For The Road (Rev. Andy Whitaker Smith)
Many of you know I studied film in college—mainly screenwriting and production—but we also had to take history and critique classes. I had one professor who was very artistic, and we watched all kinds of foreign films. I saw Citizen Kane multiple times in one semester—and I will never watch it again. One day, someone referenced Star Wars, and the professor immediately said, “I’ve never seen Star Wars.” I’m sorry—what? Now, I know there are people here and online who have never seen Star Wars—and that’s okay. But are any of you film professors? Exactly. We’ve all had that moment where someone says, “I’ve never experienced that,” and we think, “How is that possible?” What do you mean you’ve never heard the Beatles? Never heard of Taylor Swift? Never had pizza?
And maybe that helps us understand the story of the travelers on the road to Emmaus. They encounter someone who asks about Jesus, and their response is essentially: “How do you not know?” This is part of our continuing Easter story from Luke 24: Two of them were going to a village called Emmaus, talking about all that had happened. They were walking out of Good Friday, processing grief, and then—Jesus comes near and walks with them. But they do not recognize him. He asks, “What are you discussing?” and they stop—standing still, looking sad. We know that feeling—when the world stops, and someone outside of it asks a question that feels impossible.
They respond, “Are you the only stranger who does not know what has taken place?” And then—they tell the story. They speak of the women who went to the tomb, of the angels, of the empty grave—but their grief overshadows their hope. So Jesus walks with them and tells the story again, and as they walk, the stranger becomes less of a stranger. By the time they arrive home, they invite him in. They sit at the table.
And then—he reaches for the bread. Which, by the way, is not polite. You don’t just grab someone else’s food. But Jesus has always broken expectations. He takes the bread and breaks it—and in that moment, they remember.
What is it about breaking bread that awakens memory? The words are not enough. Faith is not just spoken—it is lived. We must be with people, not just speak to them; live with people, not just instruct them. The holiness of communion begins at the table, but it does not end there. As we have been given, so we become. We become the open table.
During Holy Week, I served communion each morning outside. Many from the church came, but also strangers. Some asked, “What if someone doesn’t believe? What if they don’t deserve it?” Paul speaks to this—not about exclusion, but about integrity. To receive communion but not live it is the problem. We cannot take Jesus’ food and not feed others. We cannot receive communion and not become communion.
There’s a story of a political prisoner who celebrated Easter without bread or wine. He placed his empty hand over another’s, and they lifted empty hands to their mouths—and still, they experienced communion. Later, another prisoner said, “Now I believe. I am on the road.” After the Emmaus travelers recognize Jesus, he disappears, and they immediately go back on the road. They now have fuel for the journey. We may think we don’t have enough to share the story of Jesus—but we do. Sometimes through words, but more often through how we live. And for someone who is hungry for that story—it is enough.
Let us pray.
Gracious God, as we approach this table, meet us on the road. Meet us in our grief, in our uncertainty, and lead us to the open table. As we remember the breaking of the bread and the pouring of the cup, send us back out to share your story of resurrection with one another. In the name of the one who walks with us, Amen.