Lenten Reflection – Day 19 of the Great Lent
The Pharisee and the Tax Collector: St. Luke 18:9-17
“God, be merciful to me a sinner!” (18:13)
Yesterday Christ picked up a child and put it in the middle of the room. Greatness in the kingdom is not what we thought it was. The ladder goes downward. The person at the bottom looks most like Christ. The last shall be first. The servant of all is the greatest of all.
Today Christ tells a story about two men who went to the Temple to pray. One of them understood yesterday’s lesson. The other did not.
The story is short. Simple. Devastating. It takes about thirty seconds to read. It has been disturbing religious people for two thousand years. Because the man who thinks he is praying well is the one who goes home empty. And the man who can barely look up is the one who goes home right with God.
We are nineteen days into the Great Lent. We have been praying every day. The question this parable asks is not whether we have been praying. The question is how.
Told to Those Who Trusted in Themselves (v. 9)
“Also He spoke this parable to some who trusted in themselves that they were righteous, and despised others.”
Luke tells us the target before telling us the story. This parable is aimed at a specific audience. People who trusted in themselves that they were righteous. People who despised others.
Two qualities. Both poison. And they always travel together.
Self-trust and contempt. The person who is confident in their own righteousness will always look down on others. It is inevitable. If I am righteous because of what I have done, then the person who has not done what I have done is less righteous. And if they are less righteous, I am entitled to despise them. The logic is airtight. The conclusion is devastating. Self-righteousness is the mother of contempt.
Luke does not say Jesus told this parable to Pharisees. He says He told it to people who trusted in themselves. That includes anyone in the room. Anyone reading this reflection. Anyone nineteen days into a fast who has started to feel quietly pleased with their own performance.
On Day 18, Chrysostom warned that the desire for greatness is the last sin to die. Today’s parable shows us its twin. Self-righteousness is the sin that disguises itself as virtue. It looks like devotion. It sounds like gratitude. It even shows up in the Temple, dressed in its best clothes, saying all the right words. And it goes home empty.
The Pharisee’s Prayer (vv. 11–12)
“The Pharisee stood and prayed thus with himself, ‘God, I thank You that I am not like other men – extortioners, unjust, adulterers, or even as this tax collector. I fast twice a week; I give tithes of all that I possess.'” (18:11–12)
The Pharisee stands. He prays. But notice Luke’s phrase. He “prayed thus with himself.” Some translations read “prayed to himself.” Either way, the meaning is clear. This prayer never left the room. It went up toward the ceiling and fell back down. It was addressed to God but the real audience was the Pharisee himself.
The content of the prayer is fascinating. On the surface, it looks like thanksgiving. “God, I thank You.” Good start. Gratitude is where prayer should begin. We said exactly that on Day 12. Ingratitude is the root sin.
But listen to what follows. “I thank You that I am not like other men.” The thanksgiving is not for what God has done. It is for what the Pharisee has done. Or rather, for what the Pharisee has not done. He has not stolen. He has not cheated. He has not committed adultery. He has not become a tax collector like that man over there.
The prayer is a performance review. And the Pharisee is giving himself full marks.
“I fast twice a week; I give tithes of all that I possess.” The law required fasting once a year on the Day of Atonement. The Pharisee fasts twice a week. The law required tithes on certain produce. The Pharisee tithes everything. He is not meeting the standard. He is exceeding it. And he wants God to notice.
There is nothing wrong with fasting twice a week. There is nothing wrong with generous tithing. These are good practices. The problem is not what the Pharisee does. The problem is what the Pharisee sees when he looks in the mirror. He sees a righteous man. And when he turns from the mirror and looks at the tax collector, he sees a sinner. The Pharisee’s prayer has no room for mercy. Not because he is against mercy in principle. Because he does not think he needs it.
St. Isaac the Syrian, in his Ascetical Homilies, teaches that the most dangerous person in any spiritual community is the one who has stopped asking for mercy. Not because he is evil. Because he is blind. The person who sees his own righteousness clearly and his own sin dimly has lost the ability to pray. His prayers become reports. Status updates delivered to a God he expects to be impressed. Isaac says that the beginning of all genuine prayer is the awareness of need. The person who approaches God with a full report of his accomplishments has nothing to receive. His hands are full of himself.1
Nineteen days of fasting. The Pharisee’s prayer is dangerously close to what many of us pray without realizing it. “Thank You, God, that I am keeping the fast. That I am still praying every day. That I have not given up like some people. That I am not like those Christians who eat whatever they want during Lent.” The words may not be spoken out loud. They do not need to be. The posture is enough. The slight lift of the chin. The quiet satisfaction. The sideways glance at the person who is struggling.
The Tax Collector’s Prayer (v. 13)
“And the tax collector, standing afar off, would not so much as raise his eyes to heaven, but beat his breast, saying, ‘God, be merciful to me the sinner!'” (18:13)
Everything is different. Everything.
The Pharisee stood in a prominent position. The tax collector stands far off. At the back. Near the door. As far from the altar as possible. He does not feel he has the right to come closer.
The Pharisee looked up. The tax collector will not raise his eyes to heaven. He cannot look at God. Not because God is angry with him. Because he is too aware of the distance between what God is and what he is. The holiness of God and the wretchedness of his own life are both so vivid to him that lifting his eyes feels presumptuous.
The Pharisee recited his achievements. The tax collector beats his breast. In the ancient world, beating the breast was a gesture of grief and mourning. It was public. It was physical. It was the body’s way of saying what words could not say. The pain inside is so deep that the hands must strike the chest to express it.
And then the prayer. Seven words in Greek. Ho theos, hilasthēti moi tō hamartōlō. God, be merciful to me, the sinner.
Not “a sinner.” The sinner. He does not compare himself to others. He does not say “I am worse than some and better than others.” He uses the definite article. The sinner. As if he is the only one in the room. As if the whole weight of human failure rests on his shoulders alone.
The word “be merciful” is hilasthēti. It is related to the word hilasterion, the mercy seat. The lid of the Ark of the Covenant where the blood of atonement was sprinkled once a year on the Day of Atonement. The tax collector is not just asking for general kindness. He is asking for atonement. For the sacrificial mercy that covers sin. He is asking God to do for him what he cannot do for himself.
This is the prayer. Seven words. No achievements listed. No comparisons made. No report filed. Just a man standing at the back of the Temple with his head down, his fist on his chest, and seven words in his mouth. And those seven words contained more theology, more faith, more truth, and more power than the Pharisee’s entire speech.
St. John Chrysostom, in his Homily 4 on 2 Corinthians, uses this parable to teach that the tax collector’s prayer succeeded not in spite of its brevity but because of it. The prayer had no room for self. It was all God. All mercy. All need. Chrysostom says that God does not measure prayers by length or eloquence. He measures them by honesty. A single sentence spoken from the floor of a broken heart reaches God faster than a thousand beautiful words spoken from the height of self-satisfaction.2
On Day 10, we reflected on the Lord’s Prayer. Christ taught us to pray “forgive us our sins.” Today we see what that prayer looks like in practice. Not as a line we recite. As a cry that comes from the gut. The tax collector was praying the Lord’s Prayer without knowing it. He was asking for the one thing the Pharisee never asked for. Mercy.
Justified (v. 14)
“I tell you, this man went down to his house justified rather than the other; for everyone who exalts himself will be humbled, and he who humbles himself will be exalted.” (18:14)
The verdict. The tax collector went home justified. The Pharisee did not.
“Justified” means declared righteous. Put right with God. The relationship restored. The debt canceled. The sinner received as if he were not a sinner. Not because his sins did not matter. Because mercy covered them.
The Pharisee walked into the Temple righteous in his own eyes. He walked out unchanged. He came full and left full. Nothing happened because he had no space for anything to happen. His prayer was a monologue. A closed circuit. God was the nominal audience but the Pharisee was the real listener. And he liked what he heard.
The tax collector walked into the Temple a sinner. He walked out justified. He came empty and left full. Everything happened because he had nothing but space. His prayer was a door thrown open. A cry into the void. And God rushed in.
“Everyone who exalts himself will be humbled, and he who humbles himself will be exalted.”
Christ has said this before. He will say it again. He keeps saying it because we keep forgetting it. The way up is down. The way to fullness is emptiness. The way to righteousness is the admission that you have none.
St. Macarius the Great, in his Spiritual Homilies, teaches that humility is not self-hatred. It is accuracy. The humble person does not think less of himself than he should. He thinks of himself exactly as he is. A creature. Dependent. Fallen. Loved. In need of mercy every day. The proud person is not thinking too highly of himself. He is thinking inaccurately. He has lost sight of what he actually is. Macarius says that the spiritual life is essentially a journey from inaccuracy to accuracy. From the Pharisee’s distorted mirror to the tax collector’s honest one. The fast strips away the distortions. The prayer brings us face to face with what is real. And what is real is always humbling.3
Receive the Kingdom Like a Child (vv. 15–17)
“Then they also brought infants to Him that He might touch them; but when the disciples saw it, they rebuked them. But Jesus called them to Him and said, ‘Let the little children come to Me, and do not forbid them; for of such is the kingdom of God. Assuredly, I say to you, whoever does not receive the kingdom of God as a little child will by no means enter it.'” (18:15–17)
Immediately after the parable, Luke places this scene. It is not an accident. The child arrives right after the tax collector. And for the same reason.
Yesterday we saw the child in the center of the room. Christ used the child to redefine greatness. Today the child appears again but the lesson is different. Yesterday was about serving the small. Today is about becoming small.
“Whoever does not receive the kingdom of God as a little child will by no means enter it.”
How does a child receive? Without merit. Without achievement. Without a performance review to present. A child does not earn dinner. A child does not negotiate for breakfast. A child receives because a child is small and hungry and dependent and the parent gives.
The tax collector received justification the way a child receives a meal. With empty hands. With no bargaining power. With nothing to offer except need. The Pharisee tried to receive the kingdom the way an employee receives a salary. By presenting his work record. By reminding the boss of his achievements. By standing on his rights.
The kingdom does not work like a salary. It works like a gift. And gifts can only be received with open, empty hands.
St. Ephrem the Syrian, in his Hymns on Faith, celebrates the paradox with characteristic delight. He writes that God delights in the empty because only the empty can be filled. The full vessel cannot receive more wine. The full stomach cannot receive more bread. The full heart cannot receive more grace. Ephrem describes the Pharisee’s heart as a room so full of furniture that God cannot enter. The tax collector’s heart is an empty room. Bare walls. No furniture. Nothing to admire. But the door is open and the room is vast and God walks in and fills every corner.4
This is the message the Great Lent has been building toward for nineteen days. The fast empties us. The prayer opens us. The repentance strips out the furniture. Not because emptiness is the goal. Because emptiness is the condition for receiving. The kingdom is a gift. And the gift is offered to the one whose hands are open. Not the one whose hands are full of his own achievements.
For Our Journey Today
Pray the tax collector’s prayer. Today, before any other prayer, before the morning office, before the mealtime grace, before the evening examination, pray seven words. “God, be merciful to me, a sinner.” Not as a warm-up for the real prayer. As the real prayer. Let it sit in your chest. Let it beat against your ribs the way the tax collector’s fist beat against his. Do not rush past it. Stay there. In those seven words is everything you need to say to God today.
Examine your thanksgiving. When we thank God, what are we thanking Him for? For what He has done? Or for what we have done? Is our gratitude directed upward, toward the Giver? Or inward, toward yourself? The difference between the Pharisee’s prayer and genuine thanksgiving is thin. Both begin with “God, I thank You.” One ends with self-congratulation. The other ends with worship. Check which one ours has become.
Come with empty hands. The fast has been emptying you for nineteen days. Today, do not resist the emptiness. Do not try to fill it with a sense of accomplishment. Do not present God with our fasting record. Come the way the child comes. Hungry. Small. Dependent. Hands open. Ready to receive. The kingdom is offered to people like that. Not people like the Pharisee who come with a full briefcase. People like the tax collector who come with nothing but a prayer.
God, be merciful to me, a sinner. I have come to this nineteenth day of the fast with hands that are not as empty as they should be. I have carried my achievements into Your presence. I have compared my fasting with others. I have thanked You for not making me like them. Forgive me. I do not want the Pharisee’s prayer in my mouth anymore. I want the tax collector’s. Seven words. Honest. Broken. True. Be merciful. Not because I have earned it. Because You are merciful and I need it. I have nothing to show You that did not come from You first. So I come empty. Like the child You said must come. Like the sinner You said went home justified. Receive me. Not because of what I have done during this fast. Because of what You have done on the Cross. By the prayers of the Most Holy Theotokos, the holy Evangelist Luke, and all the saints. Amen.
- St. Isaac the Syrian (7th century). The Ascetical Homilies of Saint Isaac the Syrian, translated by the Holy Transfiguration Monastery (Holy Transfiguration Monastery Press, Boston, revised edition 2011). ↩︎
- St. John Chrysostom (c. 349–407). Homily 4 on 2 Corinthians and related homiletical treatments of Luke 18:9–14. Edition: Nicene and Post-Nicene Fathers (NPNF), Series I, Vol. 12: Homilies on the Epistles of Paul to the Corinthians, translated by Talbot W. Chambers (available at newadvent.org and ccel.org). Also St. John Chrysostom: On Repentance and Almsgiving, translated by Gus George Christo, Fathers of the Church Series, Vol. 96 (Catholic University of America Press, 1998), which contains related material on humility and prayer. ↩︎
- St. Macarius the Great (c. 300–391). Spiritual Homilies (Homiliae Spirituales), particularly Homilies 7, 15, and 26. ↩︎
- St. Ephrem the Syrian (c. 306–373). Hymns on Faith (Madrāshē d-Haymānutā), , translated by Jeffrey T. Wickes, Fathers of the Church Series, Vol. 130 (Catholic University of America Press, 2015). ↩︎
