“I can’t get it out of my mind. It was so horrible,” he said.

“Cleopas, please, keep your voice down,” his companion whispered through gritted teeth. “Unless you want to end up like he did, keep your voice down. I’m tired of telling you.”

Cleopas, the one with no impulse control, knew his friend was irritated and wanted to make up for it. “Let’s walk faster,” he suggested as a peace offering.

“No!” his companion replied impatiently. “I told you — we don’t want to draw attention to ourselves. Just walk normally and speak softly.” He realized that in his irritation, he had said, “Speak softly” rather loudly. He blushed.

But he knew that by telling Cleopas to speak softly, he was protecting them both. They were running away. They weren’t among the twelve, but they were still easily identifiable as disciples of Jesus. They had had such hopes, and it had gone so terribly wrong. They had forsaken him after he had been arrested. So had all the other men. Only the women stayed with him. But the men had seen what had happened to him from afar, and it was that picture Cleopas could not get out of his mind. His friend understood. He couldn’t get it out of his mind either.

Jerusalem had quickly gone from a place of triumph to a place of horror. And danger. They had been terrified that all of his followers would be rounded up. So, as soon as the Sabbath was over and they could travel without attracting attention, they set out for Emmaus. Emmaus wasn’t really special; it just wasn’t Jerusalem.

He had told his exuberant friend that they needed to lay low, not attract attention, be calm and quiet. But it wasn’t in Cleopas’ nature, and he had had to tell him over and over to slow down and pipe down.

Now a stranger appeared and fell in beside them. Cleopas’ friend tried to speed up so they could give this new danger the message that they didn’t’ want to walk with him, but for once, Cleopas had gotten the message and would not speed up. The friend’s stomach tightened. He knew Cleopas was like a bubble about to burst, and he was not surprised when the stranger’s question, “What are you talking about,” was all it took. But he was surprised at how much emotion he had. Cleopas stopped. To his amazement, the friend stopped as well. They were both near tears. In spending so much energy trying to stifle Cleopas, he had not realized that it would be so hard to stifle himself. He knew what was coming, and he found himself powerless to stop it, or even to try.

And after a moment, it came. “You mean you don’t know?” Cleopas asked in disbelief. “How could you not know?” Then the story came gushing out. About Jesus, the mighty acts, their hopes, their dreams, the betrayal, the horrible death, the bitter disappointment. And then about the astounding (but really incredible) story the women told about him being alive, and even some of the men told it. But who could believe such a thing? So they had headed to Emmaus.

It had gushed out. The friend looked at the stranger, wondering if he presented a danger. And then, to their amazement, he began to teach. About scripture, about Jesus, about how it had to be the way it was. They walked with him mile after mile, and it was astounding.

Now they were no longer afraid of him; they wanted to be with him. So they invited him to dinner in Emmaus. When they were at table, he took the bread, blessed and broke it, and gave it to them, and their eyes were opened, and they saw that he was their Lord, and then, suddenly, he was gone.

And they said, “Were not our hearts burning when we were with him on the road?” And they got up and — at that crazy hour, after a long walk, as darkness was falling — they walked the seven miles back to Jerusalem. And now they weren’t hiding; they were proclaiming what had happened on the road, and how he had been made known to them in the breaking of the bread.

It’s wonderful to say, “Alleluia, Christ is risen,” but if that is an abstract concept, it’s not going to mean much to you. The story of Emmaus Road is, if you’ll forgive the metaphor, where Easter gets traction in our lives. So, I would like to leave you with some questions the story raises for me. Maybe they will be relevant to you now. Maybe they will be relevant to you at some point later in your life. Maybe they will be relevant to someone you know.

Have you ever found yourself on a spiritual road of fear? Have you ever found yourself running away from God? Maybe you’re running from God on a road of shame, or guilt, or addiction. Who knows? There are as many roads as people. Whatever your road, have you ever found yourself running from God?

Is there any part of the gospel, of Jesus’ teaching, of the Christian life, that scares you, or that causes you to be concerned about what people would think? Have you ever worried about whether you’d get in trouble if you followed some part of Jesus’ teaching?

Have you ever heard that Jesus is risen and just thought, even if only to yourself, even if you didn’t mean to think it, “That’s just too astounding to believe?”

If you have answered “yes” to any of those questions, you have been on the Road to Emmaus.

Now, can you imagine that when you are on the road of fear, shame, guilt, addiction, whatever, running from God, God will come after you? Can you allow yourself to believe that Jesus will be there walking beside you, even when you are trying to run away?

Can you imagine that the face of a stranger could actually be the face of Jesus? If a stranger could be Jesus, what does that do to our lives? To how we act? To the categories we draw, the classifications we create, the distinctions we construct between friends and strangers?

When you’ve been afraid, will you invite him in? He was going to go on, to keep walking. They had to invite him in. Will you do that?

He was known to them in the breaking of the bread. How will he be known to you? Can you imagine knowing him in a new and more powerful way than you do now?

These questions may be relevant to your life now. If they are not, I suggest that you hang onto them; I imagine that sooner or later, at least some of them will mean something to you on your spiritual path.

And what are we called to do, here, this morning? Simply this: welcome the stranger, break bread together, and proclaim the Good News: He is risen!