Before the Industrial Revolution, do you know what the two most complex machines were?[i] Our present location should be a giveaway for one of them: the pipe organ, with its tens of thousands of moving parts. The other was the clock. For anyone who wears a non-digital wristwatch, especially one with an exposed face that show the clock’s inner workings, this should come as no surprise. Clocks are intricate and elegant things. After eons during which the most accurate way to track daily time was a sundial, the invention of the clock in the fourteenth century must have seemed miraculous. Indeed, it is little wonder that the clock quickly became a symbol for God’s creation, and God became known as the clock maker.
In his popular podcast[ii], Brian Reed talks about some of the mystery and wonder that surrounds those early clocks. He offers this:
“When an antique clock breaks, a clock that’s been telling time for two hundred or three hundred years, fixing it can be a real puzzle. An old clock like that is handmade by someone. It might tick away the time with a pendulum, with a spring, or with a pulley system. It might have bells that are supposed to strike the hour, or a bird that is meant to pop out and cuckoo at you. There can be hundreds of tiny, individual pieces, each of which needs to interact with the others precisely. To make the job even trickier, you often can’t tell what’s been done to a clock over hundreds of years. Maybe there’s damage that was never fixed, or fixed badly. Sometimes entire portions of the original clockwork are missing. But you can’t know for sure, because there are rarely diagrams of what the clock is supposed to look like. A clock that old doesn’t come with a manual. So instead, the few people left in the world who know how to do this kind of thing rely on what are often called ‘witness marks’ to guide their way. A witness mark could be a small dent, a hole that once held a screw. These are actual impressions and outlines and discolorations left inside the clock of pieces that might’ve once been there. They are clues to what was in the clockmaker’s mind when he first created the thing. I’m told fixing an old clock can be maddening. You’re constantly wondering if you’ve just spent hours going down a path that may take you nowhere, and all you’ve got are these vague witness marks that might not even mean what you think they mean. So, at every moment along the way you have to decide whether you’re wasting your time, or not.”
Last May I went on pilgrimage to the Holy Land. It was a life-changing experience for me. Since the moment I arrived back in the United States, I have yearned to return to Israel. And yet, the Holy Land is not without its frustrations, one of the most ubiquitous of which is that almost nowhere can anyone be sure that the things chronicled in Holy Scripture actually happened. We visit what may have been the site of the feeding of the five thousand. We trek up what traditions claims was the Mount of Transfiguration. There are a few exceptions. We know to a virtual certainty, for instance, that a specific house in Capernaum was, actually, the home of St. Peter. But such places are conspicuous precisely because they are so rare. As a twenty-first century modern person, and despite the admitted contradiction in terms, I desire concrete, factual evidence of the things of my faith. Jesus was resurrected on Easter Day, you say? How do you know that? Where is the archaeology (or some such) that proves it?
Our frustration is not new, not by a long shot. It traces all the way back to the Easter event itself. Last week we saw it in “Doubting” Thomas, and today we read it expressed in the conversation of two disciples traveling the road from Jerusalem to Emmaus on Easter evening. These two, Cleopas and his unnamed friend, are concerned and confused. They have been followers of Jesus, but in the past few days, the one on whom they pinned their hopes has been manhandled, imprisoned, and killed. Now, on Sunday, they’ve received strange reports that Jesus is not dead after all. Some of their friends have gone to the tomb and found it empty, but Cleopas and his companion aren’t sure that proves anything. As they travel the road to Emmaus, they’re left to wonder if the road they’ve traveled so long with Jesus is, after all, one that leads nowhere. Like us, they want something concrete, something reliable, something unassailable that demonstrates the truth.
What they receive instead is a fellow traveler who appears and tells them the story of a Savior; who, when invited, enters their home; who takes bread, blesses it, breaks it, and offers it to them. And then he vanishes.
Does this encounter provide proof? Luke tells us that after the traveler gave the bread to Cleopas and his friend, “They recognized him,” and later they tell the eleven that the risen Lord “had been made known to them in the breaking of the bread.” But the literary constructions are odd. The story tells us that, in this encounter, Cleopas and his friend come to believe in the Resurrection, but the details of what has happened to them are gauzy and imprecise. It is a curious, dreamy story. The Emmaus story gives not proof, but “witness marks” like those on ancient clocks, hints and indentations in the lives of these men, different colorings to otherwise very ordinary occurrences.
What are their witness marks? As the two men reflect upon what has happened, they recognize that the encounter has instilled in them passion and meaning that was unknown before. Confusion has given way not to factual knowledge, but to hope that speaks truth. They realize that the shades and hints from their time with the traveler point toward something essential without which nothing else in life makes sense.
It is the modern fallacy to think that truth is always determined by the empirical and concrete. It is a fallacy that has diminished our understanding of poetry, of beauty, and most definitely of faith. In these arenas, truth is discerned by witness marks: by the ways our eyes are opened to wonder, by the ways our souls soar to the heights of joy or plunge to the depths of our source of being, by the ways our hearts are moved to acts of grace.
Brian Reed’s description of the antique clock repairer just as readily describes our walk through life: We’re constantly wondering if we’re spending our lives going down paths that lead us nowhere. We have to decide if we’re wasting our time or not. And what we have to guide our way are witness marks.
What are the witness marks in your life? I will admit that I, like Cleopas, most often walk through life with clouded eyes that fail to recognize them. But not always. There are those blessed times when I really pause to notice a fellow traveler on the way; when I stop arguing about life’s details just long enough to hear someone else speak a word of grace; when my heart is set afire by beauty or love; when I approach the altar and my eyes are opened to Christ in the breaking of the bread.
In such moments, the Resurrection is as real to me as if I’d been standing with Mary Magdalene at the tomb. If you ask me how I know it is true, I respond not with archaeology or experiment, but with the surprise and wonder that when I encounter the witness marks of the Resurrection and invite them into my life, I am made new, with passion and meaning and grace.
“The Lord is risen indeed,” they said. And they themselves became witness marks, showing others the path that leads to life.