By Deacon Richard Hay
“Joy walking right alongside of us…”
Many of you know this story but I don’t think I have ever shared it in a homily. I felt called to do so this week as I prepared because it is an example of joy that is present even when we do not see it ourselves in that moment, which is the theme of this homily.
Back in May of 2022, about a month before my ordination to the diaconate, my wife Margo was diagnosed with terminal cancer, and she died just a few weeks after I was ordained.
In the days and months after her death, as I reflected on those seven weeks and the three years before that while I was in final formation for the diaconate, I was able to see how we were prepared for that chapter of our lives.
We grew closer in the joy of the Lord by praying the Liturgy of the Hours together. We had more heartfelt discussions about the scriptures we heard at mass. We also had wonderfully deep conversations while I was being taught homiletics. Practicing them with Margo, she would listen and give me feedback – and those of you who knew Margo – sometimes that was very frank feedback but always given with love – which I always cherished.
Each and every one of those moments and many others are sources of great joy and mercy even though it was not always obvious in the moment. It was only when I took time to reflect that I was able to discern exactly what God was doing for us in those days – preparing us for what would be an unexpected moment in our lives – but also giving us the grace and joy to experience it with Him alongside of us. When I hear the Emmaus story in the Gospel, I recognize the same pattern – the slow dawning of joy that was present all along.
The two disciples on the road to Emmaus are experiencing something similar. By walking away from Jerusalem, they are not abandoning their faith. They are not rejecting Jesus. They are doing what many of us do when life becomes confusing or painful: they are trying to make sense of it. They are righteous men — faithful, committed, but deeply wounded. Their hopes had been high and their love for Jesus real. And now they are walking away from Jerusalem with heavy hearts.
They had hoped Jesus was the one to redeem Israel. They had hoped the story would unfold differently. They had hoped that their faithfulness would be met with clarity rather than chaos. And so, they walk, and they talk, and they sift through their memories, trying to understand how everything they believed could have unraveled so quickly. Joy, for them, is not even a distant dream. It feels absent.
And then, in one of the many powerful moments in Scripture, Jesus draws near. He does not arrive with fanfare. He does not interrupt their grief with a miracle. He simply walks up beside them, matching His pace to theirs, entering their conversation and listening.
He does not wait for them to pray the right prayer, reach the right conclusion or recognize Him. He meets them exactly where they are — in their confusion, in their disappointment, in their grief. Joy is already present to them, but it is hidden from their view – just like the Lord is.
Isn’t that how the risen Christ so often moves in our lives? Quietly. Patiently. Without demanding attention. We imagine joy as something we must earn, something that comes only after we have achieved spiritual righteousness or moral perfection. But the Gospel reveals something far more merciful: Joy is not the prize at the end of righteousness. Joy is the gift Christ gives us along the way. Even when we don’t see Him. Even when our hearts feel heavy. Even when we are walking in the wrong direction.
He lets them speak their truth — their disappointment, their confusion, their grief. He honors their experience. He receives their sorrow without correcting them or rushing them toward resolution. Only when they are done does He open the Scriptures, gently reweaving the story they thought they understood, helping them see that God had been at work even in the moments that felt most like failure.
Then something begins to happen slowly and quietly. Their hearts begin to burn with a renewed sense of faith. With the faint warmth of hope returning to a place that had grown cold. This is the work of joy.
Trying to be righteous is not about having everything figured out. It is about staying on the road, staying in conversation with God, staying open to the possibility that Christ is nearer than we think.
When they reach the village, Jesus acts as though He is going farther but they say “Stay with us.” and He does.
Then, in the breaking of the bread — in that simple, familiar, sacramental gesture — their eyes are opened. The truth shines through and joy becomes visible. What had been true all along is suddenly revealed: Christ was with them the whole time. Not just at the table. Not just in the sacrament. But on the road. In the confusion. In the questions. In the heartbreak. Joy had been walking beside them long before they recognized it.
What do they do once they recognize Him? They rise. They run. They return to Jerusalem — the very place they had been fleeing. Joy does not make them passive, it sends them into action. When you finally realize that Christ has been with you all along, you want to share that truth. You want to bring that joy to others. You want to witness to the presence of the risen Lord.
Many of us are walking our own Emmaus roads right now. Some of us are carrying grief. Some of us are confused. Some of us are tired. Some of us are doing everything we can just to put one foot in front of the other. And maybe joy feels far away. However, let me offer this as a word of hope: If you are walking faithfully — even slowly, even imperfectly — Christ is already beside you – even if you don’t yet recognize Him.
Righteousness leads to joy not because we earn it, but because Jesus never leaves us. He listens to us. He teaches us. He walks with us. And in the breaking of the bread — in this Eucharistic celebration and every mass we participate in — He reveals Himself again and again.
So perhaps this week, we can all take a moment to look back over our days with a quiet, prayerful curiosity and ask ourselves: Where might Christ have been walking with me, unnoticed? Where might joy have been quietly keeping pace with me? Where might my heart have been burning without my realizing why?
The Emmaus story is not something that just occurred once – it keeps happening. Christ keeps drawing near. Joy keeps walking beside us. And sooner or later, our eyes are opened.
