Love in persistent prayer
Proper 25C  | Luke 18:9-14

Consider what may have occurred moments before this. When the summation of a life can be so easily articulated into categories which so comfortably meet our expectations. That a man of the cloth, perhaps, or a man of some deep faith, so publicly visible as a lay minister, a vestry member, and who is known as such in the community. President of the local Rotary Club, always asked to pray, to say the grace before the catered lunch of fried chicken and green beans in the hotel conference room. This man who is known as the best of us and is asked by those around him to be the best of us — to embody such a role — that he might tell them how to be.

It’s a real pedestal, isn’t it?

And we see the snapshot of the person in this common moment and all of the previous moments fall away. The times they may have lost their temper at the server for forgetting the hashbrown casserole for the second time, who still hasn’t refilled the coffee mug, even though they were asked, and the table next to them keeps stealing the server’s attention when she’s actually at his table, and so forth. And this, too, is after the news that his grandson was picked up on a charge of dealing opioids and he spent the better part of 90 minutes talking his daughter off the ledge about it.

We can’t see everything.

Now consider the strange place of leadership. 

The Pharisees are kind of like today’s evangelicals. The kind of true believers governed, not just by the rules of the church, but by the traditional behaviors of it. There is great devotion to knowledge and training and believing. They know what Scripture says. Which means they are often more literate than the priests in the Temple.

One of the essential traditions for the order-obsessed in ancient Judah is ritual purity. Nothing proves one’s value to the people of faith like minding the purity store. Yeah, keeping themselves pure and keeping track of the purity of others.

This is the Law, remember. That the Hebrew people maintain purity, avoiding things that would cause impurity. Now, a lot of things cause impurity that cannot be helped. So of course we deal with those things. That’s natural. But this effort to maintain purity, for the purity-obsessed, can be a bit of a challenge to other laws and can become a hinderance to maintaining them.

This is the central conflict in the Parable of the Good Samaritan in Luke 10. A man is beaten on the road from Jerusalem to Jericho and he is passed by two men, first a priest, then a Levite. The priest is on his way to the Temple and can’t risk his ritual purity because the people are depending on him. He is taught to say, Sorry, I can’t help you. I need to help these other people. Levites come from the tribe which serves in the Temple, so he is clearly on his way, like the priest, to serve at the Temple.  The point is that the Law says they can’t stop to help the man. And Jesus is like, well . . .  actually . . . they could.

Now consider a third idea.

In another gospel, Jesus preaches his most famous sermon which starts with radical blessings. He says we are blessed when we are poor in spirit, mourn, and are meek; when we hunger and thirst for righteousness; when we are merciful, pure of heart, and making peace. And we are blessed even in persecution.

In other words, we are blessed when we see the suffering of others to the point that we do things which lead us to suffer at the hands of empire.

In Luke’s own version in chapter 6, the Sermon on the Plains invites us to see blessing in the poor, the hungry, the weeping, and persecuted. And condemnation in the rich, the well-fed, the laughing, and the popular, because they have received their reward.

Jesus keeps setting up a tension for his followers between their own pursuit of living a righteous life and one’s willingness to see beyond themselves. We saw this a few weeks back in the parable of the rich man and Lazarus, didn’t we? The rich man, caring about himself, sees Lazarus as a servant. He can’t see the man for who he is, even in the end. Even as he loses hope for saving himself, he is desperate to save his loved ones: they are like property, an extension of self.

We see it in the parable of the Lost Sons, in which the eldest, in the end, reveals that he felt like a slave his whole life. He didn’t even consider the welfare of his father who was with him, let alone his brother. So then he throws a tantrum because his Dad didn’t throw a party for him and his friends.

And after this passage today, we will meet the rich young ruler who is desperate to find security in the certainty of his righteousness.

The Self-Righteous always have backstories.

We don’t come to our inflated sense of righteousness for the fun of it. It comes from effort and situational deliverance. It comes from being raised by saints and wanting to please them at every turn. It comes from having every opportunity privilege can afford. We go to college, work our butts off, and make our way. And when people shower us with praise, we say “awe shucks” and always deflect — but can’t deny it feels good. And when we wake up one day and take stock of where we are at this very moment, we think, more or less, Well, I’m sure I could’ve done a few things differently — I’ve certainly made mistakes — but in everything, I’ve done my best. 

And maybe, if we’re try-hards, we’ll look at the great lists of saintliness, or perhaps the decalogue full of things we’re not supposed to do, and we say, check, check, check, all the way down and say to ourselves, Well, I mean, I’ve done all of the things, haven’t I? Avoided all the bad stuff! It’s like buying ourselves a “World’s Greatest Boss” mug: we believe we deserve it.

These are the rules, after all, how we order things. How God has ordered things, I should say. And since we might care so very much to nail the precise way to articulate the divine nature in everything, we might have to declare ourselves relatively righteous. I mean, by comparison.

Jesus upends our view of comparison.

He tells a story of a man who goes up to the Temple, following all of the rules, being the perfect little devotee, he keeps his distance (don’t want to mess with that ritual purity, amIright?), and he has brought a bunch of cash to chuck into the Temple’s money box, THUNK THUNK THUNK THUNK THUNK. And as he gets there, he looks around and sums it all up: Whew, I’m so glad I’m not that guy! That’s his prayer.

And the other guy is over there, in the shadows — pathetic, groveling, beating his chest, and sounding like a really good Calvinist.

We get this story, don’t we? When Jesus tells us that the Pharisee is being a jerk and the suffering guy is doing it right — it sounds right at a fundamental level. And yet, we also have the backstory stuff and that sense of confusion about what it is we actually are supposed to be doing right now. There’s a nagging piece here that might not sit right with us. And that’s because we are often looking for absolute actions, here. Like Pharisees, we want the rules and orders that help us understand how God is ordering the world. And this one messes with that a bit.

But our job isn’t to find particular rules within the gospel, but the character of Christ. And that is revealed in the postures of the people.

Right Postures

A posture is a way of setting oneself to one’s environment. Open, closed, small, big. It can also be condescending and self-righteous. Or humble and concerned.

This came up in conversation last week because the posture of the persistent widow is not bullying to get her way, but is to keep crying out to God for justice. That’s her posture, her position in the relationship. This also isn’t about defining God for God. Because that is what happens when we stop praying. We assume God doesn’t care. We assume God isn’t love. But that isn’t on offer here. Our posture is to pray. To hunger and thirst for righteousness. Not declare what’s righteous — that’s for God to do.

So the posture of the Pharisee presumes, not just saintliness, but Godliness. To determine his own righteousness. And with that he can lord it over all the people.

But the posture of the tax collector is without presumption of greatness. And for that, Jesus considers him righteous.

The irony about this parable today is that many flip the characters. They’ll say Oh, I’m such a sinner! Look at me! And then in the next breath tell you about the speck in the eyes of those self-righteous mainliners with their women in leadership, their full inclusion of the LGBTQ+ community, and their welcoming of immigrants.

Or we might mistake that posture of sinful grieving to be justification for even more “woe is me.”

Underneath these surface debates is a deeper call to a posture that resembles a turning toward God. To be open enough to name one’s faults and failing, one’s concerns and expectations. Because ultimately, that opens us up to be changed. To be made well. Pure.

It takes humility and hope and receptivity to the beautiful grace of God. 

Isn’t that a freeing thought? Like confession that leads to absolution. Being made new in baptism. Renewed in the Eucharist. Holy transformation, reconciliation. Wholeness in community and restoration. Shalom.

Let that be our prayer today. God, let me be open to you. Amen.