Luke places the discussion between them and Jesus in the centre of the story about the Emmaus disciples. They talk with Jesus and he responds to them in a wonderful, but highly ironical dialogue. Think about this situation: two disciples who shared the most intimate moments with Jesus over months and months. And here they are, explaining to the very same Jesus what happened to Him as if He knows nothing of them or of Jesus.
And they are well informed. The discussion of the two disciples focusses mostly on “the things that happened in these days among us.” They even know how fast the news spread. It is the talk of the town. Everyone is thinking about what happened– only a stranger would not know of it (Lk.24:18). Once again the story is highly ironic: Jesus, their master, the living one, is experienced as a stranger. Jesus who taught them so much, is now being taught by them.
And see how much insight they have: They patiently recount events and at the same time explain them so neatly to the stranger. They use theological language. They understand the divine action in the Jesus events. The Nasarene who was God’s prophet, worked among them with extraordinary power until he was crucified by their own leaders. These are the powerful events which took place. They were impressed by them and followed Him as a prophet. And they know all about eschatology. They are informed about the future hope for Israel and even relate how they thought Jesus embodied that hope.
And then they relate, in the second part of the speech, what happened that morning and especially how it affected them. Women found his grave empty and the apostles confirmed it. This, they say, startled and amazed them. If the ministry of Jesus impressed them, his death and the empty grave brought them to the brink of despair.
This is how they “read” their situation with knowledge, but without understanding. And it is not really a spiritual reading at all. God gives them a Word through the Prophet Jesus, but they do not retain much trust in that word. And there is still another reading they discuss with Jesus: an angel told the women that Jesus lived. But they do not read this event with much more understanding. For them the angelic “vision” is also not impressive, for “they did not see Jesus.” How often we have a Word of God to read. Time and again God speaks to us. We “experience the Word.” When Jesus ministers among us, when he works with power. When angels gives us visions. When we see an empty grave. And yet, we “read” these things so badly. Instead of worshipping, we are startled. Jesus, our leader and intimate friend can become in a matter of days a stranger in Jerusalem.
But then there is the contemplative moment: to think that at this late stage they were still able, or still allowed to talk about their sorrow and desperation! Jesus gives them an opportunity to talk, seekingly, yearningly, about their innermost feelings. When it looked as if they reached the end of the road, they were really on the way with God – the highest irony. When they were speaking about the divine absence, they were experiencing the divine Presence. The antiphrasis. In our desperation, God is there. In our sorrow, God is reaching out to us, hearing our cries. Jesus knows. That is why he is with them. Long before they started talking to Him, he set out, followed them into sunset, to be with them when they thought he was no longer there. He knows. After all, only a day or what earlier he called out in the same way: Why did You forsake me? Even in our darkness, in our desperation, in our sorows, in our yearning, God is saying: Jahwe. I am who I am. Immanuel. I shall be with you...
Showing posts with label contemplatio. Show all posts
Showing posts with label contemplatio. Show all posts
Friday, November 6, 2009
Wednesday, November 4, 2009
Shocked by a reading of Luke’s story of the Emmaus disciples (Luke 24).
The story of the Emmaus disciples in Luke 24:13-33 has intrigued me more and more in recent times. Luke was a gifted author. He wrote the classical parable of the prodigal son – one of the most beautiful stories in world literature on love and the lack of love. And he alone told the story of Jesus encounter with Zacchaeus. His birth narratives are unique, not to mention his fascinating story of the lives and ministries of the first apostles. And these are but a few examples of his mastery.
The story about the two disciples on their way to Emmaus, may be his greatest story. Which is quite a claim to make. But there are several reasons why I say this:
First of all, it is a resurrection story – and as such is closely related with the climax of Luke’s gospel. It is only one of four episodes in the post-resurrection life of Jesus and of these four it is by far the most intense and longest episode.
Secondly, Luke uses this story to bring his book to closure. Wih it he rounds off his book about his spiritual encounter with Christ. It is therefore a story which he must have regarded as extremely important.
It is, thirdly, a simple story. Even a child would be able to follow it. We know that all the famous story tellers excell in the simplicity with which they present their narrations. And yet, it is masterly constructed and composed – as we shall see. One should not be deceived by its simplicity, because it is finely structured and clearly the product of someone who understood the impact of what he was writing.
It is, fourthly, so masterly in its detail. Even by merely reading it, (lectio) one is touched by it and drawn into it in an irresistable manner. For example, as I read through it again today, I was struck by the small, seemingly insignificant detail which contributes to the special atmosphere of the story. By simply “reading” the story, one is drawn into an atmosphere of perplexity: it strikes me how Luke describes the two disciples in verse 17 as involved in “earnest” discussion and over which they are so “sad” ("What is the subject," He asked them, "on which you are talking so earnestly, as you walk?" And they stood still, looking full of sorrow.” WEY) . They respond, believe it or not, with sadness and seriousness to the resurrection (verse 23). Jesus lives – we know, but they are sad. They have heard that Jesus had appeared to some disciples. And now, at the culmination of their journey with Jesus, they still fail to understand : they are “foolish” and “slow of heart.” We read this description with unease and we can feel the perplexity of these two people as they hurry home – leaving Jerusalem, leaving Jesus behind, abandoning everything they stood for previously.
We “read” this story and is struck by it – this is the moment for which everyone was waiting, the denouement of Jesus’ ministry. And Luke, the master narrator, helps us to “feel” across many centuries, almost if no time separates us from the original event, that journey of 12 kilometers from Jerusalem. We are walking here in the company of two people, believers, close followers of Jesus, who are confronted with a mystery – and they, we read, cannot fathom this mystery. It is a mystical journey, the journey of walking in darkness, walking in faith – they are, after all, disciples.
And as we “read” the story, gradually we experience with a shock a special moment of recognition – a mystical moment in which our reading also eliminates the distance between us and the characters. We begin to understand why we are uneasy about the two characters. They are, in fact, quite familiar to us, we think. The two disciples, we discover with dismay, with somber, sad faces, are us: everything we always heard from Jesus, which Jesus himself told us, which we heard from the Biblical authors, from Moses, the prophets (verse 27), everything we read in the learned interpretations of later expositors, from our parents, our spiritual directors, our friends fail to transform us. We remain sad in the face of mystery, perplexed in the presence of the Unknown. We are the two disciples, we, the saints, disciples of Jesus, fail to experience the greatest moment of our lives.
It is, therefore, a mystical experience to “read” the text (do not distinguish too facilely between lectio and contemplatio). We are, then, even more drawn into the story. Because it revives in us some memory of previous parts of Luke’s famous book on Jesus. We turn the pages back, the Spirit wants us to do so, and we “read” Luke 1. A “spiritual” reading is after all never merely “lifting” passages out from Scripture as if they can stand on their own. We share Luke’s spirituality, his whole and complete story about his Jesus experience in its totality and we have to read the story as a whole. And we are taken back, right to the beginning of his book, to where he tells us that he wrote this book carefully, with much thought, “so that we may know the certainty of things we have been taught” (Lk.1:4). Luke wanted to much more than providing us with insight in what “happened.” We are Theophilus, the beloved of God, who fails to experience the Mystery, who are uncertain and with whom Luke engages so that he finds fulfillment in his spiritual journey.
We “read” him and we see how people “experience” the mystery of Jesus. And we see how, in such a human way, they worry, are sad and talk a lot about this mystery. And we forget that Luke told us that their uncertainty, narrated so simply in his story, is the entrance to certainty – to an experience of the Mystery in all its fullness (antiphrasis). So as we “read” the story of the two disciples with their somber faces, we realise with a shock: here we walk. Here we talk. Here we are sad. Most of all, shockingly, here we are uncertain before the Mystery of the divine Presence.
And all the time, it is because we are before a mystery before whom (!) we are outsiders.
So we are drawn deeper into the story. What now? What do we do with our shock? Now we are taken further to reconsider our own spiritual journey - an experience which coalesces with that of the two on their way to Emmaus. We are Ratlos before the Mystery. We need to meditate about this episode Luke writes, to pray about it and to contemplate it so that we could experience the certainty and the transformation this book is all about. Hopefully we can do that in the next few blogs.
To “read,” to understand, is just the beginning. The journey is about much, much more.
The story about the two disciples on their way to Emmaus, may be his greatest story. Which is quite a claim to make. But there are several reasons why I say this:
First of all, it is a resurrection story – and as such is closely related with the climax of Luke’s gospel. It is only one of four episodes in the post-resurrection life of Jesus and of these four it is by far the most intense and longest episode.
Secondly, Luke uses this story to bring his book to closure. Wih it he rounds off his book about his spiritual encounter with Christ. It is therefore a story which he must have regarded as extremely important.
It is, thirdly, a simple story. Even a child would be able to follow it. We know that all the famous story tellers excell in the simplicity with which they present their narrations. And yet, it is masterly constructed and composed – as we shall see. One should not be deceived by its simplicity, because it is finely structured and clearly the product of someone who understood the impact of what he was writing.
It is, fourthly, so masterly in its detail. Even by merely reading it, (lectio) one is touched by it and drawn into it in an irresistable manner. For example, as I read through it again today, I was struck by the small, seemingly insignificant detail which contributes to the special atmosphere of the story. By simply “reading” the story, one is drawn into an atmosphere of perplexity: it strikes me how Luke describes the two disciples in verse 17 as involved in “earnest” discussion and over which they are so “sad” ("What is the subject," He asked them, "on which you are talking so earnestly, as you walk?" And they stood still, looking full of sorrow.” WEY) . They respond, believe it or not, with sadness and seriousness to the resurrection (verse 23). Jesus lives – we know, but they are sad. They have heard that Jesus had appeared to some disciples. And now, at the culmination of their journey with Jesus, they still fail to understand : they are “foolish” and “slow of heart.” We read this description with unease and we can feel the perplexity of these two people as they hurry home – leaving Jerusalem, leaving Jesus behind, abandoning everything they stood for previously.
We “read” this story and is struck by it – this is the moment for which everyone was waiting, the denouement of Jesus’ ministry. And Luke, the master narrator, helps us to “feel” across many centuries, almost if no time separates us from the original event, that journey of 12 kilometers from Jerusalem. We are walking here in the company of two people, believers, close followers of Jesus, who are confronted with a mystery – and they, we read, cannot fathom this mystery. It is a mystical journey, the journey of walking in darkness, walking in faith – they are, after all, disciples.
And as we “read” the story, gradually we experience with a shock a special moment of recognition – a mystical moment in which our reading also eliminates the distance between us and the characters. We begin to understand why we are uneasy about the two characters. They are, in fact, quite familiar to us, we think. The two disciples, we discover with dismay, with somber, sad faces, are us: everything we always heard from Jesus, which Jesus himself told us, which we heard from the Biblical authors, from Moses, the prophets (verse 27), everything we read in the learned interpretations of later expositors, from our parents, our spiritual directors, our friends fail to transform us. We remain sad in the face of mystery, perplexed in the presence of the Unknown. We are the two disciples, we, the saints, disciples of Jesus, fail to experience the greatest moment of our lives.
It is, therefore, a mystical experience to “read” the text (do not distinguish too facilely between lectio and contemplatio). We are, then, even more drawn into the story. Because it revives in us some memory of previous parts of Luke’s famous book on Jesus. We turn the pages back, the Spirit wants us to do so, and we “read” Luke 1. A “spiritual” reading is after all never merely “lifting” passages out from Scripture as if they can stand on their own. We share Luke’s spirituality, his whole and complete story about his Jesus experience in its totality and we have to read the story as a whole. And we are taken back, right to the beginning of his book, to where he tells us that he wrote this book carefully, with much thought, “so that we may know the certainty of things we have been taught” (Lk.1:4). Luke wanted to much more than providing us with insight in what “happened.” We are Theophilus, the beloved of God, who fails to experience the Mystery, who are uncertain and with whom Luke engages so that he finds fulfillment in his spiritual journey.
We “read” him and we see how people “experience” the mystery of Jesus. And we see how, in such a human way, they worry, are sad and talk a lot about this mystery. And we forget that Luke told us that their uncertainty, narrated so simply in his story, is the entrance to certainty – to an experience of the Mystery in all its fullness (antiphrasis). So as we “read” the story of the two disciples with their somber faces, we realise with a shock: here we walk. Here we talk. Here we are sad. Most of all, shockingly, here we are uncertain before the Mystery of the divine Presence.
And all the time, it is because we are before a mystery before whom (!) we are outsiders.
So we are drawn deeper into the story. What now? What do we do with our shock? Now we are taken further to reconsider our own spiritual journey - an experience which coalesces with that of the two on their way to Emmaus. We are Ratlos before the Mystery. We need to meditate about this episode Luke writes, to pray about it and to contemplate it so that we could experience the certainty and the transformation this book is all about. Hopefully we can do that in the next few blogs.
To “read,” to understand, is just the beginning. The journey is about much, much more.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
