In the fall of 2000, when I began my freshman year of
college, the plan was crystal clear. A Duke diploma, a
political science major, a law degree, a future in elected
office for public service. That plan lasted one semester.
That fall, with great expectation, I registered for a class
titled, “Political Systems in Contemporary America,” and
the turning point for me that semester was a lecture
on the impact of negative campaigning. We complain
about this strategy from all points of the political
spectrum, how it demoralizes us, how it erodes our
trust in public institutions. Still, attack ads get results. I
remember how our professor calmly explained that the
reason for the prevalence of such campaigning is its
consistent record of effectiveness. “It turns out,” he said,
“that in politics you really can lift yourself up by tearing
others down. The research proves it.”
Lifting yourself up by tearing others down. This
playground bully principle is repeated in almost
every arena of our common life. Jesus knew this.
And so, in the eighteenth chapter of Luke’s gospel,
he offers a parable that is as relatable as any story
he ever told, as relevant as the latest political attack
ad, hateful Facebook post, or tweetstorm. A story
about two approaches to prayer. A story that seems
straightforward enough. But be careful—the world is
upside down.
First, the Pharisee. His prayer is more resumé
recitation, describing to God (and anyone else within
earshot) his enviable qualifications for righteousness.
But, before getting to his list of religious accolades,
the man makes clear what he is not—specifically who
he is not. He is not like other people: sinners, thieves,
adulterers, or even that guy over in the corner—I
think he’s a tax collector. In this prayer, the Pharisee
lifts himself up by tearing others down. A blatant
attack ad using the easiest of targets imaginable.
Thank God I am not like those people.
Then there is the tax collector. He stands far away.
He looks down. He begs for God’s mercy. His prayer
is not public spectacle; it is private plea. He prays
for forgiveness. He confesses to God his weakness.
He has no time for opposition research on the
Pharisee. He lifts himself up, not through insulting
others, but through his desperate prayer. Lord, have
mercy on me.
And, according to Jesus, the tax collector returns
home reconciled, justified before God. And in case
we missed it, he makes the moral of the story explicit:
if you praise yourself, you will be humbled; if you
humble yourself, you will be lifted up.
It is, of course, a frequent theme in the teachings of
Jesus. Here’s a sampling:
The last shall be first, and the first shall be last—more
on that next week.
Any who want to be my disciples must deny
themselves, take up their cross, and follow me.
Whoever wants to be first must be servant of all.
Those who wish to save their lives must lose them.
All who exalt themselves will be humbled.
A frequent theme and a mystifying promise for all
who belong to a culture that rewards self-promotion
and celebrates success achieved at any cost. The
kind of truthful humility the tax collector offers has
no place in our time. Like the Pharisee, we have
become well-practiced at pointing fingers at the
sins of others, smug in our own righteousness
by comparison. So focused are we on our own
righteousness, we have lost sight of the common
good, the good we share, instead satisfied
with merely what is better for our side. And the
consequences of this behavior surround us in every
direction, in demonizing rhetoric and violent—even
deadly—action. The virtue of self-reflective humility
placed central to the parable has mostly disappeared
from our public life, and worse, it has been replaced
by the very contempt that Jesus warns us against.
And we are all worse off for that.
In August, the Pew Research Center published a set
of survey data under the following headline: Intensely
Negative Feelings about the Opposing Party Grow.
Now, that statement is not likely to shock you, but the
rate of growth might raise eyebrows. In 2022, 62%
of Republicans and 54% of Democrats say they hold
“very unfavorable” views of the other party. When I
walked into that lecture hall in the fall of 2000, those
numbers were 20% and 26%. They have tripled in
two decades.
Something significant is happening. Something
alarming is taking place in our nation. Most of us do
not need the data to prove this reality. We experience
it in our own lives, in our workplaces, in our schools,
in our neighborhoods, and yes, even in our own
families. How differences of opinion take on an
existential tone, debate devolved into a ping-pong
of personal attacks. Relationships, cultivated over
decades, are ended over disagreements. You sure
can hear it in the language used to describe political
adversaries. Words like enemy, demonic, a threat to
our way of life, un-American, evil.
It seems the words of the Pharisee are timeless,
and his intent as current as breaking news—to
make himself bigger by tearing down those who are
vulnerable, who are different. Easy targets. I thank
God that I am not like those people.
This kind of “othering” is particularly ubiquitous
when we spend so much of our lives in echo
chambers that reinforce our assumptions and
weaponize our preconceptions. Would you like an
illustration of how tricky this temptation can be?
Consider how this morning’s parable functions. It
texts us. It sets a trap. We who hear it quickly label
the characters. And then we draw lines. I thank you,
God, that I am not like that self-righteous Pharisee!
Except. Wait. What have I done? The focus of the
parable is not the behavior of either man but the
absurd, offensive mercy of God. Its message to us
is this: Whenever you draw a line between who is in
and who is out, you will find God on the other side of
that line. It could be the most difficult lesson we ever
learn, even more difficult to put into practice.
God’s mercy exceeds the reach of our minds. Do you
believe that? Do you believe that the mercy of God
exceeds the reach of your mind? If so, how will you
live? If we as a church believe those words are true,
how will we express that belief? As a community of
faith, we must stand together in opposition to the kind
of self-righteous “othering” that the parable condemns.
Against a culture of contempt, we must build intentional
places for genuine dialogue and authentic community.
We must build a house where all are welcome. We
cannot allow voices of disdain and derision to fill the
vacuum of our silence. For God’s sake, for the sake of
the children we baptize and the neighbors we serve,
we must speak out and be counted. And, as we do, we
must remember always the witness of the tax collector.
“God have mercy on me, a sinner.”
My sermon title may have surprised you. After all,
why would a preacher have a problem with piety?
Shouldn’t we celebrate and honor devout reverence
and godliness? Of course we should. The problem
with piety is that, in human hands, it so quickly turns
to golden calf. You see, the Pharisee is righteous. He
is righteous. He is condemned not for being pious
but for worshiping his piety as an idol at the expense
of his neighbor. The tax collector is praised for the
authenticity of his prayer. His words open him to
receive God’s unconditional mercy.
Friends, our moment in time begs for places of
humble engagement intent on finding common
ground. Our moment in time begs for a community
that will avoid harmful or dismissive othering. And
here’s the good news. At Second Church, this work is
our identity. It is core to our mission. It is essential to
our future.
At its very best, the church of Jesus Christ exists
as a counterculture. In here, we are rooted in a
different story, a deeper truth: God’s mercy extends
to all, especially anyone you are likely to dismiss
or demonize. In here, we believe you can build up
without tearing down. We believe that we can be, in
the powerful words of Isaiah, repairers of the breach.
We can be people of grace.
Grace. That’s what the tax collector receives. That’s
what changes his life, reconciles him to God. Now to
be clear, grace is available to the Pharisee as well, but
he sees no need for it. He has his righteousness.
Grace. Freely and abundantly offered.
Grace. Ours to share in this broken and beloved
community.
Grace. A gift that might just change the world.
Grace. Let it begin with us.