The Twenty-Second Sunday after Pentecost (Year C, Proper 25)
October 28, 2007
The Reverend Paul R. Abernathy, Rector
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Sometimes one can be so good as to inspire intense dislike. Conversely, one can be so bad as to be disliked, yet, perhaps oddly, also quite useful.
Jesus tells a parable of two people who prayed.[1]
One, a Pharisee.
Historically, Pharisees, as a group, haven’t fared well. “Pharisaical” is another word for hypocritical, generally meaning that one outwardly does all
the right things, but inwardly is less than true to the values that the actions are meant to symbolize.
Now, all Pharisees weren’t bad. Indeed, their “job” in Judaism was to know God’s Law – the Sabbath observances and feast days, dietary rules, tithing;
all 613 ritual imperatives – and then to do it. Even more, they were to be embodiments of the heart of the Law: love for God. Yes, the Jesus of the
gospels condemned the Pharisees as legalistically obsessed with external observances – concerned more about correct conduct than about love or
justice.[2] Nevertheless, their role in the life of the community was important, for all of us need outward and visible,
at times, living symbols of the values we cherish if we are to know and remember them.
All said, the Pharisees, although respected, even admired, weren’t well liked. Hard to like someone whose very existence reminds me how far short I
fall from the goal. Hard to like someone who looks down on me.
The second actor in Jesus’ two-person drama was a tax collector. A despised collaborator with the hated Roman Empire. A desecrator of the Law, taking
money from his own people for the sake of an enemy. A robber who often levied higher amounts than were owed, pocketing the difference.
Tax collectors, seeking to repent, came to John the Baptizer. They asked, “What should we do?” John said, “Collect no more than is
due!”[3] Zacchaeus, a tax collector, was so overwhelmed with gratitude that Jesus would even come to his home that he had
an instant conversion experience “If I’ve defrauded anyone,” he said, “I will repay fourfold!”[4] Clearly, tax collecting
was a profitable business, the prosperity of which often was the spoiled fruit of the misery of others.
Yet, tax collectors, neither respected nor admired, were useful. Hard not to like someone whose very existence reminds me that somebody misses the mark,
falls short of the goal more than I. Hard not to like someone on whom I can look down.
So, the Pharisee understood. As evidenced by his prayer, his hubristic litany of self-praise, he had situated himself in his moral universe as infinitely
“one-up” over the tax collector.
He hadn’t lied. No doubt he had done everything he had said. But he hadn’t embodied the heart of the Law. He hadn’t loved. Thus he
fulfilled Paul’s sad commentary on a loveless life – blessed with ability and achievement, but lacking compassion for others: “If I speak in the
tongues of mortals and angels…if I have prophetic powers…understand all mysteries…(have) all knowledge…and faith…but do not have love, I am
nothing.”[5]
Now, the tax collector, as evidenced by his humble petition, hadn’t gotten it right, but rather had gotten it real, for he hadn’t fallen prey to
the temptation of comparison. Whenever I measure myself against another, instinctively I know the risk. Whenever I go out looking for some lesser mortal
over whom to exalt myself, I will find that person, but inevitably I also will stumble into shadows cast by giants whose achievements instantly
will make my accomplishments Lilliputian by comparison. The tax collector, judging himself only against the best of himself, found himself lacking,
making necessary a cry for mercy.
So, what do we do with this parable? How do we interpret it?
Jesus, I believe, was an intuitive story teller who taught in parables because he wanted his listeners to think for themselves. Therefore, I think he
ended this parable with the tax collector’s plea: “God, be merciful to me, a sinner!” It was Luke, writing a generation or so after Jesus, who felt the
need to add the moral to the story, putting in Jesus’ mouth the words, “I tell you...all who exalt themselves will be humbled…all who humble themselves
will be exalted.” Apparently, Luke didn’t trust us with our own musings.
I think this because the ethical lines of Luke’s directive are drawn too plainly. The Pharisee, outwardly righteous, inwardly flawed. The tax collector,
outwardly flawed, inwardly righteous. Nothing in this life or in human experience is that clear!
So, taking up the story where I believe Jesus left it leads us, I believe, to recognize that in each of us dwells a Pharisee and a tax collector.
We, like the Pharisee, at times, compare ourselves with others. The cost is that our self perception can rise or fall in relation to how we view
others. At the same time, we need to hold onto the ironically pharisaical promise of recognizing that each of us has been created wonderfully,
differently, uniquely, individually, “not like (any) other people.” Therefore, there is always something we can give to others and always
something we need to receive from others.
We also, like the tax collector, earn so much of our profit – our material substance and even the stuff of our personalities – at the cost and through
the giving of others. So, we, always in danger of believing that somehow we did it ourselves, need remember to pray like a Lilliputian, always
remembering our necessity – that arises from gratitude – for mercy.
[1] The gospel passage appointed for the day is Luke 18.9-14.
