Hope Goes Back

May 4, 2025

Rev. David Collins

Luke 24:13-35

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What do you do when hope has let you down?

When the thing you believed in doesn’t deliver? That’s the question hanging over our scripture today. And it might be the question hanging over your life right now. I think it’s the question of the hour for all of us.

So this morning, we’re just going to jump right into it and look at how this incredible story of the walk to Emmaus, is God’s word for us today. Let’s get into it.

13 Now on that same day two of them were going to a village called Emmaus, about seven miles from Jerusalem, 14 and talking with each other about all these things that had happened.

We find out later in the story that one of these disciples is named Cleopas. And there’s a pretty good chance that the second one walking beside him is his wife, Mary. John’s gospel tells us that Mary, the wife of Clopas, which is just a different spelling, was one of the women who stayed near the cross. She saw it all.

So that’s who I think these people are. Which really tracks. Because every couple has that “It’s time to go sign” for social engagements, right? It might be a double tap, or a big stretch, or that long blink across the room that says, “Let’s get out of here before someone brings out the guitar.”

But it’s not just dinner parties. Couples, especially the ones who’ve been through some things, they also have those bigger “what if” plans. You know what I mean?

Like, “If things ever get really bad, here’s where we’ll go. Here’s what we’ll do. Here’s how we’ll disappear.”

Every couple has had at least one late-night “what-if” conversation about how to get out if everything falls apart.

And for Cleopas and Mary—it has fallen apart.

So they’re not just leaving the city. They’re following the plan.

Because this isn’t just grief. It’s fear. They weren’t just close to Jesus…they were known.

People had seen them with him. And now he’d been executed in the most brutal, political way possible. Crucified as a revolutionary.

And in moments like that, when the system comes down hard on the leader, it often doesn’t stop there. The followers tend to disappear too.

So they’re not just walking away in sorrow. They’re walking, purposely, for their lives.

Not in a rush, not in the middle of the night, but deliberately and quietly. Act like everything is normal. Don’t draw any attention. Don’t look over your shoulder. Just walk away. 

I'll bet they didn’t speak at all for the first mile, afraid that their accents might give them away. And then, out of nowhere—someone joins them.

15 While they were talking and discussing, Jesus himself came near and went with them, 16 but their eyes were kept from recognizing him.

Something kept them from seeing the truth. Fear and grief can both do that. Or maybe Jesus just did it, because we’ve all seen how much he loves drama.

17 And he said to them, ‘What are you discussing with each other while you walk along?’

Which—if you didn’t know it was Jesus—honestly sounds like exactly the kind of thing a spy would say. “Vat are you discussing as you valk along?”

Not “Hey, how’s it going?” or “Tough week, huh?” Just total plain-clothes agent vibes. Just so you know, if someone pops out of nowhere and asks what you’re talking about, the answer should be, “Just minding my own business” But that's not what Cleopas and Mary do. They can’t keep it together. Keep in mind that this is still Easter Sunday in Luke. And all they know is that Jesus was killed and his body is missing. So their response is so genuine. Luke says that

They stood still, looking sad.

Which… I’ve been there. I’ll bet you have too. Like when you ask someone “How’s it going?” And they really tell you? And you’re just like, “Do I put down this milk and hug them in Publix?” And yes, you absolutely should.

And so they tell this stranger, who is really Jesus, everything they’ve been carrying for the last few days.

18 Then one of them, whose name was Cleopas, answered him, ‘Are you the only stranger in Jerusalem who does not know the things that have taken place there in these days?’ 19 He asked them, ‘What things?’ They replied, ‘The things about Jesus of Nazareth, who was a prophet mighty in deed and word before God and all the people, 20 and how our chief priests and leaders handed him over to be condemned to death and crucified him.

You can see which parts sting the most for them. Look at how Cleopas still calls the chief priests and leaders, “ours”.

That’s a special kind of grief, isn’t it? When the people who were supposed to protect and lead, instead scheme, and deflect, and hand it all over. When betrayal comes not from enemies but from people who you. From the ones who share your scriptures, and traditions, and hopes. Or at least, you thought they did.

Because it wasn’t just the Romans. That, they could almost have lived with. It was their own people. Their own religious leaders. The ones who should’ve known better.

That’s the kind of wound that doesn’t just break your heart. It breaks your trust. And when trust breaks…when leaders twist the truth or ignore it entirely, and and institutions built to serve, serve only themselves, it’s hard to know what to hope for.

21 But we had hoped that he was the one to redeem Israel.

And can’t you feel that line catch in their throats? We had hoped. Past tense.

That’s a line that’s been spoken in hospital rooms. At funerals. After the job didn’t come through, or the relationship didn’t heal. We had hoped.

We had hoped that he was the one to redeem Israel.

We had staked everything. We left jobs, we left homes, we followed him into Jerusalem thinking this was it. We thought we were walking into a new kingdom. We thought this was going to be the moment the world turned right-side up again. But it didn’t happen.

We had hoped—and now we don’t know what to hope for anymore. So we’re doing what we can.

We’re going to survive.

But even survival is complicated now. Because then there’s this…

Yes, and besides all this, it is now the third day since these things took place. 22 Moreover, some women of our group astounded us. They were at the tomb early this morning, 23 and when they did not find his body there, they came back and told us that they had indeed seen a vision of angels who said that he was alive. 24 Some of those who were with us went to the tomb and found it just as the women had said; but they did not see him.’

You can hear the hesitation and confusion in their words. Maybe even the cynicism.

The tomb was empty. The angels said he was alive. But no one’s actually seen him.

Hope is starting to creep back in, and they don’t know what to do with it. Not yet, without proof.

And that’s when Jesus finally speaks.

25 Then he said to them, ‘Oh, how foolish you are, and how slow of heart to believe all that the prophets have declared! 26 Was it not necessary that the Messiah should suffer these things and then enter into his glory?’ 27 Then beginning with Moses and all the prophets, he interpreted to them the things about himself in all the scriptures.

Now, we know where this is going. It’s an amazing story about the resurrection. But before we get there, let’s pause for a minute and talk about this thing Jesus said,

26 Was it not necessary that the Messiah should suffer these things and then enter into his glory?’

Why is this suffering necessary?

If you grew up in church, you probably have an answer for this. And I want you to know that the answer you have, is not necessarily the only answer to this question. And it might even be an answer that needs some rethinking. Not because you were misled, but because your answer might fit a little too comfortably with the way power already works in the world.

Maybe you grew up in a church—or saw one in a movie—where the preacher said something like, “The people were expecting salvation here on Earth, but Jesus came to suffer and die so you could go to heaven.” As if the only reason he had to suffer was to punch our tickets to somewhere better. And then came the whole bit about how nothing here will ever really be okay, but if we just hold on and trust Jesus, we’ll be okay somewhere else one day.

I get the appeal of that. That version of the gospel does sound like good news—especially when your world’s on fire. When it feels like nothing will ever change, it’s comforting to believe that God will just airlift us out.

But that is not the good news.

Because if you believe that…if you believe that Jesus came just to get us out of here…then you can ignore all the terrible things that are happening in our world. You can even contribute to them if you believe that you have said the right kind of prayer. And lots of people do exactly that.

And also, you have to ignore an awful lot of what Jesus actually said. You have to skip over most of the gospels. You have to imagine that Jesus spent his whole ministry pretending to care about the poor, about justice, about bodies and bread and real-world suffering… just for show. Like he was putting on a costume for a part he never meant to play.

And that’s not what he’s doing here.

The actual good news is a bit more complicated, and so is the way that suffering works in to it.

If you were one of Jesus’ followers back then, and you were hoping for a Messiah to overthrow Rome, that would’ve made perfect sense. It was a brutal regime. They taxed people into poverty, crucified anyone who stepped out of line, and ruled through terror. So if you were praying for salvation, that meant revolution. It meant soldiers and swords and Caesar getting what was coming to him.

But Jesus didn’t do that.

And it wasn’t because he didn’t care. It wasn’t because he was afraid. And it certainly wasn’t because he came to teach people how to float off to heaven.

It’s because even if you manage to drive out the empire, if you do it by violence, if you do it without changing people’s hearts, you just end up rebuilding the same empire with a different name on the banner.

Jesus knew that throwing out the occupiers wouldn’t bring the peace they really needed. It would just reset the clock.

A new regime. A fresh start. Same cycle.

Because if the root stays the same…if domination, and fear, and exclusion are still in the soil…then whatever grows next is going to look an awful lot like what came before.

That’s the trap of utopianism.

Utopianism

Utopianism is the belief that we can build a perfect society through political, social, or religious systems—if we can just get everything and everyone to line up the right way.

But here's the problem. Utopia always has an expiration date. Because they’re never really built for everyone.

They’re designed to create a better world, but only for the people already at the center of it.

Everyone else is expected to get in line, disappear, or be removed for "the greater good.”

That’s why utopias, no matter how noble they sound, always end up protecting the system over the people. And when people get in the way, they’re treated like problems to be solved.

But the kingdom of God is nothing like that.

The kingdom of God isn’t built on control or purity or exclusion. It’s not about protecting power. It’s about giving it away.

It’s not a gated community for the “right kind of people". It’s a feast where the poor, the broken, the outsiders, and the doubters all get a seat at the table.

It doesn’t come through any human scheme. It comes through resurrection, and it began, on Earth, with Jesus’ resurrection.

The kingdom of God has been growing through fits and starts, for two thousand years.

Through love that’s willing to suffer, through justice that restores, through mercy that doesn’t make sense.

And that’s why it’s not here in full yet. Because it can’t be forced. It can’t be rushed. It can’t be imposed from the top down.

Everyone has to own it.

Everyone has to get it.

The kingdom of God grows. Like seeds in the dirt. Like bread rising. It’s here, but not yet. It’s all around us, but still coming. It’s the new creation, right in the midst of the old one.

That means we don’t just wait for the kingdom to come—we live like it’s already here. Like it's already true. Even when the world around us insists otherwise.

And sometimes, living that way means suffering.

So why was the suffering necessary?

Not to appease a distant God. Not to secure our escape. But to show us what love really costs in a world like this.

Jesus didn’t just talk about the kingdom—he lived it. He healed, he fed, he welcomed. And he paid the price.

The resurrection says: his way is the way.

And if we follow him, we’ll feel that cost too. The question is—will we keep walking, even when it hurts?

Back On the Road

Cleopas and Mary didn’t know all that yet. But this stranger’s words had stirred something. And as they neared the village, this place they’d planned to disappear from…Jesus acted like he was going to keep walking. He gave them a choice.

28 As they came near the village to which they were going, he walked ahead as if he were going on. 29 But they urged him strongly, saying, ‘Stay with us, because it is almost evening and the day is now nearly over.’ So he went in to stay with them.

Sometimes it just starts with a simple invitation. Stay. Don’t go. Be with us.

30 When he was at the table with them, he took bread, blessed and broke it, and gave it to them.

And in just a moment, we’re going to do the same.

Because what happened at that table in Emmaus still happens now. In the middle of confusion and hope and fear—Jesus shows up in communion.

We don’t have to have it all figured out. We just have to make space at the table. And maybe what happened to them will happen to us, too.

31 Then their eyes were opened, and they recognized him; and he vanished from their sight.

Just like that, he’s gone. But the insight, the recognition, stayed.

32 They said to each other, ‘Were not our hearts burning within us while he was talking to us on the road, while he was opening the scriptures to us?’

Now they know. Now they see.

And once you’ve seen the risen Christ, you can’t stay where you are. You can’t keep walking away.

33 That same hour they got up and returned to Jerusalem;

They turned around! They went back!

They didn’t wait until morning. They just went.

The road was the same. So was the danger. But now, they knew something that they didn’t know before. They knew that death wasn’t the end, that it didn’t get the final word. They knew that Jesus was alive…and that meant the world was already starting to change.

They found real hope.

And hope goes back.

Hope goes back.

Because the kingdom of God doesn’t come through obvious miracles, and it certainly doesn’t come through conspiracies and coups. It comes through faithful steps. Through people who say, “Yes, even now.” It comes through obedience—through walking back into hard places with open hearts.

Hope goes back.

It comes when we stop running from the brokenness and start walking toward it—because we know that Jesus goes with us.

Hope goes back. Hope doesn’t hide. It doesn’t wait for conditions to be perfect. Hope puts on its shoes and moves.

Hope goes back.

Because once you know the truth—once you’ve seen even a glimpse of resurrection—you can’t keep it to yourself.

Hope runs back into the city.

Back into the heartbreak.

Back into the community that’s still afraid, and uncertain, and in the dark—just to say: He’s alive. We’ve seen him. We’ve felt his presence. And if he’s here—really here—then he can help us. He can change us. This is possible.

The New Creation Has Already Started

New life is possible. Healing and justice are possible. The new creation has begun.

Hope goes back. Not because we’re strong, but because he’s alive.

This isn’t a story we admire from a distance. It’s a movement we join. A kingdom we carry. A table we keep setting—no matter how dark it gets outside.

This is how the kingdom comes.

Not through thrones or threats, but through people whose hearts are burning. Through people who turn around, who refuse to give up on each other, who refuse to give in to fear.

Hope goes back.

Not just into danger, but back into their community.

Resurrection isn’t a private experience—it’s a shared one. And Jesus is on the move. Not just with Cleopas and Mary, but with all of them. With Peter. With the women. With the ones who stayed, and the ones who ran.

33 That same hour they got up and returned to Jerusalem; and they found the eleven and their companions gathered together. 34 They were saying, ‘The Lord has risen indeed, and he has appeared to Simon!’ 35 Then they told what had happened on the road, and how he had been made known to them in the breaking of the bread.

This is still who we are.

We are a resurrection people.

We are the ones who go back. Not just back into comfort, but back into the hard places.

Back into the conversations that feel too worn-out, and the communities that feel too far gone. We go back—not because it’s safe, but because we’ve seen what’s possible.

We don’t exist to protect power or preserve appearances.

We exist to witness. To tell the story. To carry the kingdom.

Resurrection isn’t a private comfort. It’s a public witness.

And it still spreads the way it did in that upper room—through people who say, “I’ve seen him too. Maybe not in person, but I believe what I read!”

This is the kind of church we’re called to be.

Not a way out, but a way forward. Not a bunker, but a table. A place where broken hearts and burning hearts sit side by side. A place where hope gets passed around with the bread.

Hope goes back. So let’s keep walking.

Let’s keep going back there. And let’s keep coming back here.

Let’s keep showing up for each other, and for the world Jesus still loves, and died and rose for.

Because the kingdom is coming. It's already here.