Emmaus Road

The journey from broken hearts to burning hearts

Not so long ago, during coffee hour after our regular Sunday service, I sat down at a table with an elderly lady from our congregation. She smiled warmly as we exchanged a few words about the service and the weather, but gradually our conversation deepened. I knew she had faced some challenging seasons in her life. She had lost her husband unexpectedly years ago, and quietly, without fuss or fanfare, she had navigated the ups and downs of widowhood and aging.

As we sat there with the soft hum of conversation around us, she stirred her coffee gently and began to share, her voice thoughtful and calm. “Daniel,” she said quietly, “when my husband died, I honestly didn't think I would be able to keep going. It felt as if the road ahead was too long, too uncertain. Every day felt heavy, especially those first months.”

She paused, looking thoughtfully at her cup, as though revisiting those days in her memory. Then she continued, her tone shifting slightly, “But recently, I’ve started to see things differently. Looking back now, I see that I did keep going—I did make it through. And it wasn’t because I was especially strong or brave. It was because, through it all, God was quietly walking beside me. I didn’t always feel it at the moment, but now it’s clear: He was always there, steady and gentle, like someone faithfully keeping step beside me on the road.”

Her words stayed with me, a simple but powerful reflection to the gentle companionship of Christ—a presence often unnoticed in the moment but unmistakably clear when we pause to look back.

That profound reflection doesn’t come from someone whose life has been free of challenges. It comes from someone who deeply understands the harshness of life. Yet, her reflection captures something essential about faith—the quiet, enduring presence of God, even when our feelings fade or seem distant. This elderly woman’s words echo the gentle assurance of the Emmaus Road story, reminding us that often, only when we look back, do we clearly recognize God’s steady companionship.

I’ve carried that sentence with me all through Holy Week. Because Easter, as much as it is a celebration of victory and resurrection, also meets us on the road—especially when the road feels long and uncertain. That’s exactly where today’s Scripture picks up. Not in the thrill of the empty tomb, but on the dusty road to Emmaus, with two disciples who feel like it’s all falling apart.

Luke tells the story slowly, gently—like someone walking alongside us.

“Now that same day,” he begins, “two of them were going to a village called Emmaus, about seven miles from Jerusalem.”

That same day. Resurrection morning. But these two aren’t celebrating. They’re walking away. Away from the city. Away from the pain. Away from what used to be their hope.

It’s easy to miss how human this moment is. These are not skeptics. These are followers—disciples. They had put their hope in Jesus. They had followed Him, trusted Him, believed in Him. And then came Friday. The cross. The silence. The finality of death. And now, even though the women had reported the tomb was empty, and some said angels had spoken, it didn’t make sense to them. The resurrection was too much to believe in their sorrow. They were still grieving. Still walking with heads low.

I imagine their steps were slow. Maybe they weren’t even sure where to go, only that they couldn’t stay in Jerusalem. Have you ever felt that way? You didn’t have a plan—just a need to move. To get away from the weight of disappointment. The death of a dream.

Then Luke writes, “Jesus Himself came up and walked along with them; but they were kept from recognizing Him.”

That’s one of the most powerful lines in this whole story. Jesus Himself walked with them, but they didn’t recognize Him.

We don’t know exactly why. Was it divine concealment? Were their eyes clouded with grief? Or perhaps it’s just that they didn’t expect to see Him. Isn’t that how it is sometimes with us too? We don’t see Jesus because we don’t expect Him to show up in the ordinary. In the middle of confusion. On a dusty road out of town.

But there He is. Walking right beside them. He asks, “What are you discussing together as you walk along?” It’s a gentle question. One that invites, not accuses. And they stop, faces downcast. Cleopas, one of the two, responds: “Are you the only one visiting Jerusalem who doesn’t know the things that have happened?”

Jesus, with a little holy humor, replies, “What things?”

So they tell Him. They pour out their heartbreak. “About Jesus of Nazareth,” they say. “He was a prophet, powerful in word and deed before God and all the people… but the chief priests handed Him over to be sentenced to death, and they crucified Him.”

And then comes one of the saddest verses in all of Scripture:

“But we had hoped. . .” (verse 21).

We had hoped He was the one. We had hoped things would turn out differently. We had hoped He would redeem Israel. You can almost hear their voices cracking.

“We had hoped” is the language of Good Friday grief still echoing on Easter Sunday. It’s what we say when life doesn’t turn out like we prayed. When healing doesn’t come. When doors close. When loss breaks our hearts.

It’s the language of the young couple who had hoped and prayed for a child, only to face another quiet disappointment each month.

It’s the silent ache of the man who sits in the pew alone, because the marriage he fought so hard for didn’t last.

It’s the whispered prayer of a parent, watching helplessly as their child struggles with addiction, desperately hoping for a breakthrough that never seems to come.

“We had hoped” is what we whisper at bedsides and gravesides, in waiting rooms and in empty houses.

It’s there in the quiet sighs of those who had hoped their retirement years would be filled with joyful travel and family visits, but now find themselves navigating illness, loneliness, or unexpected caregiving responsibilities.

It’s heard in the voices of those who planned careers or dreams that never fully blossomed, whose days are now shaped by realities they never imagined.

Photo by Urban Vintage on Unsplash

Yet, this quiet phrase—this sacred admission of hurt—is exactly where Easter meets us. It’s into these very moments of quiet grief and lingering disappointment that the risen Christ gently walks, unseen at first, often unnoticed, but always present. He steps quietly alongside, inviting us to speak our pain, to name our loss, and then, slowly, to discover that hope is not gone. Hope is alive, even now, because Jesus walks beside us, turning our “We had hoped” into “He is risen indeed.”

What I love about Jesus here is that He doesn’t rebuke them for losing hope. He doesn’t say, “How dare you doubt!” No, He listens. He walks with them in their sorrow before He ever tries to lift them out of it.

But eventually, He does speak. “How foolish you are, and how slow to believe all that the prophets have spoken!” (verse 25).

It sounds harsh in English, but I imagine His tone was like a teacher gently urging students to see what they’d missed. He begins to open the Scriptures to them. From Moses to the Prophets, He weaves the story of God’s redemptive plan. He shows how the Messiah had to suffer and then enter into glory. He helps them see that this road they’re walking is not the end—it’s part of something greater.

Still, they don’t know it’s Him.

The risen Christ is teaching them the story of redemption and they still don’t see Him for who He is. It’s not until they reach Emmaus, and He agrees to stay with them for supper, that something shifts.

“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” (verses 30-31).

And just like that, He’s gone from their sight. It wasn’t in the dazzling revelation. It wasn’t in the masterful teaching. It was in the breaking of bread. In the ordinary made holy. The ordinary turned sacred.

That’s how Jesus Christ still reveals Himself. Not just in mountaintop moments, but in the small ones. Ordinary ones. Mundane ones. In the kindness of a friend. In a quiet prayer. In a shared meal. In the steady faithfulness of someone who shows up.

Jesus is still the King who walks with us. Even when we don’t recognize Him. Even when our hearts are breaking. Even when we’ve already given up hope. He meets us on the road, listens to our pain, opens the Word, and stays with us through the night.

I love what the disciples say after He vanishes from sight: “Were not our hearts burning within us while He talked with us on the road and opened the Scriptures to us?” (verse 32).

That’s resurrection! Not just that Jesus lives—but that He still walks. Still speaks. Still sets hearts on fire.

The story ends with them running back to Jerusalem. Seven miles—now filled with energy and purpose! They had left in sadness, but now they return in joy. Because they know the truth: the King is alive. And He still walks with His people!

Friends, maybe that’s what Easter looks like this year—not trumpets and hallelujahs, but a quiet walk with Jesus in the middle of your confusion or doubt.

Maybe you’ve been saying, “We had hoped…” Maybe your steps are slow. If so, Easter is still for you. Because Jesus didn’t just rise from the grave. He rose into your life. Into your pain. Into your Tuesday mornings and sleepless nights.

He walks beside you even when you can’t see Him. And when the time is right, your eyes will be opened. Your heart will burn again. And you’ll remember—you were never walking alone.

Jesus still walks with us, turning our “We had hoped” into “He is risen indeed.” And He always will.

Happy Easter to you, friends!

Peace,
Daniel