The Fallacy of Better-Than: a sermon for the Twenty-Third Sunday after Pentecost

Luke 18.9-14

9 Jesus told this parable to certain people who had convinced themselves that they were righteous and who looked on everyone else with disgust: 10 “Two people went up to the temple to pray. One was a Pharisee and the other a tax collector. 11  The Pharisee stood and prayed about himself with these words, ‘God, I thank you that I’m not like everyone else—crooks, evildoers, adulterers—or even like this tax collector. 12  I fast twice a week. I give a tenth of everything I receive.’ 13  But the tax collector stood at a distance. He wouldn’t even lift his eyes to look toward heaven. Rather, he struck his chest and said, ‘God, show mercy to me, a sinner.’ 14  I tell you, this person went down to his home justified rather than the Pharisee. All who lift themselves up will be brought low, and those who make themselves low will be lifted up.”

Let the words of my mouth
    and the meditations of my heart
    be pleasing to you,
    Lord, my rock and my redeemer.

Is this a parable about our motivation for coming to church?

Well, probably not, since the Church, per se, didn’t actually exist in Jesus’s own time. The synagogue, yes; The Temple, yes; but not the Church.

Besides, Jesus does most of his ministry out and about, in the street, in the field, on a boat, in people’s homes, but much less often in the space people set aside for holy activities.

It’s probably not a parable trying to tell us to come to church in humbleness, stand in back, and beat ourselves on the chest because we’re so unworthy. I don’t think Jesus is being that specific with this metaphor.

Is this a parable about how we should pray?

That is, after all, the specific activity that the tax collector and the Pharisee are practicing in the parable. Is right prayer (orthodoxy… orthopraxy… orthoproseuchomy?) about posture and position, about the kinds of words we use, about beating ourselves down instead of puffing ourselves up?

Well, I think that gets closer to the point, but that’s not quite it.

Is this a parable about our public witness?

The displays of the tax collector and the Pharisee are very public. They’re highly visible. But one thing they’re not is in a crowded public space. I’ve argued before that what defines us as faithful is what we do when we leave the God-box, not what we do while we’re in here. I contend that the same thing applies here. The Temple ought to be a safe space to meet God, even though it wasn’t any more so in that day than our churches are today. Think about how many people would feel unwelcome if they walked in our doors today.

I think that starts to get us even closer to the point of the parable.

Jesus is talking to “certain people who had convinced themselves that they were righteous and who looked on everyone else with disgust”. Identifying that audience is important enough for Luke to write it down, which is different and more detailed enough to make the parable unusual. It certainly ought to be important enough for us to take note.

People who had convinced themselves that they were righteous.

It’s one thing for people to convince themselves that they’re right. We do that all the time. If we didn’t, we’d have no convictions.

On the other hand, maybe we’d be better off without convictions. What if we just had good ideas instead of convictions? Maybe we would actually be able to talk with each other instead of shouting at each other.

Faith, after all, isn’t being sure about what we know. Faith is the evidence of things unseen. It’s an act of hope in something we can never be sure of.

It is not the certainty of being right.

And it is not the conviction that we are righteous.

Because we aren’t, are we? Only One is righteous.

Lord, save us from self-righteousness. Remind us that we are dust.

Remind us that none of us is the Pharisee.

We are all, always, the tax collector.

That’s why it’s so strange when we put ourselves above someone else. When we think we’re better. When we think others aren’t deserving, aren’t good enough.

I know you’re familiar with the current far-right line of thinking that goes, “Tear down all the social welfare problems! The 46% of the population it reaches are lazy good-for-nothings who only want to bleed off what I’ve worked my whole life for!”

What a lie. And what a way to stomp people down, people who are made in God’s image, people whom God loves.

Shame on us.

We are all the tax collector. We are all poor. We say nasty things like that about people because we are trying desperately to hide the fact that we want to bleed social systems of every penny we can get for our own benefit, regardless of whether we need it or don’t.

Did we give over and above our taxes, or did we search for every loophole and deduction we could find? Are we giving generously to the church, or are we hoping someone else will cover our lack?

We are all the tax collector. We are all unworthy.

What makes us the Pharisee isn’t that we’re more righteous. What makes us the Pharisee is that we hide the ways we’re not righteous. We mask them with pride and overinflated stories of the good we occasionally do.

The fallacy of thinking we’re better than anyone else is that we aren’t. We are all the same. We are all broken, bruised, sinful, unworthy wretches who ought to be falling to our knees, beating our chests and crying out, “Lord, have mercy on me, a sinner!”

I tell you, this person went down to his home justified rather than the Pharisee.

Why is that? Why is one man justified and the other not? Is it because he isn’t so bold as to come close to the Mercy Seat? Is it because he beats his chest? Is it because he didn’t compare himself?

I don’t think so. Yes, I think the answer has to do with his attitude, but no, I don’t think it’s any single practice, or any combination of things he did or didn’t do.

And I don’t think it’s all about his humility, either.

All humility does is keep us away from pride.

And that’s the difference between true humility and false humility, by the way. False humility is being humble so as to make oneself appear more humble. True humility is being humble because I know what a wretch I actually am.

But the tax collector’s justification isn’t something he made happen. All he did was make room for it.

He stepped outside of pride and stepped into the mercy that was already all around him.

Because there is nowhere we can hide from God’s mercy. We build walls of pride and selfishness and ambition to guard against people and ideas we’d rather pretend aren’t really there, but ours isn’t a God who is stopped by walls. Ours is a God who could quite easily break down our walls like Jericho or suddenly appear as the Savior did to the disciples in the locked upper room.

But ours is a God who would rather be invited in. Ours is a God who desires to be in relationship with us: with me, with you, with every unlovable, despicable person ever created.

Because ours is a God who doesn’t see us as despicable. Ours is a God who sees us as we are created: beloved children, created in God’s image. And God doesn’t make mistakes.

You are not a mistake.

You are a beloved child.

Maybe that’s where our better-than-ness comes from. We are so scared of the ugliness we’ve created over years of practice and playground bullying that we can’t believe anybody else would be anything but ugly.

But God can.

You are not a mistake.

You are a beloved child.

And that pollster who called during dinner, trying to make ends meet below a living wage, probably not working enough hours to get benefits? You know, the one you hung up on after yelling at her because she interrupted your dinner? She’s God’s beloved child, too. She’s not a mistake.

The guy down the road you’re sure is selling drugs? He’s not a mistake. He’s God’s beloved child.

The woman you’re sure is cheating on her husband? She’s not a mistake. She’s God’s beloved child.

Not one of us isn’t. We just insist on treating each other like it.

But the truth is that you are beautiful. You are worthy. You are precious to God, and God wants you to see yourself that way.

And maybe, when you do, you’ll start to see your neighbor that way, too.

In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.