Two men went up to the temple to pray. Luke has let us know in an introductory comment that Jesus told this parable particularly to those who trusted in themselves that they were righteous and regarded others with contempt. Luke’s gospel mentions regarding others with contempt twice: here and again later when Herod and his soldiers mock and abuse Jesus.[1] So the parable serves as a subtle reminder that the people we regard with contempt are in the blessed company of Jesus. Contempt for others is widespread these days, and perhaps the memory that the people so regarded, or rather disregarded, are in the company of Jesus, can yet teach our hearts a better way.
We have heard the little story for centuries, and we know that it is quite dangerous. Pharisee and tax collector have become “religious stock figures” to us, stereotypes of the self-righteous, rule-bound religious hypocrite, lacking in compassion and insight, in contrast with the contrite, meek and humble tax-collector.[2] We have learned the lesson, we know it’s all about being humble, and, irony of ironies, “as soon as we have arrived at a suitable state of humility, we … take pride in our accomplishment.”[3] The little story is dangerous because it plays with stereotypes, and it is dangerous because it sneaks up on us and traps us in our very genuine desire to be good people who do the right thing and enjoy being recognized for it — and if it’s the halo of humility we are to reach for, we will, thankful that we’re not like other people, especially this Pharisee. We want to be good, we want to do right, and we can’t escape our inclination toward regarding others with contempt.
Two men went up to the temple to pray. One of them was a good man, and he knew it. He took his religion seriously. He observed the prayer times diligently, he studied scripture daily, he gave generously to help the needy, and when it came to fasting and tithing he went beyond what law and tradition required. He was the kind of dedicated person of which every congregation and every community needs a few. People like him hold any community together with their leadership and their example. People like him know what is good and right, and they do it.
The other man, in stark contrast, was not a member of the community by any stretch of the imagination. He collected taxes, which doesn’t mean that he had a degree in accounting and worked for the IRS. He worked for Rome. He had crossed the line, he had put himself outside the bounds of belonging by collaborating with the occupying power. He had let himself be turned into a cog on the gears of the empire, making a living by squeezing the local population for cash.
The Roman way of tax collection was a simple and effective franchise system: regional brokers bid for the contracts and hired locals to raise set amounts from specific areas. The local collectors were given their quota, and those higher up in the extraction scheme didn’t really care how they went about meeting those goals — and whatever they collected in addition to their quota was theirs to keep.
You can imagine they didn’t have many friends. When you walked down the street and you saw one of them coming toward you, you crossed to the other side. Nobody you knew, nobody who cared about justice and righteousness, wanted anything to do with them. The tax collector was outside of all that was honorable, honest, and holy. He was a sinner, and he knew it.
Two men went up to the temple to pray, and they did, and then they went home, one of them declared righteous by Jesus. The next morning, for all we know, they each returned to the life they knew. One got up to collect a little more than his quota, give to Caesar what was Caesar’s, and keep the surplus to pay the bills and save for retirement. The other man returned to his life of careful, religious observance and communal responsibility. Nothing had really changed, except, hopefully, our assumptions about what constitutes righteousness.
Jesus doesn’t tell us this story to flip our expectations only to redirect our contempt to the new outsider. He stands with those whom we regard with contempt and he draws our attention to God’s mercy.Jesus steps outside the bounds of what we consider honorable, honest, and holy, not to shame those who desire to live honorable, honest, and holy lives; he steps outside those bounds to help us see that God’s righteousness does not exclude the sinner, but overcomes sin for the sake of communion with all who live under the power of sin.
The Pharisee’s prayer opened beautifully, “God, I thank you.” With his heart’s attention focused on the open, generous hands of God, he would never run out of things to name with gratitude. But his eyes were on his own hands and all that he had to show, and the only gratitude he could offer was for not being like other people. He looked around and compared himself to those who have nothing to show, and he was pleased with the difference, but he had lost sight of the open, generous, welcoming hands of God.
The tax collector didn’t even look up. His eyes lowered, gazing at his toes, he stood far off to the side, but his heart’s attention rested on God. Standing outside all that is honorable, honest, and holy he had no one to look down upon. All he saw was God, and hunger for God’s mercy was his entire prayer.
Jesus dares us to reimagine community in ways that are both ancient and new. Instead of a community of righteousness whose boundaries are defined and maintained with the granting or withholding of mercy, he dares us to imagine a community of mercy that reshapes how we practice and think about righteousness.
The two men who went up to the temple to pray remind me of two brothers. We know them from another story Jesus told in response to people who were grumbling about his habit of welcoming sinners and eating with them. It’s the story about a father who had two sons; the younger went to a distant country and burned through his inheritance while the older stayed at home and did everything he was supposed to. You know the story and how it ends with the father standing outside, pleading with the older son to come in and join the banquet. To the older son, righteousness is something he possesses and his brother doesn’t, something he has worked hard to uphold and his brother has squandered. He can’t see that mercy has prepared a feast for all. He can’t see yet that all of us need more love than we deserve. He can’t see yet that mercy heals our wounded, broken lives in the joy of communion with God.
Karl Barth, in one of his many prison sermons, said,
We are saved by grace. That means that we did not deserve to be saved. What we deserve would be quite different. No one can be proud of being saved. Each one [of us] can only fold [our] hands in great lowliness of heart and be thankful … Consequently, we shall never possess salvation as our property. We may only receive it as a gift over and over again with hands outstretched.[4]
With hands outstretched not only to God, I would add, but to one another.
The Pharisee, assuming that the tax collector had situated himself beyond God’s mercy, outside the bounds of righteousness, regarded that sinner with contempt. Perhaps he did pray with hands outstretched, but not to receive with gratitude the gift of God – he presented himself with hands outstretched, holding in them all his impressive accomplishments. He had no use for his brother other than as a dark foil against which his own light would shine even brighter.
The tax collector, with empty hands, fully aware that he had nothing to show, threw himself into the arms of God’s mercy. Did he know, I wonder, when he went down to his home, that he did so justified? How could he know, unless there was somebody who, with hands outstretched in welcome, embraced him as a brother? That is how Jesus welcomes us, one and all, and that is how we welcome one another as siblings in his name.
Righteousness is not a status we possess as our property, it is the gift of all things made well among all of us; it is mercy received and shared with hands outstretched to God and to one another. In the eyes of mercy, we are all like other people: made in the image of God, beloved, and worthy of saving, and much of our salvation is about learning to say “we” again without the need to exclude “them” as beyond the reach of God’s grace. Much of our salvation is about standing on the common ground of our equal dependence on God’s mercy, standing in the company of sinners, knowing that Jesus has come to stand with us and to bring us together in the beloved community where we recognize and welcome each other as kindred.
Now some of you will say,
Mercy, OK, I get it. But what about justice? What about the oppression and exploitation in which the tax collector participated and from which he profited? What about telling the truth about collaboration? What about restitution or reparation? Are you suggesting we just whitewash it all with a few buckets of cheap mercy? What about repentance?
Those are my questions too. And the most hopeful answer I have found in the gospel is a story in the next chapter of Luke’s gospel. It’s the tale of a man named Zacchaeus who was a chief tax collector and was rich. Jesus invited himself to his house, showering him with honor. All who saw it began to grumble and said, “He has gone to be the guest of one who is a sinner.” And Zacchaeus said to the Lord, “Look, half of my possessions, Lord, I will give to the poor; and if I have defrauded anyone of anything, I will pay back four times as much.”
Touched by hands outstretched with mercy, he responded with acts of joyful repentance.
[1] Luke 23:11
[2] Marjorie Procter-Smith, Feasting, 213.
[3] Ibid., 215.
[4] Karl Barth, Deliverance to the Captives (Harper, 1961), p. 39