For this third sermon in the "Tell Me the Stories of Jesus" series, I'm admittedly cheating a bit, or fudging, we could just say. It's a fairly familiar story, to be sure, about the two disciples on the road to Emmaus who come to realize that the Risen Christ is, indeed, present with them. But it's not a story about Jesus, strictly speaking. And we're not even sure who these two really were. But, bear with me for a moment, and I think you'll agree that this story is one we should have in our repertoire because of its richness and depth and surprising power. And it's an especially good one to remember on this day that we share in the sacrament of Holy Communion.

The story begins this way: "On that same day," it says, (the third day after Jesus was crucified) "two of them" were going, leaving Jerusalem. Who were they? As I said, we're not exactly sure. In most paintings and other depictions of this scene, the two are presented as two men, two male disciples walking along the road. But close examination of the story reveals some intrigue. One is called by name, Cleopas, but there's no mention of a "Cleopas" in any other place in the Scriptures. However, there is a disciple called Cleophas named in John 19:25 as the husband of Mary, one of the Marys we may remember who had kept vigil at the foot of Jesus' cross.

So, some biblical commentators posit that it was this Cleophas and his wife, Mary, or Mary and her husband, Cleophas, we might say, just for the sake of storytelling, of course. At any rate, two disciples, husband and wife, leaving Jerusalem in utter dejection. Walking along, hopeless, wondering why they had placed so much faith in a prophet who had ended up dead.

It was over and they were going home, to a village called Emmaus. Interesting place, Emmaus. Remember it from Sunday School or other sermons in years past? How do you picture it in your mind's eye? As a sleepy middle-eastern village, a few buildings, red in the sun, dusty, quiet, interchangeable with all the other small villages scattered across the hillsides of the Holy Land?

Actually, many scholars think that Emmaus was probably a Roman military barracks, base of the regional occupying forces. Built by the Roman Emperor Vespasian in the 70s, about 10 years before the writing of this Gospel, Emmaus would have been a powerful symbol of the cruel occupation and oppression of the Hebrew people. Jesus' people. Closest barracks to Jerusalem, it was probably even the base which housed the Roman soldier who, at the crucifixion, had stood at the foot of the cross and pierced Jesus' side with his spear.

And some suggest that Cleophas and Mary, let's call them, were in fact servants there, two who had taken the weekend off to go to Jerusalem and celebrate Passover. Getting a different picture? Cleophas and Mary, disciples, engaged in serious Bible study, with life and death at stake, as they returned to their home in the Roman soldiers' barracks.

And so, you see, if we can imagine the fear they must have felt, the utter despair, and if we can grasp for a moment what it must have felt like to turn from Calvary, from the tomb, and go right back into the nexus of power which enslaved them and their people -- then we might grasp the real significance and power of Jesus' appearance to them, in their moment of greatest need. And we might also discover a Resurrection faith that is strong enough to address all the most challenging issues of our lives as well.

For as this Mary and Cleophas are returning home, Jesus comes and walks with them. He joins them in remembering the Scriptures. He enters into their hopelessness, their broken hearts and boggled minds, and interprets to them the things about himself in all the Scripture. They did not yet recognize him, but his words and presence rekindled hope in their hearts.

And as they were about to reach the village, he walked ahead, as if he were going on . . . but they urged him to stay, as it was evening and the darkness descending, and they invited this perfect stranger into their home, their servants' quarters in the Roman barracks, for dinner.

He did stay with them, as we know, and they sat around the table for the evening meal. There was bread, some wine, some water, and some olive oil with salt to dip the bread in. By this time, the stranger-guest had become their host. He took the bread, broke it, blessed it, and gave it to them. And suddenly with that piece of bread still uneaten in their hands, they recognized him as he vanished.

With his bread still clutched in their hands, they were able to remember that their hearts had been burning as he talked with them along the way. Feeling his bread in their hands they could trust their own experience of his presence and power there on that road home. And then, with the taste of that bread on their lips, they could at last see that the continuation of his story now depended on them.

Immediately they took courage. To use the phrase from last week's story of Bartimaeus, immediately they followed Jesus on the way. They rose from their table and ventured out into the darkness, into the danger, back along that same road, to go back to Jerusalem and testify to the others that they had experienced the resurrected Christ, the ever-living power of God.

You see, for Cleophas and Mary, the resurrection was no longer just an idle dream, a naïve fantasy. It was the beating of their hearts, it was the blood in their veins, it was the strength in their legs, it was the conviction in their words, it was the way, the truth, and the life.

I know that many of us have a lot of questions about what heaven and eternal life and resurrection really mean. And that, with Cleophas and Mary and all the disciples in the early church, we will continue to seek answers and explanations.

Nevertheless, the fact remains that sometimes when we least expect it-in heavy discussions about the meaning of life and death, in times of grief when the tears will not be quenched, in moments of holding that bread in our fingers and tasting its sweet richness in our mouths-in such moments and many more, our hearts will burn within us and we will rise up and, in spite of ourselves, we will speak forth a new truth.

As the Psalmist said so long ago, "Taste and see that the Lord is good." Taste and see. That's what happened for Cleophas and Mary there at the table with Christ. And that's what can happen for us whenever we partake of this sacrament. We can taste and see that Christ is with us, that God is good.

Charles Wesley, hymn-writing brother of Methodism's founder, John Wesley, even went so far as to describe this sacrament of bread and wine as the "antepaste," or what we would call the antipasto of heaven. Antipasto -- Italian for that which whets the appetite, the dish that precedes the main course, the foretaste of greater things to come, all delicious.

Experiencing the power of God in the broken bread, tasting it, feeling it burn in your heart, is the antipasto of heaven itself. Sometimes people ask their pastor what heaven will be like. I don't know exactly. But I know it'll be great. We've tasted the antipasto. Our hearts have burned within us. For brief moments our eyes have been opened. We have had the experience of rising up from experiences we thought would destroy us. We've tasted the appetizer! The main course must be fantastic!

May the stories of Jesus fill your heart with courage and hope. May the presence of the risen Christ in the bread broken give you strength for the journey. And then, may you find the courage to rise up and follow him on the way that leads to life and life everlasting. Dear sisters and brothers, come, now. With Cleophas and Mary and all of the faithful disciples, come, and taste and see! Alleluia!