But We Had Hoped

A sermon for the Third Sunday of Easter
April 19, 2026, at St. Luke’s Episcopal Church, Hot Springs, AR

Readings: Acts 2:14a,36-41; 1 Peter 1:17-23; Luke 24:13-35; Psalm 116:1-3, 10-17

You can hear it in their voices–the two disciples walking toward Emmaus with the Stranger, telling him all that has happened to Jesus of Nazareth, their Lord, their friend. You can hear the grief in their voices. They say, “Jesus of Nazareth, who was a prophet mighty in deed and word before God and all the people, and how our chief priests and leaders handed him over to be condemned to death and crucified him. But we had hoped that he was the one to redeem Israel.” But we had hoped. It’s a phrase laden with regret, with wondering, with sorrow. How many times have we said the same thing? But we had hoped the relationship could be repaired. But we had hoped our path would take us a different way. But we had hoped to be further along, more secure. And Natalie, sitting at the bedside of her husband Ron as he died from cancer: But we had hoped. There’s a longing there, accompanied by grief and resignation. And we, along with the two disciples, know what that’s like. 

Today’s passage from Luke is familiar to many of us: the road to Emmaus. It’s still Easter day in Luke’s gospel. The crucifixion, the death, the burial, the hiding out are still fresh in our minds. There are rumors–crazy rumors from the women–that Jesus has been raised from the dead. Clearly these two disciples don’t believe the rumors. They had hoped that Jesus would redeem them in the way they imagined. They had hoped that Jesus would make the world how it ought to be on their timeline. They had hoped that the heavens would envelope the whole earth, and the angels would descend, and their suffering would end. They had hoped. But instead Jesus is nailed to a tree; he bleeds; he suffers; he dies; they hide out; and they worry that they are next on the Romans’ list. And their heads hang so low, and their countenance is so fallen, and the light in their eyes is so dim that they cannot see that this Stranger on the road is Jesus himself. 

We heard the story: Jesus opens the Scriptures, showing them that the Messiah must suffer and die and rise again. We heard the story: Their hearts are burning within them. We heard the story: Jesus takes bread, blesses it, breaks it, gives it, just as he had in that upper room a few days before; and as they recognize him, he vanishes from their sight. We heard the story: How Jesus had been made known to them in the breaking of the bread.  

But more than that, we have lived this story: Like Penny, a kindergarten student, who raised her hand in chapel last week and said, “Jesus died so we can live, and he lives in my heart.” She’s five years old, but the Scriptures are alive and she hears the promises of God as promises to her–and they are. We have lived this story: Like me at St. Giles’ Cathedral in Edinburgh, Scotland, when I received Jesus Christ in the bread and wine and I felt myself surrounded by angels and archangels and all the company of heaven, and all those I loved who had died in Jesus, and I heard for the first time a calling to the priesthood. We have lived this story as we are surprised by the grace of God in that lowest moment, by the comfort of the Holy Spirit when we are in the dark, by the presence of Jesus when we thought we were all alone–as we realize that our hearts are burning within us because the Lord of Life is in our midst calling us to himself. 

In this world of brokenness, we so often find ourselves between these two points, between but we had hoped and were not our hearts burning within us. We find ourselves between crying eyes and realizing the presence of Jesus in our midst. We find ourselves on the road, thinking we’re alone and abandoned, but suddenly Jesus is there right beside us, even if we don’t recognize him at first–and we realize he was always there. 

A few moments ago I mentioned Natalie. She sat beside her husband Ron as he lay dying. At that bedside, she must have found herself saying those words from the road: But we had hoped. We had hoped for more time. We had hoped for a different diagnosis. We had hoped for a different life. But she didn’t stay in that place on the road. The Stranger must have come. Jesus must have come. The presence of the Holy One must have come. She must have realized that she is not alone–she was never alone–and her heart was burning within her. She must have, because, there at the bedside, in the presence of death and worry and but we had hoped–there she picked up a pen, and with the help of the Holy Spirit, Natalie wrote a new hymn of promise full of faith: 

In our end is our beginning, in our time, infinity;
in our doubt there is believing; in our life, eternity.
In our death, a resurrection; at the last a victory,
unrevealed until its season, something God alone can see.

Today you may find yourself on that Emmaus road, but we had hoped. You do not walk it alone. There is another, Christ the Lord, who walks with you. He is made known to us as the Good News is proclaimed, as bread is broken, as wine is poured. We find that he is risen–risen, indeed–and that he is present and mighty to save. We find that he takes our hand and leads us in paths we cannot know. We find that his promises are not general promises, but promises for us; that his grace is not just a general grace, but that it’s for us and it’s sufficient; that his love is not some general love, but a specific love that animates our souls. We find that our risen Lord has come to give us life and life more abundantly, in this world and in the world to come. Are not our hearts burning within us? Yes. For we meet Christ as the Scriptures and the bread are broken open. Yes. For Christ is alive and he is here and he will never let us go.