And yet, there is this truth that some who have welcomed the stranger—to their table, into their homes, into their conversations, into their awareness—have entertained angels without knowing it. Indeed, sometimes in welcoming the stranger they have welcomed Christ himself. I am thinking, in particular, of the two disciples who met Christ on the Emmaus road and would have missed the whole encounter if they had refused to welcome the stranger into their companionable walk, into their no-holds-barred conversation, into their village and, eventually, to their table.
Now I know that there are a lot of ways to define “stranger.” Some can be along the lines of immigration, those who are forced by economic realities to leave their own countries in search of a sustainable life, and those who live as outcasts right here in our own country due to poverty and economic struggle. Grappling with what it means to welcome these “strangers” is a true spiritual discipline. But sometimes focusing on those broader and more faraway issues can distract us from grappling with the issue of the more intimate strangers—those who are right here in our midst. Without minimizing the significance of the broader issues for our country and our world, I would like to focus in this article on the “normal” strangers, those who cross our paths more routinely and give us a chance day-in and day-out to welcome the stranger and, in so doing, welcome Christ himself.
01. Between the Now and the Not Yet
The story that I am referring to here begins with two distraught and dazed disciples traveling along the road to Emmaus. It was Sunday—the third day of the most traumatic weekend of their lives—and they were on a roller coaster of emotion. On Friday, they had witnessed the painful, humiliating and violent death of their beloved leader, teacher, and friend. On Saturday they sat with each other in utter despair. And now, on this day, some hope had been introduced into the situation. Some of the women and men in their group had visited the tomb in which their leader had been buried and they had found it empty. There was talk of resurrection, but it was too soon to tell if that had really happened or it was just a hoax of some sort. So not knowing what else to do, Cleopas and an unnamed disciple were now wandering home, trying to make sense of it all.
On this day they were suspended somewhere between loss and possible gain, grief and possible joy, profound human suffering and perhaps some kind of redemption, dashed hopes and maybe, just maybe daring to hope again. And there was nothing they could do about any of it. These disciples were rung out—emotionally, spiritually, and physically—and the road they were on was the road between the now and the not yet. They were in that liminal space between the life they had known (which had been ripped from them) and whatever was supposed to come next (but had not yet been given). This was an in-between time, a time for waiting; it was a time of intimate emotions and dangerous questions. Thank God they had each other! This was no time for strangers and yet, while they were discussing all these things that had happened, a stranger approached them and asked a simple question: What are you talking about as you walk along the road?
How rude! we might think. How socially inappropriate to walk up to two people who are having an intimate conversation and right out ask them what they are talking about! This is definitely the kind of strangeness I don’t like. Especially when I am hurting, the last thing I want to do is open up to someone I don’t know. And when I am in the midst of a private conversation with a close friend, the last thing I want to do is include someone neither one of us knows. It makes things awkward at best. At worst, it feels downright intrusive.
But Jesus had no qualms about drawing near and offering them the gift of simple presence. He invited them to share with him what was going on even though he, of all people, knew. Like most of us, these two disciples found it hard to try to tell a stranger about something that had impacted them so deeply; all they could do was stand still, mute with grief, looking sad. And this gracious stranger didn’t try to rush them out of their grief, didn’t force them beyond what they were able, didn’t try to manage the moment. He stood right there with them in their sadness, leaving the space open for them to experience all that they were feeling, giving them time to try to find the words.