In the last session, I spoke about the civil war that completely destroyed the tribal brotherhood in Israel during the days of the Judges. The nation never recovered. It was a huge weeping wound at the very core of the kingship—influencing both Saul’s and David’s reigns and setting the scene for depravity and idolatry centuries down the track.
I stated in the previous session that this is the most destructive story, apart from that of the fall of Adam and Eve, in all of recorded Scripture, and that I could make this claim with assurance because Jesus made the healing of this event His absolute top priority on His return from heaven on the day of His resurrection.
So I’d better back up that statement with some hard facts. In the last chapter of Luke’s gospel, he describes the meeting between two disciples and Jesus on the road to Emmaus. Now this is a story with nothing natural about it. It’s supernatural, sure, but mostly it’s unnatural. And I say that because, surely, the natural thing to do on being raised from the dead is to go to your grieving mother, brothers, sisters and disciples—knowing that they’re all struggling with disbelief—and, resisting the urge to say, ‘I told you so,’ say instead, ‘Peace! It’s true! I’m back.’ The natural thing to do is to go to your loved ones.
Let’s pick up Luke’s account:
Now that same day two of them were going to a village called Emmaus, about seven miles from Jerusalem. They were talking with each other about everything that had happened. As they talked and discussed these things… Jesus Himself came up and walked along with them; but they were kept from recognising Him.
He asked them, ‘What are you discussing together as you walk along?’
They stood still, their faces downcast. One of them, named Cleopas, asked Him, ‘Are You the only one visiting Jerusalem who does not know the things that have happened there in these days?’
‘What things?’ He asked.
‘About Jesus of Nazareth,’ they replied. ‘He was a prophet, powerful in word and deed before God and all the people. The chief priests and our rulers handed Him over to be sentenced to death, and they crucified Him; but we had hoped that He was the one who was going to redeem Israel. And what is more, it is the third day since all this took place. In addition, some of our women amazed us. They went to the tomb early this morning but didn’t find His body. They came and told us that they had seen a vision of angels, who said He was alive. Then some of our companions went to the tomb and found it just as the women had said, but they did not see Jesus.’
He said to them, ‘How foolish you are, and how slow to believe all that the prophets have spoken! Did not the Messiah have to suffer these things and then enter His glory?’ And beginning with Moses and all the Prophets, He explained to them what was said in all the Scriptures concerning Himself.
As they approached the village to which they were going, Jesus continued on as if He were going farther. But they urged Him strongly, ‘Stay with us, for it is nearly evening; the day is almost over.’ So He went in to stay with them.
When He was at the table with them, He took bread, gave thanks, broke it and began to give it to them. Then their eyes were opened and they recognised Him, and He disappeared from their sight. They asked each other, ‘Were not our hearts burning within us while He talked with us on the road and opened the Scriptures to us?’
They got up and returned at once to Jerusalem.
Luke 24:13–33 NIV
Isn’t that a beautiful story? I’m a sucker for a happily-ever-after, not to mention an unexpected twist at the end. This story has both. But… and this is my big BUT, for all its overtones of quiet victory and understated joy, it just doesn’t ring true. It’s unnatural in the sense that—well, really, Jesus acts out of character. But that’s so utterly improbable it doesn’t make sense. Jesus can’t possibly act out of character, yet what He does is psychologically so implausible it seems inhuman. I mean: come on, He’s just come back from heaven, following His ascent to the Father, and His top priority is taking a walk to the ’burbs.
What?!
Like seriously? If it was me, my top priority on being raised from the dead would be to reassure my grieving family and friends.
Now perhaps Jesus really is going to family. The early church claimed that Cleopas, the only named disciple in the Emmaus story, was the brother of Joseph, the foster-father of Jesus, and therefore His uncle. The other disciple was said to be Mary, the wife of Cleopas, and Jesus’ aunt. Still, surely you’d go to your mum first.
What could possibly be more important than that? Hmmm… lemme think. Maybe preventing a civil war? And, maybe while taking the opportunity to do that, also healing the history that led to a previous civil war as well as all the defilement that could be traced back to the days of Sodom.
As it transpires, this is the recapitulated ending to the story of Gibeah. It is the beauty-from-ashes finale to that horrific episode. The early church was so convinced the stories of Gibeah and Emmaus were linked that they changed the Greek wording in the book of Judges about the journey to Gibeah so that it exactly matched Luke’s description of the walk to Emmaus.
So let’s compare Emmaus and Gibeah critically.
Two disciples, a man and his wife, set out on a journey from Jerusalem in the late afternoon. They walk about 11 km, have a bit of conversation on the way, and seek lodging as evening falls. Now if Cleopas was indeed the brother of Joseph and the uncle of Jesus, this makes him of the line of David. That means his hometown is Bethlehem.
The story of the Levite and his minor wife—or concubine—parallels this event. Once again, there’s a man and his wife whose hometown is Bethlehem who are travelling about 11 km past Jerusalem in the late afternoon, conversing on the way, and seeking out lodging just as evening falls.
In each case, there’s three people on the road. I mentioned in the previous session that the Levite’s servant was far more important than he appears, even though he’s one of those rare characters in the Hebrew Scriptures who gets a line of dialogue. He’s a parallel to Jesus who also converses on the way. And to further add to the correspondences between the stories, there’s two men who, though not of the line of Aaron, are acting as high priests. Jonathan, the Levite, has taken the role illegitimately whereas Jesus’ appointment is a legitimate one. In fact, although in theory Jesus could have made this journey at any time during His ministry, He had to leave it until after His resurrection. It was necessary to ascend to heaven, taking His blood with Him as a one-for-all perfect offering so that He could installed as the high priest after the order of Melchizedek.
Now the defilement that began in Gibeah went on for well over a thousand years. Saul could have stopped it and healed history and he did indeed begin that process. David could have completed it, but he didn’t, instead being responsible for the death or dispossession of all of Saul’s sons and grandsons—thus perpetuating the feud between Bethlehem and Gibeah. Until Jesus stepped up to a couple on the road to Emmaus, the wounds of the past continued to inflict pain on the present. I hope you begin to grasp why, as soon as He’d got back from heaven, the top of His to-do list was to heal the spiritual wound that tore the tribal brotherhood apart and pitted them against each other when they were supposed to be family.
But, to complete the healing, a threshold covenant was needed. He had to be offered hospitality; He had to be invited into the home to share a meal. Without that, there could be no healing and sealing of the wounds of history.
He makes as if to go on His way, but He’s urged to stay and, in passing over the cornerstone of the house, becomes the covenant defender of those within. Then He breaks bread: symbolic not just of His own broken body but echoing the body of the concubine, who had been cut up as a call to war. This is Jesus operating in world-mending. He took the mutilated pieces of the past and produced beauty from ashes.
But what about that civil war I mentioned? Now we need to remember Jesus had been murdered. The high priest, Caiaphas, had broken a multitude of laws as he manipulaed to pass sentence on Jesus. In addition, Pilate had ignored all the principles of Roman jurisprudence.
Atonement for murder can only, by Torah law, be made through shedding the blood of the murderer. It is the duty of the avenger-of-blood, the kinsman-redeemer, to make such atonement. The brothers of Jesus may well have felt it was their family duty to slay Caiaphas and perhaps Pilate too. Jesus had to convince the head of the family—Cleopas in the absence of Joseph—to put a definitive stop to it.
Cleopas and his wife, Mary, rush back to Jerusalem to inform the Eleven and those with them and are advised:
‘It is true! The Lord has risen and has appeared to Simon.’
Luke 24:34 NIV
The almost universal assumption is that Simon is Peter and the Eleven are the apostles minus Judas. But Luke hasn’t called Peter ‘Simon’ since chapter 6 when he listed the twelve apostles chosen by Jesus and noted:
Simon, whom he named Peter
Luke 6:14 ESV
He employs a similar technique in Acts where up until almost halfway through the narrative, Paul is always called ‘Saul’, but is never called so again after the remark:
Then Saul, who was also called Paul
Acts 13:9 NIV
Luke signals a transition of names and then keeps to the new name. For that reason, I believe that the ‘Simon’ of the last chapter of Luke’s gospel is meant to be understood as the son of Cleopas, the cousin of Jesus and the second bishop of the church of Jerusalem after James the Just.
This truly completes the restoration story. Jonathan, the instigator of the war at Gibeah, usurped the position of his cousin Phinehas by wearing an ephod and acting as a priest, a position he was not entitled to.
But, in the priesthood of all believers, first the brother of Jesus, James the Just, then the cousin of Jesus, Simon, is appointed to guide and oversee the church.
Now how does this story relate to us today?
Well, every single one of us is called to world-mending. Every single one of us is called to heal history. When we look at the story of Emmaus, it wasn’t about a fabulous mind-blowing miracle: it was about a simple invitation to cross over a cornerstone and partake of communion with the Lord.
Jesus healed hearts and homes, history and landscapes. Is it for us to do the same? At the end of the day, no. It’s a work of Jesus. But He wants us to be part of that work. One of the sayings of the Jewish sages is this:
It is not your responsibility to finish the work of mending the world but neither are you free to ignore it.
Sure the disciples on the road to Emmaus may have been the aunt and uncle of Jesus. But we are His brothers and sisters. We are royalty. Maybe there’s someone He wants you to invite to dinner; it doesn’t matter how simple it is, from a cup of coffee to a full-on feast—it’s a royal banquet.
Because, as the Emmaus story shows, sometimes that’s all that’s needed to heal the land. In fact, the theme of Jesus’ life is ‘let’s together heal the wounds of history’. Jewish people have a phrase ‘tikkun olam’: mending the world. That’s what God calls each one of us to do.
All that is needed is for the Holy Spirit to tell you the right person, the right time and the right place. And then for you to fall in with Jesus, ask Him to sanctify the time and then follow His agenda for the day.
This is Grace Drops and I’m Anne Hamilton. May Jesus open Your heart to the Scriptures today.
Thank you to Lorna Skinner of www.riversofmusic.co.uk for the background music.
For more on Jonathan and the civil war he instigated, as well as Jesus’ repair of that wound, see God’s Priority: World Mending and Generational Testing.. Please get in touch through the contact form at Armour Books if you are in the US, UK or Australia and there are availability/price issues at the retailer.