The Pharisee and the Tax Collector

Luke 18:9–14 NRSV

9 He also told this parable to some who trusted in themselves that they were righteous and regarded others with contempt: 10 “Two men went up to the temple to pray, one a Pharisee and the other a tax collector. 11 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. 12 I fast twice a week; I give a tenth of all my income.’ 13 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!’ 14 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.”

“Everyone you meet is fighting a battle you know nothing about. Be kind. Always.”

This adage plays in my mind as I consider this parable. We’ve heard this before, I assume. This unseen truth that we each carry burdens that others are unaware of. That the people we encounter each moment of the day are perhaps struggling under an unseen weight. And so, we remind ourselves to be kind. Always.

My mother used to have this quote magneted to her refrigerator door. It could easily have been dismissed as another saying among sayings. In our middle class culture, it was common to walk into people’s homes and see wooden framed statements about Living Laughing and Loving or Is It Wine O’Clock? or Wash your Hands and Say your Prayers because Jesus and germs are everywhere. We laugh and we overlook them and we move on.

But this one, everyone is fighting a battle, sticks with me.

This month, we’ve been going through a weekly course on Mental Health. Tuesday evenings at 7pm, we’re gathering downstairs in the Fellowship Hall to watch the Sanctuary Mental Health course and discuss how mental health, illness, stigma, and care all intersect with our lives. I know those who have attended have really appreciated the content and conversation.

And we’re doing this because it is important for the church to understand the complexities of mental health and learn how to support one another.

Don’t look around, but know this: there are people sitting in these pews who are experiencing the unseen complexities of mental and physical health. We cannot see cancer or diabetes, we cannot see depression or trauma.

I say this not so that we somehow become voyeuristic about other people’s issues, but rather we bring this reality to light so that we can be a people of compassion and welcome here in our church.

At St. James, we hold highly the value of Loving Welcome. We believe God welcomes all into the doors of our community and we want to honor God’s welcome by extended the hands of peace and belonging to all.

Also…when we do this, we recognize that that welcome will challenge us to stretch outside ourselves. To welcome all is to have to resist our inclination to want everyone to be like us. We can’t have uniformity if we welcome all…so some folks are going to make us uncomfortable or challenge us to see the world a bit differently. And as people of Jesus, we accept this tension or discomfort because know that this is how Jesus would welcome.

The hope is that we can be a safe enough place for the things that are hidden to begin to be seen, in love and care. That our tears and grief might come to the surface a bit more and we might experience healing with one another. That the cancer diagnosis does not have to be lived through alone, but actually it can be something that our community can surround and walk alongside with. That the traumas we have experienced, be they from home, or a partner, or even from the church, that there might be a balm of healing that can be experienced in the loving community of Jesus Christ. That is the hope.

So we talk about these things, we let them be a part of our open narrative here.

But as we turn to the parable once again, we know that this is not easy. We are quick to compare, quick to size up and judge the other. Not really even always because we think we are superior or more righteous. Sometimes, we act like the Pharisee because we are afraid and hurt ourselves and need to find another person to project that onto so we do not have to bear the full weight of our own pain all the time.

Does this sound familiar? I know it does for me.

Let’s go back to the parable, read it once more, and then have some time exploring it imaginatively.

Luke 18:9–14 (NRSV)

9 Jesus also told this parable to some who trusted in themselves that they were righteous and regarded others with contempt: 10 “Two men went up to the temple to pray, one a Pharisee and the other a tax collector. 11 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. 12 I fast twice a week; I give a tenth of all my income.’ 13 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!’ 14 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.”

The teaching here is not all that complicated. Humility leads us deeper into the love of God, a deeper knowing of our belonging with God, and our reception in God’s family, regardless of where we’ve been or what we’ve done. Humility leads us to God’s grace.

Imagination

But let’s look, for a moment, at each of the characters in this story and see how they might illuminate the reality of health, hidden struggles, and this call we hear from Jesus to be humble ourselves, even as we see the differences in each other.

The Tax Collector

I want to actually start with the Tax Collector. Tax collecting was a low-regarded career. Not because you couldn’t make good money doing it — but rather because people thought tax collectors were swindlers, skimming money off the top (which perhaps they did). They were also representatives of the state, both the local government and the Roman empire, who kept the people of first century Palestine under occupation. Taxes go to the tax man — and we all know who that is.

Maybe we think of this as the IRS. Maybe we think of him more look ICE or the FBI, out to catch us.

But I want to imagine for a moment: why is this man a tax collector? Why does he do this for a living?

Well, maybe he’s got a family to feed and this is the way he’s able to make a buck and help them. Maybe he’s an outcast from his Jewish community and has decided, in his pain and frustration, to go off and work for the man. Maybe he’s an addict and he skims money off of people’s bills to pay for his addiction, to hide it under his successful tax practice.

We see him standing far off in the temple. He’s the guy who sits in the back, maybe even out in the narthex, and doesn’t some how think he belongs or is worthy to worship God up close. Maybe he doesn’t partake in communion because he thinks he could never be worthy. Maybe he’s been hurt by the temple or church community before, so he keeps his distance.

But maybe, also, maybe he’s a seeker. Maybe he longs to be made whole, to come to worship and be clean again. So he comes and stands far off, pleading with God, beating his breast. His pain keeps him away, his unseen struggles.

Because I would also imagine he’s finely dressed, able to put on a good show. I bet he’s charismatic, a schmoozer. And perhaps he’s ashamed of this, because he knows there’s so much burden under the surface, so much pain.

And so, he says, God be be merciful to me, a sinner.

The Pharisee

And then we have the Pharisee. Again, let’s imagine a bit about who this man is.

He’s religiously educated and has a position in the temple. He’s a teacher, an expert in the law, a top notch religious leader, let’s say.

How did he get into this work? Why does he think he’s more pious?

Well, perhaps from an early age he was placed under care of the temple to be a scribe, to learn the Torah. Perhaps he came from a family of privilege who could send him off, but maybe he’s also an orphan, maybe the church is the only place that he could get a start in. And so he learned how to play by all the rules, learned how to pray and fast according to the right rules, learned to give his money faithfully. And he learned who not to be like.

Maybe he’s one of those folks who can look around the room and know who is going to be the one you want to sidle up next to, because they’re the one who will help you get ahead. And maybe he’s not being selfish about this, but rather he knows that rising as a Pharisee might be his only chance at redemption, at position, at security.

He obviously knows who not to be like: the thieves, rogues, adulterers, or even the tax collector. Out of his insecurity, he points out the ones who he perceives to be worse off, and compares himself to them. At least I’m not like them.

But under this judgement, isn’t there also likely to be fear? Insecurity? Pain of not being enough?

And what he’s learned to do to cope is to be better than others. He’s learned to follow the law and check all the boxes and be righteous before others…but maybe he’s still really hurting on the inside, longing to be approved of, hoping somehow that people won’t call him on his own pain, his own struggles. Perhaps he is just trying to hide.

Exalting and Humbling

Jesus teaches that the piety of the Pharisee, the way he prays and flaunts his position, that this is a futile exercise that leads to being exalted, but ultimately humbled as it falls apart.

And he teaches that in our brokenness, in our pained cries, we break and are humbled to a place of essence, to the truest beloved we are made as. God has mercy on us when we are honest with ourselves and others.

I want to hear this story and wonder at how God loves and receives each man. Ultimately, the Pharisees exalted place will break down. He will be humbled. And maybe, imaginatively, there is where he truly meets God. Not in fasting, not in keeping the liturgy, not in his tithes, or his service. But in knowing that all the stuff he puts on, all the pomp and piety he projects, it all ultimately must become servant to faithful letting go and being welcomed in by God.

I’ve heard this story as yet another way to diminish the Pharisees — but what if it isn’t that, what if it’s a space for us to see the Pharisee as just as hurt and longing as the tax collector?

I’ll close with a few words to us, how do we consider this as a community and take it to heart?

To say this teaches us to be kind, regardless of circumstances, is very much the point, but I don’t want us to hear that as too simple of a solution. Just be kind.

Well, yes, be kind because we’re all carrying a burden. But we have to take this kindness to its most radical end. Be kind, expecting that the person with you is holding something that they will never tell you. Be kind, even when we try again and again to get someone help and they just keep returning to their struggle. Be kind, turning the other cheek when that same person says the harsh word to you, kind to keep turning back to them in love. Kind enough to also call out the damage we each inflict upon each other, kind in demanding that we live differently.

I’ve had people in my life who hurt me, who I feel I will never be able to fully understand or reconcile with. I don’t spend much time with them, as a point. But what I struggle with and I long to work towards is this: how do I receive them in the same love that Jesus receives me with. I may not be able to heal them and they may still stir up deep pain in me. But can I continue to see them with eyes of compassion, even in our brokenness? Can I see myself in compassion and kindness too, knowing that I am finite and cannot solve every issue?

To the Pharisee, who judges others to be less than them, the truth is: there are none better or worse than you. We just each carry our burden, our pain and trauma differently.

To the Tax Collector, who thinks they are never enough because of what they perceive as public shame…they are beloved, just like the Pharisee. The work for them is to receive that love, to find rest in God’s loving arms even if they aren’t perfect like the Pharisee.

Who are you in this story? What unseen burden to you carry? And can you let that pain or burden invite you into deeper love of Jesus, who cares for you and seeks your healing? Can you see the pain in others and accept them as they are, knowing that in that loving acceptance, they can find healing and wholeness? That pushing the outsider away does nothing to help them heal?

Can we be this kind of people, a people of loving welcome, who seek each other’s healing and wholeness? This is radical love and, in Christ, makes wholeness and healing possible.

Amen.