Even longer than Lent, Eastertide bridges Christ’s rising and the birth of the Church. The season concludes at Pentecost, which is the Greek name for the Jewish feast Shavuot, rooted in the word for “fifty” because it occurred fifty days after Passover. As the first Easter took place at Passover, and Pentecost is considered the day of the official descent of the Holy Spirit upon the Church, the season of Easter now lasts fifty days, or seven weeks.

The Sunday readings in Eastertide follow a specific pattern: the Old Testament is replaced by Acts, which continues the story of the Church beyond Jesus’ life, and the Epistles come largely from Peter and John, the founders of the Church alongside Paul. As for the Gospels, the first three Sundays focus on Jesus’ post-resurrection appearances: first at the tomb, then to Thomas, and then to the disciples as a group. Next week, we reach the midpoint of the season on Good Shepherd Sunday, with Psalm 23 and John’s images of God’s care as that of a shepherd, followed by several weeks reflecting on Jesus’ parting words spoken at the Last Supper, leading toward his final departure at the Ascension forty days after Easter.

I used to imagine that after leaving the tomb, Jesus stayed continuously with his disciples for those forty days before ascending. Yet the Bible presents only a series of brief, singular encounters, some of which share such elements as the greeting “peace be with you” and the context of gathering for meals. Paul offers the earliest list of these appearances: to Peter, to the Twelve, to 500 people, and to James. But this does not align with the Gospels. Mark does not even continue the story past Jesus’ death. In Matthew, Christ appears to the women and commissions the disciples on a mountain in Galilee. In John he appears in more intimate encounters with Mary Magdalene and Thomas, and later, as he feeds breakfast to the disciples on the lakeshore. So it appears that after his death, Jesus does not remain with his followers in a continuous way, but his presence is encountered intermittently by individuals and groups, often in moments when they are already recalling their life with him.

This is the case in Luke, where we read about two travellers meeting Jesus as they walk from Jerusalem to Emmaus, perhaps on the very day the women found the tomb empty, returning home after Passover – after what was meant to be a festive time had turned into tragedy. One traveler is named Cleopas. The other is unnamed, but if Cleopas is an alternate spelling of Clopas, a relatively rare name, then Mary, the wife of Clopas mentioned among the women who remained at the crucifixion, could be the second traveler. Tradition holds that this Mary was Jesus’ step-sister from Joseph’s first marriage and that Cleopas was Joseph’s brother, making the couple part of Jesus’ extended family, and Mary – both his step-sister and his aunt by marriage. This idea highlights that Jesus belonged to a network of relationships, all of which now carried the weight of grief.

One can imagine the conversation that took place on the road, as the travelers recounted the shock of Jesus’ arrest, the injustice of the trial, the disbelief as events unfolded, the collapse of their hope that God might still intervene, and the unbearable finality of death, now complicated by the unsettling rumors of the empty tomb. What had happened seemed to confirm Jesus’ grim predictions while at the same time making them doubt whether peace and love, laughter and connection, could ever be possible again. At some point, a stranger joins the travelers, walks at their pace, and inquires about what they are discussing. As their grief pours out in response, he replies by interpreting the Scriptures and drawing connections they had not seen before. The conversation rekindles a fragile hope on the edge of recognition.

They urge him to stay with them through dinner, sensing that there is something more they need from this man, though they cannot name it yet. He agrees, and as the meal begins, he takes bread, blesses it, breaks it, and gives it to them. At that moment, they have the strange sense that they have seen this before. Then, as suddenly as he appeared, he is gone, and they look at one another as if to confirm what has just happened.

The story offers an archetypal image of how divine encounter meets us within the most disorienting moments of human life – never through spectacle, but through familiar practices and shared life. For the disciples, Jerusalem had become a place of failure and loss, a place to leave behind. Only later would it be remembered as the place from which the Good News would spread. They did not yet have that vantage point. Like them, we often lack the perspective that will one day give meaning to our present experience. As such, we too are always on the road, moving away both from the pain we are eager to leave or from moments of joy we already feel slipping away. That’s why Scripture is full of road imagery: the Ethiopian eunuch on his way to baptism, Paul on the road to Damascus, the Highway of Holiness in Isaiah, the road to Jericho in the Good Samaritan, and the path to Golgotha. Jesus even calls himself “the way, the truth, and the life,” so the earliest name for Christianity was simply “The Way.”

As Mary and Cleopas walked this road, the “burning in their hearts” arose as scriptural insights slowly came together in their minds, and culminated in the meal that they shared with others. In this way, the presence of Christ became known among them. What seemed like defeat had then become seen as the very place where love and life were at work. Their experience of having encountered Christ again revealed what he had been saying all along: that nothing is too dark or too human for God to enter and redeem. Once they understood this, they could not keep it to themselves, and became eager to tell everyone who would listen. Yet recognition had not come immediately, just as we often fail to recognize God’s presence in the moment. But God does not demand immediate understanding. Instead, there is a gradual unfolding, much like the way we come to know one another over time.

The travelers’ vivid experience of Jesus’ presence was facilitated in part by their memories and companionship. As they recalled the meals they had shared with Jesus before, the sound of his voice, the stories he told, and the fragments of conversation from their final supper together, his presence became real to them again. We feel something similar when we gather and remember those we have lost. We wonder how it is possible to laugh and eat again, especially at the first major holiday after a loss. Yet, as at funerals, in sharing memories we become reconnected with their presence and reassured by the hope of reunion. Family stories keep even distant ancestors alive in our minds, and the foods of childhood can evoke vividly the presence of our loved ones.

This is why Jesus asked his followers to continue breaking bread in memory of him, as we still do in the Eucharist. This is also why we never receive communion alone and never without first hearing the word of God. Not even a priest consecrates it in isolation, but always in the presence of others. The Eucharist is an act of shared remembrance, as much as it is a ritual meal. Even within the consecration prayer itself, before we share the bread, we recall the arc of God’s faithfulness through Scripture.

And the rite always culminates in the breaking of bread. It seems that for something new to emerge, something must be broken. Bread is broken. Christ’s body is broken. Seeds are given to the earth so that a harvest may come. In the same way, our own self-sufficiency, our need to be right, or our constant busyness must often give way so that new life may emerge.

Along the road of our lives, we do not always recognize God’s presence in the moment, yet Christ walks with us, meeting us where we are and drawing meaning out of what we do not yet understand. It is in the sharing of our stories, in the slow opening of Scripture, and in the simple, familiar acts of gathering and breaking bread, both in communion and in meals with friends and family, that our eyes begin to open. Hope is rekindled, memory becomes presence, and our losses are transformed into life. The sacrifices we make, of time, attention, generosity, and love, become the seeds of a future we cannot yet see. And when we recognize the sacrifices others make for us, we glimpse something of God’s presence alive among us. Thanks be to God.