The Road to Emmaus

Break it to me gently....

The story of the Road to Emmaus is a delicious mystery: why did Jesus appear incognito?

I think it illustrates how Jesus used poetry. And why we should.

Let me try to explain.

The encounter on the road to Emmaus is the central act of a three-act play. The first act is the empty tomb, in Jerusalem, at dawn, and an angel telling the women he has risen.

The second act is the encounter on the road to Emmaus, at about midday. Now he appears incognito. His identity slowly dawns on the disciples, inferred from his words.

Back in Jerusalem at nightfall, the third act: he appears to the eleven in immediately recognizable form. He asks them to touch him; he asks for a fish, and eats it.

Notice that at this point, all the apostles are terrified. “They were startled and frightened, thinking they saw a ghost.” 

Man fears God. Man fears truth, and fears being judged. Luke 5:8: “When Simon Peter saw this, he fell at Jesus’ knees and said, ‘Go away from me, Lord; I am a sinful man!’”

I prayed for years that God not send me any obvious miracle, for I feared if he did, I would go mad, or think I had gone mad. Eventually Mary sent me a gentle miracle anyway. Even then, I prayed for her to stop, and she did. I was not ready. 

We are right to fear. Fear of the Lord is the beginning of wisdom.

But this means we cannot speak the truth directly to those we hope to evangelize; we must break it slowly, or our listeners may panic. Among other things, they may be moved to crucify us.

This is why we need poetry, or parable, as the essential religious language. As Emily Dickenson wrote, “Tell all the truth, but tell it slant. Success in circuit lies.”

This reminds me of a joke: the cat is on the roof.

So Jesus breaks the ultimate revelation slowly. First the body is missing from the tomb, and angels say he is risen, and this is revealed to women, who are notoriously untrustworthy witnesses. So there is still room to doubt, but the notion, the possibility, must be entertained. The cat is on the roof.

Probably this is what causes the disciples to flee to Emmaus. They did not flee out of fear after the crucifixion; they were still in Jerusalem three days later. Yet they left immediately after they heard this story that his body was missing and angels were about. This is what frightened them—that he might appear, and prove himself to be God. 

This is why Jesus appears slant, incognito. Not in Jerusalem, where they feared he might appear, and not in recognizable form. He is breaking it to them gently, giving them time to think it over. The cat has fallen off the roof. He seems to be badly injured.

Then, once they have had more time to think and talk about it among themselves, to contemplate the possibility, to find a way to cope with it, that evening he appears in unmistakable form. And they are still terrified. The cat has died.

Imagine if he had not managed the revelation so carefully. He is still even at this point soothing their fears by asking them to touch him and by eating a fish. He is reassuring them he is not a ghost, and they have not gone mad. Calming them.

This is what a poem does and how it works. It does not reveal its full meaning at first. But it plants seeds in memory, which is its proper medium. Over time, the full meaning can unfold, when the listener is ready to receive it. When he has ears to hear.

That’s poetry, or parable. Poetry is more efficient, because more memorable. Parable is better if you must speak to a multilingual audience, as does the Bible. 

 Jesus himself is the ultimate poem. He is the Word.