Sitting in Relief Society, the talk turns to Luke 24:13-35 and the two disciples who walked with Jesus after his resurrection and knew him not.
“This doesn’t make sense,” says Sister Brown. “They really couldn’t be disciples if they didn’t recognize him!”
“Yeah,” says Sister Green. No one who walked with the Savor would fail to recognize him. They would know his eyes, his voice, his face—”
The teacher rallies. “The scriptures say, ‘their eyes were holden.’ I looked it up but couldn’t find a definition for holden. Anyone know?”
I pick up my phone and start searching. The King James Version mentions holden and the New King James Version uses restrained. English Standard Version says kept from recognizing. I catch the teacher’s eye and say, “Basically, holden in this context means they were prevented from recognizing Jesus. It’s not clear why—whether Jesus hid himself from them or if they were unable to recognize him because—”
“It’s a warning, of course,” interrupts Sister Green. “After Jesus died, everybody went back to their jobs, their old ways of life. They forgot about Jesus, so they didn’t recognize him.”
“Oh. That makes sense,” says Sister Blue. “Like these supposed disciples, we’re in danger of forgetting Christ to the point of not recognizing him when he walks with us. We must keep him in the front of our minds at all times.”
“Yes!” says Sister Green. “We must not let the world distract us so that we can’t see Christ.”
“So many distractions!” says Sister Brown. “Like social media!”
“We can’t see Christ right in front of us if we’re looking at Facebook all the time,” says Sister Blue.
As the conversation continues, I read the passages and think about the disciples on the hot, dusty road, the grit grinding between leather laces and delicate flesh. Their grief lies heavy like a wool shroud in summer, each breath catching in their chests and burning with the taste of salt in the back of their throats.
They are grieving the loss of a dear friend and rabbi—the same unfathomable loss as the death of a beloved child, parent, or spouse—a man murdered by synagogue leaders and Roman overlords. The life they’d planned—a glorious future with Israel restored—now obliterated.
Compounding to loss is soul-crushing questioning of why and if they’d wasted years of their lives following a dream. How could they have been both so sure and so wrong? And what are they to do now? The tomb was empty. Their rabbi had not even been allowed to rest in peace.
How did they manage to take a single step?
Then a balm, the kindness of a stranger who asked about their troubles and listened as they emptied their hearts. A stranger who mourned with them. A stranger who brought comfort and peace by walking with them in their pain.
How different would that experience have been if instead of processing their complex feelings, their feelings had been bypassed, negated even, with the savior immediately showing himself?
Would they have felt foolish?
Rebuked?
Less than or wanting?
I don’t know, but I wonder.
And I do know whatever the reason their eyes were holden, it was purposeful.
Is this what Christ does for me? Does he break bread with me, unseen but there, listening as my heartbreaks and disillusions pour out like angry bees from a hive? Is he walking with me down church halls as I stomp and kick against stones of unfairness and patriarchy?
Is processing the pain as important as relieving it?
Did purging the sorrow make the message that Christ lives more joyful? Maybe more real?
Will honey be sweeter after the storm has passed, when there is time to dip fresh bread and simply breathe?
The teacher asks, “What are we to take from this?”
“It’s obvious,” says Sister Green. “Christ never hides his face from us. It’s the work of adversary to think so.”
“Yeah,” says Sister Blue. “This is a warning to always keep Christ in the forefront. We need to stay away from distractions.”
“Right. Also, Christ’s true disciples always know him,” says Sister Green.
I slip my phone back into my purse.
“Thank you,” says the teacher. “Moving on.”
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Published on Exponent II Blog : https://exponentii.org/blog/guest-post-road-to-emmaus/
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