THE PHARISEE AND THE PUBLICAN (Luke 18:9-14)
Jesus addressed this parable to those who were convinced of their own righteousness, and despised everyone else.
Well. Talk about being spoon fed.
Here is Luke, the master story-teller of the gospels, giving us the scoop on what his parable is trying to say. You have a slight suspicion that this is not Luke at all, but some editor who is desperately anxious that we get the point. After all, when you (as Luke) do such a good job of making the point in the first place, artistically, you do not need a moral tacked on fore and aft. Yes, there is another moral on the end.
He who exalts himself will be humbled, and he who humbles himself will be exalted.
This is not really an inclusion--the bookends kind of thing--because it is not artistically managed. It is just a little red flag, as in Aesop’s fables. The parable itself needs no flags. It hits you—in the gut, actually--with all the force of a fine story. As in Nathan’s story to David: “You are the man.”
So why is it here? Let’s say we are using this text for lectio. We can say, “Oh why stop here? What possible use is this clichéd little flag? The story is as strong as the punch of a heavy-weight, and as artfully and sparely constructed as a piece of fine sculpture. I can disregard the clumsy moral tacked on twice.”
Maybe. And maybe not.
Let’s digress a bit. I was not anticipating Francis Kline’s seminar presentation on formation. I expected to be handed a load of intellectual burdens, to feel like a lame-footed donkey: “Look, put this on your back and run with it.” Or at least plod.
Not so. He is not made that way. Formation walks carefully in the steps of its intent. First you make clear what the monastic life is here for. And then you talk about how to construct the path on which to do that walking, not really toward the goal, but with the goal in your heart. The goal for Francis is the dismantling of the me that I have worked so hard and so long to assemble. It has been a very serviceable me, a functional and constructive addition to the world in which I have operated. It was the best me and probably the only me I could make. But I didn’t come to the monastery to keep it fed and watered.
It has to be dismantled, unhinged, and disowned. Not destroyed. There is a clear, sturdy, bright presence flaming in the ruins of what I have tried to make of myself. There is the Christ life steadily burning down there, waiting to flare in the wind of the Spirit. But it takes time to let God hoist the debris out of the way. So what kind of formation will prepare us for this, will bring on the wrecking ball and the Resurrection?
For Francis, it is primarily the labor of lectio. And not just any old lectio, but the intimate labor of struggling with Scripture itself. Not the commentaries, not the theological interpretations, not the burdens of intellectual comprehension. All that has its place, and will come—when? In time. Time is what you have to take. If your candidate has talent, make sure it develops slowly. Keep him long in the country of Scripture, the bare, austere landscape of pure lectio, the landscape that burns the grass and turns the earth to dust and leaves you with its own particular kind of thirst.
Some people may feel this a bit extreme. Maybe it is. But at our peril we ignore the truth in it. Scripture can be a sweet tempered friend, but can also prove itself a formidable adversary. The word of God is a sword and more than a sword. It is an environment, a place of judgment, a love that asks for more than we are willing to give. It is the cross.
With that in the background, what can we make of these clumsy additions to a fine piece of art? We do not gauge the spiritual value of a Scriptural text by its artistry. The dull and the inadequate may have something to say by its very inadequacy.
Luke’s parables are small dramas. Here we are in the audience before a closed curtain. The narrator or the stage manager comes out to say his piece. “Look. folks, this is what you are supposed to understand from the following play. Just in case you don’t get it, I am here to sharpen your wits.” Bow. Leave stage. Curtain opens.
And at the end, after we have met and identified with the Pharisee and the Publican, back he comes to make sure we have really, really got it. We are inclined to feel—what? OK, let’s go ahead and feel it. Feeling it is part of the experience of lectio. Maybe we want to say, “Please, I feel bad enough already. I do not need you to tell me how to think about my experience, to put it in a nice little mental box and tie it up. The story has hit me at a level far below the clumsy moralizing you have showed up with.” We close the book, we sit with our own experience and disown the stage manager.
Or do we? There is something more to this parable than a) an historical remembrance (Jesus said thus and so), or b) a fine piece of literary composition. Yes, this is something back then, but also something more. It is the pen of Luke, but also the voice of Jesus risen beyond pain and death and speaking to us right now.
But how? The Gospels come to us through the power of the Spirit working in the Church. The voice of Jesus speaks in accents all too human and often unpleasant, the accents of a human community into which the Spirit has descended. No matter what denomination we belong to, the churchly history and the churchly presence of Christ bears a witness we are often uncomfortable with.
Yes, we could have done without the moralizing, we could have done without the fragile and inadequate commentary. But the Church is the awkward stage manager--a school-master somewhat out of touch and dull, drawing too much attention to himself. “Look, people, being nice is a good thing. Self-discipline and alms-giving are good things, but watch…”
And still this is the voice in which the risen Christ is speaking. These little moral flags are telling us, not only that we must not use our moral rectitude to despise others, but also that we hear the word and gaze into the eyes of a Christ who needs the community, a church whose tones can evoke distress and even despair. Listen, see beyond the weakness, through the weakness into the Resurrected peace of him who is speaking. But don’t let go of the stage manager.
You have to sit with an experience like this. Maybe you have to wrestle with the text, with these unyielding and seemingly worthless bits of language, tugging, gnawing, a puppy at the bone. Maybe it’s a question of putting the question into your head and living with it for days before it yields its marrow. Maybe it never will, and the time you give to sitting with it is the prayer you are meant to give. All lectio is not of a piece. But it is always prayer if you come to it as prayer.