And Their Eyes Were Kept from Recognizing Him

About a week ago, I made my first seminary visit to Candler School of Theology (eek!!). Of course, there were many things I loved about the day, but one moment stood out among the rest...

On our group tour, our tour guide walked around the chapel and main academic building. She talked about the intentionality behind Candler's train-station aesthetic. She showed us the importance of the removable cross. And finally, she took us to a small room full of paintings by a Swedish-Mexican American artist named John August Swanson. Here, she invited us to pause and engage in a practice called Visio Divina.

Based on the ancient practice of Lectio Divina, Visio Divina invites its participants into thoughtful, meditative prayer by examining an image multiple times.

Slowly, I made my way around the room, looking at each painting of a popular New Testament scene. But when I saw this painting, I couldn't look away:

At first, I noticed its colors. The vibrant expressions of worship. The water-turned-wine. The crowded tables of wedding celebration. But then, I was struck—and deeply convicted—by something else.... For a moment, I couldn't tell who Jesus was.

Every man in the painting was brown. None had a beard. Or long hair. Or even a halo. Instead, every person was normal. Every man blended in with his people. And the Jesus I grew up on—the Jesus of the American Church—was nowhere to be found.

The Walk to Emmaus

I've thought a lot about my visit to Candler... I've thought a lot about this painting.

How many of us fail to recognize Jesus because we make Jesus into our own image? How many of us separate Jesus from his Jewish, cultural identity? And how many of us miss out on the true, authentic kingdom of God because we aren't looking in the right places?

...

In the final chapter of Luke's Gospel, Luke includes a story of two men on their walk to Emmaus.

Just three days after Jesus's resurrection, these men were grieving. They felt lost. Hopeless. Confused. They had believed in Jesus—that he was the prophet to redeem Israel. But three days later, nothing had happened. Israel was still alone. And Jesus was nowhere to be found.

Except... Jesus was right there.

In verse 15, Jesus appears to the two men. But instead of jumping for joy or embracing their friend, the men are clueless. "Their eyes [are] kept from recognizing him" (24:16). And Jesus simply goes along with it. He asks them questions, and the men tell him about their sadness and disappointment.

It's only when Jesus shares a meal with them, blesses the bread and breaks it, that the men's eyes are finally opened, and they praise God.

...

I've always loved this story. I've preached about it, not once, but twice:) But lately, I'm wondering if I got it all wrong. For the longest time, I've understood this text to mean that God or Jesus hid Jesus's identity from Cleopas and his friend. But did God really cover their eyes? Or did they?

Can you imagine realizing that you just stood by as a Roman soldier killed your Savior? Can you imagine realizing that you just played a part in killing the Son of God?

And today, we might not kill the image of Jesus in our neighbors, but we exclude him. Curse him. Let him go hungry. Deport him.

Yeah... I'd want my eyes covered, too.

...

When I looked at Swanson's painting, my eyes were covered—not because God covered them but because I did. I was so deep in my cultural lens that I was unable to see Jesus, even when he was standing right in front of me. And I know—from the news and social media—that I am not the only one whose eyes are covered. And I am not the only one who misses Jesus simply because he is brown.

Painting Jesus

"Draw Jesus."

This year, at my church's Fall Festival, I spent some time face painting. My first customer? A five-year-old girl, who asked me to draw Jesus.

I smiled to myself. No one had ever asked me that before. "You want me to draw Jesus?" I asked. She nodded, so I tried again, "Do you want a cross or the person?" She looked to the side for a moment and gave her final answer: "The person."

Well... ok:)

As if Swanson himself prepared me for this moment, I painted Jesus. I painted his brown skin. His dark hair. His sandaled feet. And then, I admit, I drew the red-sash-white-cloak combo so that others might recognize the figure on her small face.

When I finished, she ran to a mirror and then quickly sat back down. "Ok," she said.

"Now paint God." :)

...

Happy November, Advent People. I don't know if I will ever shed my biases, but each day, I am trying. And each day, I look for Jesus. May we all uncover our eyes until we see the Jesus in our neighbors, and may we paint this Jesus wherever we go.