Third Sunday of Easter

Third Sunday of Easter

Deacon George Gussy

There is something deeply human in today’s Gospel—something so familiar that we may not notice how profoundly it speaks directly to us, in our own lives. Two disciples are walking away from Jerusalem. They are leaving behind the place where everything had happened—hope, promise, betrayal, and death. They are not just traveling a road; they are retreating from disappointment.

“We had hoped…” they say.

Those three words carry the weight of sorrow. We had hoped. Hope that now seems broken. Hope that feels misplaced. Hope that did not turn out the way they expected.

And perhaps, if we are honest with ourselves, we know something about that kind of hope.

We have all walked our own road to Emmaus at some point. A relationship we believed in falls apart. A prayer seems unanswered. A dream dissolves. A burden lingers longer than we thought it would. We find ourselves quietly saying, “I thought things would be different… I had hoped…”

And so we walk. Sometimes away from the place where faith felt alive. Sometimes away from prayer, from community, even from God.

But here is the quiet, astonishing truth that is at the heart of today’s Gospel: even when we are walking away from God, God is walking with us.

Notice how Jesus suddenly appears in our story. He does not come with thunder or glory. He does not interrupt the two disciples dramatically. He simply draws near and walks with them.

“They were prevented from recognizing him,” the Gospel tells us.

This is not because Jesus is absent, but because their grief blinds them. Their expectations have collapsed, and so they cannot see what is right in front of them.

How often is this true for us?

I have said more than once, “Where is God in this situation?”
 But perhaps the deeper question is: Do we recognize Him when He is near?

He comes quietly—in a conversation, in a moment of unexpected peace, in the kindness of another person, in the Scriptures, in the Eucharist. But our hearts, like those of the disciples, can be slow to perceive.

Still, Jesus does not leave them. He listens. He invites them to speak. He meets them exactly where they are.

That is pastoral love. That is divine patience.

God does not wait for us to get everything right before He walks with us. He enters into our confusion, our disappointment, even our doubts

 So, after listening to them, Jesus begins to speak. He opens the Scriptures and explains how everything that happened—the suffering, the cross, the apparent defeat—was part of God’s plan.

“Was it not necessary that the Christ should suffer these things and enter into his glory?”

The disciples had expected a Messiah of power, not a Messiah of suffering. And because reality did not match their expectations, they concluded that everything had gone wrong.

But Jesus reveals something essential: God’s ways often unfold through paths we do not expect.

The cross was not a failure—it was the way to glory.

This is a hard truth. It challenges us.

We often want a God who solves problems quickly, who removes suffering immediately, who aligns perfectly with our plans. But the God revealed in Christ is one who transforms suffering from within.

He does not always take the cross away—but He walks with us through it, and He brings resurrection out of it.

And when we begin to understand this—even just a little—something changes within us.

“Were not our hearts burning within us,” they later say, “while he spoke to us on the way and opened the Scriptures to us?”

The Word of God has that power. It does not always remove our struggles instantly, but it begins to reframe them. It awakens hope. It rekindles faith.

As they reach their destination, Jesus appears to continue on. But the disciples urge Him:

“Stay with us, for it is nearly evening.”

There is something beautiful here. Even though they do not fully recognize Him, they sense that His presence matters. Something in them longs for Him to remain.

And Jesus accepts their invitation.

This is another quiet truth: God never forces His way into our lives. He waits to be invited.

“Stay with us.”

Those simple words can become a powerful prayer. In moments of uncertainty, of darkness, of loneliness—“Lord, stay with me.” And He does.

So, he stays with them, and Ii is at table that everything changes.

“He took bread, said the blessing, broke it, and gave it to them.”

And in that moment, their eyes are opened. They recognize Him.

This is no accident. This is Eucharistic language. It echoes the Last Supper. It anticipates the life of the Church.

They recognize Jesus in the breaking of the bread.

And immediately, He vanishes from their sight.

Why? Because now they no longer need to see Him in the same way. They have learned where to find Him.

They will find Him in the Scriptures.
They will find Him in the Eucharist.
They will find Him in the community of believers.

And so will we.

Something remarkable happens next. The disciples do not stay in Emmaus. They do not remain in their comfort.

They get up at once and return to Jerusalem.

The same road they had walked in sadness becomes the road they now travel in joy.

This is the transformation of the resurrection.

Encountering Christ does not leave us where we are. It sends us back—with new eyes, new hearts, and new purpose.

They had been walking away from the community. Now they return to it.
They had been speaking words of disappointment. Now they proclaim the Good News.

“The Lord has truly been raised”

Brothers and sisters, this Gospel is not just about two disciples long ago. It is about us.

We are those travelers.

We walk through life with questions, disappointments, and hopes. We struggle to understand God’s ways. We sometimes fail to recognize His presence.

And yet:

• He walks with us even when we are unaware.
• He speaks to us through His Word.
• He waits for our invitation.
• He reveals Himself in the Eucharist.
• He sends us forth with renewed faith.

The pattern of Emmaus is the pattern of our Christian life.

Every Mass, in fact, is an Emmaus experience.

We gather as people who carry burdens and questions.
 We listen to the Scriptures, and our hearts begin to stir.
 We come to the table, and Christ is made known to us in the breaking of the bread.
 And then we are sent forth—“Go in peace”—to bring that encounter into the world.

So today, I invite you to reflect on three simple questions:

First: Where are you walking right now?
Are you moving toward hope, or away from it? Are you carrying disappointment or confusion that you have not brought to the Lord?

Second: Are you listening for His voice?
Do you allow the Scriptures to speak into your life? Do you take time to let God interpret your experiences, rather than trying to make sense of everything on your own?

Third: Do you recognize Him in the breaking of the bread?
Do you come to the Eucharist with awareness, with openness, with expectation that this is where Christ reveals Himself most deeply.

In the end, the prayer of the disciples becomes our prayer as well

“Stay with us, Lord.”

Stay with us in our doubts.
Stay with us in our disappointments.
Stay with us when we cannot recognize You.
Stay with us as we listen to Your Word.
Stay with us in the Eucharist.
Stay with us as we walk the roads of our lives.

And when our eyes are opened—when we finally see You more clearly—give us the courage to return, to witness, to proclaim:

The Lord is truly risen.