Luke 24:13-35 · On the Road to Emmaus
The Miracle Comes at the Breaking
Luke 24:13-35
Sermon
by Various Authors
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Then they told what had happened on the road, and how he was known to them in the breaking of the bread. (v. 35)

After his resurrection, Jesus promised that he would be with us everywhere. We can be assured and conscious of his presence in the private place of prayer, but also the rush of daily routines, including a classroom or a crowded restaurant; or even in the midst of a rabid crowd at a sports event.

But without a doubt there are circumstances and settings where we are more likely to meet our Lord, or where his presence is more intimately experienced. Our Scripture lesson for this day illustrates what I'm trying to say.

It was late afternoon and evening of the first Easter. Two followers of Jesus were walking a slow and sorrowing seven miles from Jerusalem to the village of Emmaus. By our usual view of things, they were not famous or important people. The one is identified as Cleopas, and we know nothing more about him nor do we learn more of him later in the Scriptures; the other is not even named. But they had loved Jesus very much and had followed him earnestly in their own relatively insignificant way. Now Jesus was gone, and they were desperately lonely, afraid and unsure of themselves and of the future.

So they walked a forsaken, dusty road, reminiscing and questioning. They recalled those happier days when Jesus was among them, teaching and healing. They pondered with pain the kaleidoscope of the past few days. They asked themselves the meaning of all that had happened, and found no answer.

Suddenly a Stranger joined in their walk and their talk. He came so quietly that he seemed no intrusion to their private pain. He asked them why they were so troubled, then went on to explain the Scriptures with which they had been wrestling so helplessly. When they arrived at their destination, the Stranger acted as if he were going on. But when the two men invited him to stay, he quickly accepted their invitation.

As they sat at the table, the Stranger took bread, blessed it, and broke it for distribution. In that moment, the New Testament says, "their eyes were opened," and they knew it was their Lord.

After Jesus was gone from them, one of the men said that they should have recognized Jesus when they were walking and talking, because of the way their "hearts burned" within them as he explained the Scriptures to them. But the revelation came at a different moment. As they told it later to the disciples, Jesus "was known to them in the breaking of the bread."1 It was at that moment when he took the bread and broke it that they knew he was their Lord.

That's surprising, isn't it? Logic says that they should have recognized Jesus while he was explaining the Scriptures. They themselves reasoned so. Their hearts had burned with excitement as he interpreted the passages to them; that should have been indication enough that his Stranger was their Lord. The preacher in me wishes it were so, for I open the Scriptures each week in the fond hope that people will, at such a moment, see their Lord. And often, of course, they do; for this is the purpose of the Scriptures and the expectation in preaching, that as the Scriptures are explained, people will see and experience Jesus Christ.

Come to think of it, we might have expected that the two men would have recognized Jesus at the moment he joined them. That event had about it the flash of recognition, what some might call the experiential moment. It’s the kind of instance when you expect a miracle: two people walking in loneliness and need, talking about their Lord, and lo, he appears. And of course, they recognize him. But it didn’t happen that way.

Instead, logical or not, Jesus was revealed to them when he broke the bread. Not in the dramatic appearance along the roadside, and not as he expounded the Scripture as only the Master Teacher could do, but when he took the common bread in his hands and broke it. "He was known to them in the breaking of the bread."

Why? What is it that made that moment so special, so revealing, so miraculous? Our first inclination is to think that when Jesus broke the bread the two men were reminded of what happened in the upper room, when Jesus instituted the sacrament of Holy Communion. But then we realize that this can’t be the explanation, because these two men weren’t present in the upper room, since they weren’t part of the twelve.

Some have suggested that the two men were present when Jesus fed the multitude with the few loaves and fish. Thus they would remember the awesome moment when Jesus took a boy’s luncheon loaf in hand, looked to his Father in prayer, and began to satisfy the hunger of a great crowd by the miracle of what happened to crumbs of bread under his touch. This is certainly possible, even likely. It’s quite probable that these two men were part of the crowd on that special occasion, and if they were, they would no doubt have an indelible memory of the event.

But most of all, I think, it is that this act was so characteristic of Jesus. Often, over the years they had known and eaten with Jesus, they had seen him bless bread and break it, then distribute it to his friends. Often they had seen the strong carpenter hands wrench a piece of tough, middle-eastern bread for their enjoyment. Often he had fed them! Sometimes there was much and sometimes little; sometimes there was fish or lamb, sometimes fruit, sometimes neither. But always there was bread, and always the hands of their Lord, breaking it and blessing it.

It was not simply the physical act. It was that some quality of Jesus himself went into that act of breaking. Somehow Jesus was invested in the breaking. While the few loaves and fish remained whole in his hands, they fed no one. It was when he broke them that the multitudes were nourished. So, too, with every meal: the bread accomplished nothing lying on the table. It was when he broke it that the people at the table were fed.

And so it was, especially, in his own Person. Magnificent as he was, his value was slight if he held himself aloof, in majestic splendor. Come to think of it, they couldn’t have imagined him doing so. It was when he was broken that he fed the multitudes: broken, daily, in the pain of his compassion and in the untiring way he gave of himself to their needs; and broken at last on Calvary, in the ultimate sacrifice.

I am intrigued by the way the breaking of the bread has for so long caught up believers. In the Roman Catholic Church, through the long centuries when the mass was celebrated in Latin, there was that sacred moment when the priest would lift the Host and speak the momentous words of our Lord: in the Latin, Hoc est corpus meus - "This is my Body ..." Generations of the devout - and yes, of the superstitious, of course - waited for this moment and for the ringing of the bell. It was an exultant, mysterious moment, signaled by those special words. No wonder that the peasants, not knowing Latin, made the words into hocus pocus. Their corruption of the Latin became a phrase in our common speech, a popular "magic" incantation. They knew that moment as a peak of mystery, when something quite beyond them happened. Hocus pocus, indeed.

But believe me, the breaking of this bread is no "hocus pocus." It is a profound and magnificent mystery, but it is no clever magic. It is, rather, the very essence of who our Lord is, and of how he works. He came to our world to be broken. His body comes to us, not in sublime and delicate beauty, but broken. He makes us whole by himself being broken.

And as it is with the Master, so it is with his servants. The contemporary Roman Catholic mystic, Henri Nouwen, has given us a phrase which sums it up: wounded healers. You cannot really heal others, he reminds us, until and unless you are yourself a wounded person. It is from that wounded state that we best reach out to love, to touch, and to heal. If we stand off at a safe and antiseptic distance, we are of little use. It is as we ourselves are broken that we have the grace and the power to bring healing to others.

Surely this table to which we come today is a table for broken people. The broken bread of communion can never be received by those who think themselves to be whole. That’s why the classic invitation to commune begins, "Ye that do truly and earnestly repent of your sins ..." The invitation does not read, "You that are perfect," or "You that have been sanctified." As a matter of fact, it doesn’t even say, "You that are saved." The invitation comes to those who know that they are sinners, and who want to be saved from their sins.

In a sense, there is a sign over this Table which reads, "For Sinners Only." Now in truth, that includes everyone, for all have sinned and come short of the glory of God. But of course it is effective only for those who can read it. That is, for those who can recognize and acknowledge that they are sinners.

Because, you see, we can’t really take this broken Bread in a whole hand. It is only as we confess our own broken state - our sins - that we can receive such a gift of healing and forgiveness.

As you perhaps know, the Greek Orthodox Church refers to the service of Holy Communion as the Eucharist, which means the giving of thanks. But Professor Dale Bruner reminds us that the word means more than that. He notes that eu means good, and that charis is the root for our English word Caress. So it is, Dr. Bruner says, that "the Lord’s Supper is the good caress. In that sacrament God comes spiritually and physically and touches us, and He says, ‘I love you.’ "2

The late, great British preacher, Leslie Weatherhead, always remembered a boyhood experience of a special friend of his. The friend’s father was a great man and, unfortunately, his work took him away from home on many occasions. The boy missed his father dearly and looked forward with great excitement to each time when his father returned.

However, one night when the father was expected home from a journey, the boy faced a huge disappointment. He had been naughty and had been sent to bed early, before his father’s return. He awakened between ten and eleven that night and heard his father’s voice downstairs in conversation. Fearfully, he dressed and came down. He expected a rebuke, for he knew he was disobeying in what he was doing. But his father took him into his arms and held him very close, so close that the boy could feel the beat of his father’s heart. And the father said simply, "My own little child."3

I’m sure that’s what our Heavenly Father wants to say to you and to me today. We come, knowing that we are broken. Sin and the ravages of daily life have left their marks on our minds, our spirits, and our psyches. We look at the majesty of God and the purity of our Lord Christ and feel that we have no right to approach such perfection.

But then we encounter the miracle of the breaking. "This is my Body," our Lord says, "which is broken for you." And then, a voice of love, the Father’s voice: "My own little child."

Come, dear friends, whatever your brokenness may be, and experience the miracle which is in the breaking.

- J. Ellsworth Kalas


1. Luke 24:35 (RSV)

2. F. Dale Bruner, Christianity Today, 11-4-85, p. 47.

3. Leslie Weatherhead, "Suppose You Met Jesus," Twenty Centuries of Great Preaching, (Waco: Word books, 1971), Vol. XI, p. 135.

CSS Publishing Company, Take, Eat and Drink, by Various Authors