Images of Christ: The Road to Emmaus

Rowena Loverance writes about a mosaic by John Piper

The post-Resurrection appearances of Jesus are for me the most beautiful, but also the most problematical, parts of the Gospels. They have inspired some of the greatest works by some of our most highly revered artists – just think of Titian’s ‘Noli me tangere’ and Caravaggio’s ‘Supper at Emmaus’ in London’s National Gallery alone. Yet biblical scholarship informs us that Mark’s Gospel, the earliest of the four, made do without any such appearances – so they were apparently not essential to the faith of the earliest Christians. In the interests of historical accuracy, should we, similarly, try to manage without them?

To appreciate this month’s choice of artwork, everything depends on seeing it in its context. It occupies the whole of the eighteen-foot-high east wall of St Paul’s Church in the centre of Harlow, a post-war new town north of London. Most of the wall is covered with mosaic, which the eye perceives as black but which in close-up turns out to be a mixture of blue, grey and brown. From the surrounding darkness emerge three glowing figures. Two seem to turn away from us, concentrating on their companion. The central figure stares down at us, but the face is featureless. Are we supposed to recognise it as a face at all?

The story of the road to Emmaus (Luke 24:13-35) turns on the moment of recognition which occurs when the disciples ask this stranger whom they have met on the road to eat with them, and he breaks bread and gives it to them. They recognise him in this gesture, which they have seen him make many times before – most recently on the last evening of his life. Surely, there can be no more appropriate theme to depict above an altar. And having recognised him, they leap into action, first reminding themselves of his conversation on the road, now that they understand its deeper meaning, and then returning to Jerusalem, by night presumably, so as to share the overwhelming news with their fellows. Recognition demands action.

John Piper, the artist, is much better known for his paintings, prints and stained-glass. He turned briefly to mosaic in the late 1950s; his other two mosaic works of the period, at BBC Television Centre in London and the Birmingham Chamber of Commerce, have recently come under threat as both buildings have changed their use. Both are abstract, and arguably more successful; for this semi-figurative work at Harlow, Piper understands how to construct colours so that the eye can recognise them at a distance, but not how to vary the placing of his square tesserae to create movement and depth. One consequence, however, is that the black surround – the darkness of bereavement – takes on an even more vivid presence.

St Paul’s is an attractive church – it made the top ten in a recent poll of the UK’s best modern churches. And it is an active church, running foodbanks, street pastors and a drop-in centre. The message of the mosaic pops up frequently, I was told, in the vicar’s sermons. I was reminded of the words of one of the first members of the Emmaus homeless charity, another post-war initiative, about its founder, the French cleric Abbé Pierre: ‘Whatever else he might have given me – money, home, somewhere to work – I’d have still tried to kill myself again. What I was missing, and what he offered, was something to live for.’

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