There is something in the story of the road to Emmaus that is very different from other Gospel narratives, different because of its mystery and the very humanity of its experience.

 Two men, tramping the dirt road from Jerusalem to the village of Emmaus , warm in the afternoon sun, talking to each other of the days they had lived through, the Passover that had just been celebrated and the death of their friend, the Nazarene.

 They were joined by a stranger who spoke with them and talked of Scripture but did not disclose himself. We are told they did not recognise him. They obviously made some real contact though for they invited him to share their supper when they finally arrived at the end of their journey.

 Then, over their meal together, he broke bread and shared it with them and they realised his story. After he left them, they reflected  on his journey conversation and even commented to each other on how his words had stirred within them.

   Anxious to get their news back to those left behind in Jerusalem , they immediately set out again on the return journey.

What a fine story of faith, of revelation and commitment, simply told. It is a story that we too can experience in our lives of struggling faith. In the final part of the Waste Land , T S Eliot asked the question:

  “Who is the third who walks always beside you?

When I count, there are only you and I together

but when I look ahead up the white road

there is always another one walking beside you….”

 There is always that other presence on our journey, unrecognised and sometimes unrecognisable, the Risen Lord. He is there for us even if we do not realise it.  In a similar manner the joy of the Gospel asks each one of us to walk beside others whose journey may be difficult and whose feet are sore. The arm to lean on, the hand on the shoulder, the attentive listening to their story, all are reflective of the Emmaus Road .

 That image of a road and of walking is very apt to the days of our own experience. Day after day we have seen television pictures and newsprint photographs of countless families walking the roads and by-ways of Eastern Europe , tired, confused and rejected. Indeed a massive logistical problem that faces the countries of Europe . Whatever we do, it will not go away and the exhaustion etched on the faces of young and old alike will remain.

 Just as those men on the Emmaus road had their spirits lifted by the stranger who walked with them, so the refugees from Syria and elsewhere have been sustained by those who have generously given them help. But for all that help, there is the over-riding feeling that European nations are being challenged beyond their limit and so the borders are being closed, metal fences erected, coils of razor wire stretch for miles. There have been scenes of violence, of tear gas being directed at families, forcing them back to the wretched conditions of hurriedly established camps.

 The living balance of our planet is precarious in so many ways. We have significantly disturbed atmospheric conditions with our industrial output that is hastening climate change. It would be foolish to expect those who have little to stand quietly aside whilst those who have an abundance enjoy their prosperity. Our ever growing need for water to irrigate the crops and sustain our lives will be ignored at our peril. Certainties gradually become less certain, our presumption of the good life in the west is beginning to show signs of cracking. Already confidence in the city has been broken by terrorist action, a nervousness has crept into our lives, indiscriminate actions that hurt the innocent.

 So what can we take from that afternoon walk and the meal with the stranger? That simple Eucharist offered us the example of how we learn, by listening, of how we experience the growth of faith, round a table, of how Christians should share what they have with others.

 In the days of the conclave, there was an image on the net of a man kneeling on stones in front of St. Peter’s, his face upturned. Bare footed, on the rain-swept pavement, wrapped in heavy, worn clothing, hooded to save against some of cloud’s tears kneeling he gathered well-worn hands silent in a gesture of prayer. Who he was, where he came from, does not matter. Maybe Cyrene . A poor man with less than nothing whose darkened image haunted the heart that early Spring.

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