By Mary Davis, Seminarian InternGood morning. Let me take a minute of your time, and for those of you whom I have not met yet, my name is Mary Davis, and I am a second year theological intern at Drew University in Madison, and on the path toward ordination here in this Diocese. I am spending this year with you here at St. George's as part of my "Field Work" experience, and part of this experience is, of course, preaching.
Today's parable of the Pharisee and the tax collector is a story told only in the Gospel of Luke. This story, along with many of the other stories or parables we've heard from Luke this fall, highlights a theme of "divine reversal" which, if we are not careful to look closely and intentionally at it, it is capable of seeming unreasonable to us.
For the Pharisees were the holy men of their age, and this particular Pharisee presented today in Jesus' parable, was one who had gone beyond the expectation of the law, was adhering to the code of purity, and then some. He was not only fasting once a week as the law required, but twice. And even better, (and I'm not just making a plug here because it's Stewardship season) he tithed on "all" of his income, going yet again, beyond what the law required.
Then, on the other hand, as you well know, Jesus compares this 'holy' Pharisee to the tax collector. His hated status in Jewish society is well known, since here was a Jew, who was a traitor, at best, by working for the Roman government, and at worst, more like a human parasite, feeding off of his fellow Jews.
Clearly, this is one of those stories, and Luke is famous for this, which presents for us a "radical reversal." Our sensibilities and sense of justice are challenged by the notion that the supposed 'holy man' here, the Pharisee, is not rewarded, while the sinful and parasitic tax collector is in fact exalted. "For all who exalt themselves will be humbled, but all who humble themselves will be exalted," says Jesus.
I chewed on this lesson for quite some time, repelled by the Pharisee's self-righteous prayer, yet caught myself, thankful, that I was not like the Pharisee! Interesting, hum? Yet this was not the first time I've caught myself thinking like that. Because, for those of you who don't know me yet, I have three children, three boys in fact, and these boys manage to continually humble me and my assumptions and highlight my own inner "Pharisee."
My oldest child, Ryan, who is now 15, suffers from the developmental disability called Asperger's Syndrome. It's on the Autistic Spectrum, and severely limits his ability to negotiate this social world in which we live. So it's easy for me, and certainly for others in our world, to judge his inadequacies, his shortcomings, and his single minded focus at times. And yet, if this wasn't bad enough (and I'm being slightly facetious here), perhaps the worst thing about his disorder is that he is totally enamored by Japanese Cartoons. You know the type - Yugioh, Pokemon, Digimon, Dragonball Z. If you haven't seen or heard of these cartoons, they are our imported animated figures from Japan, whose eyes are drawn much larger than our American-made cartoon figures, and when their mouths move, it is not in sync with our English words, because originally, Japanese words were scripted. These cartoons are the bane of my existence. Partially, because they are an almost constant source of background drama and noise in our house, but also because I have visions of my son as a 30-year-old, lying on my couch incessantly watching them. But just as I laid out my judgments, looking down upon my son's recreation of choice, one day, he sat up from his cartoon stupor and told me, "You know mom, this cartoon "Twitches" (which is a Japanese cartoon found on the Disney Channel about twin witches separated at birth) is a lot like Jesus and God." Intrigued, the Pharisee, I mean, the dutiful theological student and mother lifted her head from the dishes in the sink . . . "how so," I asked? He said to me, "Yeah, they are the forces that fight the darkness and evil that have filled the world and they want, more than anything else, to bring light to the world."
Now that's humility – there I was with my grand theological thoughts, my judgments, my self-righteous efforts, and all of them were rightfully squashed by my developmentally disabled teenager's insights in to darkness and light. His humble revelation about Jesus' mission to bring Light to the World was not an assessment of me, but rather, a simple statement that pulled me out of my rut of judgment, and allowed me to find the spark of God's grace within Ryan, and at the end of this day, Ryan's Japanese cartoons brought the light of Christ to me.
Henri Nouwen, a Catholic priest and author, whose work has spoken to me in many ways, wrote about this divine reversal. He called it the "reverse mission." And this is exactly what this parable in Luke shows us. Nouwen writes, "I have become aware that wherever God's Spirit is present, there is a reverse mission. . . [and] this reversal is a sign of God's spirit. The poor have a mission to the rich, the handicapped have a mission to the able-bodied, the dying have a mission to the living. Jesus shows us that the victims become our evangelists, calling us to conversion." And in that conversion, we humbly become aware that all of our efforts at learning - about ourselves, about others and about God - all of our efforts to do the right thing, and all of our attempts to fix our world, all of them mean nothing without God, without the humble admission that God's life and breath dwell in everyone.
There is another layer of "divine reversal" in this parable which causes me to sit up and take notice, especially during this Stewardship season, and again, it's the Pharisee. Because the title "Pharisee" is derived from the Hebrew verb, "to separate," which is exactly what the Pharisee had done. His prayers and actions, though beyond the code of purity and certainly beyond expectation, were done alone. The gospel reads, "The Pharisee, standing by himself, was praying thus . . . ." And I think that the other piece to this divine reversal draws us to one another, instead of away from each other. We all matter. All of our stories and practices of faith, God's working in our lives, are all part of telling a story of something that can't really be told because it's something that defies explanation, something that exceeds our comprehension. And yet, telling and sharing the story of our lives in Christ, here in this church, in this year, and as this congregation, is exactly what we are called to do.
Some of you might have heard this story before, but it comes to me from a book by Charles Foster, and he took it from one of Elie Wiesel's writings. But it's a story of a Great Rabbi, who whenever he saw misfortune approaching his community, followed the custom of going deep into the heart of the forest, and there he would ask God to save his people. He would go to a sacred place, and he would light a sacred fire, and he would say a special sacred prayer. And sure enough the disaster would be averted.
Well, this great rabbi died at an old age, and he was succeeded by his disciple, who was also a good and holy rabbi, but he did not learn all there was to know from his teacher, and when disaster would approach he would go to the same place in the forest, for he knew the place, and he would light the same sacred fire, for his knew how to make the fire, but he had forgotten the prayer. And so he would just remember that there was a prayer, and that would be enough. Disaster would be averted.
When he died and was succeeded by his disciple, again, the same pattern would play out. Only now, when disaster would approach the village, the disciple would go to the sacred spot in the forest, for he knew where that place was, but he hadn't learned how to light the sacred fire, and he didn't know the sacred prayer. And so he went to the place, and said, "Oh God, I'm here in this place, and I do not know how to light the fire, and I do not know the sacred prayer, but that must be enough." And it was.
And he lived to an old age and was succeeded by his disciple, yet another generation. By this time, the sacred place in the forest was lost. So when disaster approached the village, this rabbi knelt in his home, and said, "Oh Lord, God, I do not know the place in the forest, I do not know how to light the sacred fire, and I do not know the sacred prayer, but I know the story and that must be enough." And it was.
These Rabbis didn't pray for their communities and leave. And they didn't just talk about the "good old days" and revel in the past. Instead, they prayed, lighting the sacred fire and finding a sacred place, and then returned to community to embrace the future and teach the next generation. It's so important for all us to remember the story of a living God acting in our midst, but even more important, to live that story now, in community, and incorporate the generations to come into our story with God. Again, we all matter.
Our stories do not live and move in separateness, like the Pharisee. Our connectedness to generations before us – generations of 'tax collectors' and generations of 'pharisees' – allows us all, by the Grace of God, to embrace one another as community. By turning over and over and over and over again, returning time and time again to God, our story becomes one of humility, one which recognizes and values the breath of God that was given to all of us. That holy breath created a story of community, a place where our traditions, both old and new, are shared together - with each other, with God, and with the saints that traveled here before us.
This is true stewardship: offering ourselves and our treasures up to God, by humbly stepping out of the way of our own righteousness, so that all of our stories of faith may be used for God's work in this church, this community, and in the world today.
© 2007 Mary Davis
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