Two men went up to the temple to pray. Luke has let us know 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 this 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, writes Marjorie Proctor-Smith, “as soon as we have arrived at a suitable state of humility, we … take pride in our accomplishment.”[3] This little story is dangerous because it plays with stereotypes, and 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. Ouch. We want to be good, we want to do right, and we can’t escape our inclination toward regarding others with contempt, whether we dismiss them as fundamentalists, deplorables, or libtards.
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 community needs a few. People like him know what is good and right, and they do it. People like him provide the leadership and example any community depends on.
The other man, in stark contrast, was not a respected 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 one small wheel in the empire’s vast machine, 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, walking down the street, 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 him. 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 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 so we embrace the language of humility and redirect our contempt to the new outsider, the Pharisee. Jesus 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, but welcome the sinner. God breaks the power of sin for the sake of communion with us, for none of us can flourish under sin’s reign.
The Pharisee’s prayer opened beautifully, “God, I thank you.” With his heart’s attention focused on the generous gifts of God, he would never run out of things to name with gratitude for the rest of his days. But his eyes were on his own hands, his eyes rested on all that he had to show, and the only gratitude he could offer was for not being like other people. Looking up from his own hands, he compared himself to those who have little or nothing to show, and he was pleased with the difference. That very moment, of course, 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 off to the side. Standing outside all that is honorable, honest, and holy he had no one to look down upon—but his heart’s attention rested on God, and his thirst for God’s mercy was his prayer. Jesus challenges us to imagine community differently. Instead of envisioning a community of righteousness whose boundaries are maintained with the granting and withholding of mercy, he challenges us to imagine a community of mercy that reshapes how we practice 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 said in one of his sermons at the prison in Basel,
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]
The Pharisee, assuming that the tax collector had situated himself 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, holding up 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 in the eyes of God he was righteous? How could he know, unless there was somebody who, like Jesus, with hands outstretched in welcome, embraced him as a brother?
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 not to write off anyone as beyond the reach of God’s mercy. “Contempt for others lurks in the human heart, bubbling up easily and frequently,” writes Dan Clendenin. “We imagine that in denigrating others we validate ourselves.”[5] But the truth is, we all stumble in many ways, and what we need when we flounder isn’t moral condescension, but solidarity and compassion.[6] I want to close with a story about one of the desert fathers. It illustrates beautifully the kind of solidarity, I believe, Jesus wants us cultivate.
A brother at Scetis committed a fault. A council was called to which Abba Moses was invited, but he refused to go to it. Then the priest sent someone to say to him, ‘Come, for everyone is waiting for you.’ So he got up and went. He took a leaking jug, filled it with water and carried it with him. The others came out to meet him and said to him, ‘What is this, Father?’ The old man said to them, ‘My sins run out behind me, and I do not see them, and today I am coming to judge the errors of another.’ When they heard that they said no more to the brother but forgave him.
We are busy comparing and judging, when all we need is to see ourselves and one another in the light of God’s mercy.
[1] Luke 23:11
[2] Marjorie Procter-Smith, Feasting, 213.
[3] Ibid., 215.
[4] Karl Barth, Deliverance to the Captives (Harper, 1961), 39.
[5] Dan Clendenin https://www.journeywithjesus.net/essays/1148-the-pharisee-and-the-tax-collector
[6] James 3:2 (NIV); see Clendenin, note 5.