Luke 24.13-35
Genesis 18.1–8
Well, congratulations to those of you who made it to church
today.
Whether you ran, walked, re-routed, dodged road closures,
or
heroically crossed the marathon barricades
like
modern-day Israelites through the Red Sea—
You’ve made it here.
It feels rather appropriate, actually,
That we
find ourselves gathering on Marathon Sunday,
Because our Gospel story today
is also
about a long walk through a crowded city,
A journey undertaken in confusion,
With heavy
feet and heavier hearts.
The road from Jerusalem to Emmaus isn’t as long as 26.2
miles—
But for the
two disciples walking it,
It must
have felt like a marathon of the soul.
And it’s in that slow, uncertain journey
That the
risen Christ meets them.
Not at the finish line,
But in the
walking.
Not with fanfare,
But with
questions.
And ultimately, not in spectacle,
But in the
simple breaking of bread.
So as London runs its race outside,
We turn now
to a different kind of road—
The road to
Emmaus.
And to the One who still meets us there.
And, I don’t know about you,
But one of
the things I treasure most in life
Is the simple act of sitting down and sharing a meal with
others.
I love cooking.
I love
welcoming friends and family to our table.
I love going out for a meal
—nothing
too fancy, just good food and good company.
There is something about eating together that connects us.
It grounds
us.
It brings
us into each other’s lives.
There is something sacred that happens when we break bread.
And it’s no
accident that one of the most powerful
resurrection
stories in the Gospels
Happens not in the temple,
Not in the
synagogue,
Not in the
upper room—
But at an ordinary table,
At the end
of a dusty road.
And we'll re-join them at their table in a minute, but first the journey...
The story of the walk to Emmaus
is one of
the most profound in all of Scripture.
Two disciples walking.
Talking.
Processing
grief.
Trying to make sense of their broken dreams.
One of them we know by name—Cleopas.
The other goes unnamed,
Perhaps to
leave space for us in the story.
Perhaps it was a spouse,
Or a
friend,
Or a fellow
traveller on life’s long journey.
They are heading away from the bustle and hustle of
Jerusalem.
Away from
the place of trauma.
Away from
the site of crucifixion.
They are retreating—perhaps going home.
Trying to
piece together what’s happened.
And then Jesus comes alongside them.
But they fail
to recognise him.
This, already, is a sermon in itself.
How often
does Christ walk beside us,
And we do
not see?
But keeping with the story,
We are told
that “their eyes were kept from recognising him.”
Grief does that.
Disappointment
does that.
Fear does
that.
Their hopes had been crucified.
Their faith
shaken.
Their
vision clouded.
And Jesus, rather than immediately revealing himself,
Asks a
question:
“What are you discussing as you walk along the road?”
It is a question born not of ignorance,
But of
invitation.
He listens.
He lets
them speak.
He lets
them tell their story.
And in that storytelling,
In that
vulnerable naming of dashed hopes—
Something begins to shift.
David Lose says this is “a story of movement,
of journey,
of transformation.”
Jesus doesn’t just tell them the truth
—he walks
it with them.
At Bloomsbury, we are a community of many journeys.
We know
what it is to walk through uncertainty.
Through grief.
Through questions.
Our congregation brings together people from different
nations,
different
traditions,
different
wounds and longings.
We know what it is to walk the road away from certainty.
We know what it is to talk along the way,
Trying to
make sense of faith
when the
world has turned upside down.
And it is here,
On the
road,
In motion,
That Christ draws near.
Not always in glory,
But in
mystery.
Not in spectacle,
But in
conversation.
This is why the road matters.
This is why
the journey matters.
And it’s why our travelling companions matter too.
And so here at Bloomsbury we walk with others,
with people
of different faith traditions and none,
with friends from other Christian traditions,
with Muslim
and Jewish people,
with all people
of good faith.
And we journey with others not to deliver answers from on
high,
But to be
present with people in their real lives.
Whether we are advocating for fair housing,
Just wages,
Or dignity
for refugees—
We are learning to recognise Christ
In the face
of the other.
In our partnerships through London Citizens,
we meet
Christ not just in the sanctuary,
but in the
street, if only we have the eyes to see him.
And in that walking, that listening, that storytelling,
We prepare
ourselves for the moment of revelation.
But back to the story…
before they
get there, Jesus speaks again.
He says, “Oh, how foolish you are, and how slow of heart to
believe.”
It’s not an insult.
It’s a
diagnosis.
Their eyes are closed because their hearts are slow.
Their
understanding is stuck.
They are trapped in a particular expectation
of what
redemption would look like.
And they can’t see the resurrection happening before their very
eyes,
because it
hasn’t met their criteria for hope.
Joy J. Moore points out that their spiritual eyes were
clouded.
They had
imagined a victorious Messiah.
Not
a suffering one.
A
conqueror, not a crucified one.
But Jesus begins to interpret.
To reframe.
To read Scripture afresh.
To help them understand that glory comes through suffering,
Life
through death,
Hope
through despair.
This is true discipleship.
Not just
believing,
But
learning how to read the world differently.
Rolf Jacobson calls this “a story about interpretation.”
It’s not
just about seeing Jesus.
It’s about
learning how to see everything in light of Jesus.
And friends, this is the work we are called to.
To learn to
read our lives,
Our
politics, our griefs, our communities—
Through the lens of the crucified and risen Christ.
Too often the church reads the world through the lens of
fear.
Of decline.
Of anxiety. Of control.
But the Emmaus story teaches us to read through hope.
To
interpret through presence.
To look for Christ not in certainty,
But in
companionship.
And then comes the pivotal moment.
They reach
the village.
Jesus walks ahead as if to go on.
But they
urge him: “Stay with us.”
And he does.
And around the table, he takes the bread,
Blesses it,
breaks it, and gives it.
And their eyes are opened.
He was made known to them in the breaking of the bread.
And maybe this scene at Emmaus,
With its
freshly baked bread and its sudden epiphany,
Brings to mind another moment,
far earlier
in the story of God’s people.
The day when Abraham,
sitting
under the oaks of Mamre in the heat of the day,
Saw three strangers approaching.
He didn’t know who they were.
There were
no trumpets, no visions, no heavenly voice.
Just the
appearance of three weary travellers.
But Abraham ran to meet them.
He welcomed
them in.
He insisted they stay.
He offered
water, rest, and bread.
He invited
them to a feast.
And in doing so—he met God.
The pattern is clear, and it stretches from Genesis to Luke:
God comes
as guest.
God arrives in the unexpected visitor.
God shows
up in the shared meal.
Abraham, like Cleopas, did not recognise at first who stood
before him.
But
something in him responded anyway.
Something in him recognised that this moment mattered.
And because he opened his tent,
Because he
set the table,
Because he shared what he had—
A promise
was born.
A child would come.
A future
would be named.
A covenant
renewed.
And so the road to Emmaus
isn’t just
about two disciples and one strange evening.
It is a continuation of God’s long-standing habit
Of showing
up in the company of strangers,
And turning
tables into altars.
It is a reminder that our daily acts of hospitality
May open us
to the holy.
That the welcome we extend
may become
the means by which we ourselves are transformed.
At Bloomsbury, this means something very real.
When we welcome here those who are excluded elsewhere,
When we
practise hospitality across difference,
When we share meals with those our world disregards—
We are not
just being kind.
We are preparing for revelation.
We are
entertaining angels unaware.
We are
breaking bread with Christ.
This is the moment of sacrament.
The moment
of mystery.
And it happens in the simplest of settings.
Not at an
altar,
But at a
kitchen table.
Not in front of a congregation,
But in the
intimacy of shared space.
Karoline Lewis notes that this is not just about
recognition,
But
participation.
They don't merely see Jesus—they share life with him.
They
welcome him.
They feed
him.
And in that shared act,
He is
revealed.
At Bloomsbury, we know this well.
Each week,
we gather as a diverse community—
with our different cultures, different stories, and different
identities.
Some of us come confident in our faith.
Some come
fragile.
Some come wounded by religion.
Some come
with questions too deep for words.
But still we come.
And we
share bread—real or metaphorical.
We break open Scripture.
We offer
welcome.
We extend grace.
And in that
space,
Christ is
present.
And this is why hospitality matters.
Why
inclusion matters.
Why the
theology we preach matters.
Because what we say about God
Shapes what
we do with our tables.
If we proclaim a God who excludes,
We will
become a people who exclude.
If we preach a God of control,
We will
build communities of fear.
But if we proclaim a Christ who walks roads,
Listens to
stories,
and breaks
bread with those he calls friends—
Then we will become a people who do the same.
In a world of fragmentation,
We become
signs of unity.
In a society of suspicion,
We offer
trust.
In a culture of commodification,
We offer
presence.
The world is full of people walking roads of despair.
Of asylum
seekers turned away.
Of children
growing up in poverty.
Of
political systems that reward cruelty.
But if we learn to walk the Emmaus road,
If we learn
to recognise Christ in the stranger,
Then we can begin to tell another story.
A story of
resurrection.
A story of
hope.
And perhaps this is the invitation before us at Bloomsbury—
To become
more deeply an Emmaus-shaped church.
A community shaped not by certainty,
But by
companionship.
Not driven by programmes or prestige,
But by
presence.
Not gathered around status or uniformity,
But around
shared bread and sacred story.
So much of what we are becoming at Bloomsbury
Reflects
the movement of this text.
We are a church that walks together.
We are
unafraid to ask difficult questions.
We honour doubt as much as we celebrate faith.
We know that Jesus meets us not always in triumph,
But often
in our moments of confusion, grief, and change.
We are learning to speak our stories honestly—
To say,
like Cleopas, “We had hoped...”
And we are learning to listen, like Christ,
with
compassion and patience.
We are a community that opens our table wide—
To people
of every background,
To LGBTQ+ siblings who have been wounded elsewhere,
To refugees
and migrants navigating unjust systems,
To those curious, uncertain,
returning,
or deconstructing.
And in doing so,
We trust
that Christ is made known to us
In the
breaking of the bread,
and in the
fellowship we share.
Our challenge is to keep recognising him.
To keep
attending to the ways
resurrection
is already moving in our midst—
In our worship, yes,
But also in
our organising,
In our weekday conversations,
In our
quiet pastoral care,
In the arts, in activism, in prayer,
In moments
of holy surprise.
Emmaus was not a one-time event.
It is a
pattern.
And if we are attentive,
If we keep
walking together,
If we keep breaking bread—
Then we
will find our hearts burning,
Our eyes opened,
And our
faith renewed.
Not in spectacle,
But in
presence.
Not in power,
But in
love.
Not in dominance,
But in
divine hospitality.
And so we get to the end of the story,
and we
discover that the final act
of the
Emmaus story is movement again.
“They got up that very hour and returned to Jerusalem.”
They go back.
Back to the
place of trauma.
Back to the
place of community.
But they are changed.
They return
not in grief,
But
in joy.
Not in
defeat,
But
in witness.
And so must we.
Our encounter with Christ is never for us alone.
It leads us
outward.
It sends us to speak,
To serve,
To proclaim that life has the final word.
So, friends:
Let us walk
the road.
Let us listen for grace.
Let us
break bread faithfully.
Let us interpret our lives through the story of Christ.
Let us resist the lies of power and fear.
Let us
build tables of welcome.
And let us tell the world—
That Christ
is risen,
That Christ
is present,
And that our hearts still burn
When we
meet him
In the mystery of the everyday.
Amen.
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