The change within

Sermon by Pr. Sharai Jacob on the Third Sunday in Easter + Saturday, April 18, 2026

The story of the road to Emmaus in Gospel of Luke is one of the most quietly profound resurrection stories we have. There are no dazzling angels, no dramatic proclamations to crowds, no miraculous entrances, not even the shock of Jesus’ scars. Instead, there is a long walk, an honest conversation, and a simple meal.

And at the center of it all is something we might not expect from a story of triumphant resurrection: questions, confusion, doubt.

This is the first appearance of the risen Christ in Luke’s gospel. Luke did this to address the hopes and doubts of the people of his own time. He tells this story first to reveal something important about doubt and faith: that healthy faith makes room for doubt and questioning. The grief, the uncertainty, the struggle to understand—it all belongs. Even though Jesus responds with a jab —“Oh, how foolish you are, and how slow of heart to believe”— he still walks seven miles talking with them and even stays for dinner!

That may be the most important detail of all.

Jesus doesn’t abandon them in their questioning. He joins them.

He walks alongside them on that seven-mile road. He listens. He engages. He honors their questions. Their faith is not neat or certain—but it is real. And Jesus meets them there.

Cleopas and his companion are taking a big risk. They are openly talking about everything that has just happened —the arrest, the execution, the shattered hope. These are not safe topics. In their world, speaking in support of a crucified leader could be dangerous. Political and religious conversations like this could get you killed.

And yet—they share openly with this stranger. 

They wrestle out loud. And then, incredibly, they invite him into their home. “Stay with us,” they say. “It is almost evening.”

While reclining at the dinner table, laying on their sides, they realize who they have been speaking to. Jesus is revealed to them and then suddenly disappears. Then they say, “Were not our hearts burning within us?”

But notice when they say it. Not during the walk. Not during the teaching. Only in hindsight do they recognize that something was happening within them.

Which raises another question for us: how do we recognize the work of the Holy Spirit?

Often, we look for dramatic changes out there—something undeniable, something unmistakable. But this story suggests something quieter, something more intimate. The change happens within.

Hearts burn. Understanding shifts. A story once defined by despair is reframed as part of something larger.

Jesus does not deny what has happened. He doesn’t say, “It wasn’t so bad,” or “You misunderstood.” The crucifixion was real. The grief was real. The trauma was real.

But he places it in a larger story.

Beginning with Moses and all the prophets, he interprets to them the things about himself in all the scriptures. He shows them that what felt like an ending was, in fact, part of God’s ongoing work of redemption.

This is what the community of faith does. Together, we help one another reframe our stories. Not to erase pain, but to locate it within the larger story of God’s love and promise. We remind one another that despair does not have the final word.

But who do we include in our community of faith? You might say, the people sitting in church with you during worship. You may even include a few of your friends or family members who speak with you about faith. But Cleopas seems to have a much bigger idea of what a community of faith is. 

When Cleopas speaks to Jesus, he calls him a “stranger.” But the Greek word could also be translated as: a migrant, a resident foreigner, someone from somewhere else. So the risen Christ is walking alongside his followers, and he is perceived as a migrant, an outsider. And Cleopas immediately treats him as a member of his own community of faith - sharing openly and listening intently to this stranger’s ideas.

What happens when Christ comes to us as a migrant on the road - as a stranger? Would we allow them the opportunity to share their wisdom with us? Or would we assume that they have little wisdom to share?

If Cleopas and his companion had decided not to engage this stranger—if they had kept their distance, if they had refused his presence—they would have missed everything!

They would have missed the conversation that made their hearts burn within them.

They would have missed the reframing of their story.

They would have missed the moment when Christ was revealed—in the breaking of the bread.

We need more than just our own stories to see the larger story of God’s love and promise. It takes all of our stories, the stories of strangers and outcasts, the stories of people from other lands and cultures, the stories of all creation. 

When they sat down at the table, this was not as formal as Holy Communion is in many churches today. There are no words of institution. No cup is mentioned. Jesus simply takes bread, blesses it, breaks it, and gives it to them.

It’s an ordinary meal, and yet it is here, in this intimate, close, almost uncomfortable proximity, that their eyes are opened. Our relationship with the risen Christ is not only found in grand, sacred moments—but in ordinary, shared life.

In long walks and risky conversations.

In stories told and retold.

Meals shared around a table.

Christ is revealed in your own conversations when you dare to be honest about your doubts and your hopes.

Christ is present at your dinner table, in laughter and in disagreement.

Christ shows up in places like South Loop Community Table, or the Saturday morning breakfast here at Grace Place—where even more of our community of faith finds a place at the table where bread is broken and stories are shared.

Christ shows up in the stranger. The one we’re not sure about. The one we might be tempted to ignore. And our text asks the question: Will you join them at the table?

Because it may be there—in that very encounter—that the wisdom which makes our hearts burn will meet you. That Christ will be made known to you.

Who are you willing to walk with, to listen to?

Whose story is missing at your table?

Amen.