The Least Remarkable Disciple
Sermon — April 19, 2026
The Rev. Greg Johnston
Lectionary Readings
Last Sunday after church, Nancy and I met with four of the kids for a class about communion. One of them is preparing for her first communion a little later this spring, one of them maybe next year; two of them were older, and joined us to lend their wisdom and eat snacks. But we were all there to talk about what exactly it is we do on Sunday mornings, and why. I showed them how we set the table at the altar. They fought over who got to break the (unconsecrated) priest’s host, like I do. And they asked me a few tricky questions about this beautiful and strange communion ritual of ours.
Why is the bread so thin and flat and bland? Why do we say such a long grace before this very small sacramental meal? How can it be the case that Jesus is really and truly present in wafers and in wine in thousands of places all around the world at the same time? Is it something to do with quantum mechanics? (The level of physics they’re teaching at the Eliot School these days is astounding.)
It’s often been observed that today’s Gospel story of the disciples on the Road to Emmaus parallels the two-part structure of the Eucharistic service of Word and Sacrament that we celebrate every Sunday. Jesus first interpreted the story of salvation for the disciples, from the sayings of the prophets to the story of his own life, and then became known to them in the breaking of bread. In the same way, we first listen to and reflect on the stories of our faith, before turning to the table, where we take bread, bless and break it, just as Jesus did; and in that moment, we recognize his presence there.
And so I thought that I would add to the children’s excellent collection of communion questions a question of my own, one that really gets to the heart of this story of the appearance of the resurrected Christ on the Road to Emmaus: “Who on earth is Cleopas?”
When this story takes place, Jesus is in the middle of a very busy day. It’s Easter Day, in fact, some time in the afternoon. And Jesus has had a busy day. Mary and Joanna and Mary have gone to the tomb, and seen that it was empty, and heard the angels say that he is not here, but he is risen; and they’ve gone and told the disciples. Peter’s run in, and he’s seen the empty tomb, but he hasn’t seen the risen Christ yet. (Luke 24:1–12) We heard the story of Easter morning back on Easter Day.
That evening, Jesus will appear to the disciples in Jerusalem, while Thomas is away, and show them his wounds. And we heard that story of Easter evening last week.
But in between, on that first Easter afternoon, Jesus appears to two disciples on the road. Not to Peter or James or John, not to Mary or Mary or Joanna, not to Paul the Apostle—that won’t come for several years—but to Cleopas, and someone else who’s left unnamed. (Luke 24:18)
Now, if you can’t quite remember who exactly Cleopas is, don’t be ashamed. It’s easy to forget. It’s really easy, in fact, because this is the only time in the whole Bible that Cleopas appears. There’s a “Clopas” who gets mentioned once, when John tells us that “Mary the wife of Clopas” was one of the women standing near the cross. And if you say “Cleopas” five times fast, the names kind of sound the same. And so maybe it’s the case that this Cleopas is the same as that Clopas, and that the unnamed second disciple is Mary, his wife; that’s all we know, and we don’t even know that for sure.
But these two obscure disciples are the ones to whom Jesus appears on Easter afternoon. Before he makes his way into the room of the more famous disciples—before he shows them the wounds in his hands and in his side, and breathes on them with the Holy Spirit, and sends them out into the world to preach the good news—he walks alongside two ordinary people as they make the tedious journey to a small village seven miles out of town.
Many stories in the Bible are about people whose lives aren’t much like ours. We hear about the faith of Abraham, who wanders across the Middle East, with sheep and goats and unconventional family arrangement. We hear about the prophet Moses, who leads his people out of slavery in Egypt with signs of great power. We listen to the teachings of Jesus, as he travels around small villages, healing the sick and casting out demons. We try to follow St. Paul on a map, as he voyages around the Mediterranean world, spreading the good news. And, I don’t know about you, but even as a professional Christian, my day to day life isn’t very much like theirs.
But then there’s Cleopas and his friend, who we see on their commute. They can’t quite wrap their heads around the things that are happening in the world. They’re disappointed that things in their lives haven’t out how they’d hoped. They’ve been told that Christ is risen; but they’re not really sure what it means, and so they stand there, feeling sad. They listen to this man expound at great length about how the Bible makes sense of everything in their lives; but it doesn’t quite seem to click. (Personally, I’ve found the congregation is more receptive if you don’t start by calling them fools! But, you’re the boss.) They’re good, and warm, and welcoming—when Jesus tries to continue on his way they invite him in for supper, because it’s almost dark—but they’re not great heroes of the faith.
And then comes that one beautiful moment. Jesus takes bread, blesses it and breaks it, and gives it to them—and suddenly they see Jesus face to face. Suddenly, they recognize that the man they’ve been with all this time isn’t a stranger, but a friend; it’s Jesus! And before they can even express their joy, Jesus vanishes from their sight.
But what they’ve just experienced is so powerful that that same hour, they get up and walk the seven miles back to Jerusalem, in the dark, and they go and tell the disciples what they’ve seen. And then nothing else worth writing in a book ever happens in their lives again.
I find great comfort in this.
Jesus’ first priority, in the hours after his death, is not to appear before Pontius Pilate and say, “Ha! I told you so! Now here are my demands.” It’s not to appear before the crowds, cloaked in radiant light, to perform a miracle so great that everyone will believe in him. Jesus doesn’t go to the room where the central leaders of the nascent church are gathered and say—“Ok, I only have time to say this once, so someone jot it down: ‘God from God, light from light, true God from true God, begotten, not made, …’”
No! Jesus shows up on the road next to two people you’ve never heard of before, and tells them the good news, and it doesn’t make much sense. But then something amazing occurs, and they suddenly encounter Jesus in the breaking of the bread. And even though that experience will never happen again, they realize that their hearts were burning within them all along. We don’t know anything at all about the rest of their lives, but I’m pretty sure that they would never be the same.
Like Cleopas and his companion, we come here as ordinary people trying to follow Jesus whose stories will never make it into the history books. In the midst of life, we meet Jesus face to face along the road, and we usually don’t realize that he’s there. Once in a while, just for a moment, we’ll suddenly be overwhelmed by a sense of his presence and his love—and then he’ll quickly vanish from our eyes.
But this is not a sign that we’re doing something wrong. It doesn’t mean we should be more like Abraham or Moses or Paul. The good news about the road to Emmaus is that Jesus is walking with us in our lives: on our commutes, in our conversations, when we sit down together to break bread. He really can be in thousands of places all around the world, not only in bread and wine but with us out there on the road. And even though our transcendent experiences of awe are few and far between, the fire they leave burning in our hearts remains; and the realization that he was with us on the road behind us can help us see him as we keep walking on the road ahead.
And so I want to close this sermon with the same prayer with which this service began, our opening Collect for the Day:
O God, whose blessed Son made himself known to his disciples in the breaking of bread: Open the eyes of our faith, that we may behold him in all his redeeming work; who lives and reigns with you, in the unity of the Holy Spirit, one God, now and for ever. Amen.
