The story of the encounter between Jesus and the two
disciples on the road to Emmaus has been the subject of several works by great
artists. The 16th c. Italian painter Caravaggio depicts Christ seated at the
center of the table. Cleopas, on the right, throws his arms out wide in
surprise when he suddenly realizes with whom he is dining. The nameless
disciple has his back to the viewer and is about to stand up so abruptly that
his chair is likely to tip over.
Rembrandt was fascinated by the story and explored it in
several works. I especially like his etching of the Emmaus story. It is on the
cover of my first collection of sermons - As One Unknown.
But I recently saw a painting by the Spanish painter
Velasquez. It was actually Velasquez's first painting. Velazquez has imagined the story in a very
unusual way. He painted not Cleopas and his nameless companion and Jesus at
table together. Rather, Velazquez imagines that the kitchen maid was listening
in from another room. In the painting, the maid is front and center, and we can
only see Jesus, Cleopas, and the other man through a window in the upper left
hand corner of the painting. But you can see that she recognizes Jesus from the
startled expression on her face.
The most interesting thing to me about Velazquez's painting
is that he imagines the maid as a mulatto. In his time, mulatto meant
something very specific. It meant the child of a Spanish Christian and an
African Muslim. The maid is mixed race and even mixed religion. The mulattos
were looked down upon and regarded as inferior.
Poet Denise Levertov saw the painting and wrote this poem
about it:
She listens, listens, holding
her breath. Surely that voice
is his - the one who had looked at her, once, across the crowd,
as no one ever had looked?
Had seen her? Had spoken as if to her?
Surely those hands were his,
taking the platter of bread from hers just now?
Hands he'd laid on the dying and made them well?
Surely that face — ?
The man they'd crucified for sedition and blasphemy.
The man whose body disappeared from its tomb.
The man it was rumored now some women had seen this morning, alive?
Those who had brought this stranger home to their table
don't recognize yet with whom they sit.
But she in the kitchen, absently touching the wine jug she's to take in,
a young Black servant intently listening,
swings round and sees
the light around him
and is sure.
her breath. Surely that voice
is his - the one who had looked at her, once, across the crowd,
as no one ever had looked?
Had seen her? Had spoken as if to her?
Surely those hands were his,
taking the platter of bread from hers just now?
Hands he'd laid on the dying and made them well?
Surely that face — ?
The man they'd crucified for sedition and blasphemy.
The man whose body disappeared from its tomb.
The man it was rumored now some women had seen this morning, alive?
Those who had brought this stranger home to their table
don't recognize yet with whom they sit.
But she in the kitchen, absently touching the wine jug she's to take in,
a young Black servant intently listening,
swings round and sees
the light around him
and is sure.
I think that Velazquez the painter and Levertov the poet are
on to something. They are on to something that the gospel writers realized 2000
years ago. According to the gospels, the first witness of the resurrection was
either Mary Magdalene or Mary Magdalene and one or two other women. In the ancient
world, women had little status. They were vulnerable. Their well-being depended
entirely on their association either with their fathers and brothers (if any)
or their husband and sons (if any). The woman in the painting is also black, a
person of another race and perhaps even a different religion.
The point that I'm making is that the painting, the poem, and
even the gospel texts themselves tell us that the resurrection is best glimpsed
by outsiders -- the vulnerable, the marginalized, the persecuted, the poor and
hungry.
A little over one hundred years ago the philosopher Friedrich
Nietzsche said that Christianity is the religion of slaves. He meant it as a
criticism, but I take it as a compliment.
Nietzsche was absolutely correct. The New Testament is
written in Koine Greek, the common Greek of the first century. Koine Greek was
the religion of slaves or servants (which meant pretty much the same thing in
the first c.). Latin was the language of Rome, the imperial power. It was the
language of government, the powerful, the military.
Nietzsche and other European intellectuals of the late 19th
c. believed that religious belief would gradually wither away, dispelled by
science and reason. But he was wrong. Religion flourished in the New World, in
America, a country that, as G.K. Chesterton said, has the "soul of a
church."
However, there are signs all around us that America is
beginning to catch up with Europe. Church attendance is dwindling. Churches and
denominations are struggling.
I believe we live at one of the great turning points in the
history of Christianity. The center of gravity of the Christian church has
shifted decisively to the developing world. In 1900 the great majority of
Christians lived in the northern hemisphere, but in the year 2000, the great
majority of Christians lived in the southern hemisphere.
Christianity is growing at a staggering rate in Africa, Asia,
and Latin America. But the Christianity of the developing world is very
different from our Christianity. It is evangelical and Pentecostal.
Not only is Christianity growing in the developing world, it
is also starting to re-evangelize the developed world.
A couple of years ago my friend Rabbi Jonathan Miller invited
me to lunch at his synagogue to meet his friend Israel who is a Pentecostal
minister in Uganda.
You can imagine my surprise: A rabbi was inviting me to his
synagogue to have lunch with an African Pentecostal minister.
Jonathan's friend, Israel, was in his 20s. He told the group
assembled at lunch that he loved America, that America had brought Christianity
to Africa. But, he said, today America needs Africa to bring Christianity back
to this country.
Over the next century the Episcopal Church will be powerfully
transformed by Christians coming here from the developing world. Many of those
Christians are Anglicans. But their Anglicanism is very different from our
Anglicanism. It is passionate and colorful.
A few years ago I had the opportunity to meet with Yann
Redalie, the dean of the Waldensian seminary in Rome. The Waldensians are a
small Protestant group centered primarily in northern Italy and Switzerland.
Several years ago they combined with the Methodists in Italy. Dr. Redalie told
us of a great problem and great opportunity that they are facing. Every year
thousands of Africans immigrate to Italy. A great number of them are
Protestants, many from churches founded by Methodist missionaries in the 19th
c. So they often find their ways to the joint Waldensian/Methodist churches in
Italy. Dr. Redalie said that they are thrilled to find their churches growing,
but the culture of their churches is also being changed profoundly by the
influx of the African Christians.
Precisely the same thing is going to happen to churches in
this country.
You must be wondering what all this has to do with the story
of Emmaus.
The connection is this: The story of Christianity in the
developing world is exactly the story that Velazquez told in his painting.
It is more and more difficult to tell the story of the Risen
Christ in the developed world, even in the United States. But people from the
developing world are ready. They are hearing and responding to the good news of
Easter. They are able to recognize the Risen Christ while he remains hidden to
so many in our country.
I think one of the reasons that it is more difficult for us
to hear the good news is precisely because of our wealth and power. We have so
much and our riches tend to insulate us from the message of the gospel.
Christianity is good news precisely for the poor and vulnerable, just as it was
for those who spoke Koine Greek in the first c.
Make no mistake: We need the Christian message just as much
as the people of Africa, Asia, and Latin America. But it may be more difficult
for us to hear and respond to it. The Risen Christ may be walking beside us and
yet our eyes do not see him for who he really is.
When Mohandas Gandhi studied law in London, he also began to
study the New Testament. He was enchanted by the gospels, by Jesus. The Sermon
on the Mount convinced him that Christianity was the most perfect of all
religions. Then later Gandhi lived for a time with a Christian family and he
became disillusioned. He rarely saw the Sermon on the Mount lived out in their
lives.
In the Emmaus story the disciples say, "Were not our
hearts burning within us when he was opening the scriptures to us?" Do our
hearts burn with passion when we read the scriptures? Are we passionate about
the gospel?
I assure you that our sisters and brothers in the developing
world are passionate. They read the scriptures with burning hearts. And they
are coming here to share that passion with us.
