Seen and Not Heard

a sermon by Meg Jenista, Contributing Editor

Introduction

In France, on December 2, 1804, Napoleon Bonaparte was crowned Emperor of the French Empire. In keeping with the custom of the day, Bonaparte invited the Pope to join in the festivities. Being that France was a traditionally Catholic nation, most coronations served to prove that the politics of the country were still in submission to their religion. In fact, a coronation was more properly referred to as “a consecration.” In a devout gesture, the Pope was the one to place the crown on the incoming ruler’s head.

But, on that great day in 1804, as Pope Pius VII rose to place the crown on Napoleon’s head, Napoleon broke with tradition and, refusing to kneel, wrestled the crown away from papal fingers and crowned himself Emperor. In so doing, Napoleon Bonaparte acknowledged that, while it was nice of the Pope to travel all that way, his blessing was wholly unnecessary. In other words, while it might be nice to have God around, God’s say in the matter – eh, we could do without it. The Pope was, as one historian wrote, “there to be seen, not to function.”

Jesus, too, knows a little bit about this human tendency to crown ourselves with attitudes and lives rooted more deeply in self-sufficiency than in dependence. He directs this parable, today’s Scripture text, toward those whom Luke calls, “some who were confident of their own righteousness and looked down on everybody else.”

Page One – Trouble in the Text

It is lunch hour on a busy Jerusalem street as two men, one snaking his way through the cut-throat financial district and the other stepping out from the musty archives of Jewish academia, fight their respective ways into the center of town for this, the most important moment of their respective days. They both arrived at the temple with the same intention: Jews, like this Pharisee and this tax collector, came to the temple in the middle of their hectic and busy lives because they knew that this was the place where God was. So off they would go to the temple to do business with God. To put themselves right with God. And this is precisely where their similarities end, for each has a vastly different notion of what it means for humans to enter into relationship, into conversation, with a holy and just God.

This Pharisee was the prototype of all that Jewish men hoped to become and all that Jewish mothers dreamt their daughters would bring home for Sabbath supper. He was polished, conducting himself with a practiced and professional piety. His sandals squeaked with newness and confidence as he strode across the temple floor to take up his stance front and center before God. And then he began his prayer, or, rather, something quite like a prayer. Very easily, incrementally, without even knowing it, his relationship with God had become more about himself than about God. His prayer was a spiritual “look at me now.” Tug, tug, tug on the Father’s sleeve.

“Look, I’m here and I’m doing good stuff. Are you proud of me yet? I fast a lot. Twice week. Aren’t I good? And I give you money. Lots of money! A chunk of everything that I make, in fact, and, well, I’m a lot better than most people, you know. I haven’t stolen. I haven’t murdered or committed adultery. And I’m certainly not like that pitiful tax collector – well, God, I’m sure you know all about him. He may be a ‘Jew’ but you and I both know what a backstabber he is. Anyway, I’m just here to remind you of all that, God, in case you’d forgotten. Amen!”

In the Pharisee’s mind, God, like Pope Pius VII, was there “to be seen and not heard.” He thanks God for being present, but in the same breath the Pharisee makes God unnecessary. His devotion and pious zeal met the requirements of Jewish law and then some. Assuming he was telling the truth about himself (and since he prides himself on being neither an evil-doer nor a liar, this is a fairly safe assumption) this man really does have a remarkable claim to righteousness.

Page Three – The Good News in the Text

While our polished Pharisee is rehearsing his litany of self-assigned righteousness, on the far side of the temple kneels a man who is intimately acquainted with sin, the lifestyle of poor choices that he can’t seem to shake. Far away from the spotlight that the Pharisee claimed, this Tax Collector knows that narrowed eyes are boring holes in his back. He is not oblivious to the elbows nudging and sideways glances. He hears the whispers and they only serve to confirm what he already knows. He has done wrong. When he prays, he sounds a bit like the Apostle Paul who claims to be “the chief of sinners.” The Tax Collector prays, not “Lord, have mercy on me A sinner” but “Lord, have mercy on me THE sinner.” The Pharisee may be a man who can do no wrong. But the Tax Collector is a man who believes he can do no right. This tax collector has no righteousness to offer God and so refuses even the intimacy of turning to face heaven. And, empty handed, he cries out to God. He agrees with God’s assessment of his choices, his life, his sin, and he pleads for mercy.

And, into this life, Jesus speaks. Listen to his radical words of forgiveness: “I tell you, this man went to his house justified rather than the other, for all those who exalt themselves will be humbled, and those who humble themselves will be exalted.”

The Pharisee was confident in his own righteousness.

But Jesus says, “Be careful that you do not fall.”

The Pharisee looked down on everyone else.

But Jesus says, “I will have mercy on whom I have mercy.”

The Pharisee believed that when it came to justification, God, like the Pope at Napoleon’s coronation, was present “to be seen and not heard.”

But Jesus says, “all those who exalt themselves will be humbled, and those who humble themselves will be exalted.”

The tax collector knew his sin and agreed with God’s judgment on it.

But Jesus says, “You are not beyond the reach of my grace. There is justification for you.” Justification is the proclamation of our righteousness, our ability to stand before God with a clear conscience. The grace of this text tells us that God is present in our lives not simply to be seen but also to be heard, actively proclaiming our righteousness because of and through the work of Jesus Christ.

Page Two – Trouble in Our World

This parable will sneak up on you if you aren’t careful. Like the gift of a Trojan horse, we invite the parable in. Why not? The Tax Collector is human and loveable in all his vulnerability. And it’s easy enough to dismiss the Pharisee by creating a caricature of him. Stop a minute and consider: as we hear this story, the role of the Pharisee is, in our minds, one part high falutin’ bishop in scarlet robes and bejeweled fingers, one part multi-million dollar televangelist, and five parts Christian friend who promised us her prayers but never once came to visit, all flavored with just a smattering of pastors who have, at one time or another, hurt and offended us. It is so easy to imagine this Pharisee in the likeness of the religious people who have done us wrong.

And so we confidently pray, “Lord, I thank you that I am humble, that I don’t insist on having things my way. I thank you that I am not like that arrogant, self-important, self-glorifying, obnoxiously hypocritical Pharisee. And I’m just here to remind you of that, God, in case you’d forgotten. Amen!“

And, in that moment, the Trojan horse opens up and hits us with unexpected guerilla warfare. We are trapped by the realization that maybe we also fall under the umbrella of this parable’s intended audience, “those who were confident of their own righteousness and looked down on everybody else.”

Neil Plantinga writes, “We ought to consider the possibility that in our own religion, ‘what presents itself as a . . . virtue may be, in terms of (our) motive and function, only an egotistic vice dressed up in its Sunday-go-to-meetin’ clothes.”

By initially failing to see our participation in the Pharisee’s self-righteousness, we, too, are wresting the crown away from God, holding it rapturously in our own hands and lifting it to proclaim ourselves righteous. And this propensity – well, let’s call it what it is. Let’s call it by the name Jesus gives it. This sin is ours.

Growing up in the church, I often heard adults whispering, and when adults whisper, children listen. What I would hear them say is, “Have you heard about Jim and Jane? Well, they are living in sin.” Early on, I wasn’t sure what that meant but I knew it was pretty serious indeed. Everyone would say what a shame it was and then they’d move on to more pleasant topics, perhaps a bit relieved and proud of the fact that at least they weren’t “living in sin.” Funny how that phrase, “living in sin,” has come to mean only one thing in Christian circles.

This parable gives us a different definition of “living in sin” which, you may be surprised to hear, has very little to do with activities that shock fine, upstanding church-goers.

Sin happens when we live out of the belief that we’re just fine on our own. Those others are “living in sin” while we put in face-time at church on Sunday morning, our children are well-mannered, we clean up alright, and all our theological ducks are in a row. And yet believing that we are just fine is, ironically, the ultimate definition of “living in sin.”

Page Four - Grace in the Text

Maybe you started off thinking you had more in common with the Tax Collector and now this pride is seeping in and, all of a sudden, you’ve come face to face with your Pharisaical tendencies. So, which is it?!? Are you a Pharisee or a Tax Collector? You could drive yourself crazy with this dilemma. But this parable is not really a matter of figuring out whether I am, or whether you are, or whether any of us may be the Pharisee or the Tax Collector of the story. The truth is that we are both because this parable isn’t about two separate people. It’s about the tug-of-war that goes on inside each of us. To paraphrase Paul in the book of Romans, “So I find this law at work: When I want to be a humbled Tax Collector, that old, hardened Pharisee is right there with me.”

This tug-of-war seems to be the perpetual state of our spiritual reality. Coming to the realization of our need happens over and over again in our lives. If you convert to the faith, the “sinner’s prayer” is an obvious example of what it means to throw yourself upon the mercy of God. But even those of us raised in the church have moments when the shiny veneer on our piety dulls. When our confident façade crumbles and when we are left with nothing to do but cry out to God.

Can you think of a moment in your life when, out of desperation and need, God showed up with enough mercy and grace to soothe your tattered soul? A time when you realized your need for God in an altogether new way and God’s strength knelt to your weakness? A time when you were done “living in sin,” finished with the illusion that you could manage just fine on your own, and finally abandoned yourself to the merciful arms of God?

Just as in the parable of the Prodigal Son the Father rushes to throw a robe on His Son, so God is eager to crown us with righteousness. And this coronation is not based on a Pharisaic sense of our own ability, but entirely on our need as it is met in the righteousness of Christ. For while God proclaims, “all those who exalt themselves will be humbled,” He also promises that “all those who humble themselves will be exalted.”

Brothers and Sisters in Christ, this is an amazing love story. A God who flips the tables so that the weak are made strong. A God who mends the broken pieces of this world until they are whole and holy again. A God who exalts the humble. You can’t make stuff like this up! This is an amazing love story.

Would you pray with me?

Son of God, we kneel before you this morning and confess with open hands and hearts, “Lord, have mercy on us for we are sinners.” Christ of God, we praise You for Your divine love that reaches into the most vulnerable, broken and humbled places in our hearts. You have saved our lives. You have freely forgiven our sins. Yours is the voice we need to hear. Please speak to us of grace. Amen.

1. Englund, Steven. Napoleon: A Political Life. Scribner (New York, NY: 2004.) 245.
2. Robertson, A. (1997) Word Pictures in the New Testament. Vol. V c1933 by Sunday School Board of the SBC. (Luke 18:13). Oak Harbor: Logos Research Systems.
3. Plantinga, Cornelius. Not the Way Its Supposed to Be. (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans; 1995.) 111.
4. Van Ryn, Meditations in Luke. Loizeaux Brothers (Neptune, NY: 1953) 256-258.

Kerux will be featuring student sermons throughout the coming year. Please submit yours to letters@kerux.org.

Want to respond to this article? Send your letter to letters@kerux.org; see the guidelines for more information.