The Artist and the Businessman
Retellings of the Pharisee and the Publican
Version One
The church was a staid Presbyterian one, with an ancient pipe organ and an antediluvian choir, singing the stiffest, most theologically correct hymns anyone has ever heard. Phyllis was wearing pearls, and her hair was perfectly coiffed, as it had been every day of her life; her elder son, Gunnar, stood at her left, looking handsome and well-dressed with just the slightest hint of a middle-age paunch, sporting perfect, effortless business casual with an Apple watch and wingtip shoes. Stefan stood at her right, the exasperating and ever-wandering lost lamb of the family with an incomprehensible hairstyle, inexplicable beard, and graffiti-markings up and down his arms.
The brothers had come back home for their sister Ramona’s wedding, which took place the night before. They never thought she’d make it to the altar; she was an HR specialist who had high standards for all prospective grooms. However, when everyone had assumed she would remain single for the rest of her life, Danny had captured her heart: Danny the tall, shy, somewhat awkward dentist who blushed easily.
But this story is not about Ramona and Danny. It’s about the two brothers and what they were thinking as they stood in church on Sunday morning, on either side of their mother.
Gunnar the businessman was thinking about the business he’d built, his 2.5 million dollar home with a lake view, his self-driving vehicle, his above-average golf game, his twenty-two year (somewhat tepid but functional) marriage, his two decent kids who were reasonably smart, athletic, and popular, and poised to do well in life.
He thought of a recent event he’d hosted, remembered the transformation of his dining room into an elegant entertainment space, the expensive wine and champagne, the exquisite food he’d had catered, the witty things he’d said, and the ringing of laughter–particularly that of a filthy rich old man and an attractive young woman.
He was satisfied.
He knew that he was a good person. On several occasions, he’d helped his brother. Had lent him money. Had bailed him out of jail. Plus, he had donated regularly to the Volunteer Firefighters.
He was grateful and proud he’d done so well in his life, especially for the sake of his mother, who was alone now; his father, a doctor, had passed away eight years earlier. Surely his father would be glad to know that he had at least one child who could care for Phyllis in her old age.
The singing ended, and the prayers began. Gunnar and Stefan sat in the pew on either side of their mother, Gunnar fiddling silently with his phone, Stefan with his head bowed and his arms crossed over his chest.
Stefan felt–or imagined he felt–the disapprobation of the people around him. The preacher’s accusing words about sin and depravity and wickedness seemed to be aimed right at him.
He flushed with shame.
These people didn’t understand, of course; he’d never been fully understood by anyone. He was different; he was an artist.
A phenomenally unsuccessful artist.
He liked to compare himself to Van Gogh: he would die, and then everyone would weep and rush to buy his paintings.
While this kind of thinking was well and good on the streets of his recent haunt, where he regularly contributed to local graffiti, it seemed hollow, somehow, here in the austerity of the Presbyterian church.
They’re hypocrites, he told himself, halfheartedly.
But he knew in his heart that they were generous, kind people, who had consoled and cared for his mother in her loss. He knew that they were hardworking, disciplined, earnest, productive people who, perhaps, even deserved their success.
Maybe some of them were selfish hypocrites. But who was he to judge? He’d been selfish too. He had sponged off of others most of his life. He had stolen.
And worse.
When the offering plate was passed around, Gunnar gave a sizable donation. Stefan gave a crumpled dollar bill.
When it was time for communion, Gunnar took the bread and wine, not exactly believing in Christ but, in his heart, affirming the church as an OK institution.
Stefan let the elements go by, certain that he was not worthy, half-suspecting he was beyond redemption.
He whispered a half-articulated prayer to God for mercy.
Version Two
The church was one of those dark, theater types with no windows that served coffee and donuts in the lobby. The pastor wore jeans, as did the pastor’s wife. Phyllis also wore jeans, paired with a “Jesus Saves” T-shirt; she clapped and raised her hands to the music, rock anthems and ballads with electric guitars and drums. Her hair, dark brown streaked with gray, hung to her shoulders somewhat limply, covering a bald spot from recent chemotherapy treatments. Her eyes filled with tears, over and over again; she swiped at them with a kleenex. Her elder son, Gunnar, a businessman with slick, swoopy hair stood at her left, stiff in his khakis and button-down shirt, his hands clasped in front of his belt, watching the words to the songs appear on a screen, his mouth tightly closed. Stefan, her creative child in dreadlocks and tie-dye, stood at her right, munching his donut, nodding his head to the music.
The boys had come back home for their little sister Ramona’s wedding, which took place the night before. They never thought Ramona would make it to the altar; she was a devoted ER nurse and had high standards for all prospective grooms. However, Danny, the brusque, burly construction worker, had captured her heart.
But this story is not about Ramona and Danny. It’s about the two brothers and what they were thinking as they stood in church on either side of their mother.
Stefan was thinking about all he’d been through, how he’d been knocked down repeatedly by life, how he’d gotten up each time, how he was a good person who cared about people, how he’d helped folks who were down in the gutter, how God had given all the herbs in the field for mankind to enjoy.
He thought of a recent party he’d thrown at the derelict house he was crashing in. He’d given some sad homeless dudes a little grass and then let them sleep on his living room floor. In the morning he’d given them Cheetos and Mountain Dew for breakfast.
He was happy with the life he was living. Like everyone, he’d made mistakes, but those mistakes had made Stefan who he was today.
And who he was today was pretty good.
He was grateful that his mom had such a caring son now that she was alone. Her jerk husband had left her in the middle of her battle with cancer. His brother, who had money, was full of himself, stuck-up and cold.
The singing ended, and the sermon commenced. The brothers sat down on the gray upholstered church-chairs. Gunnar the businessman sat with arms crossed over his chest as he half-listened to the preacher in blue jeans. Something about the “father-heart of God.” Gunnar despised the preacher, despised the motley crew around him, dressed as if they didn’t care about anything, all in blue jeans and T-shirts. They were probably blue collar workers, service workers, unskilled laborers, or unemployed.
These were the kind of people who felt that they were somehow morally superior because they were poor. Gunnar had worked hard to get where he was; he deserved what he had.
And yet, as he looked around, he knew that many of these people worked hard, too. They were decent people, actually. They had been kind to his mother when she was alone, had been her friends, had prayed and cried with her, had brought her meals, had shared their faith with her.
A fissure began to form in the stoney edifice of his being.
He began to see his callousness, his arrogance. He’d been successful; he’d made money. But along the way he’d learned to hate and despise most people, to mock them in his heart, to see them as ignorant sheep to be manipulated.
On top of this, he felt constant, enormous stress and pressure. The strain of his responsibilities caused him to lash out at his wife and kids and anyone else who seemed to hinder him from accomplishing what he needed to accomplish on a given day.
He took several vacations a year and ended up on the phone or in Zoom calls most of the time; he couldn’t even relax on vacation.
And so, when the sermon ended and the pastor in blue jeans gave an invitation, reading the scripture “Come to me, all who are weary…” Gunnar wished that he could ask God for help. But he wasn’t quite sure he even believed in God.
“You know you need the Lord,” the pastor said. “You’ve tried everything, but your life is empty. You know you can’t make it another day without Him. If this is you, raise your hand.”
Stefan the artist was thinking “me and Jesus are pretty much buddies already” and felt no need to raise his hand.
But Gunnar noiselessly raised his hand up to his ear.
“I see that hand. Christ has come into your life today, brother,” the pastor said.
Jessamyn Rains is a homeschooling mom who writes and makes music. Her writing appears or is forthcoming in various publications, including Reformation Journal, Awake Our Hearts, Trampoline, and Kosmeo Magazine, which she helps to edit. She lives with her family in Tennessee.
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