Sermon preached at Rockway Mennonite Church, Kitchener

Friesen, IlseE E.

English

Wilfrid Laurier University

ConsensusVolume 24Issue 2 Essays on Liturgy and Worship Article 1011-1-1998Emmaus--The Artist's WayIlseE E. FriesenFollow this and additional works at: http://scholars.wlu.ca/consensusThis Sermons is brought to you for free and open access by Scholars Commons @ Laurier. It has been accepted for inclusion in Consensus by anauthorized editor of Scholars Commons @ Laurier. For more information, please contact scholarscommons@wlu.ca.Recommended CitationFriesen, IlseE E. (1998) "Emmaus--The Artist's Way," Consensus: Vol. 24 : Iss. 2 , Article 10.Available at: http://scholars.wlu.ca/consensus/vol24/iss2/10Emmaus - The Artist’s Way'Use E. Friesen/]ssociate Professor of Fine 7\rtsWilfrid Laurier UniversityN obody knows exactly where the biblical village of Emmauswas located. This is particularly frustrating, since the dis-tance from Jerusalem is so clearly indicated in Luke’sGospel: 60 Greek stadia, or seven and a half miles away from thecity. No fewer than four modern towns have been suggested; theoldest one, mentioned in the late first century, is, however, only fourmiles away; the one which actually has the “warm wells”, which iswhat the name Emmaus means, is 20 miles away, too far to walkback and forth on one evening. The village which is actually sevenmiles north-west from Jerusalem, also on a Roman road, was onlymentioned in the 1 1th century by Crusaders as the Roman CastellumEmmaus.^Perhaps it is a great irony that we cannot easily locate Emmaus.Perhaps there is another way to get there, not the scholar’s way, butthe artist’s way. Surely, nobody will ever experience again how itreally was way back then. Nobody can slip into the skin of these twolonely disciples that evening. We cannot possibly live their lives again,share their life styles, or turn the time machine back to the first cen-tury. The sceptic in us simply states, “1 was not there, 1 cannot havean opinion”, to paraphrase a character in the Third Man.^ The ThirdMan in the Emmaus story, however, is quite a different matter.During the scholarly quest for the historical Jesus, it was sug-gested to strip the biblical text of all its miracles in order to allow thetrue historical record to emerge. But what would the New Testamentbe without the miracle of the Resurrection? What would be left of theEmmaus story which is the second most significant miracle of EasterSunday? All that would be left would be an insignificant walk to aninsignificant village, not worthy to be recorded.Perhaps the distance between Jerusalem and Emmaus has to bemeasured differently than in miles. Perhaps there is another map.108 Consensusanother geography, that of the heart and soul. On these inner jour-neys, the distance is that between the so-called two sides of the brain,or the distance from the intellect to the intuition, from the two ob-serving eyes to the third eye of insight. For some of us, this distancetakes years to cross, while for others, children and artists amongthem, this distance is only a heartbeat away. In the twinkling of aneye, one can travel across continents and centuries. This will not behistorical truth. The critical mind will dismiss it as fantasy and illu-sion. But the artist will find more than a reconstruction - intensifiedlife.As the author of the book. The Artists Way, Julia Cameron hasstated, “art is an act of tuning in”, and is like diving into a deep well.“It is as though all the stories, painting, music, performances in theworld live just under the surface of our normal consciousness. Likean underground river, they flow through us as a stream of ideas wecan tap down into.”^Critical academic training and intellectualism can become adeadly enemy of the creative spirit. But even Albert Einstein claimedthat “imagination is more important than knowledge”, and it wasEinstein again who said that “the most beautiful thing we can experi-ence is the mysterious.”^ Once we forget the truth that all life isrooted in mystery, we lose an essential part of our humanity.According to Julia Cameron, “The Artist’s Way is a spiritual jour-ney, a pilgrimage home to the self. Like all great journeys it entailsdangers of the trail... Like all pilgrims, those of us on the Artist’s Waywill often be graced by fellow travellers and invisible companions...Asartists, we belong to an ancient and holy tribe. We are the carriers ofthe truth that spirit moves through us all.”®Scholars agree that Emmaus must have been somewhere Westof Jerusalem. Artists, such as William Blake, agree that indeed onehas to turn West in order to journey to that encounter, into the direc-tion of the setting sun, willing to face the darkness. Visual artistshave portrayed the Emmaus story since the ninth century in manu-scripts and architectural stone carvings, usually showing three menwalking close together along a road.Duerer, a friend of Luther, concentrated on the gathering aroundthe holy meal, a theme influenced by Leonardo’s famous mural ofEmmaus 109the Last Supper; in the German artist’s interpretation this became amore focused, intimate kind of communion. Rembrandt, who por-trayed the Emmaus story at least seven times at different stages ofhis life, dared to weave the market and ghetto scenes of his contem-porary Amsterdam into biblical events. Surely, his images are nothistorically correct, but there emerges another truth. Observed real-ity gives life to his images, so that miracles can happen in front of oureyes. He even used the contemporary fascination with gunpowderand explosions to stage the drama of the sudden disclosure and disap-pearance of Jesus to the utter shock of the disciples at Emmaus.But his later portrayals of this event have moved from literally explo-sive interpretations to those of silent meditations of a divine mystery.Taking courage from the examples of these artists, 1 will try topaint you my own picture of Emmaus with words instead of pen andbrushstrokes. Into my picture have also entered other artists such asEdvard Munch and his image of the Scream, which has become acultural icon of our century; there are also traces of the Passion textand music of Bach, the Three Tenors’ ecstatic love songs, and thepeople and impressions 1 gathered on my own inner and outer jour-neys. You can call this a collage. My image is seen only through aglass darkly, but 1 ask your permission and patience to travel with meto Emmaus...It was good to leave the city behind. It was early spring, andsome birds were singing in the late afternoon. A gentle breeze pushedus onward. There had been such a glorious sunrise this morning,but now clouds had moved in, and the sun had disappeared.Life had become too confusing and too dangerous in the city.We were glad to pass the Roman soldiers at the gate without beingnoticed. At this time of day, not many people were on the road, andwe could reach the village before it got dark.1 had not been able to eat in two days; 1 felt exhausted and myhead was spinning. One good thing about the Romans was thatthey had built even this smaller road with smooth stone blocks, butwe still had to watch our steps. It was only a two hour walk to Emmaus,but today the road seemed to be endless.Joining the group in Jerusalem had begun so joyfully. 1 hadheard that the famous Rabbi was a healer, and 1 had taken my best110 Consensusfriend to see him. Kleopas had a sore which had never properlyhealed; he never complained, but 1 just saw the pain in his face. Oneday the group passed by and we followed them. We waited untilevening, when the crowd had finally left. 1 had it all rehearsed, andmy heart was beating with excitement and anticipation: “This isKleopas my friend who has...”But it all came differently. The twelve had already gathered forthe evening meal when we came through the door. Somebody wavedus to Join them. We sat so close to the Master that we did not dare tolook into his face. Rather, we watched his hands as he held thebread. His hands were strong like those of a craftsman, but theywere also delicate and almost fragile. He lifted the bread as if it werea most precious gift, and he cupped his hands around it as if hewould hold a small living being. Then he blessed it and broke itslowly, as if he would break a part of himself, and 1 felt pain sweepingthrough my heart. With his gesture, rather than with words, he sug-gested that with this bread he was giving himself to each one of us.1 stumbled outside. 1 had totally forgotten about Kleopas, buthere he was at my side, and the glow on his face told me that he waswell. Ever since that evening, we went to hear the Master every day,and we became part of his company. There was so much joy in thatgroup, so much anticipation, so much excitement. He had talkedabout the Kingdom of the Messiah, and we believed he was talkingabout himself.But then came that horrible day when he died. We were so surethat God would deliver him that we did not panic until he uttered thatterrible cry. The sun was setting and the clouds were turning bloodred. There was a scream passing through nature which filled thewhole sky like red blood, and it seemed that all of nature was scream-ing.^ 1 put my hands on my ears and ran and ran, until 1 collapsed ina narrow alley. Somebody found me, and somebody carried meback. Kleopas was there, and tried to comfort me. But 1 could notstop shaking. 1 was standing at a black abyss, and 1 feared to fall intoit. God had abandoned our beloved Teacher. He was such a holyman and died such a horrible death. Hothing made sense any more.It was Kleopas’ idea to leave the city. He was concerned aboutme. He had tried to feed me, but 1 could not bear the sight of brokenbread. 1 saw the Master’s hands dripping with blood; the bread wasEmmaus 111bleeding! Kleopas became alarmed. “Let’s go home,” he finallysaid. Home! 1 had no home. 1 had left my home when 1 joined thecompany. 1 was not even sure Kleopas had any relatives at Emmaus.We did not take much along, and we did not want to say farewell tothe eleven and all the others. We could not bear their restless confu-sion since the morning. Now, there was not even a grave left, nomemorial, no place to gather to remember the Master.It was good to leave the city behind. 1 could breathe deeply forthe first time in days. The wind was gently pushing us forward, andwe finally started to talk, to share our feelings about the Master, ourhopes, our fears, our disappointment. Suddenly, somebody steppedup behind us. It was as if he had stepped out of the wind. “Fear not,”he said. He was a pilgrim, a Rabbi, we thought; nobody knew theLaw and the Prophets like him. But how strange...He challenged us so intensely that we finally stopped in the mid-dle of the road. My head was spinning and burning, and my lips weredry. Finally, 1 dared to look at the stranger, but a hood covered hishead, and the wind blew his hair over his face. The stranger movedon as if he were walking on moss, as if there was not a single stum-bling block in all of Judea, as if he forgot all about us. He seemed towalk right into the setting sun, leaving us behind in the darkness,totally confused and exhausted.We called out to him not to leave us alone. We begged him tostay with us. At first we were not sure he heard us. But then hequietly followed us. Nobody talked until we reached the house andgathered for the meal. 1 found myself sitting right next to him, andwatched his hands. They were strong, and yet delicate. And he tookup the bread as if it were the most precious gift on earth, and hebroke it...Kleopas jumped up so suddenly that his chair was knocked over,and he fell down on his knees. 1 could not move. My eyes started toblur so that 1 could only see rays of light shooting from what seemedto be a bright star in front of me. The light was so strong that theglow and warmth filled my whole body. A psalm of blessing sweptthrough me, a hymn of thanksgiving roared through my entire beinglike a mighty waterfall, filling the whole room, pouring into the eveningsky outside, reaching the heavens. Huge waves of music swept overme like a river of exultation. Kleopas finally grabbed my shoulder.112 Consensusand we ran back to the city.It was night when we entered the house. The eleven were hud-dled together, some already sleeping, when we burst through thedoor. Thomas blocked me. “Why did you not bring him along? Allyou can do is run.” A deep compassion filled me. I realized howangry he was. First in the morning, it was Mary Magdalene who hadcaused such commotion. And now, at night, I come to disturb them,and I am not even Kleopas’ wife! It was not fair: Thomas had beenwith the Master for three years, and I only for less than three weeks.“You will see him too, Thomas,” I said gently, “I know it. He will meetyou also.” The eleven stared at me. “You will all meet him,” I heardmyself say with' a confidence which surprised me. “All who love himwill meet him. You will see....”Many years have passed. I have travelled to a foreign land whereI could not speak the language. For several days, I did not talk, but inmy silence I started to speak to the Master. Sometimes, there washis deep silence instead of an answer, but at other times his wordsbounced back so quickly that I was taken by surprise. At other times,I felt his smile gently resting on my shoulder when my question waschildish or when I realized that the question already contained theanswer. In the evening in the inn, when the table was set just for mealone, I felt like laughing: they do not realize that I am not alone!Yes, I would like to set my table always with one additional plate,but most people would not understand that. After all these years, Itend to forget that bread is never the same again since the Mastershared it. And often I do not invite the stranger I met on the road,and I begin to be afraid again of people I do not know. 1 forget thatsome of the dearest people I know were strangers at one time. Some-times, around the warmth of a supper table, I get a glimpse of theMaster, in the eyes of love and understanding, in the smile of delight,in the hands which reach out, and in celebration.As I get older, my prayer is more often, “Lord do not leave us,because it is getting dark, and the day is ending. Please abide withus.” I have to remember and to believe that he always hears andgraciously stays when we enter the darkness.It was at Emmaus where our deepest questions were asked. ButEmmaus 113this was not at all about getting answers. We could so easily havemissed it—missed him. There is more than questions, more thananswers. Words are only good for the road, not for the inn. There, atEmmaus, at the “warm wells”, something else happened: we expe-rienced the abundance of living water welling up inside. Finally, it isall about presence—silence sounding with adoration.Notes^ This sermon, delivered at Rockway Mennonite Church in Kitchener, waswritten in memory of Clarence Bauman, Professor at the MennoniteBiblical Seminary in Elkhart, Indiana.^ The Interpreter’s Dictionary of the Bible (New York: Abingdon Press1962) vol. 2, 97-98.^ The Third Man is a film by Carol Reed and David Selznick, based on anovel by Graham Greene and featuring Orson Welles, which has beencalled the greatest British thriller of the post-war era, playing in thestreets and ruins of occupied Vienna during the late 1940s.Julia Cameron, The Artist’s Way: A Spiritual Path to Higher Creativity(New York: Putnam 1992) 118." Ibid. 131 and 195." Ibid. 303 and 205.^ Robert Rosenblum, Edvard Munch: Symbols and images,(Washington: National Gallery of Art, 1978) 38-39. Munch’s painting of1 893 called The Scream is a “powerful expression of the anxiety-riddenexistence of modern man.” Munch described this image with thefollowing words: “1 walked one evening on a road...the sun was setting,the clouds were coloured red—like blood. 1 felt as though a scream wentthrough nature—1 thought 1 heard a scream.”

Emmaus--The Artist\u27s Way

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Emmaus--The Artist\u27s Way

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