Lord Have Mercy

Series: Pentecost

Speaker: The Rev'd Emily Griffin

Tags: mercy, parable, pharisee, prayer, tax collector

Imagine a beautiful gold box placed before you. It looks like a gift, a present. Our Sunday School kids would recognize it right away; they’d tell you there’s a story inside. Some might be able to tell you that it’s a parable from Jesus. You see, that’s what parables look like in their classes – gold boxes with lids. They’re gold, because parables are valuable like gold, and they have lids, well, because you never know what you’re going to get with a parable until you open it up and look inside. Sometimes the lids are hard to remove. No matter how hard we try, we can’t seem to get inside and understand. Not so with today’s parable, or so we think. We’re pretty sure we know who we’d cast in these roles.

In this case, there’s a tag on the top of the box. It reads: “To: The Self-Righteous and Contemptuous.” A little on the nose, don’t you think? Are we sure this one’s meant for us? UPS must have gotten the address wrong. It must be meant for that church down the street, or for those who are home right now watching the morning shows grousing about the election. If ever an election season inspired self-righteousness and contempt…but I digress. Why is this box here if it’s only meant for “other people”? We might as well try to see what’s inside.

The temple is busy that morning. All sorts of people are bringing their offerings, saying their prayers. For whatever reason, we find ourselves drawn to two men – both there to pray. The first walks in confidently and boldly. We know him right away as the Pharisee. He scans the crowd, registers another man hovering near the door, breaks stride for just a second as if he’s about to say something snarky, but then thinks better of it and proceeds proudly to his place. We try not to eavesdrop, but he is speaking rather loudly, almost anxiously filling up the space with words: “God, I thank you that I am not like other people; thieves, rogues, adulterers, or even like this tax collector. I fast twice a week. I give a tenth of my income…”

He continues, but we get the gist of it. Our eyes go back to the other guy. Come to think of it, they don’t look so different after all. The clothes are different, of course; but the faces are strikingly similar; they must be related somehow. They at least know each other. We wouldn’t have known what the man did for a living if the Pharisee hadn’t told us. Yet unlike the Pharisee who seems to take his place for granted, the man we’re now watching stands far off – in what would be the back pew if temples then had back pews. He’s looking down so we can’t see his face, but we can hear him: “God, be merciful to me, a sinner!”

We’re told that it’s the tax collector who returns home in right relationship with God. That would have been scandalous in Jesus’ time. Tax collectors were today’s sleazy politicians, the equivalent of ambulance chasers and pawn brokers – those known for exploiting the desperate to line their own pockets. For a tax collector’s prayer to be lifted up as faithful was a tough pill to swallow – made easier, of course, when we take the Pharisee down a peg or two.

So what about the Pharisee? Too easy a target, in my opinion. Most of us know enough of those smug, overly pious, holier-than-thou types that we smile a little too quickly at Jesus’ distasteful depiction of them. You know the ones I’m talking about – those who make a point to let you know that they never eat fast food and always buy organic, who’ll never admit to being bored or distracted in church, who measure their righteousness by all the things they don’t do. It’s so easy to be contemptuous of such “Pharisees” that we forget that they were the ones who did much of the day-to-day work of the congregation, who pledged fully and faithfully every year, who maintained the worship space others took for granted, who were so devoted to God that they hadn’t given up on being holy. Let’s put ourselves in the Pharisee’s shoes for a minute.

If anyone had earned the right to walk confidently and boldly into the temple, it was he. He had worked long and hard to be right with God, and he just wants God to notice. He wants God to confirm that he isn’t like everyone else. Fasting twice a week is difficult; tithing all your income seems near impossible. Why shouldn’t he be rewarded? It’s only fair. They’re not working as hard as he is; how could they? He’s dancing as fast as he can.

What image of God must he have? The Almighty as overzealous soccer coach, the micromanaging CEO, the eternal stage parent who’s never satisfied with second best – who keeps pushing until you have the perfect game, make every sales quota, hit every note just right. No wonder he’s so focused on everyone else’s sins. It’s easier than facing his own inevitable failure. When divine acceptance depends on success, nothing is worse than failure. Failure is unspeakable.

At a clergy conference several years ago, Archbishop Desmond Tutu called this the clearest evidence of original sin that he’s ever seen. I suspect he’s right. Nothing seems more deeply ingrained in us than our constant need to prove ourselves, to earn our place at the table, to ingratiate ourselves to God – often at another’s expense. We forget constantly that God is not the eternal stage parent, the punishing boss or angry coach. We don’t have to perform for God or succeed at all costs. God loves us unconditionally. There’s nothing we can do or think or feel that can put us outside of God’s love.

What does that mean in terms of how we treat each other? Well, it means that we don’t have to constantly distinguish ourselves, to prove that we aren’t like other people - which is a good thing, because we can’t. We can’t, in the end, separate ourselves from the rest of God’s creation because, like it or not, we are like other people. We’re made of the same flesh and blood, the same breath of life, the same vulnerability to shortsightedness and pride. We’re all sinners saved by grace, and we’re all in need of forgiveness – even if it’s for the presumption of assuming we can earn it with our good behavior. True forgiveness cannot be earned. It can only be received as a gift.

What we have in this beautiful gold box of a parable is a gift, even if it doesn’t feel like it at first. And it’s good news for all people – not just for the smarmy, but the smug too. God’s grace is sufficient for us. Period. Think about the implications of that. When we can finally rest in God’s love and acceptance, then perhaps we no longer have the need to regard each other with contempt. We don’t have to carry all that resentment and blame anymore. We don’t have to fear competition for God’s good graces. It’s not a zero-sum game where some of us need to be right and everyone else has to be wrong. We can stop keeping score for God’s sake and get onto something more useful.

One thing that encourages me about this parable is that, despite their legitimate differences, both the Pharisee and the tax collector go to the same place to pray. Where else would they find each other on equal footing as fellow children of God? Where else but from a place of prayer would true dialogue or healing even be possible? What other institution is based on the giving and receiving of mercy? The truth is – the Pharisee and the tax collector need each other. Or as St. Paul might say, the eye can’t say to the hand “I have no need of thee.” They’re part of the same Body. They might even be the same person, depending on the day. The Pharisee in all of us needs to be reminded of our own need for mercy, and our inner tax collector needs to know that we can live more holy, less self-centered lives. We’re not stuck playing whatever role someone else has decided we should play. In reality, we all have our Pharisee and tax collector moments, and we don’t get to decide who is cast in each role.

Some of you might be wondering what I’m doing spending all this time on a Bible story when there are hotter fires burning out there,  seemingly bigger, more important fish to fry. Yes, our parish is in transition; we don’t know exactly what the future will hold, and no, we don’t like feeling that way in the middle of a stewardship campaign when we’re called upon to give in hope anyway. And to top it all off, no matter who we choose, we’re about to elect someone for President that at least half the country doesn’t trust yet. On that last topic, I’m not sure how much my words will add to the onslaught of opinions we face every day. I don’t need to tell you the dangers of demonizing those with whom we disagree – or the self-righteousness and contempt that are just about inevitable when we do. Nor do I need to remind you of the perils of assuming that everything will just sort itself out. It won’t. This is DC; we know the stakes are too high to keep our convictions to ourselves. We need to speak up; we need to vote.

In terms of our own place of prayer, our own community based on the giving and receiving of mercy (a pretty beautiful idea, when you think about it), I take comfort in the fact that I don’t need to be right all the time – and neither do you. I don’t need to justify myself or prove my worthiness to be here, and I certainly don’t need to do it anyone else’s expense – and neither do you. I can speak the truth in love as best as I see it and accept that others will see that truth differently – and so can you. And I can admit that all of us – all of us - fail to live up to our better angels at least some of the time – and yes, so can you. So here’s the good news today: in these uncertain times we are all at God’s mercy, but that is the best possible place for us to be. We couldn’t be in better hands. Amen.