Christ will teach us the truth if we turn to him. He will startle us out of debates bleared by the myopia of human reason. He will focus our vision on the resplendent truth of his self. As he did for his two friends on the road to Emmaus.
“It happened that while they were conversing and debating, Jesus himself drew near and walked with them, but their eyes were prevented from recognizing him” (Luke 24:15–16). We, students, are like these two: We debate deep questions, we debate while we journey, while we live and we debate while Jesus walks with us, but we don’t always recognize him. We may be downcast at Jesus’s apparent absence; meanwhile, his are the very eyes we look into. We see past him because we are “slow of heart to believe” (Luke 24:25). I sometimes marvel at how arduous and sinuous trails of human reason can be made short and straight with a single verse of revelation. Or how sheer cliffs of truth, unscalable by the ungraced intellect (unless you are the Alex Honnold of the mind), are laid low by a few words from the Gospels — such as “the Word became flesh” (John 1:14) or “he has been raised” (Luke 24:6). But these words are hard to believe. They thrust us to the summits of truth with such a dizzying acceleration that the intellect becomes utterly perplexed, like Tom Cruise hitting 10 g’s to clear a mountain and almost passing out in “Top Gun.”
Luke has already shown us how the preteen Jesus astounds learned Jewish rabbis in the temple; now he shows us how the risen Jesus opens the eyes of his followers, who are disheartened and confused by his death and not sure what to make of what must have been the strangest and most wondrously hair-raising report: that Jesus’ tomb was empty. How do they come to see him, to see that the impossible is miraculously true?
Christ reveals himself to them not by immediately exclaiming “I am he! I am the risen Christ!” but by walking with them, questioning them, listening to them, and interpreting the Scriptures for them. He uses what they already know, the Scriptures, to lead them to what exceeds their most outlandish hopes — his resurrection. He makes their hearts burn within them, so that they invite him to stay the night and eat with them. And there, at that meal, their eyes are finally opened “in the breaking of the bread” (Luke 24:35).
Christ’s pedagogy is personal. It proceeds by relationship and ends in the truth, not so much of abstract ideas as of his very person. Christ’s pedagogy is attractive. His teachings make our hearts burn within us. Christ’s pedagogy is direct but mystagogical. He enters into our debates and agrees to their terms and methods, but gradually leads us out of our narrow-mindedness into the infinite intelligibility of the mystery of his person. Christ’s pedagogy requires our participation. We must invite him to stay with us before we can see him. Above all, Christ’s pedagogy is Eucharistic. He shows us the truth in the food, the sacrifice and the gift of himself. This can be so because he is the truth, and his truth is his love. Christ’s Eucharistic truth is unlike any we know: It is as much something to eat, adore, love and proclaim as it is to know, deliberate, contemplate and debate.
Truth is not something we can attain by ensconcing ourselves in armchairs and pulling our minds up by the bootstraps of logic from first principles to eternal formulas. Truth is rather something we must come to see, enter into, relate to and unite ourselves to through love. Thanks be to God, because logic is hard, first principles are indemonstrable, formulas are obscure and armchairs ... well, armchairs are nice. But at times, we must rise from the comfort of our armchairs and walk the road of life. If we are attentive, we may see Christ on the road. If we are persistent, we will certainly see Christ at our destination, the Eucharist. A single bland host contains (no, is) more truth than all 5 million books collecting dust in Hesburgh Library. Christ, and with him truth and hope, seem absent. But he is truly risen and truly with us — in his Eucharist. Let us students not be “slow of heart” and indifferent to eternity hidden in that humble bread, which awaits our company, adoration and communion. Let us open our eyes to Christ’s Eucharistic truth.
Richard Taylor is a senior from St. Louis living in Keenan Hall. He studies physics and also has an interest in theology. He encourages all readers to send reactions, reflections or refutations to rtaylo23@nd.edu.
