Here is the text of a sermon I preached today at Collins Street Baptist Church, Melbourne. The Gospel text is Luke 18. 9 – 15:
He also told this parable to some who trusted in themselves that they were righteous and regarded others with contempt: ‘Two men went up to the temple to pray, one a Pharisee and the other a tax-collector. The Pharisee, standing by himself, was praying thus, “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 all my income.” But the tax-collector, standing far off, would not even look up to heaven, but was beating his breast and saying, “God, be merciful to me, a sinner!” I tell you, this man went down to his home justified rather than the other; for all who exalt themselves will be humbled, but all who humble themselves will be exalted.’
For a conference paper I will be giving later this year I’ve been collating studies of church attendance in various parts of the world. It’s not a happy scene, especially among the younger generations, as you can imagine. A very revealing study, Why People Don’t Go to Church, found that the strongest factor was a perception of church services as boring, while other very strong factors included preference for other things to do on Sundays, moral and theological differences or disagreements with the churches, and the assertion that it is not necessary to go to church in order to be a Christian. Today I think the appalling behaviour of some church leaders has simply turned many people off any thought of going to church as a meaningful thing to do or a safe place to be.
It’s a reasonable question: Why would anybody go to church? What difference does it make?
Last time I preached here it was Palm Sunday and the reading was about Jesus going into the city and into the temple, and I invited us to think about why we come into the city, what it means that we are here.
Today the reading is about going out from the temple, and the effect upon two people of being there and when they went home—literally it says going down, from the temple mount.
What difference did it make?
This story, which is perhaps familiar to many of us, sits in Luke’s Gospel with several other stories. Before, is the story of the reluctant judge and the persistent widow desperate for her rights, and eventually the judge rules in her favour just to get her off his case—and Jesus says that God is so much more willing to do justice for those who cry to God day and night.
Following that is the blessing of little children and the urging to receive the gift of God’s way as children, and that in turn contrasts with the person known as a rich young ruler, who is in fact well versed in the ways of God and follows the teachings of the Scriptures, but when urged to give it all away and follow Jesus finds that a step too far.
Then comes this story which is introduced with the words “he told this parable to some who trusted in themselves that they were righteous and regarded others with contempt” v. 9.
The parables Jesus told are all a bit like jokes: they depend totally upon the punch line, or some completely unexpected aspect. They are meant to hit you with something you didn’t expect.
But this one, today, the story of two men who go up to and then down from the temple, has in many ways lost that impact. It is familiar to us and therefore we are inclined to think we know what it is about and what it means.
It’s really simple, and obvious, isn’t it?
One man goes to the temple to pray: he is in fact a social pariah. He’s a tax collector, and that means he has made some kind of a deal with the Roman occupation system, to collect money from his fellow Jews for the support of the great Roman empire. And what a tax system it was: so effective in robbing the poor and ordinary citizens to pay not only for armies, but for roads and aqueducts, palaces and whole new cities, some of them being built right there in the land of Palestine, paved with marble, fit for an emperor, named after the emperor, … and to pay for it all this fellow had a contract, a franchise if you like: his obligation was to collect a certain amount on various items and if he managed to collect more than that, then all to his benefit.
In the eyes of his fellow citizens, he was a collaborator and a thief, but they were powerless to do anything about it. Complain and he’ll find something extra for you to have to pay.
Nonetheless, he goes to the temple to pray, and he stands over there in the corner, probably because no one else wanted to go near him anyway, and he does not even look up to heaven as would be the custom, but his prayer is as simple and profound as this: God, be merciful to me, a sinner.
The other man has a public profile too. He is a Pharisee, belonging to a religious party with a program to teach and nurture right behaviour, right belief, right values and right worship: where the word right means that it brings people into a strong and happy relationship with God. The Pharisees were teachers of the Law, the way of God, and they cared about their nation and they longed for the day when all the people would come to God in worship, in moral and just behaviour: and their belief was that if the people could catch this vision and live like this, God would judge them worthy and would remove this wicked and oppressive Roman regime.
And towards this vision they hoped to set an example.
So this fellow also stands by himself, he stands out, and his prayer is much more detailed and meant for the good of others as well as for God to hear: He thanks God that he is not like other people—thieves, rogues, adulterers, in fact like this fellow over there … and what’s more, he fasts twice a week, and gives a tenth of his income, careful to note a tenth of all his income, no cheating on pre or post taxable income here.
These are special things that other people might do at a time of mourning or special need, but this man does it all the time. What a fine example he is …
And the point of the story is the contrast: which of these men went down from the temple made right, at peace with God?
And Jesus adds: all who exalt themselves will be humbled and all who humble themselves will be lifted up.
We can understand that: it might be hard, but we get it. So we think.
Luke’s Gospel, which is the Gospel set for us to read in this church year, has a consistent theme on the compassion of God. God is the champion of the poor, of the marginalised, women, the sick or disabled, who were so often thought somehow to be to blame for their condition, foreigners, the homeless, prostitutes and sinners.
That’s Luke’s theme: the living, practical, inclusive love and healing of this God. But the important aspect is that this grace, this healing, this reign and righteousness of God is always and everywhere undeserved.
Compassion is more than just deserts.
Grace always has a ‘nevertheless’ to it.
The way of God is not about who has done what or who hasn’t done what.
The compassion of God simply is.
The American writer John Caputo speaks about the mysticism of the rose, drawing upon an idea of German mystic Angelus Silesius (1624 – 1677), who wrote
‘the rose is without “why”, it blooms because it blooms’.
This is a very difficult thing for us scientific, competent modern people. We always need an explanation.
Caputo says we must learn to live like the rose: just be. Without why. Without justification.
The compassion of God is not based on justification, on just deserts. It is its own justification. God is gracious. Full stop.
That you see is the kicker, for us who think we know this parable and understand it.
Probably not. There is in fact a great reversal here. This humble tax collector is no more worthy that the Pharisee.
No, no one is more worthy than anyone else.
There is an apocryphal story about a theological student at a certain Baptist college who once remarked to a visitor, ‘You know I am the most humble man in this college.’
Uriah Heep, oh so ‘umble’, and proud of it.
Luke’s Gospel sweeps all that away. Grace is not related to performance. Here there is a great reversal.
The self-satisfaction of all those Christians who can list the vices they do not have, the sins they have not committed. So what!
And we who hope to identify with the grace of God in solidarity with refugees and others pushed aside by our society, with our courageous practices of truth-telling, kindness, authenticity and wisdom, we too are likely in fact to be affronted by this same grace, which extends also to murderers, and exploiters, political liars, the filthy rich as much as the poor.
Does the grace of God extend any less to those we consider profoundly immoral, notwithstanding that they may have been elected to the highest offices in the land?
Here is the great reversal, for us: It’s a paradox.
It is not that we are more worthy because we don’t pretend to be worthy.
We can no more say: My God I thank you that I am not like this Pharisee who is not like this tax collector…
Our compassion and our humility and our whatever other virtues we may have in our spiritual wallet is no more worthy than anyone or anything else.
No one is more or less worthy.
God’s compassion is like the rose. It is without why.
So what do we do with this? What can we make of this?
One commentator said: it is a good thing that both these characters went to the temple. And there is nothing wrong with what the Pharisee did and wanted to do with his life.
Where he slipped up was his attempt to commandeer God into condemning the tax collector and preferring him.
One man simply accepted that God is gracious, without why.
The other went away not at peace, not justified, because he was still intent on performing, earning his place in the community of God.
It’s almost time to go home. What will it mean for us?
English writer and pastoral counsellor Harry Williams once wrote that it is not surprising that Christian families often have their worst fights on Sunday. He said: if we go to church and genuinely reflect on our lives, allowing the light of the Gospel to penetrate the truth of who we are, we will feel vulnerable, uncomfortable, and we will want to live better lives, but we will know too how easily we slip into blaming others, or trying to pretend that we are something we are not. Better than others, better than what we know is the truth about ourselves.
With what shall we leave this place?
What difference will it make to who we are and how we live?
In both Matthew and Luke’s Gospels, Jesus begins it all with words of blessing: blessing, and here too is this kicker, this great reversal. One wonderful translation begins like this:
How blest are those who know their need of God; the kingdom of heaven belongs to them.
How blest are you when you know, know with the depth of everything you are, know that you are spiritually bankrupt—but know too that it is not a matter of what you have or haven’t, what you did or didn’t do, just that you know your need of God and God’s willingness to be with you, stand with you in the corner, or wherever you are, hear your prayer and send you home, at peace, for no reason at all, no justification in word or deed, just because.
Without why.