When We Manicure Our Image
Preached by Benjamin Vrbicek
November 1, 2020
Scripture Reading
Luke 18:9-14
9 He also told this parable to some who trusted in themselves that they were righteous, and treated others with contempt: 10 “Two men went up into the temple to pray, one a Pharisee and the other a tax collector. 11 The Pharisee, standing by himself, prayed thus: ‘God, I thank you that I am not like other men, extortioners, unjust, adulterers, or even like this tax collector. 12 I fast twice a week; I give tithes of all that I get.’ 13 But the tax collector, standing far off, would not even lift up his eyes to heaven, but beat his breast, saying, ‘God, be merciful to me, a sinner!’ 14 I tell you, this man went down to his house justified, rather than the other. For everyone who exalts himself will be humbled, but the one who humbles himself will be exalted.”
We’ll dismiss children in just a moment. First, I want to begin our sermon time with a discussion. Where you are sitting, take three minutes to discuss the idea of “Sunday best,” the idea that when you come to church, you come dressed in your Sunday best. Discuss whether “Sunday best” is a good idea or a bad idea, and why it might be each.
Each Sunday I preach, I typically come to church before all of you and work through my sermon, practicing it and praying through it. I don’t come in my Sunday best. Sometimes if the sermon is going poorly or the music team arrives early, they get to see me in my not-Sunday best. I’m not sure it’s my “Sunday worst,” but you get the idea. Then I’ll go home and come back for church dressed more appropriately.
As you discussed, I don’t know whether you think “Sunday best” is a good idea or a bad idea. Really I just wanted you to see it could be either. If you have a date or a job interview, it says something if you come in sweatpants; it says you don’t really care, and this other person or job is not very important, so we dress well on dates and interviews to communicate that what we are doing matters. I don’t think that’s wrong. But what if Sunday best keeps people away who don’t have the right clothes or manners or whatever? That’s not good. And what if people do have Sunday best and come wearing their Sunday best, and they love to have people think of them as perfectly put together? What if Sunday best means you can’t ever need a friend to pray for you because on Sunday you do your best to hold it together no matter what happened during the week?
I hope you can see the issues. God sees all these issues, and he’s here to help. Let’s pray to him as we begin. “Dear Heavenly Father . . .”
Introduction
For the last seven years I’ve read 80–100 books a year, and there’s one book I’ve probably read at least five times, and it’s certainly in my top five of all time. It’s by a pastor in St. Louis named Zack Eswine. He wrote a book about pastoral ministry called The Imperfect Pastor. The book explores misconceptions about pastors and ministry and what the Bible really has to say about each, which is so much better.
We don’t normally begin sermons with discussion, and neither do we normally begin by reading to you, but I’d like to read an extended section from this book. It’s the first three pages of Chapter 2, which is titled “Recovering Our Humanity.” Just so you’re not caught off guard, it’s a difficult story, one where the author had to leave his role as a seminary professor to take over the role of pastor at a church because the pastor of that church took his own life.
[Read pp. 33–35]
What do you think of Zack Eswine and The Imperfect Pastor? That chapter haunts me.
Our passage this morning talks about a Pharisee praying. He’s rather good at praying, at least stringing words together and being in front of a crowd, as if that’s what praying is. We’ll talk more about him and the passage in just a minute. But I wanted to frame the issue before us as it really is: a matter of life and death.
When you pull off Sunday best—or “Facebook best,” or “Workplace best” or “Wherever Best”—and people love you, then you swell with pride. That’s the Pharisee in our passage. But what happens when you try to pull off your best, but it’s not good enough? Or people don’t like it? Or worse, people don’t like you? The opposite of pride is despair, and it has the same root as pride: a focus on self.
Our church is in a sermon series called “All Who Are Weary: The Idols That Exhaust Us and the Savior Who Won’t.” We’re looking at the heart of Christ, which is gentle and lowly, as he tells us in Matthew 11, and how his burden is for sinners who feel weary and heavy-laden. One way we tend to become weary is through constant attention to ourselves, specifically how we come across to others. We chose a passage this morning where one man can’t stop manicuring his image, and the other man gave up and let God deal with him, as he really was. I want to look at the details of this passage, one verse at a time, and then apply this passage to us.
1. The Passage
Let’s look at the passage in more detail.
He also told this parable to some who trusted in themselves that they were righteous, and treated others with contempt: (v. 9).
Notice that right out of the gate we already know what this parable is about. There’s no ambiguity. There were those then, as there are those now, who trusted in themselves and think they are righteous in themselves. So, Jesus tells a story. Just think about that for a moment. Jesus sees a problem (people think they are righteous), and in his love, he doesn’t leave people as he found them.
I want to let you in on a little secret about our sermon series. This summer our pastor-elders began a process of thinking and discussing and praying about what are our strengths at our church and what are also potential challenges, that is, what are some areas where we struggle, both in our own local church and perhaps more broadly in the American church. We wrestled with how to let the Word of God expose those weaknesses and critique them and heal us. So I joked that we could make ten-week sermon series called “A Bunch of Stuff You’re Bad At.” Something about that title didn’t quite have the same winsomeness as the title we ended up with. But that’s sort of why we’re doing what we’re doing. I believe that strong words, when coupled with the gospel, make beautiful Christians. I think that’s what Jesus believes too. “Jesus also told this parable,” Luke writes, “to some who trusted in themselves that they were righteous, and treated others with contempt.” Let’s look at how his parable begins.
“Two men went up into the temple to pray, one a Pharisee and the other a tax collector. (v. 10)
In the first century, there were several different stripes of Judaism. When you hear Pharisee, think Bible scholar, seminary professor, and evangelical pastor. If you’ve been around Christianity for a while—and perhaps just because of the negative way we use the term Pharisee in culture—we can think of a Pharisee as a bad thing. And they were, but to the ears of Jesus’s audience, the Pharisees were the good guys. When Jesus picks on Pharisees in the gospels, they were the best of all the factions of Judaism, and again, the good guys.
The tax collectors, however, were not. Tax collectors were the bad guys, but not simply for the ways we might be annoyed by taxes today. Much more was going on in the first century. Here’s how taxes ordinarily worked at that time. Israel was occupied by Rome, and Rome extracted taxes by contracting Israel’s own citizens to do the dirty work and to do so excessively and, if necessary, with force. So, a tax collector would “bid” on a certain region, saying something like, “I could get $500 million from this Jericho region.” Then whatever they could take over and above that, say, an extra few million, they could keep. We don’t really think of tax collectors this way, but that’s how it worked. If you’re politically minded, and if you have strong opinions about who is best for America, then you might be helped to understand how hated tax collectors were. For you to feel this passage the way we are meant to feel it, you likely need to insert someone who disgusts you. If you really hate Trump, put in Trump as the tax collector. If you really hate Biden, put in him.
Next, Jesus walks us through both of their prayers; first, the Pharisee’s.
The Pharisee, standing by himself, prayed thus: ‘God, I thank you that I am not like other men, extortioners, unjust, adulterers, or even like this tax collector. I fast twice a week; I give tithes of all that I get.’ (vv. 11–12)
This prayer is rather impressive. He manages to use the word “I” five times in two verses. A comedian named Brian Regan has a skit about what he calls the “me monster,” someone who always has a better story, a better joke, a better experience. They tend to dominate social settings. You get the impression that this Pharisee’s thanking of God is a sort of an obligatory nod (“God, I thank you...”) before he can go on to pat himself on the back in front of his audience. “God, I thank you that I’m a good guy, not like those bad guys out there, you know, like the greedy and adulterers and, well, like this tax collector.”
Did you notice that? The Pharisee stays somewhat what generic—extortioners and adulterers—and then he makes the tax collector a prop to contrast his own goodness. This Pharisee needs others to be bad so he can be good. In his mindset, there is a limit to the supply of goodness, and if others have it, he can’t have it.
Notice he does a good job tithing, the giving away of a literal tenth of his income. He says, “of all that I get.” Sometimes Christians talk about whether to give to church based on their gross income (before taxes and other fees) or whether to tithe on just their take-home income. That’s an interesting discussion, but this guy gives a tenth of everything. Back in chapter 11, Jesus rebuked the religious leaders with these words: “Woe to you Pharisees! For you tithe mint and rue and every herb, and neglect justice and the love of God” (11:42). They even tithe out of their spice rack. And he often fasts too. He sets aside food so he can pray, likely prayers like this. Now, in the Old Testament, there is only one day a year that God’s people were required to fast. It was called the Day of Atonement. But this guy fasts twice a week. He goes from one day a year to a hundred and four days a year.
Likely those listening to Jesus tell this parable would have wondered what the issue was. This was a good prayer to them. But this man’s prayer was ugly because his heart was ugly. Look at the contrast with the tax collector.
But the tax collector, standing far off, would not even lift up his eyes to heaven, but beat his breast, saying, ‘God, be merciful to me, a sinner!’ (v. 13)
We read that he stands “far off” and “would not even lift his eyes to heaven.” You’ve probably seen war movies where there’s a huge battle going on, but the film goes inside the head of just one soldier, and all the noise and all the commotion fades away. There’s just one soldier and the job before him. You get the impression that this tax collector went to the temple, not to be seen by others, but to do business with God. He’s so overcome with emotion, he doesn’t see anyone else.
You’ll notice that his prayer is shorter, too. In fact, the Pharisee’s prayer is introduced that way—as a prayer. We’re told the tax collector just talks. He beat his breast, “saying, ‘God, be merciful to me, a sinner.” He doesn’t have a special tone of voice for prayer. All he can do is acknowledge what he knows is true: if God doesn’t have mercy, he has no hope. Notice the conclusion Jesus draws.
I tell you, this man went down to his house justified, rather than the other. For everyone who exalts himself will be humbled, but the one who humbles himself will be exalted.” (v. 14)
Jesus points out that this tax collector is justified, not the religious expert. To be justified is to have God’s goodness applied to you, not your own unrighteousness. Justified is courtroom language. If you ask people if they think they will go to heaven, many people will say yes. If you ask why, they’ll say something like, “I’m a good person.” In the last verse of the parable, Jesus says it doesn’t work that way. If you stand in God’s courtroom pleading your own merits, pleading your own church attendance, pleading your own generosity, and pleading whatever else you’d like to claim, pleading your own manicured version of who you are—or who you think you are—then you’ll go to hell. In God’s courtroom, we are all guilty. Only those who plead Christ’s mercy, get grace.
2. The Takeaways
That’s the passage. It would be easy to preach this passage and leave us going, “Lord, thank you that I’m not like this Pharisee.” But I suspect we are more like him than we realize. I wanted to take time to apply this passage in two different areas. I wanted to talk first about social media and then the church. This morning I cut everything I had to say about social media. I even had a great, extended quote from Tony Reinke’s book 12 Ways Your Phone Is Changing You. Reinke is a Christian journalist who writes insightfully about technology and the Christian faith. I cut all of my applications about social media mostly because, as I relooked at it, I found that while everything I wrote was true enough, it felt uninteresting. Our guilt of projecting a manicured image on social media is readily discussed. But I would say this, I plead with you who are addicted to social media, especially those in middle school, high school, and college. Facebook was launched at the end of my time in college, so I didn’t have it as a struggle then. You do have it. Perhaps to you I would paraphrase what Jesus says in Matthew 5 about another sin. If your social media account causes you to sin, it is better to delete the account and be saved than to have a hundred thousand followers and go to hell.
I want to briefly apply this passage not to social media but when we manicure our image at church. Each week we preach our best; we preachers do our best to create an environment where you can come to hear where God might challenge you and where he might speak his love over you. Perhaps we are not as good of preachers as we could be. Perhaps our music choices could be better. Perhaps the nature of having another service right after this one prevents us from doing business with God. But I would tell you this: In the last two years of preaching—since our preaching through the book of Job in the fall of 2018—I can think of only two times that someone has come forward to speak with me who was distraught over their sin and need of grace. I know we all have different temperaments, and I know we are not in crisis mode each week. And that’s a good thing. But why do you not come? Does it have to do with our view of Sunday best? Lord, thank you that I’m not needy of prayer, needy of encouragement. Lord, thank you that I can hold it together. Lord, thank you that I’m not like those who need help from a pastor. Lord, thank you that I’m a pastor who doesn’t need help like those in my church.
This passage talks about prayer, so we’ll stay there. Some of you will never pray in a small group setting. Why? Again, we all have different temperaments, and that’s a good thing. But some of you will never pray because of pride. “What do you mean?” you say. “I don’t pray because I’m not good at prayer. How could not praying be pride? I am being humble by knowing I’m bad at prayer?”
I’ll explain. Perhaps you don’t like to pray for the same reason the Pharisee did want to pray: we know people are watching. Being terrified to pray out loud might be the other side of the same coin of wanting to pray out loud. Our fear of what people might think is the same as our hope of what they might think. Both are self-focused.
I’ll keep going. What about your prayer requests? There’s nothing wrong with prayers for “travel mercies” and “please pray for my someone who I never see or talk to, but I think has a health challenge.” Those are good things to pray for. But do you use them as diversion tactics, as prayer smoke bombs, as a way to evade your own heart? When was the last time you heard someone say, “Please pray for me; I’m greedy” or “please pray for me; I’m tempted to believe God isn’t good because he won’t fix x, y, or z.”
Conclusion: Freedom from Exhaustion
Let’s draw this sermon to a close. During college I worked at a Christian sports camp in southern Missouri, and mirrors were not hung around campus except for the one I stood before as I brushed my teeth at the beginning and end of the day. Although the absence of mirrors was strange at first, I grew to love it. And I wouldn’t have realized mirrors are everywhere about our homes and schools and businesses, but you notice the contrast right away when mirrors go missing. You notice how mirrors invite occasional glances to check and recheck your appearance. And I admit all this as a dude, even one who’s wardrobe for a hundred days that summer consisted of an unbroken recycling of five gym shorts and t-shirts. It was a gift to forget about mirrors and image.
Manicuring our image is exhausting work. A few years ago, the radio host Brant Hansen wrote a good book called Unoffendable. He has a quote from supermodel Cameron Russell, who says,
If you are ever wondering, “If I have thinner thighs and shinier hair, will I be happier?” you just need to meet a group of models because they have the thinnest thighs and the shiniest hair and the coolest clothes and they’re the most physically insecure people on the planet. (pp. 111–12)
I’m guessing this Pharisee, whether he knew it or not, was exhausted. It’s like he needs his own PR team to constantly manicure his image. He can’t fail. It has to work. He has to be seen as righteous. So, I come back to where I began. Pastor Zack Eswine writes of the pastor who took his life,
He could not see himself useful if he no longer held the position of pastor with the care for others that the position enabled. I missed him. I was, for the first time in my life, asking myself the same question. Did I know that I could serve Christ humanly and significantly whether or not I was a pastor or leader in ministry?
You’re not pastors—most of you. But do you know you can serve Christ humanly without projecting the aura that you’re a supermodel Christian? You can.
When I speak at weddings, I often mention the idea of the covenant love of God. A covenant is a one-sided agreement, where a person resolves to keep up his or her end of the agreement, whether the other person does or not. God is not in a consumer relationship with you. You’re not on a date with God where you have to impress him. You’re not in a job interview with God to earn his favor. If you know Jesus, if you pray like this tax collector prayed for mercy, then God will love you with covenant love. In in covenant love, God loves you unconditionally, that is, God loves you not because of what you bring but because of who he is. This is good news. “Come to me, all who are weary and heavy-laden,” Jesus says. And on his behalf, so I say to you: come to Jesus. “The one who humbles himself,” Jesus promises, “will be exalted.”
I’ll invite the music team to lead us in a few songs. Let’s pray. . .
