Seven Miles Back

And they rose that same hour and returned to Jerusalem. – Luke 24:33

Simon and Cleopas needed to get out of town and Emmaus was a good a destination as any. It was seven miles away from Jerusalem. Seven miles away from the city that murdered God. Seven miles away from the crazed mob that called for His execution. Seven miles away from the Romans that drove nails into His hands. Seven miles away from the perplexity of a missing body and a disused tomb.

The women were talking nonsense. What other explanation could there be? It was either that or believing a murdered prophet pressed the Undo button on His own death. The apostles, confronted with the first evidence of the capital-R Resurrection, dismissed it as a fairy tale. Cool story, to be sure; the right combination of angels and earthquakes would do that. But it was far more likely that the Jewish leaders paid off some Roman grave robbers to relocate the Nazarene’s body.

There was a sticky point with that theory, though. Before being sealed away in a Jewish crypt to rest in peace, Jesus’ body had been wrapped in cloth and embalmed with seventy-five pounds of spice. After the women presented their saga, Simon had sprinted out to the tomb to have a look for himself. The Messiah was missing but His myrrh-soaked bandages remained in the mausoleum. If you’re going to spirit away a corpse, why liberate it from its (extravagantly expensive) stench suppression? Who takes a three-day-old cadaver but leaves behind the grave clothes?

An even stickier point: Mary Magdalene claimed she saw Him alive. Didn’t recognize Him at first — apparently, He was pretending to be a gardener — but the voice that cast her demons out was the same one that called her name.

A long walk often begets a good talk and this trip had all the ingredients necessary: two friends, eleven clicks chasing the west-falling sun, and a lot on their minds. Cleopas was no stranger to this Jesus; his wife had witnessed the brutality of the crucifixion up close. Simon was one of Jesus’ closest friends and had known Him better than almost any man. But even with apostolic credentials, who could make heads or tails of this mess?

Enter the Stranger. Or as Cleopas called Him, Jerusalem’s only visitor to live under a rock for the last week. They synopsized the story for His benefit: a prophet named Jesus had shaken the country with miraculous signs and marvelous speech. He looked an awful lot like the long-awaited Messiah but a Jewish trial and a Roman crucifixion had killed those dreams. Except three days later, some women claimed He was a) not in the tomb and b) alive.

Cleopas may as well have confessed that he had trouble believing the sky was blue. According to the Stranger, was there anything more obvious, more self-evident, more axiomatic that the Prophets had spoken about than the suffering and glory of the Anointed One? A remedial lecture was evidently necessary. And with a couple of hours between them and Emmaus, the Stranger had plenty of time to unpack the details.

“Unpack” is too clinical, too neat a word for what happened next. The Stranger spoke of Moses and Elijah like bygone friends. He discussed David and Isaiah with a warm familiarity, not detached academic rigor. Like a desert shrub meeting fire, ancient texts crackled and shone with fulfilled anticipation. A fire, the two friends felt, that had leaped off the scroll and into their hearts.

Dinner and a bed were the least Simon and Cleopas could offer their new friend. As much as the Stranger wanted to cover more ground on His journey, Sunday was ending and Monday beginning; it was a good time to break for the night. An apparent expert in the Law, the Stranger was best qualified to conduct the mealtime rituals. But as He did, a new familiarity swept over the room. The way He held the loaf. The intonation of the blessing. It was all so reminiscent of that one time Jesus multiplied bread and fish. The Stranger handed the fractured pieces to Simon and Cleopas. Was that a smile tugging at the corner of His mouth? Why did He suddenly look like…?

The realization crashed into their brains like a slung stone through clay jars. Seven miles they had walked with this Man, blinded. But the voice was unmistakable. It was Him. Who else could it have been?

The Prophets were right. The Scriptures were right. The women were right. Life had gone toe to toe with Death, won, and made time for dinner with His friends after.

The Revealer, now unmasked, disappeared. Simon and Cleopas were left sitting at a table with broken bread and an apocalypse. Who could remain unmoved after an experience like that? They had to tell someone. Night was closing in fast. What little daylight was left would soon be replaced by a waning moon. It was time to go back.

Seven miles back to Jerusalem. Seven miles back to their grieving friends. Seven miles back with a fire in their souls. Seven miles back to an empty grave.