if he saw

all of that? We fear He’d be shocked, appalled, and compelled to move on to

someone else’s life, one that’s a bit more “put together”. It was a risky thing for

the two travelers to invite Jesus into their home. It’s a risky thing for you and I to

invite, really invite, Jesus into our hearts. Thankfully, Scripture offers us glimpses

into the kind of response we can expect as we allow the door to open and the

Son of Man to cross the threshold,

When [Jesus] saw the crowds, he had compassion on them,

because they were harassed and helpless, like sheep without a

shepherd (Mt. 9:36).

For God did not send his Son into the world to condemn the

world, but to save the world through him (Jn 3:17).

I pray that out of his glorious riches he may strengthen you with

power through his Spirit in your inner being, so that Christ may dwell

in your hearts through faith. And I pray that you, being rooted and

established in love, may have power, together with all the Lord’s holy

people, to grasp how wide and long and high and deep is the love of

Christ (Eph. 3:16-18).

One of the details surrounding the invitation that is offered to Jesus by the two

travelers which is often overlooked is that before being invited in, Jesus

“continued on as if he was going farther.” This apparent moment of deception

(for surely Jesus knew he would be invited in) has a backstory that is important

for us to understand.

Before Jesus entered into Jerusalem on the first Holy Week, He was still a

wild-eyed rabbi crisscrossing the Galilee region of Northern Israel with His

disciples. At one point, the disciples found themselves near disaster, tossed

atop the churning waves of the lake. Mark picks of the story in chapter six of his

gospel:

[Jesus] saw the disciples straining at the oars, because the wind

was against them. Shortly before dawn he went out to them,

walking on the lake. He was about to pass by them, but when they

saw him walking on the lake, they thought he was a ghost. They

cried out, because they all saw him and were terrified (Mark

6:48-50).

Sound familiar? “He was about to pass them by…he continued on as if he was

going farther.” What is Jesus trying to teach us? Why the apparent fake-outs?

Perhaps an answer can be found 1,500 years prior to Jesus stepping into

human history.

Then Moses said, “Now show me your glory.” And the Lord said, “I

will cause all my goodness to pass in front of you…Then the Lord

said, “There is a place near me where you may stand on a rock.

When my glory passes by, I will put you in a cleft in the rock and

cover you with my hand until I have passed by (Ex. 33:18-19,

21-22).

God has a pattern of appearing to pass us by just before unleashing His glory

into our lives. Moses experienced this reality and was never the same. The

disciples watched as Jesus was about to pass before witnessing the wind

hushed and the seas settled. I’m convinced there are moments of glory waiting

to be witnessed. I’m certain the Lord is passing us by all the time, waiting to see

if we’ll respond as the two travelers did, “Please, stay, and come inside!” When

we invite Jesus to enter the darkest recesses of our hearts, who knows what

we’ll experience? But we can be certain of one thing: it will be nothing short of

love.

Questions:

1. Can you recall time(s) when you’ve invited Jesus into parts of your life that

you had previously tried to keep Him out of? What happened as you invited

Him in?

2. What are some ways you’ve experienced God’s power in time you thought

He was merely “passing by”?

3. Is God bringing to mind a place that, perhaps, you currently have closed off

to Jesus? What has kept you from allowing him in?

Words for further inspiration:

1 John 1:5-10 & Revelation 3:19-20

9 | Take and Eat When he was at the table with them, he took bread, gave thanks, broke it and

began to give it to them. Then their eyes were opened and they recognized him,

and he disappeared from their sight.

Luke 24:30-31

Henri Nouwen offers us powerful words concerning the Communion event in his

book, With Burning Hearts:

Jesus is God-for-us, God-with-us, God-within-us. Jesus is God

giving himself completely, pouring himself out for us without

reserve. Jesus doesn't hold back or cling to his own possessions.

He gives all there is to give. "Eat, drink, this is my body, this

is my blood. . . this is me for you!”

The two travelers had invited the stranger into their home. They had taken a

great risk hoping to hearing more from this fascinating character. The travelers

assumed the they would rest their feet, share a meal, get a bit of sleep, and part

ways the next day. But a spark had been unknowingly ignited in the center of

their chests, one that would soon begin to roar. While the stranger was a bright

spot on an otherwise dark and painful day, the two brokenhearted men needed

more than a companion, a sobering word of rebuke, and a theological lesson.

They needed, as we need, a savior.

We can imagine the three fatigued men settling into creaking chairs,

groaning against their aching muscles, periodically coughing up the vestiges of

the swirling dust that had blanketed their day-long journey. There is bread and a

bit of wine. Amid the twilight, the stranger reaches for the loaf and wraps his

fingers around each end before pulling and cracking the outer crust, revealing a

gleaming white center. It was a ritual that had played out before the two

travelers thousands of times prior. But in that moment, something fresh was

unfolding. It was as if the universe had ceased expanding and air became thick

and warmed.

It had been only a few days ago when this scene had unfolded in an eerily

similar way,

While they were eating, Jesus took bread, and when he had

given thanks, he broke it and gave it to his disciples, saying,

“Take and eat; this is my body” (Mt. 26:26).

There were a number of things Jesus had done in the presence of the two

wearied travelers on that day. Why was it in this particular moment that they

realized the stranger was in fact no stranger, but the one whose words they had

been hanging onto over the past three years?

Much work has been done in the area of comparative religions seeking to

create a unified belief system whereby followers of Buddha, Allah, Jesus, etc.

can see their beliefs as merely different facets of the same gem. There’s only

one problem: Jesus. Jesus is the only religious leader who claims any sort of

deity, and then willingly offers himself as a sacrifice for the sake of those who

were meant to serve him. Prior to his death and resurrection Jesus said,

For even the Son of Man [referring to himself] did not come to be

served, but to serve, and to give his life as a ransom for many (Mark

10:45).

The heart of the Christian profession is that God gave up his rights so that we

might become his inheritance. This is the truth we celebrate every time we

gather with other followers of Jesus to “take and eat”. It’s no coincidence,

therefore, that when the bread was broken the travelers’ eyes were opened.

Love is always most compelling, most inspiring, when it reveals itself in

sacrificial love. John understood this truth and wrote,

This is how we know what love is: Jesus Christ laid down his life for

us. And we ought to lay down our lives for our brothers and sisters

(1 Jn. 3:16).

One of the more compelling moments in the Communion celebration is

when the one serving the elements is able to look deeply into the eyes of the

one receiving and say, “This is the body of Christ broken for you” and “This is

the blood of Christ shed for you.” These are weighty words in and of

themselves; however, it is by proclaiming these words to each another that

we’re struck with the realization that Christianity is not an individualized

spirituality. Just as God (Father, Son, and Spirit) cannot exist in isolation, but

have always been a triune community, so too, we were never meant to sustain

ourselves through an exclusively personal faith. Faith that is not shared, not

expressed, not hashed out around a dinner table, atop bar stools, or between

sips of coffee isn’t real faith, it’s superstition.

In celebrating Communion, Jesus’ sacrificial death is honored, and He is

crowned as Lord and Savior. This appears to be an irreconcilable paradox. But

as we step back, and look at the narrative of Scripture as a whole, we realize

paradox is the norm for the God of the Bible. Jesus is both God and human.

Through Jesus we are both saint while still muddling in sin. The Kingdom of God

is already and it’s not yet. And in these simple elements—bread and wine—

the supernatural weaves itself in and through and around that which is most

basic to human life.

Amid these paradoxes swirling about the two travelers, Jesus is

recognized before quickly vanishing. Their experience (and our own) remind us

that this world has not yet united with heaven. Because of this, all our

experiences with God will be painfully, but beautifully incomplete. And yet, He is

here in our midst. Moments like the one the travelers have are rare. The more

common reality is that which promises a blessing. Jesus said to Thomas,

Because you have seen me, you have believed; blessed are those

who have not seen and yet have believed (Jn. 20:29).

Together, we are given this gift of God’s presence, living inside us, swirling

around us. But we will all have to wait until that moment when we finally see Him

face-to-face when we’ll feel the longing inside our hearts quenched. This is the

harsh reality of a faith on this side of Christ’s appearing. But we have these

moments, these signposts for heaven which stand all around us. One of these

signposts is the sacred act of sharing Communion together. And even though

the very moment we recognize Jesus is often the moment He vanishes, these

glimpses have the power to sustain us.

Questions:

1. What are the thoughts that commonly flood your mind when you participate

in Communion? Is Communion usually a powerful experience for you, or

merely something that you do?

2. Have you ever served Communion? What was that experience like?

3. Why do you think Jesus specifically charged the early church to remember

Him in this way?

Words for further inspiration:

Matthew 26:25-29 & 1 Corinthians 11:17-34

10 | Remember They asked each other, “Were not our hearts burning within us while he talked

with us on the road and opened the Scriptures to us?”

Luke 24:32

I’ve often wondered exactly what these two travelers felt upon recognizing

Jesus. Was this “burning” a sort of spiritual indigestion? Was it a pain that

doubled them over? Could it have been merely a faint sensation that only briefly

caught their attention? Unfortunately, we’ll have to wait to answer these

questions. But there’s one fact about this “burning” we know for sure: it began

the moment Jesus showed up.

Many of us have arrived at points of clarity in our journey of faith where

we’ve come to recognize the profound nearness of God. We’ve experienced His

protection, availability, empathy, quiet leading, and persistent challenge calling

us higher. It can be easy to see these moments as tiny oases dotting the mostly

arid landscape of our sojourning. Throughout the wilderness wandering of the

Hebrew people, there were long stretches of lifeless and treacherous landscape.

God’s people were challenged to traverse their meandering route by sheer faith

and perseverance. Understandably, there were moments when fatigue and

frustration got the better of them. In these moments, God invited his people to

time and again, “remember”. In fact, on sixteen separate occasions in the book

of Deuteronomy, God lifts the chins of the people, swivels their necks around,

and challenges them to remember what He had done in bringing them out of

slavery and on their way to their home,

Remember that you were slaves in Egypt and that the Lord your

God brought you out of there with a mighty hand and an

outstretched arm… (Deu. 5:15).

Remember how the Lord your God led you all the way in the

wilderness these forty years, to humble and test you in order to

know what was in your heart, whether or not you would keep his

commands (Deu. 8:2).

Remember that you were slaves in Egypt and the Lord your God

redeemed you. That is why I give you this command today (Deu.

15:15).

It appears there is something about the discipline of remembering that can spur

us on to deeper devotion and a renewed perspective.

Upon recognizing the presence of Jesus in stranger’s tearing apart a loaf

of bread,the two recalled the moment He had first joined them on the road. Their

willingness to remember unleashed a power that functioned a bit like spiritual fly

tape—trapping the elusive glimpses of hope that swirled about them, even amid

their sorrow. They remembered that not only had Jesus been with them

throughout their hopelessness and pain, but they also realized that all along the

wind of the Holy Spirit had been blowing upon the still smoldering embers of

their hearts. And now their hearts were burning.

When we gain a renewed perspective on the formative moments of our

past, it will inevitably reshape our current reality. Back in chapter two, I

mentioned a time in my life when I received healing for painful childhood

memories. This happened by inviting Jesus to show me where he was in the

midst. I realized that even though these memories in some cases occurred more

than a decade before I become a Christian, Jesus was there. Even in my darkest

circumstances He was relentless in protecting me and hiding me, “under his

wings” (Ps. 91:4). This realization redefined not only those particular memories,

but the narrative of my life thereafter. Because if Jesus was willingly present in

my deepest pain, surely He is quick to celebrate my highest joys, and everything

in between. Today, I’m continuing to grow in my ability to recognize Jesus in all

circumstances. There is no darkness that can diffuse or dilute the piercing rays

emanating from the light of the world!

When the two travelers recognized their hearts burning, they

simultaneously recognized that they had always been burning, they realized

Jesus’ death was a necessary part of God’s redemptive plan, and they realized

the story of the women at the tomb was not some sort of blind ignorance. In

short, everything the two believed to be indisputable evidence for their

hopelessness had been reshaped by the power of Jesus’ resurrection, a power

that was now manifest in their pounding chests. All of this occurred as they

“remembered”.

One of the more interesting moments in the life of the early church

occurred just days after the Emmaus Road incident when the Holy Spirit

descended upon and filled the 120 gathered in an upper room on the Day of

Pentecost. In Acts 2, Luke speaks of “tongues of fire” settling on the disciples

and causing them to speak in strange tongues. The Jewish pilgrims who were

looking on had one of two responses. Some wrote the whole thing off, “They’re

drunk,” they scoffed. But there was another group of folks who, instead of

making a statement, asked an important question, “What does this mean?” (v.

12). This story happened…and it continues to happen. Every time God breaks

into our reality, we can respond in one of two ways: skepticism or wonder. Only

the one who is willing to embrace the wonder is capable of allowing that sense

of wonder to shape their past, which will in turn change their present and their

future. All of this begins in the crucible of encounter. We must be willing to

“invite the stranger in”, allow the experience He gives us to elicit a sense of

wonder, before looking back to recognize God’s legacy of faithfulness in our

lives. Then, with burning hearts, we can step into the future.

Questions:

1. Think of a moment from your past that was reinterpreted through an

encounter with Jesus. How did this new perspective change your present?

What about your future?

2. Do you think recognizing Jesus as present in the midst of painful memories

makes it easier to forgive others? Why? Practice this power today by

choosing to forgive someone who has hurt you.

3. What are ways we can encourage others to see Jesus in the middle of their

trying times and painful memories?

Words for further inspiration:

Psalm 77 & John 16:1-15

11 | Mission They got up and returned at once to Jerusalem. There they found the Eleven and

those with them, assembled together and saying, “It is true! The Lord has risen

and has appeared to Simon.”

Luke 24:33-34

“Evangelism” is a word that either scares or befuddles many. It can sound a bit

like a disease, like botulism; or an oppressive ideology, like communism. Often,

evangelism can feel like both. At its core, however, evangelism is a visceral

response to an experience that cannot be kept in the heart’s harbor; it must be

released to the far corners of the world. James’ words have long bothered

Protestants who insist on the preeminence of God’s unmerited gift of grace

through faith,

In the same way, faith by itself, if it is not accompanied by action, is

dead. But someone will say, “You have faith; I have deeds.” Show

me your faith without deeds, and I will show you my faith by my

deeds. You believe that there is one God. Good! Even the demons

believe that—and shudder (Jam. 2:17-18).

The pioneering Protestant Martin Luther had such difficulty with James’ words

that in spite of its place within the biblical canon he referred to it as “a book of

straw”, in other words worthless. But if we consider the nature of authentic faith,

perhaps remembering moments in our lives when our hearts were “burning

within us”, we’ll recall the giddiness and passion that gripped us. Mostly, we’ll

realize that true faith has an implicit force attached to it. The faith spoken of

throughout the Bible is the kind of faith that propels a skydiver out of a plane at

10,000 feet because he has faith that the parachute will open when he pulls the

cord. The reason Luther struggled with James’ divinely inspired words is

because he assumed faith to be something we possess. Instead, faith (real,

authentic, Biblical faith) is always a force that possesses us!

The two travelers arrived in Emmaus and shared a meal with a “stranger”

before recognizing the stranger as their Messiah. They realized that all along

their hearts were igniting and burning within them. We can imagine the two of

them at the table, the moonlight reaching through the window and collapsing

onto the torn pieces of bread next to an empty chair. They gaze into each other’s

eyes as smiles begin creeping across their faces. Without a word, without

developing a mission statement, or discerning whether stepping into the

dangers of night would be the prudent thing to do, “They got up and returned at

once to Jerusalem.” They must have looked a bit like raving madmen, stumbling

over rocks, slamming onto the ground, scraping knees, then quickly rising again

and continuing on. “At once” means they didn’t choose to sleep on it. They

bypassed the conversation about whether their vision of Jesus was perhaps

induced by the tragic loss they had recently experienced. They left at once.

Faith without works is dead; not because faith must be supplemented, but

because without corresponding works, faith isn’t Biblical faith, it’s mental

ascent. Mental ascent proclaims its “faith” in the following confessions: “The sky

is blue. The grass is green. The ocean is deep.” These are statements which

require nothing of the professing person, they are truths that fail to move us. The

kind of faith that rose up in these two travelers and sent them back to Jerusalem

in the middle of the night has a force that cannot be bridled.

There’s an implicit question emerging from this story that should haunt us

all. Hopefully you’ve already heard it whispering: “Where will you run off to?”

Let’s not forget that Emmaus would have been a much safer place for these two

to remain. In the days following Jesus’ crucifixion, the Roman and Jewish

authorities were eager to do all that was necessary to silence the Galileeans,

meaning all of those who were associated with Jesus were in danger of suffering

the same fate He did. We see evidence of this danger in Acts 6 when Stephen

was killed by an overzealous Jewish mob. It’s into this spiritual crucible that the

two men from Emmaus made haste. They chose to run straight toward the heart

of Jerusalem. “Where will you run off to?”

Perhaps this is an uncomfortable question to consider because you feel

quite comfortable in Emmaus. It’s here that many pastors would unleash a

furious right (or in my case, left) hook and say something to the effect of, “Well,

what’s wrong with you? Jesus called us to go!” They may even throw in some

Bible verse like Luke 9:26:

Whoever is ashamed of me and my words, the Son of Man will be

ashamed of them when he comes in his glory and in the glory of the

Father and of the holy angels.

A sense of mission can easily be conjured by a silver-tongued preacher willing to

resort to tactics of fear and shame, but mission born of this will be inevitably

short-lived and misguided. Jesus certainly calls us to be missional, to be people

committed to “evangelism,” but this call should be empowering and inspiring:

Therefore go and make disciples of all nations, baptizing them in

the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit, and

teaching them to obey everything I have commanded you. And

surely I am with you always, to the very end of the age (Mt.

28:19-20)

I’m convinced that when we’ve tasted God’s grace, seen the heart of Jesus

unfold in our lives, broken bread with Him, and recognized His presence having

always been near, we will find ourselves incapable of holding it in. We will feel

the deep honor, the pleasure of having been invited to share with the world the

hope available through the One who has caused our hearts to burn. So let us

go…together.

Questions:

1. How would you define your “Emmaus”? Your Jerusalem?

2. How would you describe the kind of faith James talks about in his epistle?

3. What are some ways you’ve felt inspired to participate in evangelism? What

have been the most compelling motivators?

Words for further inspiration:

Ephesians 2:4-10 & James 2:14-26