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.
