Perspectives on the Emmaus Rd.

The lectionary story today tells of two disciples who left Jerusalem, walking away from all that had ended, heading towards Emmaus a village about seven miles away. As they walked, a third person joined them who was later revealed to be the Christ. (Luke 24.13-35)

Many of you will have heard me say this before, but I think it is important enough to say again. I want to read this story against the grain rather than simply accepting the usual assumption.

 

That assumption, almost universally held, is that these two disciples were men. It can be seen everywhere: in great works of art, in children’s books, in commentaries, even in imagination. Two disciples equal two men.

 

Yet the text hints at something different.

 

The story tells us that one of them was a man, and not only a man, but one who was named. Cleopas. The other disciple was unnamed. That in itself is curious. In many other places, when two disciples are mentioned, both are named, Peter and John, Andrew and Philip, Paul and Timothy. So, it wasn’t that it was custom to name only one disciple.

 

But it was, very often, the reality for women. Repeatedly in scripture women remain unnamed and invisible. 

 

In the Gospel of John, we are told that Cleopas’ wife, Mary, was among the women who stood at the foot of the cross. Clopas and Cleopas are simply variations of the same name, much as Saul becomes Paul. This Mary is there, present at the end.

Therefore, it seems entirely plausible that the two disciples on the road to Emmaus were Cleopas and Mary, a couple walking home together. Otherwise, Cleopas has left his wife behind in Jerusalem and set off with a friend!

For me, the image of a couple walking together makes sense. They have shared the events, shared the grief, shared the confusion. And it is into that space that the risen Christ comes alongside them.

Yet for centuries, this possibility has been largely overlooked. The assumption has persisted: two disciples must be two men.

It is a reminder that the patriarchal world of the Bible is often carried forward into the way the Bible is interpreted. And so, without even noticing,  the presence and participation of women is overlooked. If the text is approached recognising the inherent patriarchy and looking beyond it there are lots of hidden gems showing the presence and participation of the women of the time.

 

Reading the text I think it was a married couple who urged Jesus to spend the night at their home. This makes the complete sense to me. It all seems so obvious, yet for centuries the patriarchal mindset has completely overlooked the possibility of a woman.

 

 Reading against the grain is not about forcing something new into the text but allowing what has been overlooked to come into view. 

 

And when that happens something shifts.

 

Today, I want to think not only about who was on the road to Emmaus but also about seeing.

 

The philosopher Friedrich Nietzsche spoke about perspectivism, the idea that we never see the world from nowhere, but always from somewhere. Understanding is shaped by a person's history, culture, experience. Truth is not lost, but deepened, as different perspectives are brought into view. Interpretation always involves perspective and each perspective reveals something. I hope my perspective from the lens of reading against the grain adds something to an understanding of this story.

For Cleopas and Mary (yes, I am naming her) the perspective was simple. The story was over. Jesus had been a prophet, Jesus had died, their hopes had been misplaced.

Then the risen Christ walks with them and “Beginning with Moses and all the prophets, he interpreted to them the things about himself in all the scriptures.” (27)

The texts had not changed. The events of the last few days had not changed. Their perspective changed, and so meaning changed. 

Later that day they said: “Did not our hearts burn within us while he was talking to us on the road?” (32)

The same pattern appears in the story of Mary Magdalene at the tomb. (John 20:11–18) She sees Jesus in the garden but does not recognise him. From her perspective, Jesus is dead, resurrection is impossible, so she interprets what she sees in the only way that makes sense, he was the gardener.

Nothing outward changed. The same garden, the same figure standing before her. Then he calls her by name. And everything changes.

I think this happens more often than is realized. 

Moments when nothing outward has changed, yet suddenly everything looks different because the perspective has changed, and, then, everything changes.

Christ is Risen, Christ is Risen Indeed

Christ is risen.
Christ is risen indeed.

What a sad couple of days it had been.

Jesus was dead, and with that so, too, were all the disciples’ hopes and expectations. Everything they had given their lives to over the past few years—everything they had sacrificed: families, homes, jobs, security—seemed to have come to nothing. It was all over.

Then, early on that first Easter morning, Mary went to the tomb (John 20:1–18). She found the stone rolled away and the body gone. I imagine this did not bring relief but deepened her sorrow. Not even a body to tend, to anoint, to care for; those final acts of love that are so much a part of grieving.

Mary ran to tell the others. Two of the disciples came back with her, looked, saw, and then, what I think is one of the saddest lines in the whole story, they “returned to their homes.” What else was there to do? The one they had loved was gone, even in death. There was nothing left to hold onto.

But Mary stayed. What a wealth of richness in those two simple words “Mary stayed”.

Mary remained by the tomb, weeping. There is something profoundly human in that. When love is real, it lingers. It does not leave quickly.

Through her tears, Mary looked into the tomb and saw two being she perceived as angels. I wonder if, even then, there was the faintest flicker of something—hope, perhaps, or simply confusion breaking through grief. They asked her why she wept, and she answered with aching simplicity: she did not know where the body had been taken. Even now, her longing was not for resurrection, but simply to care for the one she loved. One final act of tenderness.

Then she became aware of someone behind her.

She did not recognise Jesus. The text does not tell us why.  Perhaps grief can cloud our seeing. Or perhaps resurrection is not simply a return to what was before. Either way, she does not know him. She supposes him to be the gardener and asks if he has taken the body.

Still, she is thinking of care. Still, she is acting out of love.

And then everything changes.

Her name is spoken.

“Mary.”

Not an argument.
Not an explanation.
Just her name.

And in that moment, she knows.

It is such a simple thing, and yet so profound. To be named is to be known. To be named is to be held in relationship. In that single word, grief turns to recognition, despair to hope, death to life.

I cannot begin to imagine what passed through Mary’s mind in that instant. But I know this: it was not an end.

It was a beginning.

Life had not been defeated. Love had not been extinguished. Something new, something beyond what she had expected or imagined, had begun.

And Mary, the one who stayed, the one who wept, the one who was called by name, became the first to carry that news.

The apostle to the apostles.

She went, because love cannot keep such news to itself.

Christ is risen.
Christ is risen indeed.