Christ revealed in the everyday

There’s a painting I visit, when I’m in London, that’s like an old friend; I’ll go and sit for a while and just enjoy its company. This past week I was visiting for a conference and feeling a bit — well, frankly, a bit however it is introverted-intuition types feel when we dwell on existential crises for too long. I left the venue, grabbed a hire bike, and rode across the city to the National.

They’ve moved it recently, so I find myself wearing a new path through the carpets to a smaller room where it sits with a large leather sofa directly in front of it. The wall paper is as poor as in the last room, but the seat is comfortable.

I take a breath, sit down, and gaze on it. I’m wondering what it is that keeps me coming back. How has this painting so intwined itself in my psyche? Why is it that I race through a gallery teaming with some of the world’s greatest works of art, just to have this moment?

Caravggio’s Supper at Emmaus (1601)

It’s a large, 16th century, Italian oil painting in one of those hefty gold coloured frames. At the centre of the scene is a man in a red and white robe, one arm outstretched over the table. To his left and right sit two pilgrims and at his shoulder stands the inn keeper. A small roast chicken and some, slightly past its best, fruit sit on the table.

A sense of sudden awe permeates the scene, the pilgrims incredulous at the figure in the centre. The one on the right stretches his startled arms wide and the other leans dramatically forward, the light catching a patch on his elbow as he almost bursts out of his chair.

What is being depicted to explain this moment of wonder? Christ revealed in the ordinariness of a meal in the pub.

It shows the moment in Luke’s gospel account when, after a long dusty walk from Jerusalem to Emmaus, the traveller breaks bread and the disciples see clearly.

When he was at the table with them, he took bread, gave thanks, broke it and began to give it to them. Then their eyes were opened and they recognized him, and he disappeared from their sight.
Luke 24:30-31 (NIV)

And that’s when I realised part of why I love it so much — because that’s God, isn’t it? He’s the God who reveals himself in the everyday. We can do all kinds of things in organised religion to try and create moments of revelation or encounter and yet God will so often choose to show up in the most humble, routine of situations.

He chose to reveal the fullness of his character to us in human form, born out of wedlock to a teenage mum, in an oppressed country. He scandalised the religious elites by spending his time with the everyday people, eating at their table and drinking their wine.

The Son is the radiance of God’s glory and the exact representation of his being, sustaining all things by his powerful word.
Hebrews 1:3a (NIV)

As a sign of his continued presence with us he chose sharing a meal together, something everyday and commonplace in people’s lives. He didn’t even go with a Michelin star chef, just bread and wine — the stuff of the everyday.

Sometimes we behave like we need to make a spectacular setting to encounter God. We invest our time and resources in creating moments where people can gather and see Jesus, get revelation, be transformed, and we forget that he is most often encountered in the everyday.

He is with us in the moments of grace shared with friends over food, in the beauty of encouragement at just the right time, in the splendour of nature and the solitude of our rooms.

I can’t help but wonder if sometimes we don’t get so focussed on the idea of something extraordinary happening, that we miss the extraordinary revealed in the every day.

For where two or three gather in my name, there am I with them.”
Matthew 18:20 (NIV)

The presence of Christ is what makes the moment extraordinary, not whatever we’ve done to try and frame it. We don’t need to get into an arms race over who can host the most spectacular event, we just need to come to the table and pull up a chair.