Related articles and links |  1 of 3

T hey said to each other, "Were not our hearts burning within us while he was talking to us on the road, while he was opening the scriptures to us?"
—LUKE 24:32, NRSV

Frankly, it's hard to figure out in middle-class, twentieth-century North America what it means to follow Jesus. It's hard to discern what dying to self looks like in any given instance. Do I pursue a job promotion, or is this "selfish ambition and vain conceit"? Do I take a holiday in the Bahamas, or is this a damnable failure to be "rich toward God," a failure to give to someone in need when I have material possessions? Can I buy a season's pass at a ski resort, or is this gross self-indulgence?

Most Christians I meet feel stuck. They started a journey, but somewhere, somehow, got stranded. They feel like they're living on the border. There they sit, swapping rumors about God. Or they just stop talking about God at all. They can talk about everything else with ease and eloquence, but their tongues thicken, twist, grow mute about naming and proclaiming God. And this: they feel that the most their faith amounts to is just that: mere talk. They've joined a talking cult.

Where is this huge, exultant freedom for which Christ set us free? Why do I still fret over downturns in Asian markets, get irked by reckless or doddering drivers, harbor grudges over petty slights, care more about my rhododendron bush than about the soul of the boy who broke its branches playing street hockey? Why can I sustain a capacity to explore, in my mind, vast tracts of an imaginary world, but can barely focus my prayers on God for more than 30 seconds at a go?

The most wondrous, breath taking truth I've ever contemplated is the story of the triune God and his ways with humanity—with me. But a fly tapping on the window can distract me from this story. Ten minutes of my morning set aside for appropriating the story's meaning into my life seems a sacrifice, and sometimes, just a nuisance.

As a pastor, I hear and see all the time those who want to have a deeper, richer experience with Christ, but they find themselves instead whiling away their days. Their days pass in a blurring swiftness and yet drag on in a dreary sameness—in jobs they dislike, in relationships that baffle and hurt them, with financial worries and health problems.

They don't feel fulfilled. And they carry a secret dread: Is there more, and I'm the only one missing it? Or worse: Is this it, and everyone's pretending it's enough?

Jesus, newly risen from the dead, joins with two of his disciples—one's name is Cleopas, and the other is not named—as they walk to the village of Emmaus (Luke 24:13–35). Jesus asks what they are discussing. Gloomily, they tell him about "Jesus of Nazareth," a "prophet mighty in deed and word before God and all the people." They speak about how the religious rulers handed him over to be crucified. "But we had hoped," they say, "that he was the one to redeem Israel." They tell about the rumors told by womenfolk—more troubling than consoling—of his resurrection. One thing is for sure: the tomb is empty, bodiless.

Jesus listens, and then speaks. "Oh, how foolish you are," he says, "and how slow of heart to believe all that the prophets have declared! Was it not necessary that the Messiah should suffer these things and then enter into his glory?"

When they arrive at the village, these two persuade Jesus—whom they still do not recognize—to eat with them. He does, and as Jesus breaks the bread, gives thanks, and gives it to them, "their eyes were opened, and they recognized him; and he vanished from their sight. They said to each other, 'Were not our hearts burning within us while he was talking to us on the road, while he was opening the scriptures to us?' "

next page... |  1 of 3

share this page

July 12 1999, Vol. 43, No. 8