No Business as Usual

Sermons for the Lectionary, Year A, Pentecost through Christ the King

Bruce L. Taylor

• Publisher: Wipf and Stock
• Year: 2019
• Print ISBN:
  9781532694806
  9781532694813
• eBook ISBN:
  9781532694820
• Topic: Theology & Religion
• Subtopic: Christian Ministry

In this companion volume to The Word in the Wind: Sermons for the Lectionary, Year A, Advent through Eastertide, Bruce Taylor provides a collection of theologically rich, sacramentally sensitive, and biblically centered sermons for the Sundays and feast days for Pentecost and the remainder of the liturgical year commonly referred to as "Ordinary Time." The compilation includes a sampling of story sermons and, in an appendix to the lectionary-based homilies, a sermon that was delivered at the invitation of the Presbyterian Church (USA) as part of the preparation for the denomination's General Assembly in 2008, challenging the church to remember and remain faithful to its prophetic heritage. Using the full range of Old Testament, epistle, and Gospel readings commended by the Common Lectionary (Revised), this collection encourages preachers to use the lectionary as an opportunity to explore homiletically the whole range of scriptural themes for their congregations, and offers all readers thoughtful reflections on living faithfully in regular engagement with Word and Sacrament.

Twenty-ninth Sunday in Ordinary Time

Spanish Springs Presbyterian Church, Sparks, Nevada

October 19, 2008

Exodus 33:12–23

1 Thessalonians 1:1–10

Matthew 22:15–22

“The Glory of God”

Pietro Sabatini looked out of the window of his studio toward the great dome of the cathedral on the far side of the river. Once again, as happened at some point nearly every day for the past twelve years, his mind came back to the way in which he had once disobeyed God, had shown his lack of faith in God, had argued with God late into the night. Life had become harder for him since that night. It wasn’t that people didn’t like his paintings. He had become more renowned for his work nearly every year. Some of the city’s leading families had commissioned him to paint portraits. His landscapes had won praise from his peers. He could command top price for his efforts. He was popularly regarded as a genius, and was compared favorably with the great artists of the past. He was especially sought out by priests and bishops to produce masterpieces for the church.

But the more he painted, especially religious themes, the deeper was his gnawing discomfort with himself. Perhaps it was because he painted so many religious themes that there was within him a growing sense that he must honor God with an exquisite piece of art that would be the supreme accomplishment of his life and set a new standard for other fine artists to emulate. It was not that he wanted more human praise, although that was always welcome, of course. No, he wanted to please God, perhaps atone for his brash impudence that night a dozen years earlier. There was no excuse for what he had said to God. Provocation, yes—the circumstances of his anger—but, he knew in the pit of his soul, no excuse. He had always tried to be a pious person, obeying the commandments as the priests explained them, giving alms when he could, taking the host when it was offered, donating some of the pictures he painted for churches when it seemed especially appropriate to do so. But he remained deeply conscious of his offense against God.

For some months now, a plan of penance had been forming in his mind. He would paint the face of God. He knew that such a proposal was filled with risk—risk on the religious side (the church’s teaching against trying to portray God was stern, if inconsistent—look at Michelangelo’s own great fresco on the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel, which, a century-and-a-half now after the great artist’s crowning achievement, was universally hailed as inspired), risk on the professional side (to attempt such a task and to fail—he would be a laughingstock among his contemporaries and ridiculed or pitied through all time to come). Today, he thought, he must make a decision. There were several commissions that had been proposed to him; would he put them off in favor of giving his full attention to this more daunting task? If he did not, he feared his courage might desert him. He must do it now or never. Actually, he had been suspecting for weeks that he must make a decision. But now that the moment had come, he realized, he did not have the inspiration that would be necessary. All he had was a sense of penitence. His mind had not conceived any way of communicating, on canvas, the absolute and total glory of God. No colors on his palette were vibrant enough. No tones in his pigments were rich enough. No countenance he could imagine was holy enough. No scheme of composition was perfect enough.

The artist turned from the large window and sat heavily in a chair, his paint-stained smock mimicking the capes of cardinals and nobles who had sat there to cast approval or disapproval on his efforts—mostly approval, thankfully. He bowed his head and clasped his hands in his lap. “O, Lord, how shall I reveal your glory to the world? How shall I see you and make you known? Communicate yourself to me, let my eyes feast upon your holiness, that I may glorify you as none other has ever done.” And he continued to sit there for nearly an hour, but no image came before his mind’s eye. Eventually, he sighed deeply, exchanged his smock for a morning jacket, took his cane in his hand, and descended the three flights of steps to the street below.

He had frequently strolled the streets of the city looking into the faces of its inhabitants for inspiration for his paintings. He often worked with models, but, before he called upon a model, he would customarily search the traffic of the markets and the piazzas and even the churches identifying types for the picture he was painting. Even when he was painting portraits, his study of faces in the street gave him insight into expression and mood. He was walking now toward the river and the stalls where vendors hawked their wares. He had vaguely in mind a route that would eventually take him to the piazza in front of the cathedral where he might even enter the great church itself and search a past generation’s efforts to honor God for inspiration how he might achieve perfection where they had fallen short. His sense of urgency was great, and yet he knew from long experience that artistic inspiration could not be conjured up on demand. But surely God could understand the depth of his desire to draw attention not to himself, but to God. Would God not be eager to help in such a great enterprise, to assist the artist in showing forth his glory in its fullness?

With such thoughts in his head, Pietro Sabatini had unconsciously come to a halt halfway across the bridge that was lined with vendors’ stalls. “For your sideboard, sir?” The question seemed to break into his awareness from out of the blue. “Flowers?” the voice persisted. A teenaged girl was holding out a bouquet assortment of blooms in front of him. “Picked fresh this morning, signor.”

“What? No, no, not today.”

“But they are beautiful, are they not?”

“Yes, quite, but I’m in a hurry. I’m on a mission.”

The girl’s eyelids drooped.

“I’m sorry. Not today.” And he pressed on through the crowded passage.

When he emerged from the bridge on the other side of the river, the sound of a bell pealing from the tower above the city hall and echoing through the thoroughfare caught him unawares. “One o’clock,” he said to himself, instinctively pulling out his pocket watch and confirming that it was in agreement with the public timepiece. He turned into a trattoria and seated himself at a small, empty table. The proprietor soon made his way through the gathering lunch crowd and inquired how he might serve the gentleman. “Soup and bread,” he responded. “And wine.” The man nodded and disappeared amidst the small jumble of tables, appearing again in a few minutes with the requested fare. The artist first sipped the wine and then tasted of the soup. Both were satisfactory, and the latter appeared to be more nutritious than the average. He broke off a piece of bread and ate it, at the same time studying the faces of the patrons seated near him, filing away in his mind the features of their expressions for retrieval when they might be useful for a crowd scene or as a characteristic to incorporate into a portrait. The trattoria was noisy and smoky, several of his fellow countrymen having acquired the practice of using the tobacco that was now being imported from the Americas and Anatolia. The artist hastened to finish his meal and resume his walk, but, as he reached into his vest pocket to retrieve a coin to pay for his meal, he was chagrined to discover that his pocket was empty, save for his watch. He had left his apartment without checking first to see whether he had any money with him. The proprietor was now standing expectantly at the artist’s table. “I’m terribly sorry,” the artist said. “This is most vexing. I seem to have left home without any money upon my person.”

The proprietor looked disconsolately at the empty glass and plate and bowl.

“I can bring payment tomorrow. Will that suffice?”

The man now looked more purposefully at the artist’s face. “Are you not Signor Pietro Sabatini?”

“Why, yes, as a matter of fact, I am,” the artist said, betraying some embarrassment. Would this be the start of a rumor that he was impoverished, or a parasite?

“You painted that picture of the woman with the alabaster jar, did you not? The one that now hangs in the Church of San Bartolomeo? My church?”

“Oh, is that your church?” the artist asked with genuine interest, somewhat flattered by the recognition.

“Yes. Such a beautiful painting. So real. So inspiring. And the priest told us that you had been commissioned to paint it by one of our parishioners, but that when he died before it was finished, you simply gave it to the church.”

“Well, yes. I feared it would have burdened his widow, and—”

“Please,” the proprietor interrupted him. “There is no need for you to bring me any payment for your food.”

“But, really, I insist.”

“No. If you want to pay for it, give the money to someone on the street who is hungry and in need. That will be payment enough. More than enough.”

“All right, then,” the artist promised. “I will do that.” He got up from his table, bowed to the proprietor, and resumed his quest for inspiration about the face of God.

Pietro Sabatini had not progressed very far until he came across an old man sitting under an awning, obviously in need of care, and a young boy holding a cup of water to his lips. The old man took a draft from the cup and smiled at the lad as the boy lowered the cup. “Thank you, Giuseppe,” the artist could hear the old man say. “Thank you. You are very good to me.”

The artist stopped at a respectful distance, wondering at the boy’s tenderness. The boy looked up and saw the artist, and an inquiring look came over his face.

“You are very kind to your grandfather,” the artist commented.

“Oh, he is not my grandfather. He lives here in the street, and sometimes beside the river. Only now, I think he is sick.”

The artist came closer and looked at the man. “Are you not well, signor?” he asked.

“No,” the man said with a weak, tired voice. “The boy is so kind. But I think I am ill.” And he coughed. His sunken eyes turned up to the artist briefly, and then he lowered them again and his head roll...

Table of contents

• Title Page
• Introduction
• The Day of Pentecost
• Trinity Sunday
• Ninth Sunday in Ordinary Time
• Tenth Sunday in Ordinary Time
• Eleventh Sunday in Ordinary Time
• Twelfth Sunday in Ordinary Time
• Thirteenth Sunday in Ordinary Time
• Fourteenth Sunday in Ordinary Time
• Fifteenth Sunday in Ordinary Time
• Sixteenth Sunday in Ordinary Time
• Seventeenth Sunday in Ordinary Time
• Eighteenth Sunday in Ordinary Time
• Nineteenth Sunday in Ordinary Time
• Twentieth Sunday in Ordinary Time
• Twenty-first Sunday in Ordinary Time
• Twenty-second Sunday in Ordinary Time
• Twenty-third Sunday in Ordinary Time
• Twenty-fourth Sunday in Ordinary Time
• Twenty-fifth Sunday in Ordinary Time
• Twenty-sixth Sunday in Ordinary Time
• Twenty-seventh Sunday in Ordinary Time
• Twenty-eighth Sunday in Ordinary Time
• Twenty-ninth Sunday in Ordinary Time
• Thirtieth Sunday in Ordinary Time
• Thirty-first Sunday in Ordinary Time
• All Saints’ Day
• Thirty-second Sunday in Ordinary Time
• Thirty-third Sunday in Ordinary Time
• Christ the King
• Thanksgiving
• Appendix: “Praying Our Way to San Jose”
• List of Sources Cited