Grace to you and peace from God
our Father and from our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ. Amen. The text is Luke
18.
"The Emperor's New
Clothes" is a short tale written by Danish author Hans Christian Andersen,
about two weavers who promise an emperor a new suit of clothes that they say is
invisible to those who are unfit for their positions, stupid, or incompetent.
The trick is that, in reality, they make no clothes at all, but make a big deal
about about the quality of their garments and the beauty of their handiwork
that don’t exist. Of course, no one wants to be the one to admit they can’t see
the clothes – that would prove them to be the fool. When the emperor parades before his subjects
in his new "clothes", no one dares to say that they do not see any
suit of clothes on him for fear that they will be seen as stupid. Finally a
child cries out, "But he isn't wearing anything at all!"[1]
The Pharisee in Jesus parable is
such a fool. Arrogantly standing in center stage of the temple courtyard, you
can imagine him with his hands raised up, his head held high, and his voice
echoing across the stone walls and into the ears of gathering worshippers. The
fool boasts: “I thank you, God, that I am not like these other sinners.” He slowly
turns around, looking at the crowds who are before him, and he starts to
identify and call out one by one – “the loan sharks, the hustlers, the
shysters, the hookers,” and then he lowers his voice a half-octave to
demonstrate his disgust and sheer repulsion while staring, and then gesturing,
into the corner at one man in particular, “and tax collectors.” No one stood
near him: perhaps no one feeling worthy of being in the presence of such a
perceived holy man; others, perhaps afraid of what he might say about them. Taking
a deep breath, he continues, “The Law says we are to fast weekly, I fast two
days. And tithing – why I even tithe the herbs my wife grows in the patio.” He
looks around, as if daring anyone to be as worthy of Law-centered perfection.
Seeing no challengers, he again holds his arms out at his sides as if to say,
“I am worthy,” and strides from the Temple.
But that’s all that he has:
himself and his self-worth. Jesus specifically notes that he stands alone and
by himself as he presents himself to God. That is a perilous place to stand:
alone, before God. When one stands before God, dressed in only his own
self-righteousness and self-worth and self-merit, standing alone, by himself,
with no one else to serve as an intercessor or intermediary, he stands as naked
before God as the emperor. There is no confession; just bragging at how well he
keeps the law, compared to his fellow Israelites.
The Pharisee doesn’t realize it,
but in that bragging, and in his lack of repentance and confession, his sins
are uncovered and put on full display: his foolish consideration of himself as
holier-than-all; his arrogant thinking that he is not a sinful man; his
boastful comparison that, ok – possibly he sinned somewhere in his life, but at
least he isn’t as bad as those scum-of-the-earth so-called “worshippers” who
dare to enter the Temple; his sad naiveté in thinking God is more pleased with
him skipping a meal rather than sharing a meal with the poor and hungry; his
shameful score-keeping of who keeps the Law better when, in fact, no one keeps
the Law perfectly. He has forgotten what the Psalms declare, “There is no one
who is righteous, not even one.” This fool is not the exception to the rule. He
has forgotten the words of Isaiah that their goodness is no where near as fine
as the clothes on their back; instead, they are like dirty, filthy, bloody
rags. In a word, he is a fool – literally, a damned fool for trusting his
nothingness before God.
In the corner, trying to hide
after being exposed, pressing himself against the wall as if wishing he could
crawl into the cracks and crevices between the stones of the massive wall,
hunched over, is the tax collector. He, too, stands alone – his profession
keeping fellow Israelites at arms-length. No one feels sorry for this man and
his misery. They pass him by as if he is part of the furnishings. As such, no
one could hear his simple, broken-hearted and humble prayer.
But, if you did stop, if you did
listen, and if you did hear his mumbles and murmurs, you would note the
contrast from the previous display. There was no boasting, no litany of good
deeds done and laws kept, no self-justifying comparison to make himself feel
better. The tax collector pounded his chest, unable to look up, his body
reflecting the burden of each and every one of his sins weighing on his conscience.
He recognized his nakedness with nothing to hide his unworthiness from God.
There was only simple, repentant confession: Lord, have mercy on me a sinner.
He identifies his condition as sinner and trusts that the Lord will have mercy
because God has promised that a smoldering wick will not be snuffed out and a bruised
reed will not be crushed. He prays, in faith, that a broken and contrite heart
God will not despise.
To ask for mercy is to ask to not
receive the deserved punishment. It’s a courtroom word, where the accused is
found guilty yet begs for his sentence to be reduced or cancelled. Mercy is
found in the compassion of the judge, given to whom he feels worthy of a second
chance, of forgiveness of their guilt.
How does one ask for mercy when he
or she knows they are guilty as charged? To be more specific, how can a sinner,
the likes of a tax collector who is as much as a publicly acknowledged, yet
legally protected thief who steals from his own people, how can a tax collector
ask God for mercy?
The tax collector begs for mercy
in a unique way. He’s not asking for God to be arbitrarily lenient to him. He
doesn’t argue that he deserves mercy. He doesn’t offer a justifying comparison
saying that, yes, he is a tax collector, but that not as bad as murders or
insurrectionists who get crucified. He doesn’t try to defend himself as a son
of Abraham. He doesn’t try to hide behind the law allowing him to effectively
steal from his fellow Israelites. No arguments, no excuses, no justification.
Where the pharisee stood spiritually
naked and alone with nothing separating him from God’s wrath and displeasure, the
tax collector, in asking for God’s mercy, places himself at the mercy-seat of
God.
In the Old Testament, the lid to
the Ark of the Covenant was described as the mercy seat. It was the place, the
locatedness, where God would meet His people. On the Day of Atonement, the High
Priest would sprinkle a portion of the blood of the sacrificial animals on the
mercy seat and the rest of the blood would be sprinkled on the people Mercy was
given to the worshipping Israelite in exchange for the blood of the sacrifice. To
be mercied is to be blood covered. They were shown by God because of the blood.
But the Ark disappears from
history several centuries before Jesus’ birth. To this day, no one knows where
it is. Historians call this a mystery. Christians call this God redirecting the
eyes of the faithful from a gold-covered box hidden in the center of the temple to it's fulfillment: two, wooden beams planted for all to see outside Jerusalem. The mercy
seat is the cross of Jesus – the same cross where murderers and insurrectionists
are crucified. There, Jesus dies as the once-for-all sacrifice for the sins of
the world. Innocent blood shed for guilty sinners. God puts forth Christ as a
propitiation – a mercy covering of blood – and He accepts Jesus sacrifice in
our place.
The repentant sinner - the extortioners,
the unjust, the adulterers, the tax collectors, the farmers, the ranchers, the
teachers, the stay-at-home parent, the retiree, the student, and, yes, even the
pastor - in asking for mercy, is literally asking to be covered up in blood, to
be covered in the blood of Jesus, so that God does not see him as a sinful
fool, but as redeemed and beloved in Jesus.
Mercy is a gift that you receive by
grace, through faith, in Christ. Christ’s once-for-all substitutionary,
propitiatory sacrifice covers you in His blood and God sees you – not your
sins; He sees you clothed in Christ’s holiness – not naked; He declares you
justified – not condemned; and He sees you as His beloved and exalted child –
not the one to be cast out.
Today is the 502nd
anniversary of the beginning of the Reformation. On October 31, 1517 Martin
Luther nailed his 95 theses, or points of discussion, to the castle church door
at Wittenberg, Germany. Chief among his concerns was whether a sinner
approached God naked, with only his own self-justification to clothe him, or
whether he approached God wrapped up in the blood of Jesus, asking to be
mercied because of Christ’s sacrificial death. Luther may have re-discovered
this powerful truth of salvation, the mercy of God in Christ, that had gotten buried
and lost, but he would be the first to say the Reformation was never about him.
It was about Jesus. It still is.
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