39 mins
An unexpected Easter feast
Michelangelo Merisi da Caravaggio, The Supper at Emmaus © The National Gallery, London. Presented by the Hon. George Vernon, 1839
WHAT happens when a biblical text is brought into conversation with a painting? Consider, for example, the Italian artist Caravaggio’s 1601 The Supper at Emmaus (1571 – 1610). Carvaggio’s famous painting of The Supper at Emmaus (1601, London National Gallery) is probably the best known visual interpretation of this New Testament story, unique to the gospel of Luke (24: 13-35).
Caravaggio artistically captures the moment of the disciples, recognition of Christ at Emmaus. It merits careful scrutiny. The man on the left with a tattered, torn green jacket on the elbow, revealing a white shirt beneath, clenches the arm of his chair. It is as if he is about to jump up out of his rib-cage shaped seat. His posture speaks of surprise. The viewer is only shown his profile, but the light off the table or perhaps the risen Christ illuminates the visible side of his bearded face. Across the table on the right it is possible to make out more of the face of the other seated bearded figure. This man has a white shell attached to his jacket, commonly interpreted as the symbol of a pilgrim. His outstretched arms express shock and are reminiscent of the posture of crucifixion. It is the figure in the centre, however, no beard and feminine looking, that dominates the image. The light illuminates his face and part of his hands as well as his red and white robes: symbolic colours, perhaps signifying resurrection.
For some art historians this is a visual parable. In Andrew Graham-Dixon’s biography, Caravaggio: A Life Sacred and Profane (2010) he hypothesises that it is as if the painter has asked himself some questions: ‘What happens to the world when a miracle takes place? How might it be possible to tell should the risen Christ suddenly come among us? What do things actually look like at such moments?’
On the table there is bread, grapes and liquid – presumably wine. There is a tasty looking roasted, almost glossy, chicken. Here is dead meat about to be eaten. The fruit teeters on the table’s edge.
Ordinary things and characters are made extraordinary both by Caravaggio’s artistic skill and by what is known beyond the life of the painting. Nevertheless, there are dark shadows in the background. The darkness puts the light into sharper definition. An attentive servant or innkeeper stands, staring but apparently unmoved by what he sees. He sees but perhaps he does not see.
The figure of Christ, serene and still, has provoked an intense reaction in the two disciples and Caravaggio has captured this moment in a way that shows a deep, personal realisation and response. The two figures are frozen in mid-action, reflecting the stirring of powerful emotions. The older man, with arms thrust wide and head bowed possibly also acknowledges his willingness to suffer as Christ did, while the younger man, gazing intently at Jesus, looks as if he is going to lunge across the table to embrace him and the life he offers. This supper is a moment of life-changing significance. It is not only the realisation that Jesus has risen from the dead and the past has now changed, but it can also be interpreted as a realisation that the future, their future, must also change. Their response is contrasted with the servant gazing blankly on Christ, part of the moment yet uncomprehending, and it is possible that he does not, will not, change or leave differently. He is unconvinced. The supper and the disciples’ passionate, life-changing response is blessed by Christ and will result in a future that is dramatically different to their immediate past. Not only has their despair turned to hope, but it is possible to imagine that they are now more tightly bound to Christ as followers and ready to embrace his self-denial, his suffering and a new way of life through his resurrection.
In the Lukan story there’s something cartoon like, comic, about these two former disciples not recognising Jesus. There is more than a touch of dramatic irony. The readers, how ever, are in on the secret. While those who read or listen to the text know; the disciples can not see. Not until ‘he took bread, gave thanks and broke it’, are ‘their eyes were opened’. If one acts like an artist and freezes the frame for a moment, what can be imagined: Wounded hands breaking bread, a moment’s silence and eyes wide open.
This moment offers a new perspective on Jesus’ death, which is presented in a distinctive fashion in the Gospel of Luke. [Unlike in Mark and Matthew, the author of Luke leaves out what some interpreters have described as the ‘cry of dereliction’. It is not clear whether this omission is to make the scene less bleak, to make Jesus less explicitly Jewish or simply to give greater weight to what we hear instead: ‘Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do’ (Luke 23:34), ‘Truly, I say to you, today you will be with me in Paradise’ (Luke 23:43), and finally in a loud voice: ‘Father, into thy hands I commit my spirit!’ (Luke 23:46, quoting Psalm 31:5). To an even greater extent than in Mark, with its somewhat abrupt ending, the Emmaus story and the other resurrection accounts in Luke shed new light on the entire preceding passion narrative.
This is the first time that the reader is shown the risen Christ in Luke’s story. For some scholars this narrative is an embodiment or midrash on the claim in the Gospel of Matthew: ‘For where two or three are gathered together in my name, there am I in the midst of them.’ (18.20) Christ appears in their midst, though it is neither with a royal spotlight nor with angelic choirs singing. Instead, it was through a simple act of hospitality: welcoming a stranger to where they stayed. This was a traveller who a few moments before had told them that they were foolish and stupid. It was in this sharing their table with a stranger, an outsider, that they met Christ. Their eyes were opened to who this stranger was, to the stories of the women and to a new way of understanding their friend’s death.
When they recognise him, do they crack open a bottle of ‘vino collapso’ or tuck into some fat calf risotto? Not at all, there is no time to party or to celebrate. In Luke’s story: Jesus vanishes. The Shadow of the Galilean is hard to pin down. In the history of Christian spirituality, mysticism and devotion this is a common frustration – just when the risen Christ is thought to be apprehended: Jesus leaves. Here is a momentary glimpse, a rupture in their reality and then he has gone. This is a moment of disclosure, made semipermanent in oil and on canvas, in ink and on codex, but in the story Jesus is no longer present. Nevertheless, their eyes had been opened. More than that they had been opened to look back to their conversation with a stranger, to their hearts strangely warmed, as they turn back to serve in Jerusalem.
Some artists create visual gaps for the viewer to be drawn into if they wish. This can become an invitation to share in the meal. The connection between the Emmaus story and the breaking of bread is made explicit in several other paintings. While in Caravaggio’s 1601 The Supper at Emmaus the bread is largely isolated towards the front of the table. In his later, more subdued, c 1606 version it is even more prominent with only bread and a beaker visible on the table. In both cases the side of the table nearest to the viewer is clear. There is a gap not only to see the action, but also to enter into the world of Emmaus. It as if the viewer is invited to look as if for the first time, eyes opened, and sit with the surprised disciples at this unexpected Easter feast.
Jolyon Mitchell is Professor of Communication, Arts and Religion at New College at the University of Edinburgh.
This article appears in the April 2017 Issue of Life and Work
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