Sermon

January 28, 2007

The Publican and the Pharisee-canvas and wood, beginning to pray 32-35

Before I begin my sermon this morning, I will show you two props—a piece of wood and a piece of canvas. And I will ask a question, which of the two is stronger—the piece of wood or the piece of canvas? Let’s use a few words to describe the wood—it is solid, well-formed, sturdy, and steady. You can’t really change the wood without changing its essence. You could cut it, carve it or sand it, but these things would reduce its size and therefore change its essence. The piece of canvas, on the other hand appears flimsy and weak. However, it is malleable, meaning you can change its shape without ruining its essence, without cutting it or altering it. I guess the answer to the question, which of the two is stronger, the wood or the piece of canvas, depends on what it is being used for. If you are building a house, you’d probably choose the wood. If you want a sail for a boat, the canvas is what will catch the wind and maneuver the boat. If you evaluated the wood and the canvas based on which is static and which is dynamic, I guess it would be fair to say that the wood would be static and the canvas dynamic, because you can’t change the wood without ruining its essence but you can transform the canvas without changing its essence.

I’ll come back to the wood and canvas in a moment. Let me throw out another question for you to mull over. What do you think God is like? Do you imagine Him as a friend, a buddy, a peer? Or is He more of a mentor, a coach or a teacher? Do you think of God as a father, or as a boss? Or do you think of Him as a judge? God is incomprehensible—we each have our own idea about God, but at the end of the day God is incomprehensible. He is not only mighty but is Almighty—He has more might than we can imagine, after all, what kind of might did it take to create the world and the universe from nothing. He is loving—He has more love than we can possibly imagine, after all, what kind of love did it take to offer His own Son to die for the sins of all. I mean, history records stories of people who have died for each other—bodyguards, soldiers, but to die for everyone, we cannot comprehend that kind of love. God is a judging God—His judgment will be without appeal, because appeals are made to higher authorities, and there is no authority higher than God. And His judgment will be eternal. Even one who is sentenced to life in prison has the sentence end with their earthly life—a judgment of God against us will last for eternity, again, we cannot comprehend that. God is a merciful God—when we sin, regardless of how large or small a sin we commit, we sin against God. We all sin, many times a day. How then, if we all sin, and we all sin a lot, and sin is an act against God, how can anyone enter paradise? God must be a merciful God—and what kind of mercy can possibly forgive incalculable numbers of sins—a kind of mercy that only God can give, a kind of mercy we cannot possibly understand.

This morning, we encounter two men in the Gospel lesson, a leader of the Jewish temple called a Pharisee, and a tax collector, called a publican. Pharisees were very respected people. Tax collectors were very despised. Both men went to the temple to pray—The Prayer of the Pharisee was a prayer of self-congratulations—He prayed, we are told, with himself, and heaped up his list of accomplishments before God. How would we describe the relationship of the Pharisee with God? Was it as a friend, a buddy, a peer? After all, the conversation was somewhat casual—“God, I thank you that I’m not like other people—extortioners, unjust, adulterers, or even like this tax collector.” (Luke 18: 11) Perhaps he saw God as his boss and so he reported to God his accomplishments: “I fast twice a week, I give tithes of all that I possess.” Perhaps he thought he had worked his way into God’s favor. Others think they can buy their way in.

And now for the publican, and I will quote from a book, “Beginning to Pray”: “The publican comes and stands at the rear of the church. He knows that he stands condemned; he knows that in terms of justice there is no hope for him because he is an outsider to the kingdom of God, the kingdom of righteousness or the kingdom of love, because he belongs neither to the realm of righteousness nor to the realm of love. But in the cruel, the violent, the ugly life he leads, he has learned something of which the righteous Pharisee has no idea. He has learned that in a world of competition, in a world of predatory animals, in a world of cruelty and heartlessness, the only hope one can have is an act of mercy, an act of compassion, a completely unexpected act which is rooted neither in duty nor in natural relationships, which will suspend the action of the cruel, violent, heartless world in which we live. All he knows, for instance, from being himself an extortioner, a moneylender, a thief, and so forth, is that there are moments when for no reason, because it is not part of the world’s outlook, he will forgive a debt, because suddenly his heart has become mild and vulnerable; that on another occasion he may not get someone put into prison because a face will have reminded him of something or a voice has gone straight to his heart. There is no logic in this. It is not part of the world’s outlook nor is it a way in which he normally behaves. It is something that breaks through, which is completely without sense, which he cannot resist; and he knows also, probably, how often he himself was saved from final catastrophe by this intrusion of the unexpected and the impossible, mercy, compassion, forgiveness. So he stands at the rear of the church, knowing that all the realm inside the church is a realm of righteousness and divine love to which he does not belong and into which he cannot enter. But he knows from experience also that the impossible does occur and that is why he says, ‘Have mercy, break the laws of righteousness, break the laws of religion, come down in mercy to us who have no right to be either forgiven or allowed in.’” (p.32-33) And this becomes his salvation.

Many people have a very Pharisaic view of Christianity. It’s all about being a good person, that’s what most people think. So those who never darken the door of a church, or who never say a prayer, or who don’t believe in organized religion say, “well I’m a good person.” And so what? It’s as if good deeds are enough to buy us a seat in God’s kingdom. And if that is so, then God has been reduced to a businessman from whom we hope to buy salvation. I’m convinced that many people treat our church like a life insurance policy—I’m 34, I have life insurance, not because I’m thinking I’m going to die this year, but just in case, I’m covered. And many people treat God the same way—not sure if there is a God, but slink myself into a church once in a while, pitch a few dollars in the tray, work a shift or two at the festival, and just in case this really is all true, I’m covered. And these have reduced God to a life-insurance policy.

The only way we can hope to touch God, in this life, or in the life eternal, is through God’s mercies. We don’t approach God out of a sense of entitlement—I pray, I fast, I belong, like the Publican. But we must approach God with a sense a humility, in order to receive His mercies. Because when we sin, and we all do, we go against God—how do we make up for that? We can’t work our way out of it, we can’t buy our way out—we have to rely on God’s mercies, we have to have humility.

And what is humility. In doing some reading this week, I learned a definition of humility that I never heard before. The word humility comes from a Latin word, “humus,” which means fertile ground. Humility is not self-deprecation, or self loathing, or making ourselves less either in an insincere manner or even in a sincere one. Humility is about emptying oneself entirely in order to be filled with something else. In a loving relationship between two people, humility is not an “I’ll do you a favor and go without something.” Humility is a complete emptying of oneself—I’m willing to die for you—and that’s where love blossoms. And in our relationship with God, humility is an emptying of ourselves so that we can be full of God’s love, God’s grace, God’s mercy. And this doesn’t come with a token prayer or a token donation, but it comes with a total sense of brokenness, that in the words of Isaiah the Prophets, “All of our righteousness is like discarded rags” before God. (Isaiah 64:6) When we can say “Lord have mercy,” not just as a token response to the prayers of the Liturgy, but with the sense that indeed God’s mercies are the only way which we will be able to approach God. Jesus said in Matthew 9:13, “I desire mercy and not sacrifice, for I did not come to call the righteous, but sinners, to repentance.” Jesus did not reject the sacrifices people made in the temple, any more than he rejected the good deeds of the Pharisee. Jesus said that His desire is to show mercy to repentant sinners. Self-righteous people see no need to mercy, and consequently will receive none. Those who show humility, no matter how much good they have done, those who know that they are unworthy to stand in the presence of God, regardless of how much they have done, those are the ones that will receive God’s mercies.

And as for the wood and the canvas—the world will tell us that we should be strong like pieces of wood—well formed, steady, solid, sturdy. But the wood leaves no room for molding—in that sense it is resolute and stubborn. The canvas, on the other hand, while appearing weak and flimsy is actually a strong material. Because when filled with wind, in carries much more power than a piece of wood. Because it is flexible, it can wrap itself around things. Because its form can be changed without compromising its integrity, it can be utilized in many ways. And so in our Christian lives, we need to be malleable, like the canvas, ready to be filled with God. We need to be flexible, to wrap ourselves around things that God reveals to us. And we need to present ourselves to God as pieces of canvas, rather than pieces of wood. For the wood, like the Pharisee, is self-congratulating—look at how I am—well formed, well shaped, I am what I am, I know what I know, and I’m good just the way I am. But if we present ourselves to God like the canvas, I have an essence that has capacity to be changed, to be filled with Your power to blow in Your direction, to be wrapped around Your things and not my own, the canvas that says, “Mold me into what you want me to be,” rather than the wood that says “congratulate me for what I already am,” this is what it means to be humble, and as Jesus said, “It is those who humble themselves that will be exalted.” It is those who humble themselves who will receive God’s mercies.

This morning the church begins the period on the church calendar called the Triodion, the period of preparation for Great Lent, which begins in three weeks. The Christian life is supposed to be one of self-examination, of humility, of letting God do the molding, of us being the clay, and letting Him be the potter. Many so-called Christians stand like the Pharisee—I’m pretty good, I know what I know and that’s all I want to know. We all do that at least some of the time. As we prepare for Lent, we need to meditate on the lesson from this morning, that we don’t need bring ourselves down a little so God will shine on us. We need to empty ourselves out completely, we need to empty out all the weeds, not just some of them, so that we can become the humus, the fertile ground, where Christ can take root. We need to become like the canvas sail on the boat, and raise ourselves up so that we can be filled with the wind of God and blow in His direction. Indeed the beginning of our relationship with God is the day we see ourselves as the Publican, a profound sense of unworthiness, with a profound need for God’s mercies. It’s when we stop looking at how far we’ve come and start looking at how far we have to go and ask for God’s help, God’s mercy, in successfully making that journey. So which are you, the canvas or the wood? Amen.