Sermon by The Very Rev Chris Yaw, 4/19/2026, Easter 3
Lessons: Luke 24:13-35
You know, there’s a quiet kind of leaving that doesn’t make headlines.
No slammed doors. No dramatic declarations. Just a slow, steady walk in the opposite direction.
That’s where we find them today.
Two disciples.
Not the famous ones. Not Peter or John or Mary Magdalene. These are the background characters. The kind of people whose names don’t stick in memory, except maybe one, Cleopas, and even he – or she - feels like someone we’d forget five minutes after being introduced.
And on the very day of the resurrection, they’re leaving.
Not visiting. Not going on pilgrimage. They are leaving Jerusalem. Walking away from the place where everything just happened. Walking away from the place where Jesus was crucified. Walking away from the community that had formed around him.
They are, quite simply, fleeing.
And here’s the strange part. They’ve already heard the news.
They know about the empty tomb. They know that some of the women saw angels. They know that something has happened that no one can quite explain.
And still, they leave.
Because it doesn’t make sense.
It doesn’t line up intellectually. Dead people don’t just… stop being dead. Not in any way that fits their understanding of the world.
It doesn’t feel safe physically. Jerusalem is a powder keg. The Romans have already shown what they do to anyone who even smells like a threat. Crucifixion isn’t subtle. It’s a billboard. A warning.
And emotionally? They’re wrecked. Confused. Grieving. Disoriented. The kind of grief that scrambles your thoughts and leaves you unsure which way is up.
And we know something about that kind of grief.
Many of you have already heard that our Senior Warden, Ellen Boyes, died late yesterday, after a diagnosis just weeks ago that she carried with remarkable grace.
Ellen was a nearly lifetime member of this parish, served as Senior Warden four times, sang and led our choir, and gave herself to this community in ways that shaped who we are.
So, if you find yourself grieving today, or caught off guard by this, it’s okay.
Jesus himself wept at the tomb of Lazarus.
And we do too.
And even here, especially here, we hold onto this: for the Christian, life does not end. It changes.
So you and I enter this story in a unique way this morning – and we do what humans have always done when things don’t add up.
They trust what they can see – our bodies
what they can reason through – our intellects
what they can feel – our emotions.
And all three of those are telling them the same thing.
Get out.
And so they walk.
Seven miles to Emmaus. Seven miles of trying to make sense of a world that no longer makes sense.
And then Jesus shows up.
Not with a spotlight. Not with a trumpet blast. Not even with a “surprise, it’s me!”
He just… joins them.
Falls into step beside them like a stranger who happens to be heading the same direction.
And Luke tells us something fascinating:
Their eyes were kept from recognizing him.
Which, at first glance, feels almost unfair.
Like Jesus is playing some kind of divine hide-and-seek.
But I don’t think that’s what’s happening.
I think Jesus is being gentle.
Because imagine the alternative.
Imagine you’re walking away from Jerusalem. Walking away from everything you thought was true. You’re leaving the disciples, the faith, the movement -And suddenly, the person you’ve abandoned appears in front of you in full resurrection glory.
That’s not just surprising. That’s mortifying.
It would expose everything. Their doubt. Their fear. Their decision to leave.
So Jesus meets them in a way they can bear.
Unrecognized. Unthreatening. Just a fellow traveler.
And he starts with a question.
“What are you discussing with each other while you walk along?”
Which is such a Jesus move.
He already knows. Of course he knows. But he invites them to tell their story anyway.
Because sometimes the first step toward truth is simply saying out loud the story you’ve been carrying.
And they do.
They tell him about Jesus of Nazareth. A prophet mighty in deed and word. They tell him about the betrayal, the crucifixion, the shattered hope.
“We had hoped that he was the one to redeem Israel.”
Had hoped.
Past tense.
That’s the ache right there. That’s the funeral they’re still attending, even as they walk.
And then they mention the rumors.
The women.
The empty tomb.
The angels.
But you can hear it in their tone.
It’s not conviction.
It’s confusion.
“It sounds crazy,” they might as well be saying.
“We don’t know what to do with it.”
And here’s where Jesus does something remarkable.
He doesn’t immediately reveal himself.
He doesn’t say, “Hey, it’s me, you’re overthinking this.”
Instead, he meets them exactly where they are.
In their intellect – which he addresses:
“Oh, how foolish you are, and how slow of heart to believe all that the prophets have declared!”
And then Luke says, beginning with Moses and all the prophets, he interpreted to them the things about himself in all the scriptures.
Sure, they had their own interpretation – but he gently reveals the ways they’ve been reading it wrong – and inviting them to see things in a new light – his light.
In other words, Jesus gives them a Bible study.
A walking, seven-mile, scripture-soaked, mind-opening conversation.
Because their intellectual objection matters.
Their questions matter.
Their confusion matters.
And Jesus doesn’t dismiss that - He engages it.
He shows them that the story they thought they knew, actually points to something deeper.
That the Messiah wasn’t supposed to avoid suffering, but to move through it.
That what looked like failure might actually be fulfillment.
He meets their minds.
But he doesn’t stop there.
He also meets their bodies.
Because notice this. Jesus doesn’t turn them around.
He doesn’t say, “You’re going the wrong way. Back to Jerusalem, now.”
He walks with them.
Away.
Further from the place where everything happened.
Further from the perceived danger.
Further into what feels, at least physically, like safety.
Because he understands something we often forget.
You can’t process truth if your body feels like it’s under threat.
If your nervous system is screaming “run,” you’re not going to sit still for a theological lecture.
So Jesus honors that.
He walks with them at their pace, in their direction, creating a space where their bodies can settle, where they can breathe, where they can listen.
He meets their minds – with the Bible Study.
He meets their bodies – by walking with them.
And then, somewhere along that road, he meets their hearts.
Because later they’ll say, “Were not our hearts burning within us while he was talking to us on the road?” Yep. There’s a warmth that begins to grow.
A flicker of something they can’t quite name.
Not proof.
Not certainty.
But a kind of resonance.
A sense that what he’s saying is… true.
Even if they can’t yet explain why.
And still, they don’t recognize him.
Not through the scriptures.
Not through the conversation.
Not even through that strange, holy warmth in their chests.
All of that prepares them.
But it’s not what seals it.
That comes later.
-----
So they reach Emmaus.
The day is nearly over.
And Jesus acts as if he’s going on.
Again, such a gentle move.
No pressure.
No assumption.
Will he be invited to carry on with the two?
Yes - they urge him strongly,
“Stay with us, because it is almost evening and the day is now nearly over.”
So he goes in to stay with them.
And then it happens.
When he was at the table with them, he took bread, blessed it, broke it, and gave it to them.
And in that moment, their eyes were opened.
Not during the sermon.
Not during the walk.
But during the meal.
Taking. Blessing. Breaking. Sharing.
The fourfold shape of the Eucharist.
Something in that action, something in that rhythm, speaks directly to their spirits in a way that words alone could not. And suddenly, they see.
It’s him. It was him the whole time.
And just as suddenly, he vanishes.
Which feels almost like a punchline.
“Ok, now you get it? “Great. I’m out.”
But by then, it doesn’t matter.
Because now the truth has landed, not just in their minds or
their emotions or their bodies,
but in their spirits.
They know.
Not because it makes perfect intellectual sense.
Not because it feels safe.
Not because all their questions are answered.
But because something deeper has been awakened.
And here’s the wild part. They get up that same hour and return to Jerusalem.
Seven miles back. At night.
Three hours through the same roads they were so eager to leave just that afternoon.
Which means the danger hasn’t changed.
The Romans are still there. The authorities are still a threat.
The uncertainty is still real. What’s changed is them.
Because when truth takes root in the spirit, it rearranges everything.
Now it’s not just scary to stay.
It’s unthinkable.
They have to go back. They have to tell the others.
They have to proclaim what they’ve seen.
And suddenly, the road that once led away from hope becomes the road that carries them back into it. They have been convinced, converted, and commissioned.
So what does this mean for you and me?
Because, if we’re honest, we know this road.
We know what it’s like to walk away, quietly, without making a scene.
We know what it’s like to say,
“This doesn’t make sense,” or “This doesn’t feel safe,” or
“I don’t know what to believe anymore.”
We know what it’s like to trust our intellect, our instincts, our emotions.
And those are good things. They matter.
Jesus engages all of them.
But they’re not the whole story.
Because there is also something deeper.
A spiritual voice.
And often, it’s the quietest one in the room.
Easily drowned out by fear.
By logic.
By noise.
But it’s there.
And the good news of this story is that even when we walk away, Jesus walks with us.
Not standing at a distance, shaking his head.
Not blocking the road, demanding that we turn around. But coming alongside us.
Listening. Asking questions. Opening the scriptures.
Warming our hearts.
Meeting us in our minds, our bodies, our emotions.
These disciples will go out, as Peter did in our Epistle reading, and preach a gospel of repentance and forgiveness – Saying we’re sorry and forgiving ourselves – then others.
So the invitation, for us, is to trust.
To trust our spiritual selves
To trust our spiritual selves are capable of recognizing truth, even when everything else is uncertain.
To trust that Jesus is present, even when we don’t immediately see him.
To trust that the road we’re on, even if it feels like it’s leading away, might actually be the place where he meets us most clearly. Even in the face of loss…
Even as we grieve someone we love… we trust that spirt, that conscience, that inner voice – that assures us that there is more - that this life in Christ is not ended, only changed.
And maybe, just maybe, we can pay more attention to that spiritual voice – and those moments when something in us starts to burn.
Not in a dramatic, lightning-from-the-sky kind of way.
But in that quiet, steady, unmistakable sense that something here is real.
Something here is alive. Something here is calling us back.
Because resurrection isn’t just something that happened back then.
It’s something that keeps happening.
On roads we didn’t expect.
In conversations we didn’t plan.
At tables we almost overlooked.
And when it does, it has a way of turning us around.
Sending us back into the very places we thought we had to leave.
Not because they’ve become less dangerous.
But because we’ve become more alive.
And that, it turns out, makes all the difference.
Amen.