“The Gospel According to Brooks Brothers?”

• Scriptural Reference: Luke 18:9-14
• October 28, 2007

No wonder they killed him. Jesus, the skilled story teller, just kept on telling stories in which the villains always represented the power group. Luke is quite clear about this. “To some who were confident of their own righteousness and looked down on everybody else, Jesus told this parable.” So, who were these “some” about whom Luke speaks?

As many of you know, I put myself through college playing music, and one of the most lucrative places to play around Appalachian State was Sugar Mountain. At Sugar Mountain they had all kinds of ski lodges where southern ski bums would go at night. I met a lot of them during breaks between sets. Guys and gals slumped over the bar ogling a long, tall cool one, or slumped over one another ogling long tall hot ones, if you know what I mean. Sometimes, right during the middle of a song, a patron would stumble up to the stage and lean in on me, the lead singer. A cloud of alcohol soaked breath would envelope me as they made a song request. I’d get a heavy dose of the smell because we played with significant volume and the inebriated soul would have to raise his or her voice to be heard above the music. “Would you play Tie a Yellow Ribbon ‘Round the Old Oak Tree?” I wouldn’t say, “Sir/mam, we’re a country-rock band. We don’t do Tony Orlando and Dawn.” I’d say, “Maybe in the next set,” knowing that by the next set the chances were real good that the guy/gal would be too drunk to remember the request.

Those people were often obnoxious. More frequently, they were just silly. Too often, they were pitiful. They were NEVER confident of their own righteousness.

You know what this tells me? Jesus did not aim this parable at bar patrons: he aimed it at church folk. He aimed it at folks like us who’ve worn our bun marks in the pews. He aimed it at clergy persons like yours truly who like to wear robes and vestments on Christmas Eve and Easter and display their theological degrees on the walls of their offices. He aimed it at the cultural Christians who insist that unless you wear a suit to church, you’re not quite what you ought to be. He aimed it at us who fall into the trap of believing that since we’ve made the habit of attending worship services – or leading them – on a regular basis, that we’re just fine. We’re doing it right. Aren’t we glad we aren’t like those people who do it wrong! Isn’t it nice to be confident of our own righteousness?

How does it feel to be the bulls-eye of Jesus’ parabolic target?

Listen to it. Two men went up to the temple to pray, one a Pharisee, or a theologically sophisticated director of religion. The other was a tax collector, or a guy reviled by the theologically sophisticated and culturally conservative good people: this guy was a collaborator with the enemy. (Of course, when have tax collectors EVER been heroes?)

The eleventh verse has more subtle burn in it than just about any other verse in the Bible. It drips with derision and sarcasm. I’m fascinated by the NIV translation: “He prayed about himself.” That’s not a bad translation, but this is one case when the KJV comes closer to the stark satire of the Greek. “He prayed thus with himself.” A.T. Robertson, the world-famous Baptist Greek scholar from the last century translates this phrase as, “He prayed TO himself.”

In all cases we see represented here the kind of religion God hates. This prayer is a self-congratulatory exercise in spiritual sun bathing. “I’m awfully glad I’m not like other people, especially this guy over here, this obvious sinner. After all I fast twice a week and give a tenth of all my income.” God, I’m glad I’m so good. I go to church. I attend Sunday school. I slap the good ol’ boys on the back. I don’t frequent bars. I don’t steal. I don’t cheat on my wife. I put money in offering envelopes and drop ‘em in the plate when it comes by, unless I start to disapprove of the pastor.”

But the tax collector STOOD AT A DISTANCE. He wouldn’t even look up to heaven. He beat his breast and said, “God have mercy on me, a sinner.”

That seizes me. Those words bring me up short. This guy can’t even muster the words to express what he senses about himself over against God. It exceeds his capacity to verbalize. So he uses non-verbal language – he beats on himself. Here is a profound case of actions speaking louder than words. Is all the weight of his life pressing in on him, so heavy, so dark, so apparently hopeless that it chokes him off?

And that phrase echoes in my mind again: he STOOD AT A DISTANCE.

Listen folks! Hear that! It isn’t the man in the middle of the religious ceremonies that goes home justified. It’s the guy who stands on the periphery who goes home justified. If that doesn’t terrify us who are habitually in the center of things, then we have hearts of stone.

No one is closer to the center of things than I am. No one in a Christian congregation is more like this Pharisee than I am. That Pharisee was the guy with the theological training, to whom people came for religious advice, the guy who lead worship and interpreted scripture. That’s what I do. Yikes! I better be careful that I don’t fool myself into thinking that my Brooks Brothers suit and my ability to parse Greek verbs and tell a good story makes a scintilla of difference to God if my heart isn’t on the quest for purity.

This guy who won’t even look up to heaven has come into this sanctuary on a regular basis. So has the Pharisee. I’ve already located for you where you can find the Pharisee. Look no further than the pulpit – and maybe your own pew indentation. The tax collector? He’s the person who sneaks in and sits on the back row, or in the corner. She’s the person who doesn’t know the Doxology or the Lord’s Prayer. They’re the people who don’t understand the custom of the aisle walk. They’re the people who don’t own a tie – but they’ve had enough of slumping over bars ogling long, tall cool ones. They’ve had enough of an empty, chaotic, meaningless life. They’ve had enough of a thirst that will not go away and have sneaked into a place they’ve heard rumors about, that if they were to go there, they’d find healing. They’d find meaning. They’d find purpose. They’d find welcome and friendship.

It’s clear from what Jesus says that the last thing our world’s publicans need is to come into the house of worship and encounter a Pharisee who prays with himself.

The man who stands at a distance is the one who goes home justified.

Bill Wagner was one of the missionaries with whom I worked some while a journeyman in Austria. On a drive to Innsbruck one afternoon, Bill told me this story. Back in the early ‘60’s, a rancher walked into a Chevrolet dealer in Albuquerque, New Mexico. He wore overalls, work boots, and a Sear’s work shirt. The man browsed through the shiny Impalas sitting on the showroom floor, but none of the salesmen bothered with him. After all, the man was obviously of meager means and since the salesmen worked primarily on commission, there probably wasn’t going to be much coming from this guy. Instead, they all jockeyed for the chance to serve the better dressed patrons who’d also arrived.

One salesman, however, a new guy who’d only completed one year in college, walked up to the rancher and asked if he could help him. The other salesmen grinned and nudged each other in the ribs at the young guy’s naïveté and idealism. This, they knew, would prove to be fruitless for the young salesmen. You best leave those old ranchers alone. Direct them to the used car lot otherwise you’ll waste a lot of time.

The rancher, though, had focused on a new Impala, a car with all the bells and whistles offered in 1963, including an air conditioner that sat on the hump in the middle of the front and a push button AM radio. “I’ll take it,” said the rancher.

A few of the more experienced salesmen snickered as the young guy said, “Let me go get our finance manager.”

“Oh, that won’t be necessary,” said the rancher. “We’ll settle up right here.” He propped his foot on the bumper of the car, reached in his back pocket, pulled out a thick roll of green paper, and began counting out one hundred dollar bills on the hood of the car until he reached the price. Then he squinted into the air and counted out another pile which he calculated to be the salesman’s commission.

The astounded young salesman ran and got the keys, put the temporary tag on the car, and as the rancher drove away tucked his cash into his back pocket.

That rancher was Bill Wagner’s father, after whom the engineering building at the University of New Mexico was eventually named.

As servants of the Christ who told this parable about the Pharisee and the tax collector, we’re to see everyone who walks into the place as a rancher who pays cash – because that’s the way God sees them. As servants of Christ, we’re to be like that young salesman. After all, in God’s eyes, no matter how they’re dressed, no matter how they talk, no matter what they’ve done with their lives, everyone who stands at a distance beating his breast in God’s eyes is a rancher packing treasure.