20th Sunday after Pentecost Sermon
“Jesus told this parable to some who trusted in themselves that they were righteous and regarded others with contempt.”
I tell you, that opening statement alone qualifies this as a parable for our times, doesn’t it? “that they were righteous, and regarded others with contempt.” This has always been our human tendency, but is especially so today. In our polarized society, we’re all quite certain that we’re right and they’re – not only wrong – but contemptuous. So Jesus is speaking to all of us today, battered as we are, stumbling over this dividing line of hostility that is defining our society today.
Which means, this morning, all of us (in our own way) can see ourselves in this Pharisee. We’re all prone to this way of thinking. So I’m grateful for this parable – grateful for how it can help me in understanding myself: how I’m functioning in this world, and what Jesus’ invitation may be – by way of the tax collector – to see afresh a better way of living.
After all, isn’t that what we all want and need? greater self-knowledge and greater clarity in living this life appropriately and well as followers of Jesus?
So what do we see in this Pharisee?
To begin with: he’d gone to pray. So he’s a man of faith – active in his faith – going to the temple, seeking God, addressing God. Just like me.
And it says, “he was standing alone.” That’s quite a statement, really: standing alone. It’s telling in its brevity. He chooses separation. It’s easier to be alone: less complicated or compromised. No need for tolerance or understanding of others when you’re alone.
“God, I thank you,” his prayer begins, “that I am not like other people.” Wow. What a lot of presumption going on there. Look how naturally he presumes that he and God are on the same side, that what he believes, God believes – that his way of regarding his neighbor is how God regards his neighbor. This is always the trap of human religion: God prefers us and our circumstances and our dogma. How much religion is predicated on this assumption and invested in its advancement. But let me be clear: This isn’t to say that the reverse is true, that the others are right, and we’re wrong. But rather, the rightness of God and God’s reign must surely be of a vastly different nature than the pettiness and fear that fuels so much religious belief and behavior.
And he goes on to describe who these other people are: “thieves, rogues, adulterers.” It’s name calling, with generalizations and exaggerations. They’re not people, like us. They’re not neighbors with complex lives and fears, like us. They’re degenerates and deplorables – disgusting and rejectable.
And then the Pharisee sets his eyes on one man in particular: “this tax collector.” For Jews of this era, tax collectors were especially deplorable. The nature of their work was collaborative with Rome; they were unclean; they were professional robbers – taking people’s money for Rome and a little (or a lot) for themselves. They had the authority to get away with horrible behavior and were, by nature of their position, repulsive. Just like for us, there are particular people in our orbit who are particularly repulsive. And with cause.
And then the Pharisee goes on to describe himself. Whereas those other people were defined by name calling and stereotypes, he defines himself by his righteous deeds: “I fast twice a week; I give a tenth of all my income.” His presumption of God’s favor is rooted in the fact that he’s following the right rules. This has always been the vulnerability of religious people who want the security of God’s approval: follow these rules. Whether it’s how and when to pray, or what to do with our money… if we know the rules, we can follow the rules. And that’s how we appease God: we do what the religious authorities have told us God wants us to do. And then God’s favor is procured. Or (more honestly for most), God’s wrath is kept at bay.
In recent Protestant Christian tradition (developed long after this parable was written), our particular vulnerability is dogma: God is pleased with us if we say that we believe the right thing. It’s this language of faith, we’ve decided, that’s most essential for assuring God’s favor. And so, evangelism and conversion have been defined by getting people to declare their faith in certain theological terms. Mind you, these terms can vary from sect to sect, from denomination to denomination, but the pattern is the same: Say that you believe, and you will be saved. And if you think about it, this is a really cheap form of religion. It’s asks so much less of us than most religious cultures have required – like that of the Pharisee whose fidelity was at least defined by fasting and how often he prayed and what he did with his money. So, sure enough, much of American Christianity is very cheap, indeed. Just say the name of Jesus in whatever way your tribe has required, and you will be saved. That’s all that matters. You can do whatever you want. You can behave however you choose. But slap on the name of Jesus, and you’re good. (Christian nationalism, indeed. It’s a heresy.) It’s no wonder tat the church has lost its credibility in society, when what it asks of us is so pathetically cheap.
And then there’s the tax collector.
He, too, stands alone. But his is not a posture of aloofness; it’s humility. He’s “far off,” it says, not only from the upstanding Pharisee, but even – in spirit – from God. “He wouldn’t even look up to heaven,” it says, “but was beating his breast, saying, ‘God, be merciful to me, a sinner.’”
Now, before we continue, it might just be that – for some of us – this language, too, is off-putting. You find nothing attractive in this description of the tax collector. For centuries the church has pedaled their theology of an angry God, and we want to be free from such terror and shame. Perhaps it’s taken real spiritual progress to hope in a God whose being is rooted in love and compassion. And so we baulk at any notion of being ashamed before God,
And I get that. I do. I really do. Much of my own life of faith has been the work of actually growing to believe in the substance and centrality of God’s love – not just universally (which is just so much dogma), but for me and my particularity. But if we’re not careful, this assurance of God’s love can itself become a very cheap doctrine.
Sometimes, people will come to me saying, “I feel so guilty” about whatever it is they’re feeling guilty about. Their expectation is for me to jump straight to consolation: “No, no, no. Don’t feel guilty.” I am a pastor after all; it is my job to comfort the afflicted. But my response is often the exact opposite of what they expect: “Well, are you guilty?” I’ll ask. “‘Cause if so, that’s an appropriate way to feel.”
Feeling guilty isn’t bad if you’re actually guilty. That’s just your conscience functioning appropriately.
Being a tax collector really was a bad thing. It was an unworthy profession. It was worthy of scorn. He did extort money from people who had little, that he might have much. And, likewise for us, there are any number of ways in which we are living that are inconsistent with the values of God. And the call of Jesus – over and over again throughout his ministry – was to repent.
Repentance, at its heart, is not about self-abasement or self-hatred: “I’m such a bad person.” It’s the opposite, really. There is, at its core, an affirmation of extraordinary dignity. It says, “I matter. Who I am matters. What I do matters. My place and behavior in this world matters.”
True religion that Jesus models, and to which he invites us, is rooted in the belief of our worth and our own potential to live in union and partnership with God. Repentance is far less about getting the right words out of our mouths, and far more about getting our spirits in right alignment with God and God’s love for our neighbors.
It’s never too late to repent. In fact, the path of discipleship really is an ongoing pattern of repentance. Day after day, year after year, “being like Jesus” means “becoming like Jesus.” So, as our hearts increasingly see and believe the attractiveness of the way of Christ, repentance is just the natural way to get there: “I don’t want this; I want this. I don’t want to hold grudges; I want to release. I don’t want outrage; I want compassion. God, I am sorry; I want to live otherwise. I choose to live otherwise, again, today.”
And what lies at the heart of the tax collector’s repentance is his belief in the character of God. This is what makes his prayer so vastly different than that of the Pharisee, whose prayer was one of self: “This is who I am,” listing all the rules he dutifully followed. The tax collector’s prayer was one of other: “This is who you are,” as he appealed to God’s mercy.
And he was right to do so. “Right,” not just in dogma, but in spirit. His was a prayer rooted in the hope of relationship and union with God: “Your compassion bids me welcome here.”
There’s no shame in calling ourselves sinners, when indeed we are sinning. But how good it is to discover the freedom to name it plainly – without shame, without fear – when the one before whom we name it is the one whose mercy we most crave, and whose mercy is most assured.
We can believe in the vastness of God’s mercy. If there is anyone who understands the complexity and confusion of our lives, it is God. If there is anyone who knows how strong the forces of fear are within us, it is God. If there is anyone who knows the origin of our lives and formation, and where it’s all heading, it is God.
Catherine of Siena, living and writing in the 14th century, perceived this clearly, capturing it in her prayer:
“Lord, you have loved me, even before I existed. And knowing this, I can place my trust in your love, and set aside every fear.
“Lord, you have loved me, even before I existed. And knowing this, I can place my trust in your love, and set aside every fear.”
When we repent, it is towards this God we are turning – to this light, to this hope, to this solid and living embrace. And, in so doing, “we go home justified,” which is all to say, we have found our home in God, in whom we live and move and have our being. We have been “made right” because it is in God we rightly live.