The Road to Emmaus, as Mrs. Cleopas saw it.

It had been a distressing week. Jesus was dead. We were just beginning to come to terms with that. Jesus, our friend and rabbi. The one from whom life had shone so brightly. Who taught us that despite the struggles of our life, that there was hope, that love was the way. But now he was dead. And a violent torturous death at that, crucifixion. The death of a criminal.

So it was all over, the idea that he might be the promised Messiah. Our hope that we would follow him, making a reality the Kingdom of which he spoke, where those who hunger and thirst for justice would be satisfied, where the hungry would be fed, the blind would see, liberty brought to captives and Good News proclaimed to the whole of creation. All those hopes were dashed. Jesus was dead. My husband Cleopas and I were on our way back home to Emmaus. There was nothing to be done. We had lost more than a friend, we had lost hope.

As we were talking a stranger who was walking along the road came alongside us. We were not surprised, many people had come to Jerusalem to celebrate the Passover. We told him about what had happened to Jesus, a little surprised that he didn't know. It had been the talk of the town. Now this man certainly knew his scriptures. Together we discussed the prophets, of how our people Israel, Isaiah had called God's suffering servant. That often those called by God to speak truth to the powerful, had suffered. Surely it wouldn't be surprising if this happened to God's Messiah too. I recalled Pilate's question " What is truth?" As Jesus stood before him, silent and unwavering.

As we neared home it was dusk. We asked the stranger if he had far to go before nightfall. This was a dangerous road. Jesus had always reminded us of how the scriptures command us to show kindness and hospitality to strangers. We were once strangers in the land of Egypt, and owed our very survival as a Nation to the kindness of strangers.

So we invited him into our home. I prepared a simple supper, just some bread, fish and a little wine. As was our custom before eating we prayed a blessing. As our guest seemed a devout man with a deep knowledge of scriptures, we invited him to say the blessing. As he broke the bread and blessed it, a strange thing happened. My eyes met with Cleopas. It was obvious we were thinking about the same thing.. That last Passover that Jesus had shared with us. And we knew he, Jesus, was here among us. Along the road as we had shared the scriptures. Here, in hospitality shown to a stranger. Here, in the breaking and sharing of bread. In every place, through continuing the way he had shown us. And that despite everything that had happened, his word, his life and his hope still lived on. His hope, our hope of a new Kingdom, where the hungry would be fed, the blind see, captives liberated and good news proclaimed to every creature.

And all of a sudden the stranger was no longer with us. Had he slipped out to continue his journey? Was this a vision? Or an imagining brought on by our grief? No matter, the realisation that came to us that evening is what matters and remains strong to this day. The things that Jesus lived for will never die. And we might learn to recognise him whenever we welcome strangers. Wherever in our hungry world, bread is broken and shared.

“Often. Often says the lark in her song, often goes Christ  in the stranger’s guise.”