A few years ago I ended my Monday morning bible study with a reflection on chapter 24 of the gospel of Luke. More specifically, verses 13 through 35, which tell the beautiful story of two disciples of Christ who encounter the risen Lord on the road to Emmaus.

In short, the disciples, although they had spent time with Christ, and were aware of His teachings, lamented His death, not realizing that His suffering and passion were not an end, but a beginning. As they left Jerusalem, beginning the seven-mile trek to Emmaus, they suddenly found themselves in the company of a stranger, a man who seemed oblivious to the cause of their emotional strife. This stranger, they mused, must be the only one in the region who was unaware of what had taken place over the past several days. Their prophet, the one they hoped would deliver Israel from it's bondage, had been handed over, scourged, and crucified. His death meant a return to despair, a return to an increasingly less likely answer to a hope for a future free from subjugation.

This stranger, of course, is Christ.  It is not until the evening meal, a meal they convinced their new friend to share with them, that their eyes are open to the truth of whose presence they are in.

30 Now while He was with them at table, He took the bread and said the blessing; then He broke it and handed it to them.

31 And their eyes were opened, and they recognized Him; but He had vanished from their sight.

Now, you may be asking yourself how these two disciples, two men who had followed Christ for some time, who had grown to love Him, could possibly fail to recognize Him. An explanation is offered by Saint Gregory the Great (540-604 AD), who explains that while the two disciples had a deep love for Christ, they were lacking in faith.  It is this lack of faith which made the Lord unrecognizable to them.

How often do we fail to recognize the Lord? How often does our lack of faith, or our preoccupation with the desires of this world prevent us from seeing the people and situations that Christ Himself places in our lives?

During a brief period of unemployment, I filled the time between jobs by working as a driver for Lyft. Initially it was meant as a stop gap, a way of paying the bills until something opened in my field of employment. It had, however, become something much more. I met some incredible people, heard some heartbreaking stories, and gained a much overdue appreciation for the difficult lives some folks face daily; so much of it undeserved.

I shared the story of one young lady with my bible study class. A young lady whom I am convinced was placed in my car by the grace of the Lord.

I picked Christina up in an industrial complex in Burlington, New Jersey.  She was young, shabbily dressed, had some remnants of her lunch on her shirt, and exhibited a demeanor which caused me to mentally note whether I still had my wallet. Looking back, I am ashamed of the way I judged this young lady on appearance alone and wonder how many times in the past I have been guilty of doing that with others. I am reminded of the verse from 1 Samuel, 16:7,

"For the Lord sees not as man sees: man looks on the outward appearance, but the Lord looks on the heart.”

As it turned out, Christina and I were destined to spend quite a bit of time together.  She lived south of Pemberton, within walking distance of the beautiful cranberry and blueberry fields of southern New Jersey, and we made a stop along the way to pick up a paycheck that was waiting for Christina at a small, roadside motel.

I became more and more comfortable with my passenger, who, unlike most, chose to sit in the front seat, as we drove deeper into the Jersey Pines. I would like to take some credit for this, but it was Christina's candor, and willingness to share her life with me, that caused my defenses to slowly fade.

By the time we reached the outskirts of Pemberton, I had learned that Christina was currently working three jobs.  She packed boxes at a warehouse, cleaned rooms at the hotel, and danced at a gentlemen's club on the weekends. All this to support the two-year-old son she had at the age of 16, and without the involvement of the incarcerated father, named "Pookie." She also admitted that occasional drug use was probably not helping the situation.

At this point I don't know which fatherly instinct was stronger; the desire to shake some sense into her, or to pull to the side of the road so that I could hug her. The answer to my dilemma would soon be delivered by someone much wiser than myself; Christ Jesus.

Over this young lady's shoulder appeared a Catholic church, Saint Ann's. I had seen it on previous visits to the area, but said, "Oh, I didn't know there was a Catholic church down here."  Christina was, for the first time during our trip, silent. A moment later, though, she looked out the window at a small, white, Baptist church on the next corner, and said, "That's where my mom used to drag me on Sundays when I was a kid. I haven't been there in years." Again, there was silence in the car.

By now, we were approaching our destination; a small, dilapidated, ranch house set back from the road. Once again, stereotypical assumptions filled my mind. I envisioned dishes from multiple meals stacked high in the sink. Laundry, in desperate need of a wash, scattered throughout the home. Pressed wood paneling, stained in some areas, crumbling in others. Children’s toys, scattered on the floor, filthy and broken.

As we made our way down the gravel drive, I suddenly felt compelled to speak. I took a breath, and said, “I know you don't know me. I'm just the guy you got stuck with for a ride home. But I believe there is a reason we made this trip together.  You've been through a lot in your young life, certainly more than most people your age. And not all the problems you've faced have been of your doing. But I firmly believe that your life, and certainly the life of the little fella waiting for you in that house, will be much better if you bring God back into the picture."

Christina shrugged her shoulders, thanked me for the ride, and hopped out of the car. I took my time backing out of the drive as I watched her put her key in the lock. At that moment, she took her hand off the doorknob, and looked back toward the car.  Thinking she had left something, I began looking on the passenger side floor, and in the back seat. I didn't see anything.

She then walked back down the drive and approached the driver side of the car.  I rolled down the window and yelled, "Forget something?"

To my surprise, she responded, “No. I just wanted to tell you that I think I'll go to church this Sunday....and I'm gonna take my son, too."

As I drove out of Pemberton, holding back tears, I had three thoughts. I thanked God for putting that beautiful child of His in my car, I thanked the Holy Spirit for giving me the words and the strength to share them, and I asked Christ's forgiveness for judging Christina as she entered my car some forty minutes earlier.

My prayer for all of you is that you are never blinded to Christ's presence, as I, and the disciples heading to Emmaus, were. And that, given the opportunity, you will have the strength and desire to be God's disciple, even at 35 mph.

God bless.