"What things?"

After the Resurrection, the Stranger (walking along) asks the two disciples on the way to Emmaus, “What things?” Jesus Christ, most often as a Stranger, stands at the crossroads of our life to ask, “What things?”

He asked them, “What are you discussing together as you walk along?” They stood still, their faces downcast. One of them, named Cleopas, asked him, “Are you the only one visiting Jerusalem who does not know the things that have happened there in these days?” “What things?” he asked. (Lk 24:17-19, New International Version)

Like those two disciples, I’m asked to repeat the story. “What things?” In my discouragement, in my hopelessness perhaps, I’m asked to repeat the story. The story is ours, the story is mine, the story is his too. “What things?” I could easily blurt out a response, almost in irritation to the Stranger who makes me pause, who makes me even think. “What things?” I repeat the story. I’m in no mood to do so, but still I repeat the story: it’s mine, it’s his, it’s the story. That there was hope, that there was the promise, that the things were better, that there were allegedly even miracles. But I did not see, I did not experience. “What things?” The story is over. The conclusion, a blind alley. But the Stranger is not satisfied. Not just that. He scolds me, he calls me foolish. Am I foolish? Am I slow to understand? I’ve taken great care to narrate my story, to narrate the story. He repeats the story now. The same story, but from the beginning. Greater depth, greater comprehension. It’s not boring, though the same details. It’s not even new. But there’s something about the narration. I recognize this only later: “Were not our hearts burning within us while he talked with us on the road and opened the Scriptures to us?” (Lk 24:32) Wasn’t my heart burning within me during the narration? Wasn’t the flame within me enkindled as he talked? He repeats the story. His narration makes me understand. His breaking of the bread makes me grasp everything of that moment. The lightning. Come and gone. It is he. I asked him to stay. I asked the Stranger to stay. He did. Surprisingly, he takes the centre place. One who pretended to go away, who seemed to have no interest, now has taken the main place at the table. He presides over the event. The Stranger knows. He knows my need for hope. He distributes the bread in a thanksgiving mode. He says take this and eat, take this and drink. Oh, that’s my bread and my drink I thought. He takes and shares that with me. I was the host, howzat he has become the host and I a guest. It is he. He is no more a Stranger. He reveals himself. He hides himself. The lightning. Come and gone. By revealing himself, he disappears. “What things?” Things of hopelessness turned into hope. The Stranger becomes the hope-giver, he is the one whom I have known from before. He reveals. But again, he hides, he disappears. I recognize. I recognize him, I recognize the things. It is he. No more a Stranger. He reveals, and my heart burns. I realize that my heart has been enkindled already. He has done that on the way. Even before I reached home. Even before I asked him to stay. Even before I prayed him to stay the evening. He has repeated my story, his story, our story and enkindled my heart. My heart is burning. My heart has been burning. I took his scolding, I listened to him. He has explained, has explained everything. All things are in place now. No more hopelessness, only hope. There is hope. There is joy and strength and courage, and even light at that dark moment. I am encouraged to leave myself, my plans, my home in order to go out into the dark. Because this Stranger has given me light and hope and courage and strength. The lightning has ocurred. Come and gone. My heart burns in love, my heart burns out of love. It is he who has made my heart burn in love.

Now that same day two of them were going to a village called Emmaus, about seven miles from Jerusalem. They were talking with each other about everything that had happened. As they talked and discussed these things with each other, Jesus himself came up and walked along with them; but they were kept from recognizing him. He asked them, “What are you discussing together as you walk along?” They stood still, their faces downcast. One of them, named Cleopas, asked him, “Are you the only one visiting Jerusalem who does not know the things that have happened there in these days?” “What things?” he asked. (Lk 24:13-19)

I was going away from Jerusalem, away from life, away from resurrection. I was going away from the centre, away from hope, away from the life, from the resurrection. Now that he has met me, asked me to repeat the story, narrated the story himself, broke the bread... he is here. He is the way, the truth, the life, the resurrection. The Stranger becomes the way and the truth, he becomes everything. I return. I return to Jerusalem, to the centre. I meet him again and again and again. I meet him on the way, in the breaking of the bread, in my return, in my peace, in my troubles, in my hopelessness. I meet him again and again and again. It is he. I recognize him. I repeat the things. He repeats his words again and again and again. He comes to me again and again and again. He comes, he ever comes. He is present. He is ever present. I recognize. Like a lightning, I recognize him again and again and again. I go and I come. I return again. I return again and again and again. It is he. I know now it is he. He the Stranger, the guest who became the host. He is everything.

“What things?” he asked. “About Jesus of Nazareth,” they replied. “He was a prophet, powerful in word and deed before God and all the people. The chief priests and our rulers handed him over to be sentenced to death, and they crucified him; but we had hoped that he was the one who was going to redeem Israel. And what is more, it is the third day since all this took place. In addition, some of our women amazed us. They went to the tomb early this morning but didn’t find his body. They came and told us that they had seen a vision of angels, who said he was alive. Then some of our companions went to the tomb and found it just as the women had said, but they did not see Jesus.” (Lk 24:19-24)

Is it about Jesus of Nazareth? Or is it about the Messiah? ‘He said to them, “How foolish you are, and how slow to believe all that the prophets have spoken! Did not the Messiah have to suffer these things and then enter his glory?”’ (Lk 24:25-26) This is about Jesus, but this is about the Messiah. Jesus the Messiah. Jesus the Christ. It is he. I know it’s he. I recognize again it is he. “It is true! The Lord has risen and has appeared to Simon.” (Lk 24:34) It is he. It is the Lord, who is the life, the hope, the resurrection.

My story is embedded in his. My life and hope is embedded and intrinsically tied with his life, his resurrection. My story is his, his story mine. He has become me, I him. Isn’t this grace? Isn’t this the Eucharist? Isn’t this the Incarnation?