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

The Neighbor Whose Food Fell on the Floor

Luke 16:19-31
Worship Through Service
September 25, 2022
Rev. William Carter

Jesus said, “There was a rich man who was dressed in purple and fine linen and who feasted sumptuously every day. And at his gate lay a poor man named Lazarus, covered with sores, who longed to satisfy his hunger with what fell from the rich man’s table; even the dogs would come and lick his sores. The poor man died and was carried away by the angels to be with Abraham. The rich man also died and was buried. In Hades, where he was being tormented, he looked up and saw Abraham far away with Lazarus by his side. He called out, ‘Father Abraham, have mercy on me, and send Lazarus to dip the tip of his finger in water and cool my tongue; for I am in agony in these flames.’ But Abraham said, ‘Child, remember that during your lifetime you received your good things, and Lazarus in like manner evil things; but now he is comforted here, and you are in agony. Besides all this, between you and us a great chasm has been fixed, so that those who might want to pass from here to you cannot do so, and no one can cross from there to us.’ He said, ‘Then, father, I beg you to send him to my father’s house— for I have five brothers—that he may warn them, so that they will not also come into this place of torment.’ Abraham replied, ‘They have Moses and the prophets; they should listen to them.’ He said, ‘No, Father Abraham; but if someone goes to them from the dead, they will repent.’ He said to him, ‘If they do not listen to Moses and the prophets, neither will they be convinced even if someone rises from the dead.’”

 

Before we rush off to assume we know the meaning of the story, let me remind us of the obvious: the stories of Jesus are slippery. Often when we hear a parable, we think we know what it’s going to say. And then an electrical switch is thrown, or a trapdoor opens, or we find ourselves confused about something that once seemed so clear.

For instance, an expert in the law of Moses once asked Jesus, “Who is my neighbor?” So the Lord spins a story about a man from Samaria who cared for a wounded traveler. Now we name hospitals after him, “The Good Samaritan Hospital.” But then, the trap door opens. We discover that the Jews of Jesus’ day wanted nothing to do with the Samaritan. When he tells that story, Jesus forces his fellow Jew to name the hypothetical Samaritan as his neighbor – and he cannot do it. And the whole story gets published in the Bible.

We are fortunate that we have Luke, the Gospel writer, as our guide. As he collects the stories that Jesus told, he frequently offers guidance in how to hear them. When we get to chapter eighteen next month, Luke will introduce one story by saying, “He told this parable about the need to pray always and not lose heart.” Now we know what he wants us to hear. And then there’s another, “He told this story to those who are arrogant and treat others with contempt.” We get the punchline before the joke. And that’s Luke speaking, not Jesus.

He does this, I believe, because a good story can have multiple meanings. It can spin off in different directions, each of them valid. There’s enough internal electricity to shock you in five or six ways.

But then there’s the story for today. It has no frame around the picture. It comes without context. We don’t know the situation that prompts it. Jesus simply ignites it like a stink bomb and lets it do its work.

Goes like this: a rich man ate like a king, died, and went to hell. A hungry man died and went to eternal life, resting on the bosom of Abraham. That’s all we know about them: one ate, the other one didn’t eat. And when their lives here were over, their situations were reversed.

Jesus doesn’t tell us why. We are left to ponder the reason. And it’s a story, too, not a description of facts. Not yet at least. Could it happen? That is God’s decision, not ours. But it gives us something to chew on.

If we know anything about the Gospel of Luke, we could hear this one coming. We heard it right after the angel told Mary that she was pregnant. The Spirit of God fills her lungs, and she bursts into song – remember that? And listen to the revolutionary lyrics that she sings: God has brought down the powerful from their thrones and lifted up the lowly; he has filled the hungry with good things and sent the rich away empty (1:52-53). In other words, God is the great equalizer, if not now then later.

And when her son Jesus finds his voice, remember what he declares:

Blessed are you who are hungry now, for you will be filled. (6:21)

Woe to you whose bellies are full now, for you will be hungry. (6:25)

These are tough words to those who have full plates and a lot of pleasant things. And Jesus does not explain any of this. He doesn’t tell us why. He leaves it for us to chew on.

Some will remember how he speaks of a great reversal in the dominion of God. “Some are last who will be first, and some are first who will be last” (13:30). This sounds like God is going to mess with about our priorities, our preferences, and our privileges. It’s a reminder that God makes the rules. And God corrects all the wrongs.

And sometimes, to hear Jesus speak, he declares that we could join God in making things right. Like the day he was eating with some rich people, and he announced, “All who exalt themselves will be humbled, and those who humble themselves will be exalted” (14:11). No doubt some were stunned by his words. And others said, “Pass me another slice of chocolate cake.”

Are you hearing the context of the story that we heard today? We should not be surprised that Jesus should drop this stink bomb about the man who ate and the man who didn’t eat. And we shouldn’t be the least bit surprised when his story tells about what happened to each of them.

Yet there are two surprises in the story, hidden in the details.

First, the rich man has so much food that some of it falls on the floor. That’s a delicious little detail in verse 21. The poor man was so hungry that he would eat whatever fell from the table. We can presume he was starving to death. The neighborhood dogs took pity on him, but the rich man did not. Perhaps the rich man was so busy eating that he paid no attention to what was going on just outside his gate. Either that, or he didn’t care. It’s a haunting detail.

The second detail is worse, and it is simply this: he knew the poor man’s name, Lazarus. They were neighbors. We do not know anything more about their relationship. The rich man had a house. Lazarus slept on the street. The rich man’s peas and carrots rolled onto the floor; Lazarus starved in isolation. We don’t know how one of them prospered and the other didn’t, and that’s irrelevant to the story. The rich man knew Lazarus’s name – and he still didn’t share what he had. According to the story, they were close enough to see one another – and one of them wasn’t looking.

And when he’s burning in the flames of hell, the rich man calls out, “Father Abraham, send Lazarus to cool me off with water.” He knows him, presumes Lazarus will serve him. “Nope,” says Abraham, “it’s too late for that.”

Then the rich man calls out again, “Father Abraham, send Lazarus to warn all my brothers, so they don’t end up like me.” Again, he thinks he can direct both heaven and his poor neighbor to do as he wishes. Abraham says, “No dice. They have a Bible to warn them; let them listen to that.”

And that’s where the story ends. It doesn’t tell us what to think or what to do. We are free to dismiss it as a story. We could say, “Jesus, you set off another stinker,” and then say, “What are we going to hear next week?” But if we’ve heard the story, really heard it, it’s like a piece of Scotch tape that we cannot get off our fingers.

So trust me when I tell you that I’m not going to tell you what to do with the story. If the Word of Christ has gotten close to you this morning, you have some ideas of what to do. And you already know there is no quick fix to make everything right. There’s no simple, one-time banquet that the rich can put on for the poor, even to assuage a guilty conscience. Food justice takes continuous effort. You can feed the hungry today and they will be hungry tomorrow. And who among us is prepared to fix the deeper causes of poverty?

But here’s the thing. We are neighbors. All of us. And we must stay at it. We help as we are able because it might keep the needy alive for another day. And we help because it’s equally good for those of us who have so much. There is nothing like feeding and serving our neighbors to puncture the illusion that we are fortunate, or lucky, or blessed when others are not. That’s all an illusion. The truth is we share the same neighborhood.

Remember how Mother Mary was filled with the Holy Spirit? She sang the truth, “God has brought down the mighty from their thrones and lifted up the lowly.” This is how the Gospel works among us. This is how the words of Moses and the prophets come alive. We give ourselves as servants to one another. We listen to God speak on our cushioned pews – but then we do something about what we have heard.

In her study of the parables of Jesus, Amy Jill Levine says this about the story for today:

The parable suggests that the gift of eternal life in paradise is possible. “Heaven,” however understood, is ours, but it is also ours to lose. The point is not that we have to “earn” it. The point is that we uphold our part of the covenant by behaving as human beings should behave: we care for the poor; we are our brothers’ and sisters’ keepers. If we expend everything on ourselves, then there is nothing left in our heavenly treasury. [1]

The alternative is to care. To make compassion a muscular verb. To open our gates, to set more places at our tables, and to live as neighbors. How do we do that? I don’t know; for there is no single answer. Like the stories of Jesus, there may be more than one right answer. Yet we keep at it. We persist. We live in the love of God, who gives us a world where there is enough for everybody.

(c) William G. Carter. All rights reserved.
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[1] Amy Jill Levine, Short Stories by Jesus: The Enigmatic Parables of a Controversial Rabbi (Nashville: Abingdon Press, 2014) 295.

The Slippery Deal Maker

Luke 16:1-8
September 18, 2022
Pentecost 15

William G. Carter  

Then Jesus said to the disciples, “There was a rich man who had a manager, and charges were brought to him that this man was squandering his property. So he summoned him and said to him, ‘What is this that I hear about you? Give me an accounting of your management, because you cannot be my manager any longer.’ Then the manager said to himself, ‘What will I do, now that my master is taking the position away from me? I am not strong enough to dig, and I am ashamed to beg. I have decided what to do so that, when I am dismissed as manager, people may welcome me into their homes.’ So, summoning his master’s debtors one by one, he asked the first, ‘How much do you owe my master?’ He answered, ‘A hundred jugs of olive oil.’ He said to him, ‘Take your bill, sit down quickly, and make it fifty.’ Then he asked another, ‘And how much do you owe?’ He replied, ‘A hundred containers of wheat.’ He said to him, ‘Take your bill and make it eighty.’ And his master commended the dishonest manager because he had acted shrewdly; for the children of this age are more shrewd in dealing with their own generation than are the children of light.


This week, two Bible study groups confirmed what I believe about this parable: that it’s a real stinker. Preachers avoid it. Teachers ignore it. It creates more trouble than it’s worth.

A wealthy landowner hears that his manager is stealing from him. Calling him in, he says, “Hand over the books. You are being relieved of your position.”

This is when we discover how greasy the manager really is. He devises a quick plan to cover his assets. Before word gets out that he is fired, one by one, he summons the people who owe his boss some rent on the estate. “How much do you owe?” If the first man says, “A hundred jugs of olive oil,” worth the equivalent of a year and a half’s salary, he says, “Cross it out, write fifty.”

He leaves, the next debtor is summoned, and he says, “I owe a hundred containers of wheat.” The manager says, “Not anymore. Cross it out and write eighty. Put it in your own handwriting.” We can expect a smile to emerge on both of their faces.

This manager is sly. He is as crafty as he is dishonest. He will cut a deal with the neighbors in the town where all of them will continue to live. And if the boss discovers these deals, he will look terrible if he goes back on the manager’s word to tell the merchants what they really owe him. That’s assuming, of course, that he actually has kept track, and had not turned over the whole matter to the manager.

The manager cannot be trusted. That was the accusation, now we have the proof. And did you hear what the boss says when he discovers the whole mess? He says, “Good for you. I have to praise you. You are really on the ball.”

That’s the parable. The Word of the Lord.

Most people want this parable to say a good bit more. They want the Boss to condemn this kind of behavior or have that crook thrown into jail. But the Boss won’t have any of it. He compliments his former employee for his shrewdness and presumably lets him off the hook. He lets him go.

It seems like Luke, the Gospel writer, wants the parable to say a good bit more. He scrambles through his collections of Jesus’ teachings, tacking on some wise words about wealth and its corrupting power. He quotes Jesus to declare, “Nobody can serve God and their stuff; it’s one or the other.” True enough, but these extra sayings have nothing to do with the heart of the story. Jesus is telling a story about a wily crook who gets away with his scam. He says it with admiration in his voice.

We know these people, don’t we? Of course we do. Part of our issue with reading this parable is that we read it in here, inside a church. But step outside the church and we see these people all the time.

A minister friend went to visit somebody at the hospital in downtown Baltimore. He was looking for a parking space near Johns Hopkins Hospital. The parking garages were full. Needless to say, so were all the spaces on the street. He circled the hospital three times, looking for something to open up. It got so bad he even resorted to praying for a parking space.

Suddenly a space opened up right in front of him. It was perfect. And he knew he could brag to family and friends about what a wonderful prayer he had offered. He pulled in and parked. He went to see the patient. The visit went well. Whistling down the steps, he returned to the car, reached in his pocket for the keys, and they weren’t there. Just then he saw the keys dangling in the ignition. He had locked his keys inside the car. He stopped and wondered what to do.

While he pondered this, a ten-year-old boy wandered up. “Something wrong, mister?” he said. My friend muttered, “I locked my keys inside the car.” The boy said, “I can help you.” He removed a long wire contraption from his pocket, jimmied it in the window, and within thirty seconds, the door was open and he handed the keys to Eugene.

He was astonished. He thanked the kid, who looked at him and said, “Is this worth a dollar to you?” My friend pulled out his wallet and said, “It’s worth two dollars.” As the kid bounded away with the money, the pastor drove away, thinking, “Here’s a kid at ten years old who already knows how to break into cars, and what a wonderful thing that he showed up right when I needed him!” Was he thinking about calling the cops and turning in the kid? No, not at all.

Step out of church when you hear this parable, and ask, “Isn’t this how the world works, isn’t it?” Years ago, a man named Dave was one of our members. He’s since transferred his membership to heaven. When he was still around here, he told me about his work as an electrical inspector in a nearby city. “Reverend,” he said, “I can’t tell you how many times I inspected a wiring job, and somebody in charge said to me, ‘I have a paper bag full of money on the countertop and I am going to walk out of the room for a few minutes. Take your time. Leave whenever you need to.”

Dave was getting up in years. I said, “Is there anything you want to confess to your pastor?” He smiled and said, “Whenever that happened, I always failed the inspection and left the bribe behind. One time I was so angry, I called the cops to complain. They sent an officer over to check it out and the paper bag disappeared.” Dave sighed and said, “That’s the way of the world.”

Jesus tells this story about a dirty rotten scoundrel who worked the system of the day. Not only did he get away with it, he was commended by the boss. He was held up as a sort of left-handed good example of what God’s people might be if they were a good bit shrewder than they are. Certainly we know people who think things to death and then never get around to doing anything.

Not this guy; he says, “My back is not strong enough to dig ditches, and I have too much pride to beg.” So he devises a slick plan to do what he wants to get done. Jesus says, “Hey church – pay attention to him. Learn from his artful cunning.”

Now the problem, of course, is that good Christian people hear this story, maybe for the first time. They grow alarmed at the morality of this dishonest manager. True enough; Jesus seems indifferent to the man’s morality. He’s one of the dramatic rogues of the stories that Jesus tells, like the cranky judge who refuses to hear another word from a persistent woman, or the man who refuses to get out of bed when his friends knocks on the door at midnight. Jesus tells stories about Jewish boys who fall down in the gutter so far that they end up tending pigs, and about solitary travelers who don’t have the good sense to avoid the lonely road to Jericho. In the next couple of weeks, we will encounter a few more of these parable characters.

Sure, the hero in our story is a crook. But this is not a story about morality. If you want morality, read the Ten Commandments. That text is clear: Thou shalt not steal. Jesus knew that one; he was there on the mountain when it was given. But that’s the Ten Commandments, not Luke 16.

Please understand: Jesus is not teaching morality in this parable. He is teaching about grace. At the outset, the Boss discovers his manager cannot be trusted. Does he throw him in jail? No. Does he make a public spectacle of the crime? No. The manager cuts a few deals with the people who owe his Boss some money. Does the Boss call a stop to it and exert his rights? No. The dishonest manager gets away with it.

It’s just like the story immediately before it. Remember what happens in chapter fifteen? A wayward son says, “Father, give me my inheritance,” an insult like saying, “I wish you were dead.” What does the father do? He gives it to him…without punishment. And when Junior slithers home, does the father judge him? No, he throws him a huge party. When the older brother refuses to dance, what does the father do? He goes out to try to bring him in, because the party is for everybody. That is grace.

This is the problem with grace. It lets people get away with things. It cancels all forms of punishment. Grace declares that God’s heart is so full of joy, that God’s life is so full of laughter, that nothing matters more than forgiving sins and uniting heaven and earth.

It’s no wonder a lot of people don’t like grace. If somebody hurts us, we want them to pay for it. If somebody offends me, we demand they apologize. But what if we simply forgave them? What if we canceled the debt? What if we stopped the chain-reaction of “he said, she said”? What if we let it go – if we gave it away – if we for-gave? That would be the same thing that God does for us . . . it would be hard thing, because it is a holy thing.

We don’t want to do the holy thing. We want to do our own thing. Maybe that’s why the human race continues in the mess that it is. Imagine what kind of shape we would be in, if we could be gracious to one another? Merciful to one another?

The Boss discovers what his manager has done, and he cuts him a break. He learns how the manager made deals with those who owed him money and continues to cut him a break. Can you imagine that? When was the last time you cut anybody a break? When was the last time the Boss cut you a break?

Let me tell you a parable. Sometime back, my wife and I parked in Row 27 at the Bloomsburg Fair. I think that’s about six miles from the main gate. But the walk was refreshing, and there were deep-fried Oreos and blue birch beer waiting for us. After tasting all the fair’s delicacies, we walked back to the car, about 9:00, on a Friday night. Looking at the traffic jam, we wouldn’t be going anywhere for a while.

After sitting for fifteen minutes in our perfectly-positioned getaway parking spot, some kind soul let us into the exit line. Not that it mattered; the line wasn’t moving. We inched forward, then paused. Another inch, then stop. I took momentary pity on another poor soul and let him pull in ahead of me. Nobody was moving.

Then the glacier began to budge. We began to roll ahead. But to my shock and dismay, I discovered the guy that I let in ahead of me was letting everybody in ahead of him. Why was he doing that? It is one thing to allow in one car; that’s paying ahead the favor that somebody first paid you. But to let everybody else in? Why, that would be . . . why, that would be just like God!

How gracious God is; how stingy I am.

I keep thinking about grace, and how troubling it is. The only thing that relieves me is a prayer that I pray every day. I highly recommend it. It is the one prayer that I really want to have answered. It fits every circumstance. I need to pray it every day. Goes like this: “God, be merciful to me…”

And God answers it with more grace than I could ever expect. Know what I mean?

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