The road stretched before them, long and weary. Cleopas and his companion trudged forward, dust rising with every step. Jerusalem was now behind them, but they could not leave behind the weight of what had happened there.
Three days had passed since the unthinkable. They watched their hopes bleed out on a Roman cross. The one they believed was the Redeemer of Israel, the long-awaited Messiah, now lay buried in a tomb. And now rumors were swirling, bizarre tales of an empty grave, of angels, of women who claimed to have seen him alive. But who could believe such things? Dead men do not rise.
As they walked, a Stranger approached, quietly matching their pace. After listening for a while, he broke his silence with a question, “What’s this conversation you’re having on the road?”
They stopped in disbelief. It was the kind of question that pours salt into a wound—not because it’s necessarily offensive, but because it feels impossibly out of touch. How could anyone not know? Cleopas looked at him and said, “Are you really the only person in Jerusalem who hasn’t heard what happened there?”
The Stranger tilted his head. “What things?”
So they told him—about Jesus, his miracles, his teachings, his death, and their crushed hopes.
The Stranger spoke again, but this time his words burned: “O foolish men and slow of heart to believe in all that the prophets have spoken! Was it not necessary for the Christ to suffer these things…?” (Luke 24:25–26). This wasn’t a gentle correction. It was the voice of the Author himself confronting those who had replaced God’s true story with their own. And then, this Stranger began to tell the real story.
From Moses to the Prophets, from the garden promise to blood-stained covenants, he showed how it all pointed to him. The Messiah’s suffering wasn’t a failure; it was the plan, decreed before time. The curse was broken. The covenant fulfilled. The Lamb was risen.
And yet, they did not recognize him. Their eyes remained closed, though the very one they longed for now stood before them.
The road seemed to grow shorter as he spoke, and a fire was beginning to burn within them. When they reached their destination, they could not bear to let him go. “Stay with us,” they urged. At the table, he took the bread, blessed it, broke it, and gave it to them. In that moment, their eyes were opened.
It was Jesus. Alive. And just as the weight of recognition hit them, he vanished—leaving only the fire he’d sparked and the awe of a moment that changed everything (Luke 24:31).
Their minds were racing. The sorrow was gone—consumed by the moment. Every word he had spoken revealed what had been there all along: the sovereign plan of God, the suffering and glory of the promised Christ. The Scriptures weren’t just ink on a page—they were alive, fulfilled before their eyes. Overcome, they turned to each other and said, “Were not our hearts burning within us while He was speaking to us on the road, while He was explaining the Scriptures to us?” (Luke 24:32).
They couldn’t stay in Emmaus—not now.
The Author Reclaims His Story
That moment on a dusty road outside Jerusalem changed everything. There, Jesus revealed that Christianity doesn’t begin in Bethlehem or with an empty grave. It begins with the story God has been telling since before time began. His story stretches from Eden’s garden to the cross, from the Tabernacle’s fire to an empty tomb, from Adam’s fall to the Second Adam’s victory. God’s redemptive story not only calls us to believe but invites us to remember.
Sadly, many Christians are like those disciples—holding fragments while the full story slips out of view.
Many of us know the language. We can quote verses and sing Christian songs with passion, but somewhere along the way, the story slipped through our fingers. We know Paul but forget Moses. We celebrate redemption but lose sight of what we were rescued from.
The Bible isn’t a collection of disconnected truths—it’s one story, beginning to end.
And that’s exactly where Jesus began.
Think about it. He could’ve shouted, “I’m alive,” and ended their confusion. But he didn’t. He took them back—to Moses, to the Prophets, to the story they had forgotten. Because that’s the story he came to fulfill.
Jesus didn’t start with the empty tomb. He started where the promises began—walking them back through the story of redemption to reframe what they thought they knew. What felt like silence was actually a carefully laid plan. What appeared to be loss was really fulfillment. In Emmaus, Jesus wasn’t just correcting their theology; he was recovering their vision.
The garden, the flood, blood on the doorposts, covenants, sacrifices, the crown on David’s head, the exile—none of it was random. Every moment was part of one sovereign thread, all pointing to Jesus.
And if that’s true—if it all leads to him—we can’t treat God’s Word like background noise. Jesus brought clarity by opening the Scriptures. We need that same clarity—every thread, every promise, every fulfillment.
Rediscovering the Story That Defines Reality
So where do we start?
1. Open the Scriptures like Jesus did.
Don’t read the Bible in fragments, but as one unfolding narrative. Start by tracing the covenants, and watch how God’s promises develop across time. As you read, keep asking, “How does this fit into God’s unfolding plan of redemption?”
2. Return to the foundation.
The Old Testament isn’t filler—it’s the foundation. It’s where the promises are spoken, the covenants formed, and the patterns of redemption begin. Skip it, and the gospel will always feel incomplete. Read Moses with fresh eyes. Hear the prophets as messengers within the same redemptive plan. Let their words shape your view of Christ.
3. Ground your defense in the full story.
In a world flooded with competing stories, your defense of the faith is only as strong as your grip on God’s story. Too often, we jump into apologetics armed with isolated verses or philosophical arguments detached from the bigger picture. The sweeping narrative from Genesis to Revelation is not just background; it’s the structure that gives meaning, coherence, and power to everything we believe.
From creation to covenant, from exile to incarnation, from the cross to the coming King—it all holds together. It’s that thread that makes the Christian worldview not only true, but meaningful. The world is asking hard questions about identity, justice, purpose, and hope. We can’t simply respond with propositions. We answer with the story God has been telling since the beginning.
This isn’t just a story that explains the world. It’s the one God himself is telling. Every truth we proclaim, every hope we hold, finds its meaning within that narrative. The world will try to rewrite it, distort it, or drown it out with lesser tales. But it won’t succeed. God’s story will be the last one standing.
In a world of confusion, remember this: God’s story always wins.