Preaching, the Lectionary, and Art

I’ve been asked to preach three sermons about art and theology at a local church, and I’m finding that as the date of the first one approaches, the task is a lot more difficult than I thought it would be when I agreed to do it. Of course, I talk about art and faith in my classes, and when I’m asked to give a talk at the Adult Education hour at a church. And I’m always happy to talk about the role of faith in my own work as an artist.

But preaching is a different kind of task. The primary purpose of a sermon is not to teach some particular subject matter. Nor is it to be a platform to talk about my own approach to art. Rather, it is to help open the Word of God to the congregation.

I do preach from time to time in my own congregation, so standing in the pulpit is not  completely unfamiliar. However, in that setting, I rarely say anything about art. Rather, I simply allow the appointed lectionary readings to speak to me, and try my best to bring what I have heard into the midst of the assembly. Since I know pretty much everyone who is there, and we are all already engaged with one another and with God in an ongoing conversation, it is simply my turn to bring the Word as I have received it.

So the question is, how do I bring my art-self and my preaching-the-lectionary-self together in one (or three) sermons? I always tell my students that, if they want to use art in a sermon, they should not simply grab any old artwork that fits the text and use it as an illustration. Instead, they should take the time to read the painting in the same way that they would read any written commentary on the text, and decide if the artwork supports or undermines their own understanding.

Now, it’s time to follow my own advice.

Artists and Liturgy

One of the books that I go to again and again for inspiration is a simple, dark gray, wirebound volume with the simple word, liturgy, running down the right-hand side of the cover in all caps. As an object, it is modest, unassuming, yet dignified. Like all good books, like all art, and like the liturgy, itself, its true glory is only revealed through repeated experience of its content.

The proper title of this work is A Sourcebook about Liturgy. Edited by Gabe Huck and published in 1995 by Liturgy Training Publications, it is a compendium of quotations about worship, art, theology, and life. Every time I open it, I find a new treasure that I had never noticed, or am reminded of one that I had once loved yet had forgotten. Here one such piece, found on page 52, in a section called “The Love of Matter.” Rembert C. Weakland, writes,

The artist has to be a bridge builder between the contemporary art world that surrounds us and our own worshipping needs. The artist has to be a bridge builder between the liturgical expressions of the past that form the very best of tradition and the prayer needs of the present. The artist also has to be a bridge builder between the realities of our secular society and the sacredness of our worship. It would seem impossible to me for anyone to fulfill that role without being a person of deep prayer and faith.

I don’t know anything about the author except that he, himself, must be a person of the kind of deep prayer and faith that he upholds as necessary to the artist who would create art for worship. When I read his words, I feel a thrill of recognition, of agreement, of delight that someone has written down what I, also, believe. In many traditions, those who make the ritual objects for the community are valued more for the depth of their faith than for their artistic excellence.

And yet, there is a counter-argument. In the last 500 years of our Western tradition, at least, artistic excellence has been considered much more important than the piety of the artist in commissioning works for the church. Consider, for instance, the infamous story of Veronese’s Feast in the House of Levi. Veronese was notorious for his licentious living, yet was considered such a good artist that he was commissioned to paint a Last Supper to replace one by Titian that had been burned in a fire. Veronese filled his huge canvas with jugglers, dwarfs, German mercenaries, and other supernumeraries. This drew the wrath of the Inquisition, who were incensed at the idea that such impious figures might have been present at the last meal that Jesus had with his disciples. Since they might have been present in the house of a tax collector, however, simply giving the painting a new title saved Veronese from punishment and the work was accepted by the friars who commissioned it.

 More recently, in the middle of the 20^th century, Father Marie-Alain Couturier invited the most renowned artists of his time to create works of art and even design entire churches even though most of them professed no faith at all and some were actively anti-religious. Although he did hope that some, at least, might be converted, his true project was to restore great art to a central role in the church. He believed that all true art – by which he meant art made by the best artists – could reveal God to the faithful. Thus, through Couturier’s influence, Le Corbusier designed the chapel of Notre Dame du Haut at Ronchamp; Henri Matisse created the Chapel of the Rosary at Vence; and Marc Chagall, Pierre Bonnard, Germaine Richter, Georges Rouault, Matisse and others contributed works to the church Notre Dame de Tout Grace at Assy.

As an artist, I was taught to revere all of these works as monuments in the Modernist tradition while looking askance at works made from a stance of faith. As a liturgical scholar, I was taught that the purpose of art in a worship space is to serve, rather than to compete with, the liturgy. Today, standing with one foot in each of those worlds, I look with double vision at any artworks I encounter in a place of worship. I ask, Is it good art? Is it good theology? Does it serve the liturgy? I rarely ask about the faith of the person who made it. Maybe I should.

Surprises Ancient and Modern

Sant' Apollinare in Classe

It’s a new year, and I have returned from my travels with my heart and eyes filled with wonders. Just before Christmas, I was in Ravenna, finally seeing with my own eyes the astonishing 6^th century mosaics that I first learned about in art school, more than 30 years ago. Although I often tell my students that seeing an artwork in person is different from any photograph or digital representation, I was still unprepared for the overwhelming experience of standing in the nave at Sant’Apollinare in Classe and looking up at Jesus as the Good Shepherd, surrounded by all those strange-looking sheep. The green of the grass shading into the gold of heaven is more brilliant than I ever imagined, and I was completely unprepared for the enormous size of the nave, which was built to accommodate the entire population of Classe in 549, when it was built.

Galla Placidia

I also did not anticipate the golden stars and deep, blue lapis sky shining out of the relative darkness of the tiny Mausoleum of Galla Placidia. Of course, I had seen photos of the Good Shepherd mosaic, and the one that is identified as Saint Lawrence, but those photos never give a sense of how small the room is, or where they are in respect to one another.

San Vitale, just a few steps across the lawn from Galla Placidia, held a different kind of surprise: while the mosaics on the apse walls and ceiling look as fresh as they did the day the stones and glass were placed, the vault over the nave is painted with baroque swags indicating that the building was in use as an active church for at least a thousand years. That’s not something they taught me in art school!

Sant'Apollinare Nuovo

Of course, no trip to Ravenna is complete without visits to the Arian and Orthodox baptisteries and to Sant’Apollinare Nuovo, but I’ll write about them another time. Today, I want to end with the most surprising thing that I saw in that ancient and modern town. There is one site that is not mentioned in the standard art history books. It is in the little church of San Francesco, which still seems to have an active congregation. Mostly, the church is quite plain. 

The Holy Family under the chancel at the Basilica of San Francesco in Ravenna

But the guidebooks mention a 6^th century mosaic pavement, now sunken beneath the water table, but still visible through a window under the chancel. The pavement is not as spectacular as the famous walls and ceilings in other buildings, because it was meant to be walked upon, but it is worth visiting. At all times of the year, apparently, goldfish swim happily in the water above the ancient floor. At Advent and Christmas, however, there is another wonder. Someone has placed a rowboat between the columns, and there, in the rowboat, are Joseph and Mary, inviting us to share their wonder at the Christ Child, nestled in a basket of hay at their feet.