Third Sunday of Easter, Year A/II

April 19, 2026

How is it possible that joy springs from grief? 

We know the story; we have been on the road to Jerusalem with Jesus and his followers. We have witnessed the poignant moment in which a woman anoints Jesus and washes him with her tears, we have seen the incredible and necessary raising of Lazarus; the glorious entry into the city; we’ve experienced the Passover meal in the upper room where Jesus puts a new spin on the ancient tradition.

These are pretty amazing moments that give life and hope, but then comes that horrific, mind and spirit-numbing death upon the cross.

So it’s hard to imagine that something good could come of it.

If you, as I, have lost someone you knew, someone you loved with whom you shared a life, meals, joys, and sorrows, then you’ve felt the pain that comes from such loss and the accompanying grief. 

It’s not hard, then, to understand what the Apostles were suffering. 

Let’s put ourselves on the road to Emmaus.

Emmaus was some seven miles out of Jerusalem and had a history of violence. It was thought to be the base camp for the Maccabees’ uprising; it was burned by the Romans in retaliation for the unrest and revolts following the death of Herod – two thousand rebels were crucified there. People in that generation would have memories of the crosses lining the road.

A place of defeat and lost hope is restored by Jesus as a place of fellowship and love.

This morning we are told that two disciples walk away from Jerusalem, perhaps running for their lives; maybe they feel lost, hopeless, let down. They discuss the events of the last week and in particular the discovery at the tomb that very morning. A stranger joins them on the walk and the disciples are amazed that there is actually one person in the region who has not heard about the death and resurrection of Jesus. Here they recount what they’ve been discussing and add a personal postscript: they had hoped Jesus would be the one to redeem Israel.

Let me put that remark in context.

There had been prophets before Jesus who claimed to be the Messiah and their message and ministry didn’t strike the right chord with the people. They were executed as Jesus had been, so their missions were considered failures. This is probably what Cleopas and his friend were thinking – here was yet another so-called prophet who didn’t make good on his claims; he, like all the rest, failed and it was business as usual in Roman-governed Judea.

But Jesus did something different.

He kept his promise.

He fulfilled prophecies.

He rose on the third day.

These facts, and his message proclaiming the kingdom of heaven, his call to a unique and unconditional love, made this call to right action very different, very powerful – and it has lasted for centuries.

The two disciples didn’t know this. They were so deep in their misery, that they didn’t recognize the man walking with them. This stranger interprets scripture and the events of the week as part of the greater story of humanity and of God’s action in the world as chronicled by the prophets and scripture. Yes, it was necessary that Jesus suffered, died and was buried, but death is not the end of the story.

He reveals himself to these disciples in an act of love and fellowship that they would have recognized if they had been present during the feeding of the five thousand and if they were at the table at the last supper — a simple breaking of bread and sharing a meal. Something Jesus did every day with his friends. It is at that moment eyes are opened, and memory and recognition come into play. Hearts that have been aflamed by the interpretation of Scripture still burn after they recognize it was Jesus, who vanishes as mysteriously from their table as he appeared on the road.

The disciples return to Jerusalem, where, by the way, they were commanded to stay by Jesus and tell their story, which is one of many that brings joy from grief: stories of the disciples on the road to Emmaus, Mary Magdalene seeing Jesus at the tomb, the apostles sharing a meal with Jesus in the upper room and Thomas touching Jesus’ wounds.  Through these events, a new community emerges. It is a community of faith built on an understanding of scripture, worship and the sharing of a common experience of the risen Christ. Jesus’ words to Thomas when he appeared before the apostles in the upper room are ringing in our ears:

“Blessed are those who had not seen yet come to believe.”

That would be us.

But we’re human, we have our expectations. We had hoped . . .

Each one of us, in our own way and time, has repeated the words of the disciples, “we had hoped.” Or,

“Why??”

I’ve said this aloud and to God. What about you?

It happens to all of us. We wish we could have had one more day to say all that needed to be said; we wish we could make things right between our loved ones; we wish it all could have been done differently; we drew a long breath and said: “I love you and always have, always will.”

We weren’t and aren’t alone. We were and are heard. As we hope and wonder, Jesus comes into our lives with words of comfort and hope. We are reminded that God became one of us, and shared our experience, our joys, our grief, our pain. Jesus reminds us that on the Cross, God took and blessed and broke the most perfect of lives and offered it to us in the midst of suffering so that all sadness and pain might become a bridge to a loving, sustaining presence.

The joy that comes from pain is the knowledge that we are loved.

We are loved.

God loves each of us.  Jesus walks with us.

And if there’s a small voice within that still hedges, still whispers, “Yes, but . . .” Then come! I invite you to His table. Come to the table where Jesus invites you, me, all of us, anyone who is hungry, to take as often as necessary the bread that he blessed and broke and shared, and drink the cup he pours out for all humanity. Your eyes will be opened, and your hearts will be burning with hope.

Jesus will always be with us on our roads and at our tables.

He is the joy that comes from grief.

c 2026, The Rev. Deacon Ellen L. Ekstrom