Recognising Christ on the Road

Luke 24:13–35

Oh my goodness, what a week with the circus going on with the trio of Trump, JD Vance and Hegseth. Trump posted, and later deleted, an AI-generated image that appeared to depict him in a Christ-like role, healing a sick person. He then posted another with him leaning into Jesus (if only!). JD Vance, a relatively recent convert to Catholicism, publicly suggested that Pope Leo should “be careful” when speaking about theology, invoking the Church’s just war tradition as if the Pope was ignorant about it. Then Pete Hegseth topped it all by leading a Pentagon prayer which he said came from Ezekiel, but was actually from Pulp Fiction. I’m amazed at how those military personnel kept themselves so restrained and not laughing out loud. Last week, my sermon traced some of reasons we need to do our theology well, to make sense of what is happening in the public arena with a blatant misuse of Scripture. Rev Brian Spencer, Minister, Waranga Uniting Churches wrote this: “Bad theology is never just a church problem. It can become a public problem, a political problem, and sometimes a deadly problem. That is one reason biblical scholarship matters. Context matters. Careful reading matters. Humility matters. If scripture can be cherry-picked, distorted, or confused with movie dialogue in the service of power, then the church has work to do. We are called not only to read the Bible devotionally, but to read it truthfully”.

But back to this week’s sermon. The walk to Emmaus.

In this simple, familiar story, there are profound truths. Two disciples are walking along the road to Emmaus. Weary, disillusioned, trying to make sense of what has just happened.
“We had hoped…” they say. Past tense. Hope, for them, is over.
And as they walk, a stranger comes alongside them.
He listens. He asks questions. He draws them out.
And they do not recognise him.
Not because he is hidden, but because they are certain.
Certain about what they had hoped for.
Certain about what the Messiah should have been.
Certain about how the story should have ended.
And so, even as Christ walks beside them, they cannot see him.

The Japanese theologian Kosuke Koyama once described God as the “Three Mile an Hour God.” That’s 4828.03 metres - almost 5 km. But let’s stick to three miles an hour - the pace of walking. The pace at which you can talk, listen, notice, attend. The pace of relationship.

And that is how the risen Christ comes. Not in spectacle, not in triumph, not in dominance, not in overwhelming power, but as a companion on the road.

Unhurried. Attentive. Present. At three miles an hour, there is time for conversation. Time for questions. Time for hearts to begin, slowly, to burn. This is the pace of grace.

And it is so different from the pace of our world, and so different from the ways we often try to define or deploy Jesus. Because we are living in a time when the image of Jesus is being used, shaped, projected. Sometimes to justify power, sometimes to claim authority, sometimes even to remake Jesus in our own image.

But on the Emmaus road, Jesus refuses all of that. He is not claimed. He is not controlled. He is not recognised on our terms.

The turning point in this story is not just that the disciples fail to recognise Jesus. It’s why.

They had a script. “We had hoped that he was the one to redeem Israel.”
They had already decided what redemption should look like.
What power should look like.
What victory should look like.
And when Jesus did not fit that script, their hope collapsed.

And even when he stood before them, they could not see him.

There is something deeply confronting here.
Because when we are certain we know who Jesus is - what he stands for, who he blesses, who he opposes - we may be the very ones who fail to recognise him when he comes.

We can speak about Jesus, argue about Jesus, defend Jesus - and still miss him entirely.

And yet - Jesus does not withdraw. He walks with them. He meets them not in the temple, not in certainty, not in triumph - but on the road.

In their confusion.
In their grief.
In their unfinished conversation.

He collapses the distance between the human and the divine.
No barrier.
No performance.
No requirement to have it all together.
Just presence.

The kingdom of God, Jesus has said, is among you.
Not somewhere else. Not later. Not reserved for the worthy.
Here. Now.
In the walking. In the listening.
In the shared life of ordinary people.

And then comes the moment of recognition.
Not in the explanation. Not in the teaching.
But at the table.
He takes bread, blesses it, breaks it, and gives it to them.

And suddenly, they see. They recognise him.
In the most ordinary, embodied, human act: sharing food.
Offering hospitality.Breaking bread.

They recognise him not through certainty,
but through relationship.
Not through control,
but through vulnerability.

The Christ who is made known in the breaking of bread
is not the Christ who can be used to break others.

This story is a quiet warning to us.
We must be careful, deeply careful, of any version of Jesus that is too certain, too aligned with power, too easily used to justify harm.

Because the Emmaus story reminds us: we can be close to the story, close to the language, close to the tradition - and still not recognise Christ when he stands among us.

But it is also a story of deep hope.
Because even when we do not recognise him, Christ is still with us. Walking beside us. Listening to us. Drawing us out.

Christ still comes to us at three miles an hour. In slow conversations. In shared meals. In strangers who become companions. In the quiet, ordinary moments of our lives.

And in the breaking places - the places of grief, of disappointment, of unfulfilled hope. There, too, Christ is present.

So perhaps the question this story asks of us is not: Where is Christ?

But: What might we need to let go of in order to recognise him?

What assumptions?
What certainties?
What images we have constructed in our own likeness?

Because the Christ we can control is never the Christ we encounter.

And yet - when we do recognise him, even for a moment, our hearts burn within us.

And we are changed. We turn around. We go back. We become witnesses.

Not of a Jesus we have mastered - but of a Christ who has met us, on the road, in grace.

May we have the courage to walk at the pace of Christ, to notice his presence among us, and to recognise him in the breaking of bread, and in one another. Amen.

Prayer
God of the road,
who meets us in our walking and wondering,
in our grief and in our half-finished hopes,
Slow us down
to the pace of your presence.
Loosen our grip
on the certainties we have fashioned,
the images we have made in our own likeness.
Open our eyes
not to power or spectacle,
but to the quiet breaking of bread,
to the stranger who walks beside us,
to the love that does not force,
but invites.
And when our hearts burn within us,
give us courage to recognise you,
to follow you,
and to become bearers of your presence
in a wounded world.
In Christ, who walks with us still,
Amen.