Waking Up on the Road to Emmaus

April 12, 2026

Third Sunday of Easter — Year A

Acts 2:14, 22–33 | Psalm 16 | 1 Peter 1:17–21 | Luke 24:13–35

One of my favorite little fables is about a young fish swimming along who spots an older, wiser fish and asks, “Where can I find this thing they call the ocean?” The older fish smiles and says, “You’re in it right now.” The young fish looks around, confused and a little disappointed, and says, “This? This is just water. What I want is the ocean!”

I think about that story every time I read today’s Gospel, because in a lot of ways, that young fish is us.

Two disciples are walking along the road to Emmaus, trying to make sense of everything that has just happened. Their world has been turned upside down. Jesus, the one they thought was the answer, the Messiah in whom they had placed all their hope, has been brutally crucified. Now, there are rumors swirling about an empty tomb, and they don’t quite know what to do with any of it. You can almost hear it in their conversation as they walk: confusion, disappointment, maybe even a quiet kind of grief that hasn’t fully surfaced yet. Then, Jesus himself comes walking right alongside them.

They don’t recognize him — not when he first approaches; not when he listens patiently as they pour out their story; not even when he begins to walk them through the Old Testament Scriptures, connecting the dots from Moses through the prophets, showing how all of it pointed to everything that had just happened to him in Jerusalem. They spend the better part of a day in conversation with the risen Christ, and to them, he’s just another traveler on the road.

It’s only later when they sit down to eat, that everything changes. He takes the bread, blesses it, breaks it, and gives it to them. Finally, in that moment, their eyes are opened. They see him for who he is. Then, just as suddenly, he is gone. It’s such a quiet moment, but it carries an incredible weight. They had been in the presence of Jesus the entire time — walking with him, listening to him, feeling something stir in their hearts as he spoke. And yet, they didn’t fully see him until the breaking of the bread.

How often does that happen in our own lives? How often is God right there, present in the middle of our day, and we just don’t recognize Him? Not because we’re not trying, not because we don’t believe, but because we’re looking for something else — something more obvious, something that looks a little more like what we think the “ocean” is supposed to be.

I want to share a story with you that I’ve told very few. Several years ago, my mom was in memory care. If you’ve ever spent time in one of those places, you know it to be a difficult environment. There’s a quiet sadness to it. You see these men and women who once lived full, vibrant lives, and now much — if not all — of it is stolen by dementia.

There was a woman there named Lucille, whom I would pass almost every time I visited. She was usually sitting near the nurses’ station. I’d say hello on my way by. Sometimes, I’d get a smile, and other times, just a blank look. That was about it. One day, as I was leaving, she waved me over. That alone caught me off guard. I walked up, and she gently pulled me down next to her wheelchair. She looked me straight in the eye with a clarity I hadn’t seen before and said, “Don’t you know that you are the Lord’s, and that you must push forward on the path He has set before you?”

And that was it: no buildup, no explanation, nust that one sentence. I remember walking out of there thinking, Okay…where did that come from? Because up to that point, our interactions had been nothing more than quick greetings. The next week, I didn’t visit because my wife and I were out of town, and when I came back the following week, Lucille had passed. I don’t know exactly what to make of that moment, even now. I can’t explain it in any neat or tidy way. But I know this: you can’t convince me that God wasn’t present in that encounter.

That’s Emmaus.

God shows up in ways that don’t always announce themselves. He shows up in conversations, in relationships, in unexpected moments that don’t feel particularly “spiritual” at the time. And sometimes, we only recognize it later, looking back, when something in us says, “Wait a second… that was more than just an ordinary moment.”

Mother Teresa once said that she tried to see Jesus in every person she encountered. The hungry person was a hungry Jesus. The sick person was a sick Jesus. And she would say to herself, “My Jesus, what an interesting disguise you are wearing today.”

That line captures this Gospel perfectly. Jesus is there, but he’s in disguise — not to trick us, but because that’s often how we are able to receive him. Not in overwhelming displays, but in ordinary, human encounters. And yet, the Gospel doesn’t leave us guessing. It leads us to that moment of recognition in the breaking of the bread. That’s not an accident.

The same Jesus who walked that road and opened the Scriptures to them is the one who becomes present to them in that act of blessing, breaking, and sharing the bread. It’s the same pattern we see at the Last Supper. It’s the same pattern we encounter at every Mass.

This is where the two parts of our faith come together. Jesus gave us the greatest commandment in one breath: love God with all your heart, mind, soul, and strength, and love your neighbor as yourself. Vertical and horizontal. Not two separate commandments politely sitting next to each other, but one whole, woven together. The Eucharist is where we meet Him most unmistakably, and it’s also where our eyes get trained. We encounter Him as Son of God at the altar, and then we also begin to recognize Him in the people we pass on the road of life. The opposite is just as true: when we learn to see Jesus in a Lucille, a stranger, or in someone we’d ordinarily walk right past, we come back to the Eucharist with an appreciation of Jesus as the Son of Man.

The disciples had one evening on that road. We have a lifetime of invitations. And when we begin to recognize Him there — both at the altar and in one another — something starts to change. You see it in Peter in the first reading. This is the same Peter who was confused and afraid a few weeks before, now standing up and speaking with clarity and conviction about Jesus, his life, his death, and his resurrection. That kind of transformation doesn’t come from information alone. It comes from encounter. It comes from recognizing Jesus in spirit and in truth, in the divine and the human.

So, the invitation this week as we go forth is a simple one, though not necessarily an easy one: pay attention, just a little more than you normally do — in your conversations, in your routines, in the people you might otherwise pass by without a second thought. There is a very real possibility that Jesus is standing right in front of you, wearing a disguise you didn’t expect.

Then, receive him at this altar — not casually, not on autopilot, but with intention. The breaking of the bread is not just a ritual we repeat. It is Emmaus, right here, right now. The same Jesus, making himself known.

And then, respond. When you sense one of those moments — at the altar, or on the road— don’t brush it off. Lean into it. Offer the kindness. Make the call. Follow the nudge. These are the moments where recognition allows us to grow in presence and connection, with God and with one another. Because here’s the truth: Jesus is walking with you. Not someday. Right now. The question isn’t whether he’s there. The question is whether we recognize him.

“My Jesus…what an interesting disguise you are wearing today.”