When God Is Not Obvious

“So they drew near to the village to which they were going. He acted as if he were going farther, but they urged him strongly, saying, ‘Stay with us, for it is toward evening and the day is now far spent.’ So he went in to stay with them. When he was at table with them, he took the bread and blessed and broke it and gave it to them. And their eyes were opened, and they recognized him. And he vanished from their sight.” – Luke 24:28-29

In his book Discernment, Nouwen writes that he spends at least an hour in prayer and meditation every morning—without it, “my life loses its coherence, and I start experiencing my days as a series of random incidents and accidents rather than divine appointments and encounters.” He may not have a particularly “close feeling” with God, and often it’s not pleasant to his senses, but “the way I become aware of God’s presence is in that remarkable desire to return to that quiet place and be there without any real satisfaction. And I notice, maybe only retrospectively, that my days and weeks are different when they are held together by these regular and ‘useless’ times. God is greater than my senses, greater than my thoughts, greater than my heart. I do believe that God touches me in places that are hidden even to myself.”

Jesus remains hidden during most of his encounter with two disciples on the road to Emmaus. And that’s part of what makes this story so poignant, isn’t it? He looks at these disciples as they “stood still, looking sad.” He listens to their experience. And rather than immediately revealing himself in person, which would have made both logical and emotional sense, he takes them through the Scriptures so that they can see him there instead. It was only in retrospect that they saw the significance of that time: “Did not our hearts burn within us while he talked to us on the road, while he opened to us the Scriptures?” 

It’s easy to have a consumeristic view of our daily times with God. It’s hard to keep reading the Bible or praying if we feel like we aren’t “getting anything out of it” or seeing results. But often, the effects of those times are only appreciated in hindsight. Often, God works in ways and areas within us that are hidden even to our own eyes. I don’t know why Jesus did not say to those two disciples, “it is I!” as he did to Mary. Instead, he walked them through the Word. He waited for their invitation. He took, blessed, broke, and gave the bread—the holy, in the mundane. Jesus takes an ordinary meal, that as his followers these disciples must have done with him many times in the past without anything at all remarkable happening, and reveals himself both during and through it. And then, he vanishes. Leaving them with the remains of dinner, perhaps. The dishes to do.

Sometimes, I have Mary-moments. More often, I have Emmaus-experiences: going along the road through the Word, carrying my confusion or sadness or weariness, wondering where Jesus went, moments of recognition mingled with periods of remembering. But he is no less working, whether I have a sense of it or not. He is no less present, whether I feel it or not. He is greater than my senses, and the decision I make to spend time with him matters.