The Wee Little Thief?

Luke 19:1-10
October 30, 2022
William G. Carter

Jesus entered Jericho and was passing through it. A man was there named Zacchaeus; he was a chief tax collector and was rich. He was trying to see who Jesus was, but on account of the crowd he could not, because he was short in stature. So he ran ahead and climbed a sycamore tree to see him, because he was going to pass that way. When Jesus came to the place, he looked up and said to him, “Zacchaeus, hurry and come down; for I must stay at your house today.” So he hurried down and was happy to welcome him. All who saw it began to grumble and said, “He has gone to be the guest of one who is a sinner.” Zacchaeus stood there and said to the Lord, “Look, half of my possessions, Lord, I will give to the poor; and if I have defrauded anyone of anything, I will pay back four times as much.” Then Jesus said to him, “Today salvation has come to this house, because he too is a son of Abraham. For the Son of Man came to seek out and to save the lost.”

 

We have a tax collector in our congregation, as well as a couple of retired IRS agents. I haven’t asked any of them what they make of these New Testament tax collectors. There was the one in the parable last week, beating his chest and calling himself a wretched sinner. In the Gospel of Luke, there are a number of other tax collectors, not merely as characters in stories, but real people who were drawn to Jesus, ate meals with him, and even befriended him.

And then there’s Zacchaeus, the most famous tax collector of them all. Luke calls him a “chief tax collector.” That means the Roman empire had given him the franchise in the oasis city of Jericho. That was a big deal for such a short little guy. As I understand it, he had to front the money and pay off Rome. Then he employed a number of neighborhood tax collectors to collect what he needed and charge whatever more they could get. He was the Big Cheese in a first century pyramid scheme with political overtones. He got his cut first and made a lot of money. It was a filthy business, prone to corruption.

How curious that Zacchaeus and all the other tax collectors in the Gospel would want to see Jesus! What could he offer to them?

As I mentioned last week, tax collection was considered a despised trade in the first century. The Purity Police up in the Jerusalem Temple wanted nothing to do with the people who practiced that trade. Tax collectors were considered collaborators with the Romans. The neighbors hated them, often muttering threats beneath their breath. The empire’s army provided minimal protection for them since the taxes collected paid for the soldiers to occupy the town. And it wasn’t safe for a tax collector to be out in the open.

So that’s why Zacchaeus hides in a tree. He wants to see Jesus, but he doesn’t want anybody to see him. And it doesn’t work. We don’t know how the scheme falls apart. Maybe his foot slipped. Or a child spotted him. Perhaps the big leafy branches weren’t wide enough to hide him. But somewhere between verse four and verse five, he is outed. The crowd has him right where they want him.

Imagine the curses, the condemnations, and the slurs. They have treed the fox and there’s nowhere for him to go. He is exposed, unguarded, and vulnerable. The crowd circled that tree. Zacchaeus doesn’t dare come down. It will not do any good to climb higher. He is a goner.

To the tax collector’s surprise, Jesus calls out to him, “Zacchaeus, come down from that tree. I am under obligation to stay at your house.” This is the point at which the whole story turns. The chief tax collector climbs down. He welcomes Jesus and says, “Yes, yes, you must come to my home.” And the crowd that hated Zacchaeus now spews their venom on Jesus. The Bible verse says, “they murmured.” That’s an overly polite translation. Snarled is more like it.  

But don’t lose sight of what Jesus has just done. At risk to his own life, Jesus rescues a tax collector. He shields this man, a chief tax collector, from certain doom. The Lord is not merely imposing on the rich man’s hospitality. He is saving his life. The storyteller says Zacchaeus welcomes the Lord “joyfully.” There’s more to this story than everything we heard in Vacation Bible School. It’s a bit more complicated – it’s a rescue story.

And then it gets even more complicated. What happens next? The chief tax collector for the city of Jericho, the very rich man, stands to announce, “Half of my riches belong to the poor.” And then he goes on to say, “If there is the slightest chance that I have ever cheated anyone, I will pay them back fourfold.”

Now, let’s pause here for a second. A rescue story becomes a generosity story. Jesus saves a short man from an angry crowd – and the short man uses his money for financial justice. Let’s hold on here. What’s going on?

I have a half dozen other Zacchaeus sermons in my file cabinet. In previous efforts, I’ve claimed there must have been something in that table conversation in the short man’s house that transformed him. We can assume that, but the text doesn’t say that.

In one of my previous sermons, I imagined that Jesus looked into the tax collector’s eyes and let him know he was loved. And suddenly, magically, the cold heart of Zacchaeus melted, and he changed his ways. That’s a pleasant thought, kind of an Ebenezer Scrooge sort of plot, and we’d all like to believe that, too. But the text doesn’t say that, either.

No, my friend Jim the retired preacher cut to the chase last Sunday in our coffee hour. “Are you preaching again on Zacchaeus on the 30^th?” Yes sir, I am. And he said, “Ever notice that when Zacchaeus stands up to talk about his generosity and his commitment to justice, he speaks in the present tense?” I give half of my riches to the poor. If I ever cheated anyone, I repay them. He may be making the decision then and there – or he might already be giving away half of what he has to those who need it and making amends for any past corruptions.

Whatever the case, it’s a remarkable story. Because however the city of Jericho regarded Zacchaeus before, he is a different man. It could have been because Jesus saved his skin. Or it could have been that he was already living a righteous life with his money. Either way, he’s not what everybody perceived of a chief tax collector. Something more is going on.

What is it? Good question. I’ve long been curious what it takes to create generosity. Why do some people give away a high proportion of what they have to the needy while others hold back and play it safe?  

Certainly for a man like Zacchaeus, in (shall we say) a “high income bracket,” he could give away a lot of money and still have more than his neighbors. As an imaginary character on a TV show put it, “What’s a hundred million dollars when you have two hundred million?” And I must confess, “I have no idea.” That’s a lot of dough. And Zacchaeus gives it away. Half of what he has. Not three percent, not ten percent, but fifty percent. To lift up the poor.

Please notice: Jesus does not lay a guilt trip on Zacchaeus. He doesn’t appeal to his conscience. Nor does he ask him for a donation. There’s no evidence in the story that the Lord confronts the rich man’s greed or calls him to repentance. No, not at all. We can read that into the story, but none of that is really there.  

And neither does Jesus address with Zacchaeus the dark side of what affluence can do. Over on my bookshelf is a volume by two ethics professors, Bruce Birch and Larry Rasmussen. They wrote a book titled, The Predicament of the Prosperous. It’s a good book, a thick book, a worthy read. One of the takeaways is a line I will never forget: “The quality of life actually decreases with the increase of material abundance and indulgence.”[1] That is, the more you have, the more danger you’re in. Ouch!

I had that conversation with one of our church members just yesterday. The purpose of life is not to acquire as much as we can. The purpose of life is to participate in the life around us on this planet. We are woven into a vast, interconnected network of living. One of the temptations of having as much money as Zacchaeus is the temptation to let your affluence isolate you from others. To separate you from others. To protect you from the real needs that other people have. And we know this to be true.

A wise old duffer was asked by his socially climbing daughter if he was going to install a security system to guard his property and all that he had. “Of course not,” he said. “If somebody breaks in here to take something, they probably need it more than I do.” She looked at him, incredulous. “But Daddy,” she protested, “you’ve earned what you have. It’s yours.” To which he retorted, “I already have too much, and it would relieve me of the burden of finding a way to unload it. You don’t think I’m going to leave all to you, do you?” Now, there’s an honest man.

To whom does Zacchaeus give half of his riches? To the poor, that is, to the destitute. To those who beg. To those who buy their expired canned vegetables in the dollar store. Again, we don’t know how he goes about it. He’s a first century dude; it’s not like he could write a check or put it on his AmEx card. And there many ways when we want to help somebody, and try to help somebody, and how we do it robs them of their dignity.

Some of us were down in Haiti years ago and saw a man in Port-au-Prince coming toward us with a t-shirt printed in English. There was an arrow pointing down, with the words printed, “Got one in the oven.” I’m certain he spoke Creole, not English, and had no idea what he was wearing. We discovered that some of our castoff clothing that doesn’t resell in American thrift shops gets dumped on the docks of that city. The poor scramble to find something they can wear. And this is demeaning.

So how does Zacchaeus donate to the poor? We have no idea. Yet he pledges to do so. It’s going to be a journey. He commits himself to it. Something has punctured the protective bubble around his assets. Something empowers him to relinquish his grip. In the presence of Jesus, he affirms he is on a journey to generosity, something that the people of Jericho could never have imagined. Is he going to quit his work as a chief tax collector? No, it doesn’t say that. He’s already living a very complicated life. He’s accustomed to the complications of having a lot of money.

But the story reveals he is generous. Profoundly, deeply generous. In the end, I think we know why. It’s because Jesus has saved his life. Jesus has risked his own life to save the life of Zacchaeus. And that profound act of unexpected grace creates more grace. That’s how generosity works. When we start giving, more giving is created. When we commit to sharing, our hearts are enlarged. Generosity is an ever-deepening invitation to participate in the needs of the world, to the glory of God. And it’s an invitation that I make to you.

I invite you to support the work of God. If there is any way that God in Christ has found you, find a way to share it. If the Risen Christ has invited himself into your life, pass it along for others. If there is any way you’ve discovered yourself rescued or redeemed, make the same happen for others. Generosity is an essential discipline as we follow Jesus. And it’s so good for the soul! The more we give, the more joy we create for others.

And in our generosity, the Spirit of God is working in the world.   

(c) William G. Carter. All rights reserved.

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[1] Bruce C. Birch and Larry Rasmussen, The Predicament of the Prosperous (Philadelphia: Westminster Press, 1978) 27.

The Pretentious Holy Man

Luke 18:9-14
Ordinary 30
October 23, 2022

William G. Carter  

Jesus also told this parable to some who trusted in themselves that they were righteous and regarded others with contempt: “Two men went up to the temple to pray, one a Pharisee and the other a tax collector. The Pharisee, standing by himself, was praying thus, ‘God, I thank you that I am not like other people: thieves, rogues, adulterers, or even like this tax collector. I fast twice a week; I give a tenth of all my income.’ But the tax collector, standing far off, would not even look up to heaven, but was beating his breast and saying, ‘God, be merciful to me, a sinner!’ I tell you, this man went down to his home justified rather than the other; for all who exalt themselves will be humbled, but all who humble themselves will be exalted.”

This is the kind of story we could expect to hear in the Gospel of Luke. Even if we were casually listening or not paying close attention, we would have heard three clues.

First, Luke never misses an opportunity to kick a Pharisee. The Pharisees were religious leaders in the time of Jesus. They were lay people, not clergy. They knew their Bible. They were the backbone of the movement to develop synagogues around the country. The Pharisees desired to apply the teachings of God to all of daily life, including matters of social justice. They were generous and faithful. And Luke, the Gospel writer, likes to give them a little kick. Not all of them, but a lot of them.

They questioned the ability of Jesus to forgive sins (5:21). They grumbled about his dinner companions (5:30). They criticized his observance of the Sabbath (6:2). They sat on the edge of their seats, ready to pounce on him (6:7). They didn’t believe Jesus had a strict enough morality (7:39). They complained he didn’t wash his hands before dinner (11:38). According to Luke, the Pharisees were always nitpicking at Jesus – and they were hypocrites (12:1). Luke says a few Pharisees were friendly (13:31), but all of them were greedy (16:14).

We hear his bias. So it’s no surprise to hear him recount a parable about an arrogant Pharisee. The holy man brags about his holiness. He separates himself to keep himself pure. It seems that, in all his superiority, he is in deep spiritual trouble. This is Gospel of Luke.

The second clue that it’s a Luke story comes in the tagline at the end: “all who exalt themselves will be humbled, all who humble themselves will be exalted.” Now, Jesus has said that before, back in chapter 14, as he watched the maneuvering for good seats at a banquet (14:11). His lesson was ignored, for the Pharisees soon grumbled again how Jesus kept company with sinners.  

In a broader sense, this is a Gospel where everything gets turned on its head. Mother Mary says the arrogant will be pulled off their thrones and the lowly will be lifted up. The first will be last and the last will become first. Jesus preaches, “Blessed are the poor, woe to the rich.” (6:17-26). The least among you is the greatest (9:48). And he himself becomes the greatest parable of reversal: the innocent One crucified between two thieves is raised up as Lord of all.

Luke offers a Gospel where all the values of this world are flipped upside down. So we have the parable of a pious Pharisee, praying in the Temple, who is demoted as a bad example, and the pitiful tax collector who will not make eye contact with God who is saved by grace. Hear the scheme? Humbled, now exalted. This is Luke’s book, so this is Luke’s story.

The third clue is somewhat more subtle. But once we see it, it’s very clear. So let me back up and say a bit more about the Pharisee. By all estimation, he leads a moral life. He knows the commandments and all that they instruct us not to do. Thou shalt not steal. Check! Thou shalt not commit adultery. Check!  Thou shalt not covet all the money that the tax collector has grabbed. Double check!

And his actions could be considered admirable. The Bible teaches him to fast from his meals for every holy day. He goes the extra mile and fasts twice a week. The Bible calls him to tithe, to donate ten percent of all the produce from his land. He gives a whole lot more – ten percent of everything he owns is given to God and God’s temple. (I want his phone number. It’s stewardship time and I’d love to put him in touch with our finance committee.)

As someone notes, "He is the faithful, dependable type (of person) who pays the salaries of ministers so they can preach on the parable of the Pharisee and the tax collector."[1] No doubt he’s a regular in worship. He goes to the temple all the time.

Yet for all his otherwise admirable qualities, something is off kilter. Some would say it’s his sense of superiority, or his arrogance, or his pretense. Others would say it’s his not-so-subtle nastiness; he really didn’t need to put down the tax collector in his prayer. Others would indicate that his prayer is skewed; he begins by thanking God and proceeds to talk about himself: how good he is, how holy he is, how much better he is than everybody else.” And yes, all of that’s true. But none of these are the critical flaw. They are merely symptoms of a greater issue.

The real issue comes into focus when we turn to look at the tax collector. He’s not standing up front. He’s way in the back. I understand that’s where all the sinners are. As someone once said, they want to be in the presence of God but not too close.

And he calls himself a sinner. “God, be merciful to me, a sinner.” That word “sinner” signifies somebody wicked. He has not made a simple mistake or two. He has wandered away from the commandments of God. He didn’t bother to try to keep them.

If you remember anything about New Testament tax collectors, they were Jews – fellow Jews – who collaborated with occupying empire of Rome. They collected the taxes that paid for the Roman army to occupy the land. And they were empowered to collect as much money as they could get, giving to Caesar what “belonged” to Caesar and keeping the rest for themselves.

The late great German scholar Joachim Jeremias uncovered first-century lists of those who engaged in despised lists, so that when children grew up, parents could tell them what not to do. These people were not permitted inside the Jerusalem temple. And who made the list? "Gamblers, usurers, pigeon-trainers, shepherds, and tax collectors."[2] 

So what does it mean, “two people went up to the temple to pray…” and one of them was a tax collector? He is not welcome there. What kind of person is this? Slipping in the side door, hunkering down in the shadows, trying not to be seen, avoiding human contact, averting his eyes, calling out the words of Psalm 51, “God, be merciful to me, a sinner.” What does he think he’s doing?

In his study of the parables, Ken Bailey tells us what he’s doing. He’s doing what hundreds of other people are doing at the same time. He has come to the temple for the daily sacrifice. Twice a day, at dawn and at three in the afternoon, the priest on duty at the Jerusalem temple would sacrifice a lamb to atone for the sins of the people. It was a big deal. There was liturgy, there were drums and chants, there was a blazing fire, and a good bit of blood. Then the priest would go into the chamber marked “Holy of Holies” to light incense and pray that God accepted the sacrifice. That’s why the tax collector is there. That’s why the Pharisee is there. That’s why the crowd is there.

Bailey says what the tax collector’s prayer is really saying is this: “God, let my sins be forgiven. Let my guilt be taken away. Let that sacrifice for everybody’s sins also work for me.” And Jesus says his prayer is granted.

Now, why is his prayer granted? Because it is a prayer of repentance. This is the third and greatest clue that this story is given to us by the Gospel of Luke – because Luke is all about repentance. In Luke’s book, Jesus is always teaching repentance, about coming home to God, about returning from our empty wanderings, about waking up our souls from their dullness, about standing before God with nothing in our hands – our hearts cracked open, our spirits hungry to be me.

Earlier this fall, we heard Jesus tell the parable about the one sheep who wanders away. Remember that one? He “nibbled himself lost,” as someone describes it. The shepherd – the Good Shepherd – goes after him. He leaves behind the ninety-nine other sheep to search for the lost one. When he finds it, he carries it back on his shoulders and throw a party for the village. You’ve heard that one.

But don’t forget the zinger that Jesus tacks on the end of that story. He says something that applies directly for the parable for today. “Even so,” he says, “there will be more joy in heaven over one sinner that repents than over ninety-nine righteous persons who need no repentance.” (15:7)

“One sinner” – there’s that word again. “Ninety-nine righteous persons” – just like that Pharisee.

Now, I know, I know. This is just a parable. And the two characters are caricatures. They are made of cardboard, overdrawn to make a point. And I confess to you, in the sight of God, that there are days when I am uncomfortably familiar with that Pharisee. I think highly of myself. I’m proud of my moral achievement (at least, that’s my story and I’m sticking to it). I don’t veer off course very often. Granted, I rarely fast from any meals, which you’ll be able to tell if I turn sideways. But let me tell you I have already gone to the church’s website and increased my electronic pledge by ten percent; that will begin this Tuesday. Why wait until January? And please notice: just like the Pharisee, I have a really nice robe.

But do I need God? That’s the issue. I tell it to you straight: there are moments while the rest of you are praying the prayer of confession on Sunday, and I am bored. I look over that prayer (which by the way, I selected). I look over that prayer and say to myself, “Oh, I didn’t do any of these bad things this week.” And when that happens, when I wake up and catch myself in that posture, that is the moment when my soul faces its greatest peril. I do need God, every hour of every day. But there are moments, some of them long moments, when I forget.

It reminds me of a book title from way back in the 1970’s. Written by Will Willimon, retired United Methodist bishop who never had an unpublished thought, the book is called, The Gospel for the Person Who Has Everything. As I recall, it’s an extremely thin book. There’s not much content, and that is another parable. Because if you think you have it all, you certainly don’t need God. If you alone are the source of your own good news, you have no room for the good news of Jesus Christ.

So I’m chewing on the parable for today, resembling the Pharisee, punctured by tax collector. And of all the details that I learned in my study of the text this week, one specific fact sticks with me. It’s where Ken Bailey, the Bible scholar, says the Jerusalem Temple held sacrifices for sin twice a day, at dawn and at three p.m. Three p.m.? And then I remember another lamb of God, an innocent man, crucified between two thieves, giving his life as a sacrifice to take away the sins of the world. Remember the time of day when he died? 3:00 in the afternoon.

So here’s another parable. In a certain church on the first Sunday of the month, the faithful Presbyterians gathered for worship. They sang the hymns, listened to the sermon, prayed the prayers, passed the offering plate, and then they had the Lord’s Supper. “This is my body broken for you… This is the cup of salvation, poured out for you.” They do this regularly. Same crowd, same day. They stood to sing, get the benediction, and leave.

Except on that day, a stranger didn’t stand for the final hymn. Those around him stood, but he stayed hunkered over in a pew near the back. While everybody else sang, he seemed to be murmuring something. It seemed disturbing for the regulars around him, and they left. When the minister came in from shaking hands at the door, he recognized the stranger as a man who had recently been released from prison. The case had been all over the news. He had done some terrible things, served his time, and today, somehow, he had found his way to the back of that church.

He was still leaning over, eyes closed, murmuring words the preacher could now hear, “again, again.” All this time, he was still holding the piece of bread and the cup of wine. Suddenly he opened his eyes, ate the bread, drank the cup. With moist eyes, he slowly stood up and pulled on his jacket.

He turned to see the minister, who asked him, “Is everything alright?” The man replied, “Beginning again. I’m beginning again.”

And that man went home, at peace with God.

 

 (c) William G. Carter. All rights reserved.

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[1] Fred B. Craddock, Luke: Interpretation (Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 1990) 211.

[2] Joachim Jeremias, Jerusalem in the Time of Jesus (Philadelphia: Fortress Press, 1969) 304.

The Annoyed Judge

Luke 18:1-8
October 16, 2022
William G. Carter

Then Jesus told them a parable about their need to pray always and not to lose heart. He said, “In a certain city there was a judge who neither feared God nor had respect for people. In that city there was a widow who kept coming to him and saying, ‘Grant me justice against my opponent.’ For a while he refused; but later he said to himself, ‘Though I have no fear of God and no respect for anyone, yet because this widow keeps bothering me, I will grant her justice, so that she may not wear me out by continually coming.’” And the Lord said, “Listen to what the unjust judge says. And will not God grant justice to his chosen ones who cry to him day and night? Will he delay long in helping them? I tell you, he will quickly grant justice to them. And yet, when the Son of Man comes, will he find faith on earth?”


Some years ago, an artist looked at me and drew a portrait. It is a caricature. The head looks rounder, the nose is significantly more pointed, the smile is goofy. This is what caricatures are: overdrawn pictures that highlight some prominent features. Anybody who looks at my portrait will turn to me and say, “Yes, that’s you!” It’s not – but it is. The artist has made his point.

I’m making the case this fall that the parables of Luke function the same way. We hear him tell a story from Jesus. He draws our imaginations to the exaggerated features. Like the Jewish boy who hit bottom so low he was forced to slop the pigs, and the father who forgives him before he is asked. Or the neighbor who pays for a stranger’s recovery from a beating, and the so-called religious folk that refuse to get involved. Or the accountant who discounts the accounts receivable after cheating his boss, and the boss who blesses him for it. These are tall tales that make their point.

Today we have a judge who has no time for God and neighbor, and a woman who nags him until he gives her what she wants. Neither is a good example. I wonder if that’s why Jesus uses them.

By virtue of his position, the judge is responsible for justice. Clearly, he doesn’t care for that. It’s his job to listen to accounts of unfairness and then decide to do something about them. He’s remarkably indifferent about the woman’s case, whatever it is. She asks for justice, and he refuses. Not once, not twice, but repeatedly. I picture him in his black robe, enduring her complaints as he works on a crossword puzzle. He doesn’t give a rip about her, and not about anybody else either.

And the woman? She won’t back down, back off, or back away. She’s got her teeth in the matter like a pit bull and won’t stop barking. We have no idea what has set her off. It’s an undisclosed matter and Jesus doesn’t want us to be distracted by it. We can’t question the validity of her case nor evaluate the crime against her. All we hear is her pounding the fist on the judge’s desk. Bang, bang, bang – “Give me what I want!” The judge finally says, “If I don’t do this, she’s going to smash me in the eye.”

It would be a comical scene if it weren’t so dramatic. The judge who won’t adjudicate. The woman who won’t back down. The little bit I’ve heard about first-century justice in a Palestinian town, it’s thoroughly believable.

And the story makes a good point: the squeaky wheel gets the grease. Whoever complains the most will get the attention. Whoever honks the horn loudest will get the right of way. Or as a Chinese student declared in an ESL class, “The baby that cries loudest will get the milk.” This is how the woman handles her complaint: “Give me what I want because I’m not going anywhere.”

I think of my friend Debbie. She teaches classes for women on how to be assertive. Stand up for yourself. Say what you need. Don’t sugar coat it. Don’t be intimidated. Don’t let anybody dismiss you. Speak up. Say it again. Plant your feet right there until you are heard. Debbie lives in Alabama; if it weren’t for her accent, you’d think she was from Brooklyn.

Now, Luke tells us this is a parable about prayer. I don’t think he means to emphasize the obnoxiousness, but the persistence. Keep at it. Don’t stop praying. Never give in. Don’t lose heart. This is what Luke says, not Jesus. Jesus tells the story, but Luke tells us what he wants us to hear. Keep praying – that’s a good lesson; it stands on its own.

Yet that sounds like he is merely skipping a rock across the pond. There’s more to the parable than that.

For one thing, this woman is a widow. That’s code language for someone who has not only lost her husband, but one who has no income, has no legal standing, has no community voice. The Jewish commandments taught, “Pay attention to the needs of the widows, because the rest of the society is prone to overlook them.” Over and over the scriptures declared we are to care for the ones that nobody is paying attention to – like the widows, the orphans, and those without permanent residence status. They are passed over all too frequently. They are prone to be neglected and exploited.

So the book of Deuteronomy thunders, “Cursed is the one who prevents the justice due to the sojourner, the fatherless, and the widow (27:19).” So if this judge does withhold her plea, he truly has no regard for people or for God. That is a serious matter.

But listen to what the widow wants. In English, the request is, “Grant me justice!” In the original language, it says, “Grant me revenge.” Not merely a correction or a redress of her grievance. She wants her unidentified enemy to be punished. She wants him to suffer as she has suffered.

This little semantic detail, along with the judge’s literal concern that “if I don’t give her what she wants, she’s going to give me a black eye,” suggests her persistence is on the verge of retaliation. If she can’t get revenge on her opponent, she will extract it on the judge. This gives the parable a different nuance, even a violent shade. It’s no longer a story only about persistence; it’s also about retribution and punishment that could go awry.

So even though the judge has little regard for people or the law of God, he is remarkably patient. He doesn’t mete out punishment at the first sound of her complaint. He waits. He handles some other cases. He gives the case some time to air out, allowing for further discovery and analysis of the facts.

It’s a good reminder that there’s a downside to the squeaky wheel, the noisy gong, and the clanging cymbal. And true justice must be true, not tainted or reactive.

We had a classmate by the name of Jim. He went to seminary as a second career student and was quite sure he never wanted to be a preacher. He wondered, “What am I doing taking Bible classes?” Well, like everybody else, he was required to do a student ministry for a couple of years, so he took a hitch as a chaplain at Trenton State Penitentiary. The boss said, “You’re there to listen and to pray, but don’t get entangled with any of the cases.”

Turns out, he broke the rules. As he listened and prayed, he grew convinced that one of the guys on death row was falsely accused. He hadn’t done the crime, and DNA evidence could prove it. He begged for years for somebody to take the case but couldn’t afford a good attorney. So Jim dug in, did a little investigating, and got in trouble with the chaplaincy supervisor. In time, Jim got the charges dropped and the prisoner released. And in the course of things, he found his calling.

I mention that, and lay it down beside the parable, because there’s an unusual phrase at the end that hasn’t been translated very well. Jesus speaks up to say, “Listen to this unjust judge,” who gave in finally. And he adds, “Won’t God give in, too, for his chosen ones who cry out day and night?” And then it says, as best I can translate, “for God is longsuffering with them.” Longsuffering, patient, or resilient - it’s a term used specifically for God. That, too, adds another wrinkle to understanding the parable.

God is with us in the struggle. God is not reactive, anxious, or impulsive, not when it comes to addressing our serious problems. Our world is a mess. It’s always been a mess. It’s not getting worse. It’s always been bad. The good news is God is with us in the mess. The wheels of true justice are really grinding. Slowly, always slowly, but from the standpoint of eternity, we’re moving ahead. And there is no problem that you and I face now that a hundred more years will not fix.

The question – and it’s the last question that Jesus adds to the parable – is whether we trust God is going to make good on all his promises. It’s a good question. It’s an honest question. From the standpoint of faith, it is already an answered question. It was answered well over a hundred years ago by a Presbyterian minister by the name of Maltie Babcock. You might not know his name (that happens to people who died over a hundred years ago), but you may remember the third verse of a hymn that he wrote. Goes like this:

This is my Father’s world; O let me ne’er forget
That thought the wrong seems oft so strong, God is the Ruler yet.
This is my Father’s world; Why should my heart be sad?
The Lord is king, let the heavens ring! God reigns; let earth be glad.

And that leads us back to the matter of prayer, about praying always, and not losing heart. Prayer is more than mouthing off or bothering the Heavenly Judge. Prayer is sinking deeply into the confidence that we are not responsible for fixing everything. That is God’s mission, and we are blessed to take part.

We pray for peace, so we work for peace.
We pray for justice, so we engage in creating justice.
We pray for the hungry to be fed, so we feed them.
We pray for the homeless, so we find them warm shelter.
We pray for children to be safe, so we ensure their safety.
We pray for fools to become wise, so we do what we can to instruct them.
We pray for our enemies to cease being our enemies, so we love them.

The point is, we must never pray for something that we are unwilling to work for. Our prayers must have more than wings; they must have hands, feet, and hearts. And that’s why the life of faith is so interesting. It is truly a journey, a long-distance journey, as we wait for the justice of God to pour down like mighty waters.

The other day, my wife and I took a little trip. She is a knitter, and there’s a favorite yarn shop about seventy-five miles away. It’s not far from a favorite Italian restaurant. Since Friday was a brilliant autumn day, and for me a day off, we hit the road. And we went the long way, winding through back roads in the Poconos to enjoy the colorful leaves.

Somewhere along the way, we were talking about some of the troubles of our times and wondering if they will ever be fixed. She was quiet for a few minutes, and then she said, “You know, that’s why I like to watch cop shows on TV. There are crimes, and they are real. People get hurt, and the pain is real too. But eventually, when you get to the end, there is a fundamental justice. Everything secret is revealed. There is the possibility of healing and redemption.”

We drove on quietly for a while longer, surrounded by brilliant trees in red, yellow, and orange flames. Then I realized she just told me a parable.

(c) William G. Carter. All rights reserved.

Something Better Than Faithfulness

Luke 17:1-11
October 9, 2022
Rev. William G. Carter

On the way to Jerusalem Jesus was going through the region between Samaria and Galilee. As he entered a village, ten lepers approached him. Keeping their distance, they called out, saying, ‘Jesus, Master, have mercy on us!’ When he saw them, he said to them, ‘Go and show yourselves to the priests.’ And as they went, they were made clean. Then one of them, when he saw that he was healed, turned back, praising God with a loud voice. He prostrated himself at Jesus’ feet and thanked him. And he was a Samaritan. Then Jesus asked, ‘Were not ten made clean? But the other nine, where are they? Was none of them found to return and give praise to God except this foreigner?’ Then he said to him, ‘Get up and go on your way; your faith has made you well.’


If you tuned in last week, you heard a wonderful sermon by our friend Jim. He unpacked the passage right before this one and told us at least two things. First, it doesn’t take a large quantity of faith to claim the promises of God’s gracious kingdom. God has already given us faith the size of a mustard seed, and that’s all we need. Second, the good servants of God are the ones who do what they are told.

That’s the context for the story that Luke tells us today. Ten people with leprosy are living in exile because of their disease. They see Jesus and call out for help. Jesus hears them, sees them, and then he says, “Go, show yourselves to the priests.” Presumably, those are the same priests who diagnosed their skin diseases. They functioned as the Purity Inspectors, with the authority to banish from society anybody with dangerous looking blemishes. If the lepers ever got well, the Purity Inspectors could readmit them to the public.

We don’t know how much faith the ten lepers had, but apparently, they had enough faith to trust his word. As they started off to find a priest, suddenly the disease left their bodies. It was a miracle. They were healed. They were clean. They were free. All because they had just enough faith to trust him. Even a little was enough.

And second, just as important, they obeyed Jesus. They did what he told them to do. They called him “Master.” He said, “Go,” and they went. Faith set them free. obedience opened the way to healing. This is what faithfulness looks like. It’s a great way to reinforce what we heard last week.

Yet there’s more. Ten people with a skin disease was healed as they stepped out in trust to find a priest who could tell them they were healed. Nine of them kept on going. After years of exclusion, it was time to keep moving. But one turns back. He returns to Jesus, throws himself at his feet, praises God, and says, “Thank you.” Suddenly the story is not about the healing; it’s about what comes next.

Now, I suppose we could kick the nine, make fun of them, and ask, “What’s wrong with them?” That’s usually what happens when a preacher gets hold of this story.

Some years ago, our local ministerial group held a Thanksgiving Eve service at a nearby church. The Rotary Club collected donations for the food pantry. The newest pastor in town got appointed to preach. Maybe there was a time when a service like that was well attended, but attendance had seriously dwindled. In fact, one of my colleagues murmured, “If you get all the churches together for an ecumenical service, the total number present would be just under what we’d have if one of the churches had a service of their own.”

In any case, the young pastor who picked the short straw that year stood up to see a very sparse crowd in a very large church. He read the text, which is the text that we’ve heard today. Then he looked around the room and said, “Where are the nine? Where are the nine? Ten were healed, and only one turned back. Where are the nine?” He kept up the harangue. “Where are the nine?”

I thought to myself, “The nine are where I would be if I had any sense.” The way he kept going on, I’d rather be home peeling the next day’s potatoes and watching my wife roll out dough for the pumpkin pie.

Where are the nine? Indeed. A healing story in the Gospel of Luke has been repurposed as a speech about gratitude. Or rather, a lack of gratitude. Ten are healed, only one says thanks.

To be fair, we don’t have any idea where the nine former lepers went. They disappear from the pages of the story, so we can only speculate. Maybe they went home to the families that they hadn’t seen. Maybe they couldn’t wait to depart the leper colony. Maybe they decided to get on with their lives. And maybe they simply obeyed Jesus – and they went off to see the priest. After all, that’s what he told them to do.

Yet there’s also the contrast between all of them and Number 10. He returns to say thanks – and they did not. Luke might be reminding us that gratitude can be a spiritual problem.

A few years ago, Diana Butler Bass wrote a book about thankfulness. She begins by confessing her own spotty history with responding to gifts that she had received. You can guess some of what she knows. One time, she gave someone a gift – they responded by giving her a gift. So she wrote a thank you note. They responded by writing a note to say thank you for the thank you note. “It’s a suburban game,” she says, “a circular offering that ceases to have anything to do with true gratitude. Rather, it smacks of social obligation.”

She also confesses how her mother forced her to write thank you notes when a relative or friend would give her something for Christmas or her birthday. She was so terrible at it, that, one Christmas an etiquette book showed up as a gift under the tree. A bookmark was placed in the section “How to Write Thank You Notes.” She got the point but didn’t change her ways.

And she writes,

Years later, the struggle over thank-you notes repeated with my own daughter. Although I had not been good at it, I hoped she would be. No such luck. She resisted and complained just as I had at her age. I bought her fancy cards and personalized stationery, supplied her with colored pens and cute stickers, hoping all might inspire notes of gratitude. It did not work. She utterly refused to write. However, no Miss Manners showed up under the Christmas tree. Instead, I prompted her to call gift givers and send thank-you e-mails. We had some success with electronic forms of expressing gratitude, but only minimally so. I gave up. When I stopped resorting to threats and etiquette shaming, she stopped writing thank-you notes. Is there DNA for ingratitude? For daughter wound up like mother, and I felt bad that I had not done better as a parent.[1]

I can relate to her experience; maybe you can do. Enforced gratitude is always a misfire. Compulsory thankfulness never works. Ethically informed threats are counter productive. And then there was the tactic of one of my beloved grandmothers. After years of being neglected, she announced, “If you don’t send me a thank you note, I will stop sending you gifts.” Someone must have gently pushed back, because she later said, “I’m 95 years old and I can do whatever I want.” Fair enough.

What does it take to stir up gratitude? Good question. Let’s consider the former leper who turned back to thank Jesus. He was purified of a dreaded disease. No longer was he judged by the spots on his skin or the scars on his face. He could return without stigma to his family and friends. He didn’t have to hang around with those who only had their disease in common. In so many ways, he received his life back. He had a fresh start.

And he didn’t do anything to earn it. His newfound health was a complete gift.

Someone notes how he and the others cried out for mercy. Since they had been reduced to begging, that could have been construed as a request for food or money. What they received was better than food, richer than money. Jesus treated them better than they expected, more generously than they could have deserved. The gift of healing came because they stepped out in faith even before they were well. He told them to go to the priest – and they went. This was exemplary obedience. Their faith put into action.

And yet here’s the one returning to thank the Master who healed them all. He is lifted up as a good example. He teaches there’s something better than faithful obedience, and that’s gratitude. Gratitude – it’s voluntary, never forced. It’s a response from the heart. There’s no desire for ingratiation, no interest in manipulation, no attempt to reduce the gift to a transaction. Just “thank you.” Thank you.

Do you think it matters that Luke tells us the man was a Samaritan? Maybe, maybe not. Not only had he been sent off because of his dreaded disease, he was also a “foreigner.” That’s a nice way of saying that the Jews of Jesus’ time wanted nothing to do with a Samaritan. It’s also a hint as to why the other nine skedaddled as soon as they all got healed. As in, “We’ve spent enough time with this Samaritan, let’s get out of here.” We don’t know.

We do know that Jesus made no distinction when it came to healing all of them. Health care is not only for the insiders. He offered care to all. It’s quite possible this outsider is grateful to receive the same as the others. Luke says he comes back “praising God,” the God who is the Source of every life, the guardian of every soul. God does not discriminate. Everybody gets their turn.

And yet, Jesus takes note how the insiders take off while the outsider comes back to say thank you. Here, too, is another clue to identifying true-blue gratitude. If we’re accustomed to getting all the breaks, we tend to take them for granted. If we depend upon our own privileges, we’re tempted to believe we deserve them. If we ask for something – and receive it – we might think we were entitled. And the precious truth that is lost is simply this: that life is a gift.

Take a breath: did you pay for that? Feel your pulse: did you earn that? Look around at the people who truly love you for who you are: did you manipulate them to love you? The opportunities to think and create and work and produce: have you deserved those things? No, no, no. They are a gift.

And I consider this church and all that it means. We proclaim the Gospel here, a Gospel that challenges us to love everybody, regardless of who they are or what they’ve done to us. Can’t get that Message on your cable TV, and I’m grateful to get it here. We come to hear that our sins are forgiven in Christ, and the sickness in our souls can be healed in his power, and I don’t hear that anywhere else; I’m thankful to get it here.

In this church, I’ve made life-giving friendships in a suburb where too many of our neighbors hide on their back patios. This church invites me to care for other people whose names I don’t even know. And this is the only place in town – and I mean the only place – where I am invited to sing with others, and to sing songs that are of ultimate importance. Do you know any other place where that happens? It happens here – in this community of faith that gathers around Jesus.

And I’m grateful, so grateful that I keep showing up. I get to study the Bible here and enjoy the company of others. I enjoy all kinds of conversations with all kinds of people. I get invited to step into key moments of life and death and resurrection. There are newborns to be baptized and welcomed, old-timers to bless and accompany through life’s passages, and everybody in between. I don’t take any of this for granted.

Let me tell it to you straight: you people are a gift to me as much as you are a gift to one another. You are a gift from a most generous God. If it weren’t for the Gospel which calls us together as church, I would never have had the opportunity to receive the gift that you are, as an expression of the generous love of God. So I have only one thing to say: thank you. Thank you, God.

And I conclude with the frequently quoted line from the German mystic Meister Eckhart: “If the only prayer you ever say in your entire life is ‘thank you,’ it will be enough.”

(c) William G. Carter. All rights reserved.    

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[1] Diana Butler Bass, Grateful: The Transformative Power of Giving Thanks (New York: HarperOne, 2017) xii