"Two Went In to Pray" given Oct. 23, 2016

They were a nice enough young couple who’d approached me about performing their wedding. I don’t require couples to join my church before I’ll marry them. Still, non-member couples will often swear to me that they’re going to start coming to my church after the wedding. Maybe four couples in over thirty years in the local pastorate have actually done so.

Fred and Ethel were one of those couples. I was surprised when they actually began attending after their honeymoon, but of course, appreciative. After they joined the church, Ethel volunteered to become chairperson of the Worship Committee, and Fred taught the Jr. High Sunday School Class. They were younger than most of the people in that church, but they had a lot of energy and everybody welcomed them.

Fred and Ethel were both short people—she was only about five three and he was maybe five six. Fred in particular was what my grandma used to call big-boned. He looked like he was almost as wide as he was tall. But he had a lot of muscle under his bulk. I don’t recall if he was from Canada or not, but he’d grown up playing little league and High School Ice Hockey . A lot of the very best Hockey players are fairly short. He still played every Tuesday night in a league at a local ice rink. He was, not surprisingly a goalie.

After a while, Ethel talked her sister into attending my church. She ended up joining the church as well. I guess that must have roused Fred’s evangelistic spirit because he promptly began working on getting one of his hockey buddies to attend.

So one Sunday, I came in the front door of the church and there in the lobby stood Fred and Ethel and Her sister along with another young man—the hockey buddy. He wasn’t quite as short and stocky as Fred, but he looked pretty rangy and tough.

We stood around chatting for a while—and all of a sudden, somebody said something—I honestly don’t remember what it was—but Fred’s ire was roused against his buddy—or maybe it was the other way around. As I mentioned, these guys were serious ice hockey players. Y’all know what ice hockey players do when they get irate with one another don’t you? Before I knew what had happened these two were swinging at each other in the lobby of my church.

I’ve done a lot of foolish things in my life. Usually I’ve done them for myself. This particular foolish thing however—I like to think I did for Jesus. Before I realized what I was doing, I had waded in between these two brawlers and thrown my arms around the buddy, trying to physically separate the two brawlers Meanwhile Ethel and her sister grabbed Fred from behind, pining his arms to his body. . I recall yelling at the two of them,

“This is God’s house. You two take your fight somewhere else.”

````` A the exact moment I began carrying Fred’s buddy out the front door, the President of the UMW and the Chair of SPRC walked into the lobby I wasn’t trying to evict the guy from the church, just remove him from Fred’s presence. Before I could say anything, however, he broke loose from me, growled something about settling with Fred next Tuesday night and stalked off.

I walked back through the door, and before I could explain what had just happened, it was time for church to begin. If I’d had time to reflect about what had happened, I no doubt would have been shocked, disappointed, angry and embarrassed. Embarrassed? Yes! After all, I had brought this nice young couple into the congregation. I thought that Fred’s rowdiness reflected badly on me, as Pastor.

Was this any way for my church members to act? In my church? You see, in those early years, I was self-centered enough to assume that I was responsible for anything and everything that happened in the church. In the end, it was after all, all about me. If the church didn’t grow, it was my fault. If it did grow, I took the credit. (It took a looonng time for the Holy Spirit to knock that particular sinful attitude out of my head.)

But by having to move right into the service, all those feelings didn’t have a chance to take root. In the quietness and beauty of the sanctuary, I was able to put aside what had just happened. Then we came to the offering. I gave the offering invitation, turned around and walked up to the Altar, took the plates in my hands, walked down to where the ushers stood waiting, and handed one of the plates to—you guessed it—Fred. There he stood—one of his eyes starting to blacken, his shirt pulled half out of his pants, his collar torn and his hair askew, with a sheepish look on his face, right there in front of me, God, and everybody.

The nerve of the man! Didn’t he have any self-respect or shame? Can you imagine having the sheer gall to stand up in the front of the Sanctuary less than fifteen minutes after trying to punch out his so-called friend in the church lobby? Didn’t he have any pride?

Jesus also told a parable to some who trusted to themselves that they were righteous and despised others.

Two men went into the Temple to pray—one a Pharisee and the other a Publican—a tax-collector. The Pharisee stood and prayed thus to himself—

“I thank you O God, that I am not like other men—extortionists, thieves, unjust, adulterers, brawlers, or even like that this tax collector. I fast twice a week. I give a tenth of

all that I get. Thank You God for making me, me.”

But the tax-collector stood in the back of the Sanctuary, would not even lift his eyes up off the floor toward heaven and prayed--

“God have mercy on me—a sinner.” Then Jesus added--

“I tell you, this man went home justified—rather than the other.

Luke says that Jesus told the Parable of the Pharisee and the Publican “to those who trusted in their own righteousness and despised everybody else.” Who might that be?

“Two men went into the Temple to pray. They go for the daily 3 PM Sacrifice—a regular, scheduled worship service. So we know this parable is a story about worship—a story about people who pray.

The two men are at the same service—but they pray and worship in very different manners. The Pharisee “stood with himself” Jesus tells us. Presumably he was in a prominent place—yet alone—not too close to anyone else—not too close to any sinners. As was the custom, he was standing, praying aloud, but under his breath.

Listen to his prayer. First he lists all the sins from which he refrains. Then he reminds God of all his good deeds. It was not required that he fast twice a week, but he does—possibly even offering intercessory prayers for others as he fasted. He tithes all that he buys—so as to make absolutely sure that he makes use of nothing that has not previously been tithed. He’s a double tithing, ‘second mile’ giver. Notice that Jesus does not condemn this man’s piety or question his goodness. The Pharisee is a good man—a very good and generous man. (His big problem is that he wants everybody to know it.)

His prayer is a prayer of honest thanksgiving—a perfectly appropriate response to God. The Pharisee is thankful for all the blessings he has received and all the virtues he has. He understands that all that he is and all that he has is a gift of grace from God. That tax collector over there is possibly a lot more prosperous than the Pharisee, but he wouldn’t change places with such a sinner for all the money in the world.

Unlike a lot of our prayers, the Pharisee doesn’t bother God with a string of petitions. He asks for nothing for himself. He only wants to give thanks. (And maybe gain a little respect in the community for his visible piety.) He is grateful that he is well off, that he was born a pious Jewish man and not a sinner or a Gentile or a woman.

On the other hand, the Publican stands afar off—in the back of the Sanctuary. And well he should. As a tax-collector he has had ample opportunities to squeeze and defraud his own people. He is a lackey of the Roman occupiers of his country. No wonder he dares not lift up his head to God. It’s a wonder that he would even dare to enter the Temple.

The nerve of the man! Didn’t he have any self-respect or shame? Can you imagine having the sheer gall? Didn’t he have any pride?

He beats his breast and bows his head. He can’t even repent. According to the Laws of Moses, for him to truly repent his sins he would have to abandon his wicked profession and make amends to all he has cheated plus another 20%. He can’t even recall all the people he has cheated over the years—much less how much.

That tax-collector was not a good man. He was a sinner. He was a man without merit. He was a man without hope. His breast-beating humility isn’t a virtue that you and I are called upon to emulate—it was simply his own realistic assessment of his own wretchedness. The only thing that can be said for him is that he was honest. He was a sinner and he knew it,

It’s hopeless. He can’t even really pray. All he can do is cry out,

“God have mercy on me!” The cheating tax collector claims nothing—but asks for everything. Lacking anything to offer God, all he can do is beg for mercy.

Then Jesus tosses us a curve ball at the end of the Parable.

“I tell you that this Publican, this notorious sinner, this fraudulent tax-collector went home justified—made righteous—blessed with God’s favor—not the Pharisee.”

Two men—two prayers. One man was a good, Bible-believing, faith-practicing, worship-every-Sabbath, double-tithing Pharisee. The other was a money-grubbing, immoral, collaborating tax-collector. And Jesus tells us that it was the Publican who went home atoned for, forgiven, justified, blessed, and saved. The Pharisee wasn’t.

What’s Jesus’ point? OK everybody, let’s all get out there and be humble! In the play Richard III, there’s a moment when this most evil, dastardly scumbag of all Shakespeare’s villains turns to the audience and with a straight face, proclaims “I thank God for my humility”

No. There’s more than enough forced, faked phony humility in this world. Have you ever tried to be humble? The truth is, if you have to try, or remind yourself to be humble—you aren’t being humble at all. You’re just acting humble. If you honestly think you’re humble—you aren’t. And if you are truly humble, you aren’t even aware of it.

A believer either is humble, or she isn’t. True humility comes upon us uninvited and unexpected. It sneaks up on us when we honestly look at who we are—and realize how far we are from being the person God calls us to be—and pray “God have mercy on me.”.

The opposite of humility is of course, Pride—a.k.a. Vanity. In the movie “The Devil’s Advocate”, Al Pacino plays Satan— who is, what else? A modern day—high priced, high-powered Manhattan attorney. The Devil sets his sights on an honest young small town lawyer played by Keanu Reeves. He has successfully defended a pedophile—knowing the man was guilty.

This is all the opening Satan needs. He invites the young man to join his law firm and tries to corrupt him—sex, power, money, glamour—none of them work. The young lawyer turns it all down in the end. In the last scene we’re back in the small town replaying the trial of the pedophile. This time, the young lawyer refuses to defend him, and the pedophile goes to prison.

In the men’s room after the trial, a reporter for a national news outlet congratulates him and asks for an interview. Realizing this publicity could make his career, he agrees and leaves the restroom. The reporter’s face changes into that of the Devil-- who looks into the mirror and says, “Vanity is definitely my favorite sin.”

Pride or vanity can take lots of other forms.

“God, I thank you that I don’t make a big deal of my religion and pray lots of showy prayers like those hypocrite televangelists.” “God, I thank you that I know my weaknesses and I admit them, not like that Pharisee.” “God, I thank you that you have used me to save so many souls.” “God, I thank you that my candidate is a good Christian—not like that other guy.” “God, I thank you that my own politics are correct—not like those people in the other party.”

Just like the Pharisee in the parable, it’s easy in our prayers to slip from thanksgiving into self-congratulations. Just as our acts of charity can easily slip into acts of self-aggrandizement--meant to make us look good, rather than to truly help someone in need. “God, I thank thee for me.”

Just like the Pharisee in the parable, if you and I don’t seek God’s mercy in our prayers—we will rarely find it. If we come to the Lord with hands full and clenched, it’s understandable that we go home empty handed. You know the old saw—be careful what you pray for, you just might get it. The hard truth is that if we don’t ask for God’s presence in our prayers, we won’t get it.

Neither the Publican nor the Pharisee is the hero of the parable. The only difference is that the Publican knows he’s sinning. Some sinners steal from others. Other sinners pray “I thank you God that I am not like other people.” But both sin. Both come to worship with unclean hands—and worse with unclean hearts.

Jesus is telling us a parable about prayer, about worship, and ultimately about ourselves. At any worship service, anywhere, we’ll likely find contemporary Pharisees and Publicans. Few of us are totally one or the other all the time. But most of us are some of each—some of the time.

There are times when you and I enter the Sanctuary as good, Bible-believing, righteous Pharisees who ask nothing—and consequently get nothing. We’re so content with ourselves, so complacent, so well-fixed. Yet how often we go home to Sunday dinner with a gnawing emptiness inside—because we were so full of ourselves when we came.

And maybe we decide to start church-shopping so that we can feel “fed”.

But then there the other times. There are the bleak times when we enter the Sanctuary to worship as Publicans—empty, needing so much, lost and without hope. And surprise! We return home with more than we dared to ask—forgiven, accepted, encouraged, empowered.

We have no idea, no way to know which will happen to us on a given Sunday. Will we go home “made righteous”? All that we know is that righteousness does happen sometimes, and that this was the place where it did—and so we keep coming back—we keep at it.

“The wind blows where it will” Jesus told Nicodemus. Righteousness, atonement, justification, mercy—all those are gifts of God’s Holy Spirit. Grace is a gift. And a gift isn’t really much of a gift if it’s expected, is it? Sometimes it’s there for us, and sometimes not.

Why? Jesus doesn’t answer that one. The gift is God’s to give at God’s own time and place—a gift of God’s mercy. You and I don’t go home righteous because we’ve prayed the right words, or stood in the right place, or taken a sufficiently humble attitude.

If and when we are justified, atoned for, saved, blessed—it is a gift of God’s love. God’s mercy is without bounds—extended to sinners of every stripe—despite how well or poorly said are their prayers. It’s only through that mercy that unmerited favor that any of us return home any different than we were when we came.

No Fred. I wouldn’t have been caught dead up there in front of the Altar, before God and all the righteous saints after indulging in a slug-fest fifteen minutes earlier. You see, I’m too good for that sort of imprudence in worship. It’s bad form. I have to keep my distance. I have too much pride to come to God’s altar with my shirt half out of my pants, smiling sheepishly and holding my still bruised knuckles out as if I was expecting to receive some gift. Unlike you Fred, I have my pride. I have my pride.

Two men went before the altar to pray two prayers on a Sunday morning. The first was a Methodist preacher. The other was a loud-mouthed, quick-tempered, rowdy. The latter went back down to his home justified, not the former.