I have never seen the city empty this quickly. By this time the roads should be busy with pilgrims returning home after the festival, but today the streets are empty. There are no market traders selling their wares. Anyone without a reason to stay has gone. Meanwhile, there is a menacing silence about the place as the Roman soldiers continue to search house to house, and people keep their heads down. But there is more to this mood than our fears about Pilate’s barbarism and what the soldiers are capable of. Although we despise it, bloodshed and crucifixions are commonplace. The bitter truth, however, is that on this occasion, rather than being mere bystanders, some of our leaders have been complicit in the torture and death of one of our own. Jesus blood is on our hands. For generations, we have always held the higher moral ground. But last week, our leaders failed us. Let us say it as it is: Jesus death was pure political manoeuvring. Ciaphas even declared it ahead of time; ‘Wouldn’t it be more expedient for one man to die than for a whole nation to be destroyed?’ The truth is that the Sanhedrin were never worried about Jesus leading an armed uprising. They were more concerned about preserving their own authority as he pointed at their failings. So Jesus became their whipping boy, their fall guy, their scapegoat. Put simply, their case does not stack up. How could a man who saw the greatest faith in a centurion, declared ‘Render unto Caesar what is Ceasars’, and forbade me to fight back in the Garden (healing the high-priests servant in the process), ever be accused of inciting an armed struggle? The table that Jesus turned over in the temple courts belonged to them, not to Rome.
About the resurrection: everyone is thinking it but no-one dare talk about it in the open. We know that all the authorities are incensed that they cannot find the body of Jesus. And even though it seems ridiculous, we know why. The official position is that somebody has stolen the body. Defending anything else is difficult. The authorities cannot deny that Jesus died; the soldiers witnessed it and Pilate made sure Jesus was dead before releasing the body to Joseph. Even so, the authorities have yet to present a convincing argument; one that accounts for how the perpetrators were able to overcome a detachment of sixteen men, with at least four on guard at any one time, and how they managed to move the stone. The Sanhedrin are suggesting that there has been a conspiracy; that someone paid off the guards to release the body and stay silent – but why would the guards risk being handed down the same punishment? And why would his followers risk their own lives for a corpse? And why, when Joseph had given Jesus such a beautiful grave, would they risk death by disrespecting the authority of Rome and move him?
I saw Cleopas the other day. He asked to see me. He had that wide-eyed look with which I am becoming increasingly familiar. He told me that he had seen Jesus on the road to Emmaus, on the evening of that first day. He was travelling with another disciple. I cannot remember who it was – but that is not the point. The point is that it could have been you or I or anyone else. They were leaving the city at the time, surrounded by other pilgrims. As the military presence lessened, talking became easier. They were both joined by a man who overheard them discussing events. They were in the middle of one of those conversations that was full of complaint, despair and grief which, although it felt good at the time, was heading nowhere. Jesus’ death was the end of all hope that change was possible. Religious self-interest and corruption would continue, with minorities being overlooked and the poor remaining hungry. Life under Roman rule would remain brutal. Cleopas and his friend were talking so intently that they did not look at the man, who asked what they were referring to – as if anyone who had been in Jerusalem would not know! As they put their grief into words, the man simply listened. When they had finished speaking there was silence, and then he declared bluntly that their interpretation of events was ‘Foolish!’ They assumed that they were speaking to a teacher, since he reminded them of what was written in the prophets and that the Messiah would suffer before He was glorified. Despite this harsh rebuke, the man’s words gave Cleopas hope that this Jesus death might not be the end after all. Strangely, Cleopas felt encouraged rather than upset.
As dusk approached, the man made out to carry on, but Cleopas and his friend insisted that they remain together. Then something unusual happened. At supper, rather than Cleopas breaking the bread, the man took the initiative. He took the bread, blessed it, broke it, and gave it to them both. And as he did so, they remembered the last time that they had shared. They caught sight of the wounds in the man’s hands and wrists, and realised who was before them. And then Jesus simply….disappeared.
And so there was Cleopas, sat in front of me with this uncontainable belief that he and his friend had met with the risen Lord. I sat back and marvelled at what God had done, and I tried to contain a rye smile as he struggled to tell me how real all this was to him. Like so many others, he could not find the words. Jesus was no ghost. I told him that he did not need to convince me and that he was not the only one to see Jesus alive. I think Cleopas was relieved that he could share his experience with someone – and that they would believe him rather than think him deluded. Cleopas also shared how he could not understand why, at first, he did not recognise Jesus. Yes, they had been talking intently. Yes, Jesus walked alongside them rather than being in front of them, but this was no excuse. Yes, Jesus appeared different: but not that different. But the main thing preoccupying him was Jesus teaching on the road, and the fact that Jesus became real to him as He broke the bread.
Breaking bread will never be the same for Cleopas – or me – again.