In my time in ministry, I have seen people I’ve respected, even loved, get up and leave church.

Some of them have been wounded by the church, either through malice of a few individuals or fear from people terrified by change or by denominational machinery that put efficiency over grace. Others, while not wounded, have become disillusioned. While the church is called to be the body of Christ, it tends to be much better at being fully human than fully divine.

My son, when a teenager preparing for profession of faith, commented on how the behavior of people in the pews didn’t seem to match the calling of the Heidelberg Catechism he was studying. Observant young believers and earnest, faithful ministers of the Gospel can all become jaded when we fall short.

I watch people leave ministry—or at least leave professional, ordained ministry—and I’m often quite sad, sometimes a bit angry, and sometimes finding myself wondering why I stick around. What’s wrong with me? Why can’t I be so brave? On the other hand, what of all those times when I don’t want to leave, or when I just feel as if I need a little rest? Even those of us who continue to feel called to ministry in the church sometimes get overwhelmed. That’s probably true for people in other walks of life, as well.

So we turn to the two followers of Jesus who decided, the afternoon of that first day of the New Creation, to take a walk. They traveled about seven miles, give or take, from Jerusalem. They met somebody, but nobody ever asked why they decided to leave.

They had stuck around through crucifixion and death, through the arrest and the trial and the news of Judas’s suicide. They might well have been part of the crowd in that upper room, with all the cryptic answers to questions and the way the Teacher had transformed the rituals of cup and bread. They may have followed over to Gethsemane, but they weren’t among the elite who went in with Jesus to keep watch while he prayed. That’s okay: most of the group, even the remaining apostles, hadn’t gone that far in. Even so, they at least heard the commotion, saw the Temple guards bringing their leader out. They knew about all the terrible things that went on, at least second hand. They were even aware of the tomb being empty that morning. They knew some of the women were sure he was alive.

Somehow, the good news was too much for them to process right then. Somehow, that’s when they both decided they needed to take a walk. We don’t know if new life was a problem, or if it was nervous energy, somewhere about three o’clock in the afternoon, they decided to take a bit of a walk. Before they knew it, they had gone seven miles or so, about ninety minutes to two hours, all downhill; everything was downhill from Jerusalem, probably toward a little town known for its warm spring, the source of the name “Emmaus.”

They probably weren’t really running—even if they were afraid. Running would have drawn attention to them, and Jerusalem was crawling with Roman soldiers because of the Passover just past, and nobody was sure if anybody was rounding up the Lord’s co-conspirators. They were just two guys out for a walk. For all we know, they planned to go back the next day, maybe next week, or the week after, at the latest.

So we just don’t know what made them feel called to step away just then, any more than we know exactly what makes people feel called to step away from ministry or step away from church.

Sure, we may well know certain precipitating events, certain acts of manifest stupidity on the part of the saints of God. For all we know, at some point that Sunday morning, Cleopas had asked Peter whether he’d been really tired when Mary Magdalene woke him so early, and the rock on which Christ would build the church had told this earnest second-string disciple to shove it where the sun don’t shine.

Sure, people in the church can be cruel. Events can be tiring. Meetings can be a killer. Still we go back and somehow say, “Please, may I have another.” And then comes that one moment when we don’t.

The point is, these two on the road to Emmaus felt the need to step away.

Jesus met up with them, talked to them, shared a meal with them. At no point did he tell them they couldn’t leave. Never did he say they were needed. There was no guilt trip, no promise to do better if they came back. Actually, he never even made a big deal of his own coming back from the grave. He never asked, “Can’t you tell who this is?” The Savior simply talked to them, as friends, tried to help them clarify a few things, ate with them, and went on his way. The rest was on them.

Whatever Jesus did or didn’t do, whatever the motivation there had been for these two to want out for however long, they felt a call to come back.

Sometimes that happens: maybe not—usually not?—a call to find a way back in. For these two, the call was strong enough that they didn’t even wait for morning but rushed back the seven miles or so on a dark road—no streetlights—to find their old congregation, bravely locked away in that same room, so they could share their experience.

To the credit of the rest of the group, there is no record that anybody gave the two travelers any grief for wandering off. There wasn’t even any good-natured ribbing, at least not yet. Of course, the Messiah’s surprise arrival so quickly might have cut that all off. Still, given the immense human capacity for acting like idiots, we’ll take the win where we can get it.

Nobody knows for sure what happened afterward, but I’d like to believe Cleopas stuck around, and that’s why we know his name. Paul remembered him, worked on some project with him, maybe was brusque and insulting toward him the way he was with Barnabas and others, and years later, remembered his name as he told Luke the story he had heard.

When he did, he probably mused, “There was this other fellow, hung around with Cleopas a lot until he took off again, or so I’m told.” And that other one? Well, a few more days with the group, maybe all the way to the Ascension or Pentecost, convinced him that he while believed and he loved God, this life wasn’t for him. He left again. Maybe? Maybe he went back to his old trade. Maybe he had a family, was part of some local group of believers. Who knows?

Way back in the 1980s, the great pastor and liturgist Howard Hageman had a column in The Church Herald called “Focus on the World.” In our day, Howard would almost certainly blog for Reformed Journal. Anyway, in one of his columns he discussed the phenomenon of ministers who left ministry, sometimes after a very short time. He considered the notion that they had done the thing they were called to do and opined that we shouldn’t lament that they left so soon but instead celebrate their time among us. In that spirit, perhaps we shouldn’t mourn those who leave, but be grateful for their time among us, and celebrate those times when our paths cross again.