In the fall of 2000, when I began my freshman year of

college, the plan was crystal clear. A Duke diploma, a

political science major, a law degree, a future in elected

office for public service. That plan lasted one semester.

That fall, with great expectation, I registered for a class

titled, “Political Systems in Contemporary America,” and

the turning point for me that semester was a lecture

on the impact of negative campaigning. We complain

about this strategy from all points of the political

spectrum, how it demoralizes us, how it erodes our

trust in public institutions. Still, attack ads get results. I

remember how our professor calmly explained that the

reason for the prevalence of such campaigning is its

consistent record of effectiveness. “It turns out,” he said,

“that in politics you really can lift yourself up by tearing

others down. The research proves it.”

Lifting yourself up by tearing others down. This

playground bully principle is repeated in almost

every arena of our common life. Jesus knew this.

And so, in the eighteenth chapter of Luke’s gospel,

he offers a parable that is as relatable as any story

he ever told, as relevant as the latest political attack

ad, hateful Facebook post, or tweetstorm. A story

about two approaches to prayer. A story that seems

straightforward enough. But be careful—the world is

upside down.

First, the Pharisee. His prayer is more resumé

recitation, describing to God (and anyone else within

earshot) his enviable qualifications for righteousness.

But, before getting to his list of religious accolades,

the man makes clear what he is not—specifically who

he is not. He is not like other people: sinners, thieves,

adulterers, or even that guy over in the corner—I

think he’s a tax collector. In this prayer, the Pharisee

lifts himself up by tearing others down. A blatant

attack ad using the easiest of targets imaginable.

Thank God I am not like those people.

Then there is the tax collector. He stands far away.

He looks down. He begs for God’s mercy. His prayer

is not public spectacle; it is private plea. He prays

for forgiveness. He confesses to God his weakness.

He has no time for opposition research on the

Pharisee. He lifts himself up, not through insulting

others, but through his desperate prayer. Lord, have

mercy on me.

And, according to Jesus, the tax collector returns

home reconciled, justified before God. And in case

we missed it, he makes the moral of the story explicit:

if you praise yourself, you will be humbled; if you

humble yourself, you will be lifted up.

It is, of course, a frequent theme in the teachings of

Jesus. Here’s a sampling:

The last shall be first, and the first shall be last—more

on that next week.

Any who want to be my disciples must deny

themselves, take up their cross, and follow me.

Whoever wants to be first must be servant of all.

Those who wish to save their lives must lose them.

All who exalt themselves will be humbled.

A frequent theme and a mystifying promise for all

who belong to a culture that rewards self-promotion

and celebrates success achieved at any cost. The

kind of truthful humility the tax collector offers has

no place in our time. Like the Pharisee, we have

become well-practiced at pointing fingers at the

sins of others, smug in our own righteousness

by comparison. So focused are we on our own

righteousness, we have lost sight of the common

good, the good we share, instead satisfied

with merely what is better for our side. And the

consequences of this behavior surround us in every

direction, in demonizing rhetoric and violent—even

deadly—action. The virtue of self-reflective humility

placed central to the parable has mostly disappeared

from our public life, and worse, it has been replaced

by the very contempt that Jesus warns us against.

And we are all worse off for that.

In August, the Pew Research Center published a set

of survey data under the following headline: Intensely

Negative Feelings about the Opposing Party Grow.

Now, that statement is not likely to shock you, but the

rate of growth might raise eyebrows. In 2022, 62%

of Republicans and 54% of Democrats say they hold

“very unfavorable” views of the other party. When I

walked into that lecture hall in the fall of 2000, those

numbers were 20% and 26%. They have tripled in

two decades.

Something significant is happening. Something

alarming is taking place in our nation. Most of us do

not need the data to prove this reality. We experience

it in our own lives, in our workplaces, in our schools,

in our neighborhoods, and yes, even in our own

families. How differences of opinion take on an

existential tone, debate devolved into a ping-pong

of personal attacks. Relationships, cultivated over

decades, are ended over disagreements. You sure

can hear it in the language used to describe political

adversaries. Words like enemy, demonic, a threat to

our way of life, un-American, evil.

It seems the words of the Pharisee are timeless,

and his intent as current as breaking news—to

make himself bigger by tearing down those who are

vulnerable, who are different. Easy targets. I thank

God that I am not like those people.

This kind of “othering” is particularly ubiquitous

when we spend so much of our lives in echo

chambers that reinforce our assumptions and

weaponize our preconceptions. Would you like an

illustration of how tricky this temptation can be?

Consider how this morning’s parable functions. It

texts us. It sets a trap. We who hear it quickly label

the characters. And then we draw lines. I thank you,

God, that I am not like that self-righteous Pharisee!

Except. Wait. What have I done? The focus of the

parable is not the behavior of either man but the

absurd, offensive mercy of God. Its message to us

is this: Whenever you draw a line between who is in

and who is out, you will find God on the other side of

that line. It could be the most difficult lesson we ever

learn, even more difficult to put into practice.

God’s mercy exceeds the reach of our minds. Do you

believe that? Do you believe that the mercy of God

exceeds the reach of your mind? If so, how will you

live? If we as a church believe those words are true,

how will we express that belief? As a community of

faith, we must stand together in opposition to the kind

of self-righteous “othering” that the parable condemns.

Against a culture of contempt, we must build intentional

places for genuine dialogue and authentic community.

We must build a house where all are welcome. We

cannot allow voices of disdain and derision to fill the

vacuum of our silence. For God’s sake, for the sake of

the children we baptize and the neighbors we serve,

we must speak out and be counted. And, as we do, we

must remember always the witness of the tax collector.

“God have mercy on me, a sinner.”

My sermon title may have surprised you. After all,

why would a preacher have a problem with piety?

Shouldn’t we celebrate and honor devout reverence

and godliness? Of course we should. The problem

with piety is that, in human hands, it so quickly turns

to golden calf. You see, the Pharisee is righteous. He

is righteous. He is condemned not for being pious

but for worshiping his piety as an idol at the expense

of his neighbor. The tax collector is praised for the

authenticity of his prayer. His words open him to

receive God’s unconditional mercy.

Friends, our moment in time begs for places of

humble engagement intent on finding common

ground. Our moment in time begs for a community

that will avoid harmful or dismissive othering. And

here’s the good news. At Second Church, this work is

our identity. It is core to our mission. It is essential to

our future.

At its very best, the church of Jesus Christ exists

as a counterculture. In here, we are rooted in a

different story, a deeper truth: God’s mercy extends

to all, especially anyone you are likely to dismiss

or demonize. In here, we believe you can build up

without tearing down. We believe that we can be, in

the powerful words of Isaiah, repairers of the breach.

We can be people of grace.

Grace. That’s what the tax collector receives. That’s

what changes his life, reconciles him to God. Now to

be clear, grace is available to the Pharisee as well, but

he sees no need for it. He has his righteousness.

Grace. Freely and abundantly offered.

Grace. Ours to share in this broken and beloved

community.

Grace. A gift that might just change the world.

Grace. Let it begin with us.