One of the most poignant moments in the Harry Potter saga — a work which, whatever one might think of its author, has taken on a life of its own in the last two decades — is Harry’s burial of Dobby the Elf. The young wizard chooses not to use magic for this task, taking out his grief and frustration on the soil as he digs his friend’s grave. Dobby, who lived most of his life in servitude, is worth laboring for.
Harry then etches an epitaph for this creature, a member of an oppressed species yet heroic in his own right: “Here lies Dobby, a free elf.” With these words, Harry immortalizes the attribute Dobby was most proud of — he was no longer anyone’s slave. Indeed, it was to thwart the will of his former master that Dobby chose to give his life.
At Easter, we reflect on the empty tomb, Jesus breaking out of the grave. We find out with the women at the tomb that “he is risen.” But the story continues from there: Jesus hangs around for forty days, helping his disciples understand what has happened and commissioning them to live differently in light of his resurrection. They struggle to wrap their heads around the fact that he is alive and they are free.
The Gospel of Luke portrays these moments of reunion and revelation in detail. The disciples at first do not believe the women who return from the tomb when they proclaim the news: Jesus is risen, in accordance with what he’d been saying all along! It sounds to the men like “an idle tale” (24:11). Boy, are they in for a humbling surprise.
On that same day, two of Jesus’ followers are walking to a town near Jerusalem called Emmaus. Jesus comes alongside them, “but their eyes were kept from recognizing him” (v. 16). They see only a stranger — but this stranger explains to them what exactly their teacher’s death has meant in the context of the Hebrew scriptures they’ve been steeped in their entire lives.
Despite the stranger’s wisdom, they don’t know who they’re talking to until he sits down to dinner and shares with them what might be thought of as the second communion (v. 30). He breaks the bread and gives it to them, and then the disciples’ “eyes were opened” (v. 31). He has “been made known to them in the breaking of the bread” (vv. 35).
Later on, Jesus makes another appearance to the disciples — and they’re still struggling to get with the program. They think he’s a ghost until he shows his wounds and eats a piece of broiled fish (vv. 36–43). Again, he explains how he fits in the grand sweep of God’s plan, how, even though his death seemed unthinkable and his resurrection impossible, they were in fact the only fitting events to stand at the center of the story (vv. 44–47).
What do we learn from these post-resurrection narratives? For one thing, they put human frailty on full display. The disciples are so overwhelmed — and understandably so! — by grief, fear, and confusion that they can’t see the reality of God’s power, even as it is literally staring them in the face. They look quite foolish in the moment, but they’re not just any fools. They’re us.
How often does our cynicism triumph over hope? How often do we act as if love were scarce, something to be hoarded, while professing faith in a God who gives it infinitely?
God knows exactly how much we struggle to believe that life really is victorious over death, that we are genuinely loved, forgiven, and transformed by him. God knows us and accommodates by meeting us where we are. These passages show the sanctity of fleshy blessings, like breaking bread, sharing the catch of the day, and having a companion to walk with. They also give us insight into the importance of communion: through it, Jesus makes himself known to us, helping us understand how he — and we — fit in the story of God’s grace.
But, for me at least, there’s still one stone on the path to Emmaus: Why are the disciples’ eyes “kept” from seeing Jesus? Is their lack of faith alone to blame, or is there some sense in which God is closing their eyes? Indeed, when Jesus foretells his passion and resurrection, the meaning of his statements is said to be “concealed” (9:45) or “hidden” (18:34) from his disciples.
I’ll admit that I remain perplexed by this theme. But when I think about why God might want to close our eyes sometimes, I come back to Harry Potter.
Like many good books and movies, the finale of the Harry Potter series makes us believe, just for a moment, that the hero is done for. In his final showdown with Voldemort during the Battle of Hogwarts, Harry realizes that a piece of his enemy’s soul is living in him; he must willingly submit to death in order for Voldemort to be fully vanquished.
Of course, Harry Potter isn’t Jesus. But he does greet death in a similar way, with dignity but no attempt at self-defense. Voldemort kills him, and in doing so destroys his own evil superpower — and rends the reader’s heart. We know that this is a critical blow to the villain, but how much could that really matter if our hero is gone?
But he isn’t gone. Harry enters a sort of bright, liminal space, in which he consults with his deceased mentor, Dumbledore, and chooses to return to his body. He has to come back and finish the job.
At his return, the reader feels overwhelming relief — but maybe this emotional switcharoo does more than just keep us turning the pages. Perhaps because we believed Harry to be dead, we have a deeper sense of the stakes of the battle and the gravity of our hero’s sacrifice. Perhaps it actually bolsters our faith that Harry will be victorious in the end.
By dying on the cross, Jesus deals a critical blow not just to an individual villain, but to death itself — as Paul puts it (1 Corinthians 15:55), “Oh death, where is thy sting?” And yet, we know that Jesus must return to finish the job: “The last enemy to be destroyed is death” (v. 26). In his resurrection, we learn what a fateful battle he has already won, and we see the promise of final victory: he becomes “the first fruits of those who have died” (v. 20), modeling our own resurrected future.
Perhaps this is why the disciples’ eyes were closed: so that they could be opened. The resurrection is predicated on the cross, and equally, they won’t know the significance of the cross until they see the resurrection. Perhaps they need a cinematic “aha” moment to understand what Jesus is all about, and perhaps so do we. Living through the feeling that it’s all gone to pieces, that hope is nothing but a “idle tale,” primes us to be struck by grace in an utterly transformative way.
It is because Jesus lives that we know we are free — free from servitude to sin, free to make our own sacrifices. We know death is not the end, and therefore may find the courage to lay down our own lives for love’s sake. By rising, walking, teaching, breaking bread and eating fish, Jesus sweeps us up into the story he’d been telling all along.
