#605: Along Came Jesus

 

Emmanuel Garibay, "Emmaus" 2010-2011

 

The Tao [Way] that can be told of is not the eternal Tao;
The name that can be named is not the eternal name.
(Lao Tzu, Tao-te Ching)

I woke up this Easter morning with Emmaus on my mind. 

Now on that same day two of them were going to a village called Emmaus, about seven miles from Jerusalem,  and talking with each other about all these things that had happened. While they were talking and discussing, Jesus himself came near and went with them, but their eyes were kept from recognizing him. And he said to them, ‘What are you discussing with each other while you walk along?’ They stood still, looking sad. Then one of them, whose name was Cleopas, answered him, ‘Are you the only stranger in Jerusalem who does not know the things that have taken place there in these days?’(Luke 24: 13-17, NRSV)

I went looking for a nice image to use, and found one that was so shocking and new to me that I knew it was perfect. Plenty of the Old Masters have taken this story as their subject, but when I saw this essay on the painting by Emmanuel Garibay, it immediately became my favorite. Why didn't the two disciples recognize the risen Christ? Did God distort their vision? Was Jesus wearing a disguise? Or were they simply blinded by their own expectations? Were they so sure - so attached to their ideas of who Christ was and what he would do and say that they overlooked the truth that was right before their eyes? The men in this painting are so blinded by their assumptions that they haven't even noticed the holes in Jesus' hands. 

To be honest, I missed them, too.

I miss them a lot.

I spent most of my life knowing who God was and what we could expect from one another. I would be his obedient servant. He would be my everlasting ABBA the daddy who would always be there, always hear, always care, always help. I would hallow his name and he would give me my daily bread and lead me not into temptation. My heart told me these things. My teachers did. My friends. Stories and hymns and Sunday School songs taught me what to believe. Jesus loved me. The Bible told me so.

I was so certain for so long that when my ship of faith began to spring leaks, I was lost. I watched numbly as the waves broke over the decks and pounded my Rock into sand. 

All my answers failed me. Like Cleopas and his anonymous traveling companion, I high-tailed it out of town with a suitcase full of questions and one eye over my shoulder to watch out for the posse that would almost certainly find me out for the doubt-filled fraud I had become - maybe that's what I'd always been. 

And then, along came Jesus.

He shaved his head and wore orange robes on YouTube, talking about karma and attachment and begging bowls. He grew his hair long, stopped bathing, and came to the lobby five times a day asking if anybody turned in the cell phone he left plugged in outside the Y.  She passed out in the parking lot, barely breathing, a vape pen clenched in her hand. When I checked to see if she was dead, she blinked red eyes at me and mumbled, "It's OK. I'm going in a minute." I stood at the front door and watched as she carefully tiptoed along the sidewalk - going anywhere she liked, as long as it was away from here. He saw me at his son's funeral, gave me his trembling, 90-year-old hand and said, "You know, I'm a gym rat, too." He showed me the FIFA team he had assembled on his phone. She interrupted my lecturing with words so true that they took my breath away. He asked if his friends could play soccer on our fancy, new pickleball courts. I told him no, so they spent the whole day playing in the grass outside the fence, welcoming every new kid who came along. She scolded at me the minute I walked in the door because her supper was late, then she curled up on my lap and purred herself to sleep as I meditated my silent Easter Vigil. Right now, she is in the upstairs apartment, on Sunday afternoon, high as giraffe tonsils, playing her music too loud, screeching out of tune, stomping through the ceiling, and celebrating her solitary quinceañera while mama is at work mopping hallways and bathrooms so hospital patients have a clean place to piss and her daughter has a chance to do something besides scrub other people's toilets.

Christ was there all the time.I never once recognized him. Yet, there he was. Is. Ever shall be.

Good morning, Jesus. I'm glad you could make it. I'm sorry I didn't notice you. But I appreciate the second chance. Chances.

Thanks for showing up anyway.

And thanks for the chocolate. That was you, right?

Happy Easter, my friend.