28 As they came near the village to which they were going, he walked ahead as if he were going on. 29 But they urged him strongly, saying, “Stay with us, because it is almost evening and the day is now nearly over.” So he went in to stay with them. 30 When he was at the table with them, he took bread, blessed and broke it, and gave it to them. 31 Then their eyes were opened, and they recognized him, and he vanished from their sight. 32 They said to each other, “Were not our hearts burning within us[a] while he was talking to us on the road, while he was opening the scriptures to us?” (Luke 24: 28-32)
A number of years ago my whole family went through a pretty bleak time. And when I say “bleak,” I mean the kind of time where the clouds don’t just hang over you — they move in, unpack their bags, and start rearranging the furniture.
We had deaths to contend with. We had paralyzing health issues in all four of us. We had lean times financially (mostly because bodies are expensive and prescriptions do not accept good intentions as currency). And on top of it all, there were workplace realities that both Hugh and I had to navigate — the kind of things that keep you awake at 3:00 a.m. staring at the ceiling, mentally drafting emails you will never send.
I had this horrible feeling that I was barely treading water and that at any moment something else would come along and push me under. Not just me. All of us. Like we were going to drown as a family.
In the middle of scrambling to keep us all going, I sat down with a very close friend (you know who you are) and poured out all of my woes to her. It was an afternoon of catharsis that involved some truly excellent chocolate fondue — because if you’re going to unravel emotionally, you might as well do it with melted chocolate and fruit within reach.
At some point I apologized for ranting. She looked at me and said, simply, “It’s o.k. Thanks for telling me what’s going on. It’s a very sad story.”
That was it.
No solutions. No fixing. No “have you tried…” Just an honest naming of what was real: this is sad. And you are not crazy for feeling what you are feeling.
And it wasn’t like the whole situation was magically better after that. But it was recognized. I was seen. And I desperately needed to be seen.
Walking away from that afternoon of chocolate decadence and listening ears, I had a strange sense that God had been present in the conversation. Not because we prayed. Not because we quoted scripture. Not because we put a tidy theological conclusion on it. But because something holy happens when a story is told and received with gentleness.
I think maybe I’m talking about hope. Not the sparkly, “everything is awesome now” kind of hope. The sturdier kind. The kind of hope that lets you tread water one more day.
This is why I love the Emmaus story so much. Luke tells us that two disciples — one named Cleopas, the other left unnamed (which feels like an invitation for us to step into the story ourselves) — are walking away from Jerusalem, processing the horror of the crucifixion and the bewildering rumors of resurrection. They are doing what we do in grief: walking, talking, replaying, trying to make meaning out of something that feels meaningless.
And Jesus comes alongside them — and they don’t recognize him. I love the timing of Jesus’ appearance. Just alongside them all. And all he does is invite them to tell their story.
Which if you’ve ever had this kind of horror in your life is its own kind of miracle.
So there they are — Cleopas and his companion — walking and talking their way through sorrow.
And Jesus walks with them.
Not in a blaze of glory. Not with angel wings. Not with a “Ta‑da!” moment.
He walks with them as a stranger.
Luke says that as they come near the village, Jesus “walked ahead as if he were going on.” I love that detail because it reads like consent. Jesus is present, but not pushy. He isn’t forcing himself into their space or demanding their attention. He allows them to decide whether they want more of him.
And then comes one of my favourite lines in the story:
“They urged him strongly…”
“Stay with us,” they say, “because it is almost evening and the day is now nearly over.”
That line hits differently when you’ve lived through something where everything feels like evening. Where you’re tired down to your bones. Where you don’t have the energy for brave faith or tidy prayers. Where you can’t carry one more “maybe it will get better” without some kind of companionship to hold it with you.
Stay with us.
Because it’s almost evening.
And Jesus does.
He goes in.
He stays.
And then — only then — at the table, in the ordinary act of shared food, Luke says Jesus takes bread, blesses it, breaks it, and gives it to them. And suddenly their eyes are opened and they recognize him.
You see, the disciples? They don’t recognize him on the road, even though he’s literally explaining the scriptures to them. They recognize him in the breaking of the bread.
Which tells me at least two things.
First, Jesus is not only found in brilliant theological insight (though God knows I love a good Bible nerd moment). Jesus is found in community — in hospitality, in the shared table, in the “stay with us” spaces we create for one another.
Second, recognition is a gift. Not an achievement.
And when they do recognize Jesus, he vanishes. Because of course he does.
Isn’t that the way?
The moment you finally feel steady, the moment you finally exhale, the moment you finally say, “Oh. You were here,” it’s as if the experience slips through your fingers. But what doesn’t slip away is what they say next:
“Were not our hearts burning within us…?”
Notice something: they understand afterward. They interpret the experience in hindsight. That’s so human. That’s so… us.
Sometimes we only know God has been present once we’re on the other side of the conversation, the meal, the hospital waiting room, the funeral lunch, the long walk, the couch where we finally tell the truth. Sometimes we only recognize holiness retroactively, when we realize: I shouldn’t have been able to make it through that day… and somehow I did.
And then — my favourite detail — they get up and go back. Luke says they return to Jerusalem “in that same hour.” The road that took them all day in exhaustion somehow becomes a road they can travel with urgency and purpose. They are changed, not because the story got easier, but because they are no longer carrying it alone.
This is what community does.
This is what hope does.
It doesn’t erase grief. It doesn’t deny the injury. It simply says: you are not alone on the road. And you do not have to do this by yourself.
Which brings me back to that afternoon of chocolate fondue.
My friend didn’t fix anything. She didn’t have to. She stayed. She listened. She named the sadness. She made room for the truth. And in that moment, in that small and ordinary act of love, God was there.
Because God so often appears to us in community.
In the friend who says, “That is a sad story,” and doesn’t flinch.
In the person who makes you tea and doesn’t demand you “look on the bright side.”
In the congregation who quietly becomes a net when you’re barely treading water.
In Communion, where we receive bread that has been blessed and broken and given — and we remember that resurrection is not only an idea, but a Presence.
“Stay with us,” they said.
And he did.
And he still does.
Blessings today, and remember you are Loved
~Rev. Lynne
Audio file: https://audio.com/lynne-gardiner/audio/office-hours-stay-with-us-1