Standing in the Need of Prayer

Standing in the Need of Prayer

Text:  Luke 18:9-14

(Gary W. Charles, Cove Presbyterian Church, Covesville, VA, 10-23-2016)

Two men went up to the temple to pray. So, the parable begins. We know neither man’s name, only their vocations. The man who prays standing is a holy man – just ask him. But, to be fair, he is a holy man by all community standards. Not only does he pray daily in the temple, he is a law abider and even exceeds what the law demands. He eats what he is supposed to eat and sets aside two days a week to fast. Even more, this man tithes; he gives ten percent – off the top – of all he earns to God’s work.

The other praying man is barely standing with his head in his hands at the far edge of the temple. He is not a holy man by anyone’s estimation. This parable tells us everything we need to know about this unholy man before he opens his mouth. He is unholy because he profanes himself by working for the dirty, gentile Romans. If he is like most Jewish tax collectors of the day, it is likely that he exploits his own people for personal financial gain. The story does not say, but you can go to the bank that this man did not tithe.

Two men go to the temple to pray. We will return to them a little later. Right now, I want to talk about a third man, the one reading this story to you. This man has come to the church to pray as a pastor for 36 years now and long before that as a church member. The third man, of course, is me.

I wish I could say that my normal posture is one of humility like the tax collector who knew that he had no hope save for the goodness and grace of God. When I am honest with myself, though, I suspect that the Pharisee and I are close kin. Like the Pharisee, I have spent much of my life trying to excel, trying to be better than “that poor, sinful tax collector.”

To excel, I have learned to compete in all I do. Being the second born, early on I competed for more attention from my parents than my older brother who had already been hanging around for five years when I came upon the scene. From kick the can to Little League baseball to high school basketball to stints in the theater, I have always competed. I competed for grades. I competed for the lead in the play. I competed for acceptance by friends and those I wanted to be my friends. I have even competed for the attention and favor of God and God’s people.

I will tell you something now that I did not know as a boy or even as a young man. The competitive life is exhausting, not just for me, my family, and for those who hang in there with me as friends, but for the churches I have served. It is not only exhausting; it is delusional. It leads you to measure success by how much better you are at what you do than others rather than how well you help others do better or be better. It can easily lead you to treat those you consider as inferior as deficient and easy to ignore. 

A problem with such self-centered, delusional, and self-righteous competitive Christianity is that it robs the faith of all its color and complexity, leaving everything either black or white, everyone as either good or bad. It leads to preoccupation with self, never noticing all the others standing around you, each one of whom, yourself included, is standing in the prayer. It can lead you to think, if not say aloud, “thank God we at Cove are not like. . . ” You finish the sentence. Christianity that is achieved at the cost of diminishing another human being is a Christianity that is light years removed from the One who told today’s parable.  

 At this point, I would like to introduce a fourth character, a woman and a friend. Her name is Barbara Brown Taylor. A few years back, Barbara wrote a book that has disturbed some of my clergy friends, but I have found it a book that often sears my soul. The book is called, Leaving Church. When I first read it, I found myself weeping in self-recognition more often than not as she recounts much of her story as an Episcopal parish priest. 

Barbara writes:  “I had . . . become so busy caring for the household of God that I neglected the One who had called me there. If I still had plenty of energy for the work it was because feeding others was still my food. As long as I fed them, I did not feel my hunger pains. . . . I knew how to pray . . . but by the time I got home each night it was all I could do to pay the bills and go to bed. I pecked God on the cheek the same way I did Ed. . . . For years I had kept hoping that intimacy with God would blossom as soon as I got everything done, got everyone settled, got my environment just right and my calendar cleared.

“For most of my adult life . . . I thought that being faithful meant always trying harder to live a holier life and calling [the church’s I served] to do the same. I thought that it meant knowing everything I could about scripture and theology, showing up every time the church doors were open, and never saying no to anyone in need. I thought that it meant ignoring my own needs and those of my family until they went away altogether” (Barbara Brown Taylor, Leaving Church, pp. 75, 99, 133, 218, 219).

 Many of Barbara’s words hit home, but the words that haunt me are these:  “As long as I fed them, I did not feel my hunger pains.” Now travel with me back to the temple. Two men are praying, only one of whom is feeling hunger pains and it is not my close kin, the Pharisee.

Make no mistake. The tax collector is not a sympathetic figure in the story. He has made some despicable life decisions and works daily for the enemy. He comes to the temple not with a huge sense of self-confidence, but with nothing left but a plea to God for mercy. 

So, why does Jesus tell this story anyway? Maybe he tells it to shake up our preconceived notions of others and ourselves, to invite us, whatever group we find ourselves in at whatever time, to feel our own hunger pains for God and never to imagine that we come before God with any extra credit earned that give our prayers a special glean or divine priority. Maybe, then, the main character in this story is not the Pharisee standing tall or the tax collector stooped over in self-loathing. Maybe the main character is you or me.

In the 60’s Jerry Garcia made an old African American Spiritual popular to a much wider audience when he sang:

Not my brother, not my sister, but it's me oh Lord

Standing in the need of prayer
Not my brother, not my sister, but it's me oh Lord
Standing in the need of prayer
It's me, it's me, it's me, oh Lord
Standing in the need of prayer
It's me, it's me, it's me, oh Lord
Standing in the need of prayer

                                                                         

            Indeed, oh Lord, it is.

         

                    AMEN