For Cleopas and his companion Jerusalem had become a city of collapsed hopes. They had laid everything, their understanding of the Messiah, their vision of liberation, their salvation on the life of one man; and now that man was dead. The crucifixion had not merely taken a life; it had taken the world of these apostles. And so they leave to Emmaus. Not in rage, but in the quiet devastation of people who have decided, almost politely, that there is no reason to stay. And yet, and here is the grace, they do not stop talking. This is what saves them, initially. Not faith, not clarity, not courage, but conversation. They are discussing and debating as they walk, and it is this very openness of speech that creates the opening for the stranger to draw near. In Homer's Odyssey , Odysseus survives not because he is the strongest or even the most faithful, but because he is the most curious, he keeps speaking, keeps asking, keeps engaging even when the gods have turned against him. They ...
While eleven solid young men hid behind locked doors in fear, a woman walked alone to a tomb in the dark. And it is to her , not to Peter, not to John, not to any of the Twelve, that the Risen Christ chose first to appear (John 20: 11-18). Thomas Aquinas , who was not known for his generosity toward women in theological roles, nonetheless called her apostola apostolorum the apostle to the apostles, and recognised this as a title of genuine honour. For Aquinas, the mode of apostolicity matters: she was sent, she proclaimed, she was believed. John 20 is the most quietly radical passage in all four gospels. Read it carefully and you notice that the resurrection narrative does not begin with a council of high priests, a gathering of the Twelve, or a male voice of authority. It begins with a woman, alone, weeping, in a garden, before dawn. Mary Magdalene comes to the tomb while it is still dark; the darkness is not merely meteorological. It is existential. The disciples have scattere...