Homily for the 22nd Sunday after Pentecost
“Out of the
Boomerang Trap”
by
Margaret D. McGee
Delivered at St. Paul’s Episcopal Church, Port Townsend,
Washington on October 28, 2007.
Jeremiah 14:1-6, 7-10, 19-22
Psalm 84:1-6
2 Timothy 4:6-8, 16-18
Luke 18:9-14
Jesus 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." --
Luke 18:9-14
 This Gospel lesson gives me the
willies, and I’ll tell you why.
Jesus tells a story, and he
directs it particularly to “some who trusted in themselves that
they were righteous and regarded others with contempt.” His
story has two characters. Each comes to the temple to pray. They
stand far apart, at opposite ends of the temple from each other.
The first, a Pharisee, standing
by himself, thanks God that he’s not like other people. Sinners.
Thieves. Rogues. Adulterers. He’s not like them, thank God. In
the midst of his prayers, he catches sight of the other
character in the parable—a tax collector. The Pharisee offers
God special thanksgiving that he’s not anything like that tax
collector. The Pharisee reminds God that he himself fasts twice
a week and gives a tenth of his income. He follows the rules,
and this, he believes, makes him righteous.
In our modern ears, the word
“righteous” has come to sound so much like “self-righteous,”
with all its negative connotations, that it’s easy to miss what
the word really meant to the Pharisee and to Jesus. In the
Bible, to be “righteous” means to be in right relationship with
God or with another person. Different relationships have
different rules of behavior. I don’t relate to my mother in the
exact same way I relate to my father. And it wouldn’t work if I
did.
When some relationship of mine
is broken, or unfulfilled, then using today’s words, I might say
that things aren’t right between me and that other person, or
that I want to get right with them. And when I’m in spiritual
pain, afraid, or ashamed, troubled by a sense of my own
brokenness, my soul lost in the desert—when, in the words of the
prophet Jeremiah, I “look for peace, but find no good; for a
time of healing, but there is terror instead,” then I might say
that I long to “get right” with God.
This, as I understand it, is how
Jesus means the word “righteous” in his parable. We’re righteous
when all is well between God and us, when our relationship with
God is whole and sustaining and on its right footing. Then, in
the words of this morning’s psalm, we can say, “Happy are
[those] … whose hearts are set on the pilgrims’ way. Those who
go through the desolate valley will find it a place of springs,
for the early rains have covered it with pools of water.”
The Pharisee prays in the
temple, thanking God that he’s not like all those unrighteous
sinners all around him. He follows the rules of relationship
with God as they’ve been given to him—fasting, tithing, and so
on—and he trusts in himself to get it right—and to be right—with
God.
In stark contrast, standing far
off on the other side of the great hall, the tax collector
cannot even look up, but head bowed, he beats his breast. With
no indication that he thinks he can get anything right, he
prays, saying, “God, be merciful to me, a sinner!” And yet,
Jesus says that this man goes home justified—that is, acquitted,
set free, restored to right relationship with God—rather than
the Pharisee.
This parable gives me the
willies, because when I read it, the first words that spring
into my mind are: "Oh that self-righteous Pharisee! What an
unpleasant person. Thank goodness I'm not like that. Thank you,
dear God, that I’m not anything like him!"
And I hear those words in my
mind, and a mouse runs up my spine, because Luke says that
“Jesus … told this parable to some who trusted in themselves
that they were righteous and regarded others with contempt.” In
an instant, a twinkling, I realize with horror I am the
Pharisee, standing right in his shoes! So in the next instant,
the next twinkling, I’m the tax collector, beating my breast and
saying, “God, be merciful to me, a sinner.”
Here the real trouble starts.
Because I’m not all that comfortable in the tax collector’s
shoes either. In Jesus’s day, tax collectors were numbered among
the most despicable class of sinners because they were thieves.
They commonly collected more than was owed and pocketed the
difference. And they were protected in their thievery by the
empire, an occupying force that enriched itself on the land and
labor of ordinary people. Tax collection under Rome worked
something like a state-sanctioned protection racket. So the tax
collector, besides being a traitor to his people for his
collaboration with the empire, was also the lowest thug on the
ladder, the one who comes to your house or storefront and
demands payment, or you get your leg broken.
Okay, fine, I’m a sinner. But
surely, Lord, I’m not as bad as all that. Thank God—at least I’m
not like the tax collector.
And so the mouse runs up my
spine again, and I’m right back in the Pharisee’s shoes. That’s
why this parable gives me the willies. Caught first in the
Pharisee’s shoes, then in the tax collector’s, and then back to
the Pharisee’s again—what’s the way out of this boomerang trap?
Jesus says that the Pharisee
stands by himself to offer this prayer, and indeed, it is a
lonely prayer—full of self-praise and contempt for others, empty
of love: the life blood, the sustaining rain, that gives life
and meaning to God's rule.
The Pharisee’s pride in his
clean and spiffy outward behavior reminds me of a Miss Manners
column that I read years ago. I like Miss Manners. To her,
manners are not empty rules to make us look good, but ways to
show mutual respect and honor mutual dignity, so that we can
maintain good relations with each other.
So. A woman writes to Miss
Manners complaining about the poor manners of guests in her
home. This woman recently re-decorated her guest bathroom, and
she bought special decorative towels to match the new wall
color. Her problem? Guests keep using these towels. The towels
are delicate. If she has to wash them every time someone comes
to visit, they’ll be ruined.
So, on the counter right beside
the sink, she tried laying out ordinary towels for her guests to
use. But her guests still used the decorative towels. So then
she put out a roll of paper towels. They still didn’t get it,
but kept thoughtlessly using the delicate new towels. What can
she do about these rude people?
From her reply, it was plain
that Miss Manners could hardly believe her eyes when she read
the letter. She made it abundantly clear that any towel in any
guest bathroom was there for the use and comfort of any guest.
Period.
Though I’m completely with Miss
Manners on this one, still, I can’t help but sympathize with the
woman who wrote the letter. After all, this lady followed the
rules as she saw them for proper guest relations. Like the
Pharisee offering God his sparkling behavior, she offers her
guests a bathroom cleaned and decorated just for them. If her
house was anything like mine, the guest bathroom was probably in
better shape than the one she used herself.
And yet, to draw the analogy
back into today’s parable, it seems that the guest bathroom, all
cleaned up for show, is not the room where God feels welcome and
at home. Instead, it’s the tax collector—the messiest, dirtiest,
most unlovely soul in the temple—who shows the way. And how does
the he pray? He speaks the plain, unvarnished truth about
himself. Beating his breast, he cries out, “God, be merciful to
me, a sinner!” And he goes home right with God.
How to make God welcome? Throw
every door open, right down to the inner sanctum, the bathroom
that doesn’t get cleaned for company, its towels used and worn.
I don’t have to carry the Pharisee’s virtues or the tax
collector’s sins—my own virtues and sins are enough. Because it
turns out that we ourselves, our own pain and messy state, are
the very offerings to put us right with our Maker. And that it
is in this way, the story shows, that the trap may be sprung,
and the drought ended, and the cooling waters come pouring in,
and out of death comes new life.
Thanks be to God. Alleluia.
Amen.
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