Emmaus and Rekindled Hope

Again, that recognition does not come on the road. It comes at the table.

When the disciples invite this stranger to stay with them, they enact a practice of hospitality. Their world is structured by exclusion and hierarchy, and so the simple act of welcoming the other becomes a site of transformation. It is in the breaking of bread, a shared, communal act that held great meaning for early Jesus followers, that their eyes are opened. They recognize the presence of the One who had been with them all along. He had been with them all along.

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This is Part 3 of the series The Road We Walk When Our Hopes Have Been Deeply Disappointed

(Read this series from its beginning here.)

This moment carries some other profound implications, too. Liberation is not only something we strive toward. It is something we practice as we strive, through acts of inclusion, mutual care, and shared humanity. Our daily life choices harmonize with our overall vision for what we desire our world to be. The shared table in this week’s story becomes a symbol of the kind of world that movements seek to build, a world where resources are shared, where strangers become companions, and where ours and others’ humanity is affirmed.

It is here that recognition dawns. Recognition, in our story, happens in the context of these smaller, more communal actions not  larger public ones. The disciples come to their awakening together. Justice movements, likewise, are also interpersonal endeavors. They depend on relationships, on shared community with others and with shared vision. The Emmaus story reminds us that clarity often emerges not in solitude but in the midst of communal life alongside others.

When recognition does finally dawn, the disciples recall, “Were not our hearts burning within us while he was talking to us on the road?” This language of a “burning heart” points to an awakening that is both emotional and embodied. Our work, too, is sustained by a deep, often visceral conviction that another world is possible. And this conviction many times will be renewed in the wake of deep disappointment. This renewal, even after we thought we had lost, is what keeps movements alive in the face of exhaustion and opposition for generations.

After they recognize Jesus, the disciples immediately return to Jerusalem. This is another important detail. Jerusalem is the place they had just left, the place of danger and repression, where their loss just took place. Yet their encounter with Jesus on the road transforms their original trajectory. They move back toward the center of struggle, not away from it. Hope does not lead them to escape the world’s pain but to re-engage it with renewed purpose.

For me, when I think of justice work today, this moment in the story deeply resonates. Encounters that rekindle hope, whether through relational community or private reflection, do not lead us away from our work; they send us back into it. They empower us to take it up again. The goal is not to find a safe distance from injustice but to return with a deeper sense of possibility and resilience.

The Emmaus story also challenges dominant notions of power. The risen Jesus is not revealed through domination or force but through vulnerability, relationship, and shared humanity. This stands in stark contrast to the systems of oppression that justice movements seek to dismantle today. These systems rely on coercion, exclusion, and control. The way of Jesus on the road to Emmaus reminds us that true transformation emerges not from replicating the patterns and methods we are trying to change, but from embodying alternative forms of influence rooted in love, solidarity, and walking alongside others on the way.

Finally, the story underscores the importance of storytelling itself. The early Jesus followers’ journey was shaped by the stories they tell: first a story of defeat, then a story of hope. Justice movements today are similarly narrative-driven. They challenge dominant stories that justify inequality by offering alternative narratives that envision a world shaped by liberation and justice, a world that is a safe home for everyone. The work of justice, in many ways, begins with the work of reimagining what our world could be and inviting others into that imagining.

What I love about our story this week is that the walk to Emmaus does not erase deep disappointment, glossing over it with easy, pat, or trite answers. Instead, it provides a framework for navigating the complexities of justice work in our midnight hours. In moments when things don’t turn out the way we had hoped, we can acknowledge our grief, we can practice presence with one another. We can lean into our community. It is here that hope is often renewed, new visions are born, hope reawakens, and we return to the struggle with a new understanding of what we have just encountered. Our story reminds us that even when hopes are dashed and the path forward is unclear, we are not alone, and, sometimes, the very act of walking together is where transformation begins.

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