Pentecost 20C (Luke 18:9-14)

​When Jesus speaks, his message shifts depending on the audience. He teaches in ways his listeners can actually digest—even if the lesson is hard to swallow. In today’s Gospel, his parable is aimed at those who are certain of their own righteousness and look down on others. They are convinced they are “holier than thou”—holier than everyone else, perhaps even holier than Jesus himself.

To such hearts, Jesus prescribes a medicine that is both provocative and radical. Those they despise—the very people they regard as beneath them—become their teachers. In particular, the tax collector becomes the model. He embodies the heart Jesus commends: not self-justifying, not comparing himself with others, but throwing himself entirely upon God’s mercy. He knows he has done wrong. He knows he cannot save himself. His only cry is: “God, be merciful to me, a sinner!”

Here lies the fundamental truth: righteousness is never the result of comparison. Nor is it a prize one claims for oneself. True righteousness does not dwell on perceived goodness at all; it lives in continual recognition of need, in humble longing for God’s saving mercy.

This is what makes it possible—even necessary—for the tax collector to name himself a sinner. To admit sin is to confess that a way forward exists, that sin is not the end of our story. The word itself means “to miss the mark.” We recognize the marks we’ve missed, and we pray for strength, for discernment, to aim more skillfully next time. By contrast, those who claim they have hit every mark deceive themselves into believing life can be managed by some “magic formula.” But life never unfolds according to formula. It throws curve balls. What we need is not control, but a discerning heart—one that returns, again and again, to God’s mercy along every twist and turn.

But let us not mistake the parable. The tax collector is not automatically more righteous than the Pharisee simply because he prays differently. The Pharisee is, after all, more morally and ethically disciplined than the tax collector. A parallel comes from John’s Gospel: the woman caught in adultery. Jesus averts her stoning with the words, “Let anyone among you who is without sin be the first to throw a stone at her.” And then—grace upon grace—he declares, “Neither do I condemn you.” But he doesn’t stop there. He adds: “Go, and from now on do not sin again.” Mercy here is inseparable from the call to change.

So context matters. Who is Jesus addressing? To the self-righteous, he calls for humility. To those broken by their failures, he calls for commitment. The lesson shifts depending on the heart in front of him. Which means we must ask ourselves: what about us? For what are we examining our lives? What do we need to hear?

At heart, both the Pharisee and the tax collector are turned inward. Their focus is almost entirely on “me.” The Pharisee’s “me” is inflated with pride. The tax collector’s “me” is deflated in shame. Both, in their own way, are trapped by the self. The deeper invitation of Jesus’ parable is to make room for the Other—for God, and for neighbor.

How might we learn this balance? Strikingly, our own breath can serve as a teacher. With each inhalation, the body inflates. With each exhalation, it deflates. Breath keeps the rhythm, the balance of life. When we are beating ourselves down, we may need a breath of inflation. When we are puffed up, we need the humility of exhalation. Learning to live with this rhythm—with the rising and falling of breath—is a way of being “me” skillfully: not inflated, not deflated, but open to God.