October 27, 2013
The 23rd Sunday after Pentecost, October 27, 2013
“Who Are You? … Who? Who? Who? Who?” a sermon by the Rev. Warren L. Pittman
Texts: Joel 2:23-32; Psalm 65; 2 Timothy 4:6-8,16-18; Luke 18:9-14 Just as the new millennium was about to dawn, a profound question was put to twenty-first century America – or at least to the adventurous viewers of new TV shows on CBS – when a series debuted that would be the start of the whole new genre. Cue the soundtrack! “Who are you? … Who? Who? … Who? Who?” “C.S.I.” has left its mark on most every police show since the year 2000, but the profound question was copywritten by Pete Townshend (of my generation, if you’ll pardon the allusion) in 1978, and has been heard weekly for fourteen years by the show’s devotees. “Who are you?” Of course, neither C.S.I. series creator Jerry Bruckheimer, or singer/guitarist/ songwriter Pete Townshend invented the question. It’s at least as old as the Bible, as it’s a question implicitly being asked of us on every page of scripture. It’s the question that lies behind the all-too-familiar parable Luke has Jesus telling us this morning, a question to which the two temple pray-ers Jesus describes are responding, whether they know it or not; a question to which all of us are responding whenever we pray, whether we know it or not: “Who are you?” Or maybe the question could be reframed as “Who do you think you are?”
The Pharisee and the Tax Collector … in older translations, “The Pharisee and the Publican.” (Considering the state of political conversation in our country right now, the newer translation is for the better, as I am sure someone would hear it as “The Pharisee and the Re-Publican,” which would NOT be helpful…) Each is said by Jesus to be offering his prayers, and each – again, knowingly or unknowingly – is making a statement about who he is – or who he thinks he is. The Pharisee prays as a dutiful servant of God: a tither, offering the requisite ten percent back to God of what he understands, by his acute knowledge of Torah, to be what God has given him as a steward; one who fasts, according to the same TorahLaw, to be ever-mindful of his dependence on God; and a faithful “church-goer,” as he is, indeed, offering this prayer in the Temple, not on the golf course or at the beach (as many seem to feel perfectly content to do.) Though the Gospels seem often to give Pharisees a bad rap, quoting Jesus calling them hypocrites and, in a metaphor worthy of Shakespeare, “whitewashed tombs,” they were the bible scholars of their day, the teachers and preachers in the Shabbat Schools. Had "Jeopardy" been around, they would always have taken "Bible" for 500 shekels. Their responsibility was to know, to interpret and to teach the law of Moses; and the people looked to them to help them to get right with God, to be “right-eous,” not “wrong-eous” in their day-to-day lives. The Pharisees kept the people from thinking that one just had to toss a sacrificial lamb or pigeon on the Temple bar-by to buy God off once or twice a year. No, one had to be mindful every day of, and obedient to, all the laws and obligations to which one was subject as a son or daughter of Abraham, lest one be outcast. And so Jesus’ character prays – with appropriate gratitude, by the way – that he is a tither and a fast-er. Prayers ought always to include thanksgiving. So to the question, “Who are you?” he is answering, “I am your servant.” It’s a good answer – or at least it would be, had he stopped with that. (Quitting while you’re ahead is a lesson a lot of us preachers have yet to learn.) But he feels the need to explain just how good a servant he is, listing his qualifications. OK, it’s one thing, when one is thanks-giving, to itemize all of that for which one is thankful. As the old song goes, it can be quite a joy to “count your blessings, instead of sheep.” But, as Jesus tells it, it can all too easily become something else.
We eavesdrop on the Pharisee – who, as I read the story, is praying loudly enough to be sure that everyone cannot help but eavesdrop – to hear him express gratitude for all he does as God’s servant in comparison to how much everyone else seems not to be doing. “God, I thank you that I am not like other people: …” Thus we hear his answer to the “Who are you?” question from God deteriorating from “I am your servant” to “I am your really good servant, your not just better-than-average servant, but your superservant, especially considering the competition: I mean, just look at all I do for you…” Luke makes sure we hear what this Pharisee is up to, as he introduces Jesus’ words by telling us how “Jesus told this parable to some who trusted in themselves that they were righteous and regarded others with contempt…” “Who are you?” “I am your righteous, self-made, uncontemptible servant, …”, and what might have been a simple, thankful prayer is undone. Maybe that tenth commandment – about not coveting when looking over the fence into your neighbor's life – should have included a section B, about DIS-coveting your neighbor, about avoiding what the Germans call Schadenfreude: enjoying your neighbor's misfortune. But Jesus’ Pharisee provides us with a service, for he gets us to take a look at and give a listen to another pray-er there in the Temple, one we otherwise might have failed to notice. In the back corner – with the other Episcopalians (!) – the tax collector begs for God’s mercy, and forthrightly and honestly answers God’s question. Q: “Who are you?” A: “God, be merciful to me, a sinner!” Without elaboration or explanation, the tax collector offers himself to God for mercy “as is”: a “sinner,” someone well aware of having fallen short, of “missing the mark,” of being less than all he was created to be, and all he knows God wants him to be. And yet, for all he knows he is not, he still prays, he still approaches a God whom he asks for mercy: a God who, he hopes, at least, still hears, still listens to – and for – the prayers of those who know themselves perhaps as failures as servants, but still bear within them the hope, who still hold on to the faith, that they are God’s children. Resounding in the back of their minds are scriptures like that of today's first reading – a song of gratitude for God’s ḥesed, God’s steadfast love, toward a people who have repeatedly failed in their servanthood, yet over whom God still watches; children for whom God will always care, not matter what.
Today’s second reading is from a letter said to have been written by Paul near the end of his life and ministry. Paul is the self-described Pharisee’s Pharisee, who wrote about how all of his attempts at servanthood prior to meeting the risen Christ was the sort of stuff you scrape off your sandals before even stepping on the doormat. Paul writes again and again about his gratitude for the chance God gave him to live as more than a servant; to live as one who had been forgiven, as one who was, is, and forever would be beloved. In one of the most profound proclamations of Good News in all of the Gospels, Jesus those with whom he is breaking bread, “I call you servants no longer, because you are my friends.” A few years ago, I found a picture in a local antique mall that I keep in my office. The etching is of a great church, from the back, with some liturgical fuss ‘n’ bother going on way up in the front.
Behind the back pew, on the floor, leaning against a pillar is a figure, invisible to everyone except the viewer, and another figure, standing next to him, holding out a hand. It portrays a moment in which someone is learning the answer to the question “Who are you?”; for extending his hand, of course, is Jesus, to one who will be lifted, as a sinner, yes, but even more so as a beloved child of the Father, in whose love that sinner will be able to go – how did Jesus say it? – “down to his home, justified.” AMEN.
“Who Are You? … Who? Who? Who? Who?” a sermon by the Rev. Warren L. Pittman
Texts: Joel 2:23-32; Psalm 65; 2 Timothy 4:6-8,16-18; Luke 18:9-14 Just as the new millennium was about to dawn, a profound question was put to twenty-first century America – or at least to the adventurous viewers of new TV shows on CBS – when a series debuted that would be the start of the whole new genre. Cue the soundtrack! “Who are you? … Who? Who? … Who? Who?” “C.S.I.” has left its mark on most every police show since the year 2000, but the profound question was copywritten by Pete Townshend (of my generation, if you’ll pardon the allusion) in 1978, and has been heard weekly for fourteen years by the show’s devotees. “Who are you?” Of course, neither C.S.I. series creator Jerry Bruckheimer, or singer/guitarist/ songwriter Pete Townshend invented the question. It’s at least as old as the Bible, as it’s a question implicitly being asked of us on every page of scripture. It’s the question that lies behind the all-too-familiar parable Luke has Jesus telling us this morning, a question to which the two temple pray-ers Jesus describes are responding, whether they know it or not; a question to which all of us are responding whenever we pray, whether we know it or not: “Who are you?” Or maybe the question could be reframed as “Who do you think you are?”
The Pharisee and the Tax Collector … in older translations, “The Pharisee and the Publican.” (Considering the state of political conversation in our country right now, the newer translation is for the better, as I am sure someone would hear it as “The Pharisee and the Re-Publican,” which would NOT be helpful…) Each is said by Jesus to be offering his prayers, and each – again, knowingly or unknowingly – is making a statement about who he is – or who he thinks he is. The Pharisee prays as a dutiful servant of God: a tither, offering the requisite ten percent back to God of what he understands, by his acute knowledge of Torah, to be what God has given him as a steward; one who fasts, according to the same TorahLaw, to be ever-mindful of his dependence on God; and a faithful “church-goer,” as he is, indeed, offering this prayer in the Temple, not on the golf course or at the beach (as many seem to feel perfectly content to do.) Though the Gospels seem often to give Pharisees a bad rap, quoting Jesus calling them hypocrites and, in a metaphor worthy of Shakespeare, “whitewashed tombs,” they were the bible scholars of their day, the teachers and preachers in the Shabbat Schools. Had "Jeopardy" been around, they would always have taken "Bible" for 500 shekels. Their responsibility was to know, to interpret and to teach the law of Moses; and the people looked to them to help them to get right with God, to be “right-eous,” not “wrong-eous” in their day-to-day lives. The Pharisees kept the people from thinking that one just had to toss a sacrificial lamb or pigeon on the Temple bar-by to buy God off once or twice a year. No, one had to be mindful every day of, and obedient to, all the laws and obligations to which one was subject as a son or daughter of Abraham, lest one be outcast. And so Jesus’ character prays – with appropriate gratitude, by the way – that he is a tither and a fast-er. Prayers ought always to include thanksgiving. So to the question, “Who are you?” he is answering, “I am your servant.” It’s a good answer – or at least it would be, had he stopped with that. (Quitting while you’re ahead is a lesson a lot of us preachers have yet to learn.) But he feels the need to explain just how good a servant he is, listing his qualifications. OK, it’s one thing, when one is thanks-giving, to itemize all of that for which one is thankful. As the old song goes, it can be quite a joy to “count your blessings, instead of sheep.” But, as Jesus tells it, it can all too easily become something else.
We eavesdrop on the Pharisee – who, as I read the story, is praying loudly enough to be sure that everyone cannot help but eavesdrop – to hear him express gratitude for all he does as God’s servant in comparison to how much everyone else seems not to be doing. “God, I thank you that I am not like other people: …” Thus we hear his answer to the “Who are you?” question from God deteriorating from “I am your servant” to “I am your really good servant, your not just better-than-average servant, but your superservant, especially considering the competition: I mean, just look at all I do for you…” Luke makes sure we hear what this Pharisee is up to, as he introduces Jesus’ words by telling us how “Jesus told this parable to some who trusted in themselves that they were righteous and regarded others with contempt…” “Who are you?” “I am your righteous, self-made, uncontemptible servant, …”, and what might have been a simple, thankful prayer is undone. Maybe that tenth commandment – about not coveting when looking over the fence into your neighbor's life – should have included a section B, about DIS-coveting your neighbor, about avoiding what the Germans call Schadenfreude: enjoying your neighbor's misfortune. But Jesus’ Pharisee provides us with a service, for he gets us to take a look at and give a listen to another pray-er there in the Temple, one we otherwise might have failed to notice. In the back corner – with the other Episcopalians (!) – the tax collector begs for God’s mercy, and forthrightly and honestly answers God’s question. Q: “Who are you?” A: “God, be merciful to me, a sinner!” Without elaboration or explanation, the tax collector offers himself to God for mercy “as is”: a “sinner,” someone well aware of having fallen short, of “missing the mark,” of being less than all he was created to be, and all he knows God wants him to be. And yet, for all he knows he is not, he still prays, he still approaches a God whom he asks for mercy: a God who, he hopes, at least, still hears, still listens to – and for – the prayers of those who know themselves perhaps as failures as servants, but still bear within them the hope, who still hold on to the faith, that they are God’s children. Resounding in the back of their minds are scriptures like that of today's first reading – a song of gratitude for God’s ḥesed, God’s steadfast love, toward a people who have repeatedly failed in their servanthood, yet over whom God still watches; children for whom God will always care, not matter what.
Today’s second reading is from a letter said to have been written by Paul near the end of his life and ministry. Paul is the self-described Pharisee’s Pharisee, who wrote about how all of his attempts at servanthood prior to meeting the risen Christ was the sort of stuff you scrape off your sandals before even stepping on the doormat. Paul writes again and again about his gratitude for the chance God gave him to live as more than a servant; to live as one who had been forgiven, as one who was, is, and forever would be beloved. In one of the most profound proclamations of Good News in all of the Gospels, Jesus those with whom he is breaking bread, “I call you servants no longer, because you are my friends.” A few years ago, I found a picture in a local antique mall that I keep in my office. The etching is of a great church, from the back, with some liturgical fuss ‘n’ bother going on way up in the front.
Behind the back pew, on the floor, leaning against a pillar is a figure, invisible to everyone except the viewer, and another figure, standing next to him, holding out a hand. It portrays a moment in which someone is learning the answer to the question “Who are you?”; for extending his hand, of course, is Jesus, to one who will be lifted, as a sinner, yes, but even more so as a beloved child of the Father, in whose love that sinner will be able to go – how did Jesus say it? – “down to his home, justified.” AMEN.
