These unnamed disciples, or at least they start unnamed, began their journey out of Jerusalem to Emmaus having heard rumors of what had happened—that the tomb was empty, that Jesus was raised. They had heard the rumors from the women who had seen angels, and they had heard from other disciples who had gone to the tomb and found it empty. Yet their hearts were still weighed down by everything they had lost.
As they walked on this journey, we walk beside them today. Our Easter celebrations have come to a conclusion. The tomb has been declared empty. We have sung our hallelujahs and our hosannas. And yet, somehow and in some ways, our hearts are still burdened—by grief, by transformation, by change, by loss, by doubt. We are still walking the journey these two disciples walked. For we have heard the rumors; we have heard the good news. But sometimes our hearts remain heavy.
These disciples express honest grief: "We had hoped," they say when talking about Jesus. "We had hoped he would be the one. We had hoped he would change the world." Their grief is not just over the loss of a teacher and a friend but over the loss of all their expectations for what life would be like with him. Many of you know this grief yourselves—the loss of loved ones, spouses, friends, whether at a young age or later in life. The dreams and hopes you carried vanish, and grief follows. The disciples are living in that grief, and it is keeping them from recognizing Jesus in their midst. The stranger walking beside them is the very one they think they have lost, yet they do not see him.
How could they not recognize Jesus? How could they not see? But they miss the signs. Their hearts are too heavy. Yet Jesus stays close. He is ready to walk beside them, to help them along the way. He is with us, too. For when we are slow to see, when we are slow of heart, we cannot see the good news, the hope of transformation, or the truth standing right beside us.
Jesus offers them a gentle rebuke: "You who are slow of heart." I don’t think he means it as a harsh criticism; it is a loving nudge to stir up their hearts, to make them think again. Then Jesus opens the scriptures to them, from Moses and the prophets, telling the stories that point to Christ and the Messiah who would suffer, die, and rise again. He walks with them even though they don't recognize him. He patiently opens the scriptures, knowing that faith takes time. Sometimes faith is stronger, sometimes weaker, but hopefully it grows over time. The journey from Jerusalem to Emmaus was time Jesus was willing to spend, journeying with them until they could realize who he was.
Even though their hearts were slow and their understanding incomplete, the disciples kept listening. They listened to this stranger, even after initially scoffing: "Are you the only one who doesn't know what has happened?" It would have been easy to dismiss him. But they don't. They stay open. They don't close themselves off from learning. They keep walking, they keep listening. I imagine it was not just a one-sided conversation—though Luke presents it that way. I imagine back-and-forth exchanges as Jesus opened the scriptures and their hearts began to stir, even though full faith hadn't yet bloomed.
Then, as evening approaches, the stranger acts as if he will move on, but they insist: "Stay with us. It’s late." They invite him to share a meal, and in that hospitality, they open the door for transformation. Maybe it was a distraction from their grief, maybe not, but they keep the conversation going. And then, at the table, Jesus picks up the bread, blesses it, and breaks it—and in that moment, their eyes are opened. They recognize him, and everything changes. Their grief melts away. Their dashed hopes are resurrected into something new and vibrant. The rumors they had heard become their own lived reality. The resurrection no longer feels distant; it lives within them now, and they cannot contain it.
"Weren’t our hearts burning within us?" they exclaim. All that they had heard along the road finally makes sense. The journey of faith, the journey of listening, leads to this moment of revelation. Though scripture is often hard on the disciples for not understanding, for always failing, here they get it. Their hearts are on fire. Even though they had insisted earlier that it was too late to travel, they immediately return to Jerusalem to tell the others what they had seen and experienced.
They rush back to share the good news—that death could not contain Jesus. If only we, too, would find our resurrection moment, to experience that fire again. Maybe you’ve felt it in the past, and maybe life has been hard on you. Maybe the "we had hoped" expectations have set in. That’s when we need to be the most open to the journey—recognizing that Jesus walks beside us, even when we do not see him, patiently opening the scriptures for us, patiently stirring our hearts as long as we are open to listen and to be transformed.
Being slow of heart is not a failure. It’s part of the faithful journey. It’s part of realizing that we have to take the walk to get from where we are to where God calls us to be. Jesus walks with us in our grief, in our confusion, in our inability to comprehend, in our loneliness, and in our hope. And when we stay open to Christ acting in unexpected ways, the resurrection hope grows within us. But we must be willing to look again, to trust the Spirit’s patient work of awakening in us.
Today, Christ calls us to look again and to walk forward in faith—not stuck in sorrow, disbelief, or regret over what could have been or should have been. Later in the service, we will sing, "Because He Lives, We Can Face Tomorrow." And we can walk into the world bearing the good news because he lives. Some of us know what it’s like to live a long time in the dark, to feel trapped by the past, unsure if real hope is possible. But today, there is a Savior calling, promising a brand-new life—a resurrected life.
As we transition to our next song—which may be new and modern—let us lift our hearts. The song invites each of us to leave the grave behind, to step into the light, and to remember that Christ is alive and death doesn't live here anymore.