The Emmaus Road in a Time of Resistance

“Were not our hearts burning within us while he was talking to us on the road?” — Luke 24:32

The dandelions are blooming in my yard. They come up between the pavers—persistent, defiant. It is spring, and things are changing.

I walk the sidewalks in my neighborhood and feel the quiet tension of this moment in history. I feel it in my own bones: the question that seems to glow from the yellow faces of those persistent blooms.

Should I stay or go?

Should I fight and risk drawing fire?

Should I keep my head down and try to endure?

I know I’m not alone in asking. Many are sitting with these same companionate questions. Some are in deep discernment about leaving the country. Others, like me, feel these questions drift in like the fragile remnants of a dandelion puffball—light, fleeting, but impossible to ignore when they brush past.

But these questions stir a deeper curiosity. As your pastor, I carry that curiosity not just for myself, but for us all. Can we build something beautiful, defiant, resilient—a sanctuary of love, truth, and justice for a time like this? Can we be both refuge and beacon without putting the ones we love in greater danger? This is the tension I carry in prayer, in conversation, and in community. It is the paradox of resistance: to stand up without being crushed, to shelter without being shattered.

And it is in this inner dialogue that I find myself walking the Emmaus Road—sometimes confused, sometimes afraid, often uncertain about what is happening and how best to respond. You remember the story: two disciples, hearts broken after the crucifixion, walking away from Jerusalem. Their hopes for what Jesus would be had been dashed. They were trying to make sense of the collapse of everything they trusted. And yet, even in their grief and confusion, Jesus came and walked with them.

They didn’t recognize him at first. Maybe their eyes were clouded by fear. Maybe they were too lost in despair. But there he was: listening, walking, feeding them truth they couldn’t yet fully absorb.

In moments of collapse—of democracy, of safety, of certainty—I think we walk that same road. Wondering what just happened. Unsure what comes next. Longing for someone to walk with us and help us see again.

“The Dandelion Insurrection is what happens when the heart breaks open with love! The breaking open itself is the insurrection.” Rivera Sun, The Dandelion Insurrection

This is where the dandelions speak again. In Rivera Sun’s near-future trilogy The Dandelion Insurrection, it’s not superheroes or saviors who rise up—it’s ordinary people. People like those disciples on the road to Emmaus. Grieving. Disillusioned. Unsure. And yet, somehow, they begin to resist. Not because they have certainty or power, but because they find each other. They refuse to surrender to fear. Their hearts are set on fire again—not by answers, but by presence, by courage, by the recognition that they are not alone. Sun’s story is both painful and hopeful. It reminds me that the road to resistance begins with companionship, clarity, and the kindling of imagination.

It is a hard and beautiful story, not unlike the death and resurrection of Christ. It is a story that both scares me and gives me great hope. It helps me face what we may be walking into. It reminds me that we need to walk with each other, name the heartbreak, and let the stranger beside us reveal something we thought was lost. It teaches me that the courage to act is only possible when we stand together, that in the hope that comes from organizing we rediscover joy and play grounded in shared purpose, collective action, and imagining something better together. And when we walk together, we discover how our shared discovery can empower us to resist.

When the disciples finally recognized Jesus, it was in the breaking of the bread—in an act of hospitality, in a shared meal, in the sacred ordinary. Maybe we will find him, too—in our dandelion-covered yards, in our shared tables, in our organizing circles, in our letter writing, protest vigils, and acts of compassion.

So I ask myself again as I walk the neighborhood and see the dandelions in the cracks:

What will I do?

What will we do?

Whatever answers we come to, we will not arrive at them alone—because Love is already walking beside us. Our task is simply to notice, to stay present, and to keep waling.

To the Dandelions,

Pastor Robin

Read Luke 24:13–35 — The Road to Emmaus

Reflection Questions:

1. Where are you on the road right now—disoriented, walking in grief, searching for clarity, or recognizing Love in the breaking of bread?

2. What would it mean to walk beside someone else in this season?

3. What would it look like for our congregation to walk beside others in this season?