A Reflection on Luke 24:13-35
Luke 24:13-35 tells the story of the road to Emmaus, where Jesus walks alongside two disciples, but they don’t recognize him until he breaks bread—finding the divine in ordinary conversation and a simple meal.
When I was young, I didn’t know the holiness of breaking bread with loved ones. I raced through life, rushing toward what’s next to find stability, happiness, normalcy, relationships, adventure—all the needs and desires we humans carry. Living in fear, I was scared: scared of the overwhelming distress inside me, scared of the rejection of those close to me but who couldn’t accept my heart, scared of the domestic violence that penetrated my mind, scared of staying in relationships that didn’t feel safe—where I couldn’t be authentic or loved the way I needed, despite my efforts—ultimately becoming fearful of myself. So I ran. I ran toward new life—something I could never fully grasp. But it was in these breakings that I continued to search for more – for truth, for God.
In doing this, when have I overlooked God’s presence because I was looking for something more dramatic?
Now that I have developed with more time in life, support for looking inward, and a deep, intimate connection with God through prayer – it is all I can do to soak in the present moment and tune into my senses: the sight of a garden, the taste of a well-cooked meal, the love felt in reciprocal conversation, or a friend’s embrace.
When I focus on the present, I experience the mystery of growth in this season of life.
At this moment, writing this piece, I’m sitting on my corduroy cream-colored couch. It has a cover to protect it from the hair and wet paws of my dog and the accidental spill of my coffee. I have a blanket next to me, soft, with embroidery from an undergraduate program I attended several lifetimes ago. An empty plate with crumbs of homemade blueberry coffee cake sits to my right. Next to the plate, my five-year-old black border collie-golden retriever named Ronin rests his head and body. To my left sits a thrifted side table with a cup of freshly brewed decaf coffee from a monthly subscription supporting coffee growers around the world. My water bottle sits beside that. A prayer journal found in a Delaware military base, an incense burner I bought when I lived in Seattle, and a candle from a solo trip to North Carolina, all completing the scene. I look straight ahead through leaf-covered, sage-green sheer curtains to the trees outside—trees in a city, how extraordinary, I think to myself.
All around me are items that reflect comfort, care, love, desire, adventure, significance, and a connection to nature. As I sit here on this sofa in my living room, my senses and soul are fully engaged.
In moments like these, I feel the holiness of God. He breathes life into my lungs. It’s all I can do not to stop writing, fall to my knees with my Bible only an arm’s length away, and praise Him for this abundant life surrounding me and dwelling within me. It is only through knowing Him that I recognize He has given me all that I have and allows me to feel the depth of gratitude I experience in this moment.
How does my perspective change when I approach daily routines as potential encounters with the divine?
Not long ago, I longed to leave this space, to go out into the world with anticipation of what might be waiting for me—to find people and have conversations, which I’ve learned carry their own sense of holiness, or race to ride my bike down the Schuylkill River Trail, experiencing the beauty of the river. It is the sensation of pedals as I pump my legs up the hills, feeling the wind in my face as I pass through evidence of God’s creation in nature, people, and creativity. At times, I still long for these things.
When I learned to slow down and be present, I discovered I didn’t need to experience adventure and exhilaration only through dramatic gestures—moving across the country from the only home I’d ever known, jumping out of perfectly good airplanes, or pushing institutional boundaries. When I learned to sit in silence and take in what was right in front of me, I became overwhelmed with the presence of the Lord: beauty, creation, intimacy, adventure, love. I learned to endure suffering, emotions, pain, and vulnerability. I learned to confront my past, sin, desires, and longings. When I learned to slow down, I learned how to be. I discovered that I could find holiness in every ordinary moment. And that is the point at which every ordinary moment became extraordinary.
Like the disciples on the road to Emmaus, I had been walking with Christ all along, even in my running and fear. But it was only when I learned to be still, to break bread with the present moment, that my eyes were opened to recognize His presence—not in the dramatic escape I had been seeking, but here: Ronin shifts in his sleep, my coffee is cooling, the light through the curtains has changed. It won’t be long before I leave this space to carry this presence of sacred holiness into the world, however I am called. I also know that I will long to return to this moment.
I invite you to consider these questions for your own life:
What ordinary moments in my life have unexpectedly revealed something profound or sacred?
How might recognizing the sacred in ordinary moments change how I interact with others?
Penn Epistle 