Luke 18.1-17

Our church is a peculiar place. Wonderful—I love you guys—but peculiar. It’s peculiar in that the average age in our church is twenty-five, whereas in most churches it’s either a good deal more mixed, or just a lot older.

There is a theory that one could develop when thinking about a church like ours; let me explain the reasoning behind the theory. I don’t want what I’m about to say to sound condescending, but it will illustrate why today’s text is important. (And I’m turning 38 tomorrow; 25 has behind me for a while, so I think I’ve earned the right to play the big brother card in this case.)

I don’t want what I’m about to say to sound condescending, but it will illustrate why today’s text is important. (And I’m turning 38 tomorrow; 25 has behind me for a while, so I think I’ve earned the right to play the big brother card in this case.)

Twenty-five is a great age: you’ve got energy, you’re creative, you’re enthusiastic, you don’t hurt all over, at least not from doing something ordinary like sleeping (trust me, it’s coming). And most of you don’t have kids, so you can go out when you want, you can stay up as late as you want, sleep as late as you want…

But twenty-five is also a dangerous age. It’s dangerous because you’re old enough to be educated, to be proficient in your various fields… But you’re not quite old enough yet to have the force of experience behind you. There’s a kind of swagger, a sort of low-level arrogance, that comes with being twenty-five, and it’s there simply because life hasn’t had the time to beat it out of you yet. Time has a way of giving you perspective.

So the idea one could have about a church like ours is that because most of the people in this church are young, there’s probably a bit of arrogance here that you wouldn’t find in other churches.

Here’s why that theory is dead wrong.

Perspective is not the same thing as humility. When you get older, you start to understand how the world works, and realize that you’re not going to win every battle. That’s perspective. But it’s not humility.

Humility is seeing oneself realistically. It’s looking at myself and seeing me for what I I really am—with all of my faults, all of my weaknesses, all of my insufficiencies—and being honest with myself about those things.

And the perspective that can come with age can often be an enemy of humility. You can imagine that because you’ve lived through so much and because you know how the world works, that means you can take care of yourself, and you look with disdain on these young folks who think they’re geniuses.

The truth is that we are all intrinsically arrogant. We are all inherently prideful. In order to be humble, age is not enough, perspective is not enough, experience is not enough.

In order to be humble, age is not enough. Something else has to come into play here, to grant humility to the old and young alike.

Something else has to come into play here, to grant humility to the old and young alike.

In last week’s text, we saw Jesus declare to the Pharisees (those hyper-religious Jewish men who hated him) that the kingdom of God, long promised by the prophets, is now here, in him. He talked about the day that kingdom would finally be consummated upon his return, and then reminded his disciples that in the meantime, while we wait for Christ’s return, we need to live as citizens of that kingdom. He began last week talking about what that kingdom living looks like, and in the next couple chapters he’s going to go further with that.

And what characterizes kingdom living in today’s text is humility. He’s going to look at humility from three different angles, which each complement one another.

Humility in prayer (v. 1-8)

The Pharisee and the Tax Collector

1 And he told them a parable to the effect that they ought always to pray and not lose heart. 2 He said, “In a certain city there was a judge who neither feared God nor respected man. 3 And there was a widow in that city who kept coming to him and saying, ‘Give me justice against my adversary.’ 4 For a while he refused, but afterward he said to himself, ‘Though I neither fear God nor respect man, 5 yet because this widow keeps bothering me, I will give her justice, so that she will not beat me down by her continual coming.’ ” 6 And the Lord said, “Hear what the unrighteous judge says. 7 And will not God give justice to his elect, who cry to him day and night? Will he delay long over them? 8 I tell you, he will give justice to them speedily. Nevertheless, when the Son of Man comes, will he find faith on earth?”

Now, before we go into what he’s actually saying here, let me talk to those of you who have grown up in church, and make a guess as to how you’ve probably heard this parable explained.

We have the widow who won’t stop bothering the judge, and we have the judge who gives in because he’s sick of hearing the widow complain. WHICH MUST MEAN (and this is how I remember hearing this explained) we should annoy God with our constant prayers, so that he’ll get sick of hearing us asking for the same thing and give in. In other words, people assume that feverish persistence in prayer is a virtue: “Pray until God gives in.”

I don’t know about you, but growing up, this explanation always left me a little unsettled. Is God really the type of God who will hold back something from us until he gets so annoyed with us that he relents? Does that sound right to you?

No it doesn’t, and it shouldn’t, because that’s not what Jesus is saying. (This parable is very similar to a parable we already saw in , and his point is the same, but this time it’s even clearer.)

(This is similar to a parable we already saw in , and his point is the same, but this time it’s even clearer.)

We know that this isn’t Jesus’s point because he goes out of his way to describe the judge. What does he say about him? V. 2:

V. 2:

He said, “In a certain city there was a judge who neither feared God nor respected man.

This judge sounds like someone who has little to no moral compass: no regard for holiness, no regard for his fellow man. This is a bad judge. And if God is anything, he is not a bad judge.

I hope you see it—this parable is not an allegory, with the widow representing us and the judge representing God. It is a parable of contrast.

God is not like this judge. He is gracious and good.

And we are not like this widow: one of a nameless throng of people trying to annoy the judge to get his attention. We are his elect. We are his children.

If even a wicked man will give someone what they need because of their persistence, how much more will a good and gracious God give his children, whom he loves, what they need?

That’s what Jesus is getting at here…but why? Is Jesus trying to discourage us from praying for the same thing more than once?

No—quite the opposite. Jesus told this parable, Luke says, to show his disciples that they ought always to pray and not lose heart (v. 1).

The point is that if even a wicked man will give someone what they need because of their persistence, how much more will a good and gracious God give his children, whom he loves, what they need?

In other words, we don’t pray to beat God into submission. We pray for three reasons.

Firstly, we pray continually because unlike the wicked judge, God is a good and just God. We pray continually because we know that God is good, and we know that he is just.

Secondly, we pray continually because unlike the widow, who was one of a nameless throng of people trying to get the judge’s attention, we are God’s children. We are his elect.

Because God is a good and just God, and because we are his children, we know that he loves us and cares for us and hears us when we pray.

Thirdly (and this is important, because it’s often overlooked), we pray continually to remind us why we’re praying. Look really closely at v. 7-8:

7 And will not God give justice to his elect, who cry to him day and night? Will he delay long over them? 8 I tell you, he will give justice to them speedily.

Do you see the difference between what he says and what we’ve often heard about this parable?

We may want something, and we may annoy God as much as we want; that doesn’t mean he’ll give it to us. Because he’s not really interested in giving us what we want; he’s going to give us what we need. He’s going to give JUSTICE to his elect. What is just and right and good.

See the difference? We often pray, and God doesn’t answer the way we want him to. But Jesus says that even in those cases, he gives justice to us speedily. He has not delayed.

We pray continually to remind us of why we’re praying. We don’t pray to bend God’s arm, or annoy him into submission. We pray continually that we might learn humility. We pray continually to remind ourselves that our goal in prayer is not to get what we want, but to help us trust him. We pray to teach our hearts to trust that our God is a good God, and we are his children, and he will never delay in giving us what we need.

The point is not: “Annoy God with your prayers.” The point is: If even a wicked man will give someone what they ask for because of their persistence, how much more will a good God give us what we need? (= JUSTICE, not desire, v. 6-7.) His point is: Don’t lose heart—God knows what you need and will only wait if it’s good for you.

In other words, we pray to teach us humility: to teach us to trust that God knows better than us what we need, and that he will not delay in giving us that justice.

Humility in prayer: dependence on God for the justice we need

Humility in self-examination (v. 9-14)

9 He also told this parable to some who trusted in themselves that they were righteous, and treated others with contempt: 10 “Two men went up into the temple to pray, one a Pharisee and the other a tax collector. 11 The Pharisee, standing by himself, prayed thus: ‘God, I thank you that I am not like other men, extortioners, unjust, adulterers, or even like this tax collector. 12 I fast twice a week; I give tithes of all that I get.’ 13 But the tax collector, standing far off, would not even lift up his eyes to heaven, but beat his breast, saying, ‘God, be merciful to me, a sinner!’ 14 I tell you, this man went down to his house justified, rather than the other. For everyone who exalts himself will be humbled, but the one who humbles himself will be exalted.”

The two people Jesus describes in his parable could not be more opposite in the minds of his Jewish listeners, and as a result his parable would have been profoundly shocking.

The Pharisees were very religious. They scrupulously followed the Law of Moses, down to the letter. They were considered the most righteous of the righteous.

Tax collectors, by constrast, were among the most hated people in the Jewish world. Israel was under Roman occupation at the time, and the Romans employed some Jews to collect taxes for them. That’s understandable as far as it goes (someone’s got to do it), but the tax collectors could exact the price they wanted from the citizens, give the Romans what they were owed, and pocket the difference—and this is what they regularly did. So the Jews saw them as thieves.

And yet, in Jesus’s parable, it is the tax collector who went down to his house justified, instead of the Pharisee.

The reason why the tax collector is justified, instead of the Pharisee, is surprising. It is not because the tax collector reformed; it is not because the Pharisee was engaged in some hidden act of outrageous sin. The tax collector is justified, and the Pharisee is condemned, because of the way they saw themselves.

They are both in the temple, and they are both praying. But the Pharisee is not really there to pray. He thanks God, yes, but he thanks God that he, the Pharisee, is so great. It’s like that friend (we all have one) who will thank you when you help him, then tell you about the wonderful thing he did for someone else—which also happens to be a lot better than the help you’ve just given him.

Now of course Jesus’s parable is a bit of an exaggeration: not many people are so blatantly arrogant. But even if we’re more subtle about it, we do this, and we can see it in the way we see other people. As Jesus says, we trust in [ourselves] that [we] are righteous, and treat others with contempt.

It’s the Instagram effect. We look at others, and we compare ourselves with them, and we try to find all the ways in which they comfort us in our own righteousness: Why would he do that? I can’t believe she would say that! I would never talk to my kids that way.

By contrast, the tax collector—who was surely more outwardly rotten than the Pharisee—sees himself quite differently. He does not boast of his accomplishments. He doesn’t try to make himself seem better than he is. He makes no effort to seem religious or together or good.

Why would he do that? I can’t believe she would say that! I would never talk to my kids that way.

He looks at himself; he sees himself clearly; and in the presence of God he doesn’t dare even lift his eyes. V. 13:

But the tax collector, standing far off, would not even lift up his eyes to heaven, but beat his breast, saying, ‘God, be merciful to me, a sinner!’

The only thing he absolutely knows about himself is that he is not worthy to be in the presence of such a holy God; and the only thing he can ask for in the presence of such a holy God is mercy.

What’s incredible is that he doesn’t even see this as a virtue! He’s feigning nothing. He’s not saying this so that he might be compared to the arrogant Pharisee—he’s standing far off, not wanting to be seen by anyone else. He simply knows that God has the right to demand everything from him, and he has nothing to offer God in return.

And Jesus says, it is this man who went home justified.

He’s not justified because of anything outward he did or didn’t do. Had the Pharisee prayed the same way, he’d have gotten the same response from Jesus, no matter what his life was like. The tax collector was justified because he is not trusting in his own efforts or holiness or goodness to save him; he knows that whatever good he may have is still far from the mark. He is humble in his own estimation of himself, aware that compared to God’s

Now, these two parables are connected; their message is nearly identical, though Jesus uses quite different images to get that message across. And that message is fleshed out beautifully in what we see next.

It’s not a parable; it’s something that actually happened, but that must have given the disciples pause—for in telling them to receive the kingdom like children, he is describing the humility of which he spoke in these parables.

Humility in receiving the kingdom

Let the Children Come to Me

15 Now they were bringing even infants to him that he might touch them. And when the disciples saw it, they rebuked them. 16 But Jesus called them to him, saying, “Let the children come to me, and do not hinder them, for to such belongs the kingdom of God. 17 Truly, I say to you, whoever does not receive the kingdom of God like a child shall not enter it.”

Anon, 2016. The Holy Bible: English Standard Version, Wheaton, IL: Crossway Bibles.

Like we did before, let’s talk a minute about what Jesus doesn’t mean when he says this. This is another one of those texts (like the parable of the persistent widow) that people love to misuse. I recently heard a pastor say this:

“The beauty of the gospel is its simplicity. Even a child could understand it. Indeed, Jesus even said that whoever does not receive the kingdom of heaven like a child shall not enter it. Those pastors who are always talking about doctrine and theology have gotten it all wrong—they’re making the gospel harder to understand! We need to remain like children, because the kingdom is for those who are like children.”

I understand his concern—I truly do. The gospel, at its core, is simple. And sometimes pastors make the mistake of confusing speculation and philosophy with doctrine. But even if the gospel is simple, God is not—he is vastly, infinitely complex. And the Bible is filled with complex and, frankly, sometimes confusing doctrine. The apostle Peter himself said about Paul’s letters ():

...our beloved brother Paul also wrote to you according to the wisdom given him, 16 as he does in all his letters when he speaks in them of these matters. There are some things in them that are hard to understand, which the ignorant and unstable twist to their own destruction, as they do the other Scriptures.

So in case it’s not clear, receiving the kingdom of God like a child does not mean refusing to think long and hard about what the Bible says, refusing to apply the analytical reasoning God gave us and applying it to the Bible—that’s not what Jesus is saying.

In fact, he’s not talking about the way children process information at all.

Look at the context.

So what does that look like?

Look at the context: why does Jesus say what he says? Because parents are bringing him their babies so that he can touch them (probably expecting him to confer some king of blessing on them), and the disciples think it’s a huge waste of Jesus’s time. This is the Messiah—he’s got more important things to do than to hold your baby.

And Jesus rebukes the disciples—he tells them to let the kids come to him. Jesus is the guy who, if he was preaching, and if a toddler waddled up to the front of the room in mid-sermon, would pick the kid up, stop to give him a cuddle, and then keep talking with the baby in his arms.

But that’s not the only reason Jesus rebukes the disciples. He says (v. 16):

Let the children come to me, and do not hinder them, for to such belongs the kingdom of God.

Anon, 2016. The Holy Bible: English Standard Version, Wheaton, IL: Crossway Bibles.

Do you see what he’s doing? All these parents are coming to Jesus to let him touch their babies, and whether or not they were right in thinking he might bless the kids by touching them is irrelevant: Jesus jumps on the situation to take everything he’s said to his disciples about humility and make it visible for them.

And the situation is important: what kind of children are these parents bringing to Jesus? They’re bringing him their infants. Babies—it’s a literal translation. When Jesus talks about “receiving the kingdom of God like a child,” he doesn’t need to be any more specific about what age range he’s talking about, because he’s literally surrounded with infants when he says it.

How does a child receive the kingdom?

In v. 17 he says (likely with a little baby in his arms as he says it, since that’s what he was doing at the time):

what brings on Jesus’s remark is the fact that people are bringing him infants. Babies. When he says “children,” he doesn’t need to be specific about what age he’s talking about, because he’s literally surrounded with infants. He’s talking about little kids.

Truly, I say to you, whoever does not receive the kingdom of God like a child shall not enter it.

If we want the kingdom of God to be our kingdom, if we want to receive his kingdom, we have to be like these babies. So what does that look like?

Kids go through various stages of progression (as I’m sure you’re aware). At some point they begin to learn things, and they become able to formulate complex thoughts, and ask complex questions, and stumble over some of these things that are, as Peter said, “hard to understand.”

There are a couple of things to notice here.

He’s saying that there’s something about the way babies and very small children are that we should emulate when we think about the kingdom.

Firstly, kids go through various stages of progression (as I’m sure you’re aware). At some point they begin to learn things, and they become able to formulate complex thoughts, and ask complex questions, and stumble over some of these things that are, as Peter said, “hard to understand.”

So

Babies are human beings just like us; they (generally) have the same number of body parts as we do; in every way they are just like us. With one very big exception.

Babies can do nothing on their own. The single greatest ontological distinctive of a baby is complete dependence on an adult to live.

R.K. Hughes wrote: “What is the single biggest ontological distinctive of a newborn? Helplessness!”

And that dependence brings with it a certain number of things.

Loanne and I have two kids (as most of you know). Jack is seven, and Zadie is ten months old. Jack can pretty much take care of himself now; he can’t pay the bills, but if he had to, he could scrounge up something to eat in the kitchen, he could go to the bathroom on his own, wash himself, etc.

Firstly, it brings implicit trust. We’ve had seven babies born over the last twelve months, with another one on the way. A lot of these babies were born to first-time parents. I know this is a cliché, but it’s one of those things you can hear a million times and never really understand until you have a kid of your own: one of the hardest things about being a parent is looking down at that little person, and knowing that you have the power to keep this little person alive, or to kill them. And it’d be easy: just do nothing. Don’t feed them, don’t change them, don’t wash them. Neglect that child, and she will die.

Newborns are helpless.

So keeping that in mind, how would

That’s a massive responsibility.

And with that dependence

And the incredible thing is, our babies trust us to take care of them, to the point where they don’t even need to think about it. Zadie is a sociable baby; she’ll have fun with other people, let herself be held by other people. But she knows who her parents are, even if she doesn’t know that’s what we’re called.

When she’s afraid, she looks around the room to find me or Loanne. When she’s hungry, she looks for us (Loanne more than me, for now). When she’s tired, she reaches out for us. Her trust in us is so deep-rooted that it doesn’t need to be taught: she knows that every time she is afraid, we comfort her. Every time she is hungry, we feed her. Every time she is tired, we rock her to sleep. So the next time she’s afraid, or hungry, or tired, her knee-jerk reflex is to look for us.

The second thing dependence brings with it is teachableness. The notion of intellectual pride is totally foreign to small children. They’re not offended when we try to teach them something. They’re not insulted when we show them how a toy works. They don’t see us coming at them with a spoonful of mashed potatoes and think, How dare he! I can take care of myself! That will come in time, sadly; but at the beginning, it’s just not there.

Little kids know they don’t know as much as their parents (or rather, they don’t know much of anything, so it never occurs to them to think in those terms). All they know is the wonder of discovery. Babies love to learn; they love being exposed to new sights and sounds and textures, and they’re not offended that their parents would be so condescending as to tell them how the world works.

Thirdly, dependence brings receptivity. Little kids don’t need to be convinced to receive a gift: every new thing is a gift. When we change Zadie’s diaper, she’s always trying to move around, or mess with her diaper. So to distract her, and get her to stop so we can change her, we’ll almost always give her one of two things: we’ll give her one of her shoes, or will give her the digital thermometer. And whether it’s the shoe or the thermometer, she is overjoyed.

Now what’s the point of all this? The point is that fairly quickly, we forget what it was like to be that small. We forget what it’s like to be dependent (because now we can take care of ourselves); we forget how to trust (because we’ve been burned one too many times); we forget how to learn (because we’re educated and intelligent); we forget how to receive a gift (because our world is such that if someone gives us something, then obviously they’re expecting us to reciprocate).

But in telling us to be like these little children, Jesus isn’t telling us to become something we used to be; he’s reminding us what we actually are. He’s telling us that although we may look independent and self-sufficient, we’re not.

I love Zadie more than anything—but she contributes nothing of practical use to our household. At least Jack can help clean up, set the table, do some small things around the house. Zadie can’t do any of that; all she does is sit around expecting us to take care of her.

And that is exactly Jesus’s point.

God does not need us! Anything of value we have to contribute to his kingdom came from him in the first place! For literally every breath, we are wholly dependent on him.

And if we realize that—if we realize that we are dependent on him for literally every breath, every heartbeat—then we will trust him. I’ll look at my life and see that God has kept my heart beating, kept my lungs breathing, for thirty-eight years; he has always given us what we need, so we can trust him to keep giving us what we need.

We will listen to him; we’ll know that for all we’ve learned, in reality we know very, very little. We’ll understand that there is no one better suited to tell us how we should operate than the One who created us.

trust him. I’ll look at my life and see that God has kept my heart beating, kept my lungs breathing, for thirty-eight years; he has always given us what we need, so we can trust him to keep giving us what we need.

We will accept to receive from his hands, because that’s all we’ve ever done. Every need met; our sin forgiven; Jesus’s life given to us; God declaring us righteous; his Spirit living is us; the faithful transmission of God’s Word over centuries, through which God speaks to us—everything we have is a gift, to which we contribute absolutely nothing.

Brothers and sisters, if we are going to receive the kingdom of God, we have to realize that we are entirely dependent on him.

cf. preceding parable: “What is the ontological distinctive of a newborn? Helplessness!” (Hughes) No child can survive without the help of others

Trust

Humility (lack of intellectual pride, teachableness, wonder)

Receptivity: kids don’t have to be convinced to take a gift.