This piece was first written as a poem nearly fifteen years ago, born out of a quiet meditation on the road to Emmaus and the mysterious ache of hearts set ablaze. At the time, it held more wonder than understanding—an attempt to name what it feels like to encounter the Word in the ordinary, and to realize, often in hindsight, what we didn’t yet know. Over the years, its meaning has only deepened, continuing to echo the slow unveiling, the burning, and the recognition that still meets us along our own roads.
What we didn’t know was that our hearts would burn within us—just like theirs did when the Fire spoke along the road. They thought they were Emmaus-bound, but really, like us, they were being drawn toward the Consuming One.
The Word, made flesh and newly spoken, met them there. In His presence, their downcast faces and slow hearts were remade. What was heavy became light. What was dim began to glow. They became witnesses—carriers of truth—speaking of the Risen Bread and the Flowing Wine, first convincing themselves, then convincing others, as revelation unfolded and they recognized Him as the Resurrected Word.
What we didn’t know was that our hearts, too, would burn. That in the refining fire—the burning away of dross—we would hear the refreshing Word again, not in some distant place, but right in the middle of our everyday lives. In the ordinary desert, we would stumble upon a burning bush.
There, bare-hearted on holy ground, we would hear the declaration again: I AM who I AM.
What we didn’t know was that the Word still burns—swiftly, powerfully—even now, years later. He continues to unveil Himself as He did on that first Emmaus road. Everything unholy is consumed. The Fire invites us into hearts fully aflame.
O Burning Wondrous One, kindle in us an awareness of Your presence—in the burning bush, in the Word along the road. Holy Fire, be our desire here and now, on the eve of our everyday moments. Teach us to see how brightly Your Word glows when we allow You to consume all that is not of You.
Let us be a people who are always turning aside—whether at a bush or along a new Emmaus road—to notice the holy fire aglow: Father, Son, and Spirit.
Reflecting on your own Emmaus walk
As you sit with this reflection, consider the ways the Emmaus road is not only a story from long ago, but a living invitation into your life. These questions are offered as a gentle space to notice where your heart has been stirred, where the presence of God may be quietly unfolding, and where the Fire is still speaking in the ordinary.
- Where in my everyday life might I be overlooking the presence of God—places that could, in fact, be my Emmaus road?
- What in me feels heavy, slow, or downcast right now—and what might it look like to let the Holy Fire gently burn away what is not of Him?
- When have I experienced a “burning heart” moment of recognition, and how did it invite me to see, respond, or live differently afterward?
