The Burning of the Heart

Reading is a great passion of mine. Indeed, if I go too long without reading, I just don’t feel right. In like fashion, I love to write - hopefully this comes as no surprise. Similarly, if I go too long without writing, I quite simply do not feel right. No doubt there are some who will read this and be absolutely stunned - surely no one can enjoy reading and writing that much? Alas, perhaps only a true romantic will understand. Though, if you are reading this, I’ve got you just about halfway there, now haven’t I?

However, let us for the moment set aside writing. Now, why is it that I, or anyone for that matter, enjoy reading? Well, there are reasons beyond count, but I would expect that a chief reason rests in the written word’s ability to engage with the human mind. Irrespective of the book that sits upon your lap, if it is a truly good book, there is a degree to which your mind will be engaged, even enraptured. Whether it be a novel about feudal houses in the distant future fighting for control over mind-altering spice or a collection of Wordsworth’s poems, one basic function of good literature ought to rest in its ability to transport our minds from here to there. Good writing should lead to good reading, which in turn should lead to good thinking. Now, good thinking can take on a variety of forms: a particularly good novel may enable you to effectively imagine a fictional world far beyond our own, thus engaging your mind’s imaginative mechanisms, while a good book on history will allow you to catch a glimpse down the halls of time - and perhaps help you to better understand your own time as well.

While God’s Word does far more for us, infinitely more, the Bible nonetheless grants us the ability to do both these things. On the one hand, God’s Word allows us to step into a world that is truly stranger than fiction, while on the other it provides us with an infallible record of history itself. Such a glorious revelation no doubt prompted Charles Spurgeon to exclaim that we should “visit many good books, but live in the Bible”.

Perhaps a quick note about the former point before we move on. The Bible truly is stranger than fiction. Picture this for a moment (if I were reading this aloud, I would at this point tell you to close your eyes, but alas reading does not work that way): the infinite, immortal, utterly holy God of the universe, author of all that is seen and unseen, makes Himself seen and known in the person of Jesus Christ, God the Son, and dies upon the very tree that His hands nurtured from seed to sapling to Roman cross, in order to save His people - by Himself, for Himself, and from Himself, forever. Dear reader, there is not a volume or tale in all this world that is more weighty or strange, wonderfully strange, than the story of the Bible; and yet, it is the truest tale that there is. Indeed, it is the tale to which all others point, the ‘one true myth’ as Tolkien described it.

Within this ‘one true myth’, nestled near the end of Luke’s gospel, lies an account that is incredibly dear to my heart. Beginning in 24:13, Luke outlines an episode that occurred shortly after Jesus’ resurrection - in your Bible it is likely under the heading “On the Road to Emmaus”. For those of you who are unfamiliar with the account, I would encourage you to cease from reading my babble and dig into this beautiful passage without a moment’s waste. However, I shall quickly summarize the event all the same. 

After Jesus rose from the dead, He proceeded to do what He often did during His earthly ministry: he walked and he talked. Though, in this case those with whom He walked and talked did not know that it was in fact Jesus that they journeyed with - not yet. On the road leading from Jerusalem towards Emmaus, the newly risen cosmic King of the universe walked with two of His friends in deep talk as the daylight waned and the shadows of nightfall began to bleed across the countryside. Upon coming across this ‘stranger’ on the road, the pair of disciples began to pour out their hearts to the very One whose very death caused their very heartache - all the while completely unaware of Jesus’ identity. After they finished speaking, Jesus, whose identity was still veiled from their sight, began to unfold “to them in all the Scriptures the things concerning himself” (24:27). Despite the gathering of night, there was a warmth kindling in their presence along the road that no shadows could overcome or cool wind dispel - for their hearts were on fire as they spoke with someone far more ancient and wise than they could have imagined. As Jesus spoke with the two along the road, no doubt the countryside itself began to fade away until it was just them three adrift on a sea of deep talk. As the company began to draw near to their journey’s end, the disciples pleaded with Jesus to stay with them. And, “When he was at table with them, he took the bread and blessed and broke it and gave it to them. And their eyes were opened, and they recognized him” (24:30-31). The two men were stricken with joy at this sudden realization - “Did not our hearts burn within us while he talked to us on the road, while he opened to us the Scriptures?” (24:32).

Indeed, stranger than fiction. Indulge me once more while I seek to illustrate another point. Jesus, God the Son, has just risen from the dead. The single greatest event in human history, in His story, has just transpired. The very nucleus of God’s redemptive plan from eternity past, that to which everything before and after points either backwards or forwards, is finished. The head of the serpent has been crushed beneath His heel, sin has been atoned for, and He has taken up His life once again. After He rose from the grave, did Jesus erupt from the mountaintops like fire so that all the world would know who the King of kings truly is? Or did He wield His voice of many waters and send His name rippling across the cosmos until the furthest star resounded in the darkness with the light of His glory? No, He did not. Perhaps that is what we would have done, or suggested, or devised if this were a man-made myth, but not Jesus. After all of these things, somewhere in the depths of His matchless humility and unfathomable wisdom, Jesus thought it best to embark on the road to Emmaus with two unnamed disciples. What a God we serve. While this may be an ancillary point in this passage, I shall make it all the same: what a joy it is to have a relationship with a God of such tender and intimate mercy that, after rising from the dead, our Lord took aside an entire evening to simply walk with ‘the least of these’. Is it any wonder that their hearts burned within them?

While not completely analogous, I had a similar experience only a few weeks ago, the effects of which are still as warm embers in my soul. I awoke at around four in the morning feeling completely rested. Rather than lie awake in bed or fight for a few more hours of restless sleep, I got up determined to carve out a productive start to my day. It's been my routine of late, rather imperfectly, to seek the Lord first and foremost in the morning in His Word and prayer. However, this particular morning, there was a deep warmth as I settled into prayer and communion with Him. There was a clarity and depth to His Word in the early hours of that day that I won’t soon forget - a burning of the heart, as it were. No visions, no swooning, no voice from above - just me, the Lord, and His Scriptures. I devoured my daily reading for the day and, given I had many hours left until work, simply continued reading - I was underwater, and had no desire to come up for air. I took Spurgeon’s advice to “live in” rather than simply “visit” the Scriptures. Pages of His Word were consumed, cups of coffee alongside them, as though my soul were a great cistern being filled with roaring torrents of water. In moments like these, when His Word is living and LOUD, I often catch a glimpse of Him on the road to Emmaus as he “interpreted to them in all the Scriptures the things concerning himself”.

And then, well, I had to get ready for work. Like the two disciples on the road to Emmaus after Jesus had left, I “rose that same hour and returned to” the things of this world. Such moments are difficult to come back from. Heaven begins to weigh in on the walls and borders of this world, feeling so near as though you could step out onto its very threshold, only to return to this world moments later. As though we were there for just a second, having “slipped the surly bonds of earth”, and then before we knew it we were back again. In these moments, how can one be expected to simply go to work or school or do anything at all, really? And yet we must. 

We must also remember how the book of Luke ends. While Jesus departs from the two disciples in Emmaus, He returns to His disciples in Jerusalem. He does not leave them, or us, as orphans - “And behold, I am sending the promise of my Father upon you” (24:49). And what is the promise of the Father? He is the Helper, the Holy Spirit: God Himself. So while we yet have life in us, let us daily dig deep into His Word; do not settle to rake leaves upon the surface, but dig deep for gold. Seek Him, see Him, and savor Him - and let your heart burn within as you sup with Him. For, if your heart aches and burns for Him, consider how His heart must burn for you.