The gleaming cloud tops and fragrant spring air would have invigorated most travellers leaving Jerusalem that Sunday afternoon. But these two began their trek to Emmaus staring grimly at the trail, forcing leaden feet up the steep path to the ridge, where they would follow the road down the Judean slopes.
Cleopas and his friend were going over and over the events of the weekend that had climaxed with their Leader hanging limp, pale, lifeless on a stained wooden cross. Then a hurried burial — and despair.
Hearing the crunch of footsteps behind them, Cleopas glanced back. Another traveller was rapidly climbing the grade, as if to join them. But he had caught only fragments of their conversation. “What are you talking about?” he asked, as he caught up to them.Read More »