That very day two of them were going to a village named Emma′us, about seven miles from Jerusalem, and talking with each other about all these things that had happened. While they were talking and discussing together, Jesus himself drew near and went with them. But their eyes were kept from recognizing him.
Jim Quigley did a fine job with his Sunday sermon about Jesus’s followers walking the road to Emmaus, and even wrote a Cup on the same subject. Then I come along, heading down that road again.
Luke reported on an event, but my head wanders to our individual spiritual journeys. Our faith has feet. The signposts along these paths reflect our life stories: losses, loves, hurts, blessings. The road I walk in faith today doesn’t look much like my road some years ago. What seems consistent, however, is that there has always been someone else encountered on that road whom I (much) later recognized as from God.
If we truly accept that the resurrected Jesus lives on within believers, then we’ve had our own Emmaus moments. We probably didn’t recognize them any sooner than did Cleopas and his fellow traveler. I’ve been thinking about people encountered on my own journey who imparted forgiveness, grace and saving compassion. Some seemed to be unlikely saviors, others almost glowed. Bob, Father Pat, Jane, John, Barbara, Frank C. … my husband. I can only acknowledge and thank some of them in my prayers.
Who has journeyed with you, taught you, and bettered your life in big or small ways? Were your eyes able to see that you were traveling with a savior?
And when my road has crossed others’ paths, I wonder if anyone saw the Jesus I try to honor in me?
Something to think about. On the road.