On Prayer and Righteousness

For the past couple of weeks, we’ve been working our way through Luke’s Gospel. A central topic has been that of prayer. Last week we explored the parable of the persistent widow and the unjust judge, a lesson in praying faithfully and not losing heart.

Today, Jesus continues that thought, but he pivots. He zeroes in on the attitude of our prayer. Luke gives us the context right up front in verse 9. Jesus told this next parable “…to some who trusted in themselves that they were righteous and regarded others with contempt.”

Now, who is he talking to? It’s very likely the Pharisees, who have been his main conversation partners and antagonists. But before we get too comfortable, we have to admit: he could also be talking to us.

The parable today features two character, a Pharisee and a Tax Collector. In some ways the parable starts like the setup to a bad joke: “A Pharisee and a Tax Collector walk into the temple together…”

These two men represent the opposite ends of the social and spiritual spectrum of their day.

First, you have the Pharisee. This man is, by every external measure, the hero. He is meticulous in his faith. He doesn’t just not steal or commit adultery; he actively does good. He fasts twice a week. He tithes a tenth of what he has. This is a man who takes his relationship with God seriously. He is the model citizen, the one you’d want your kids to grow up to be like.

And then, you have the tax collector. This man is the villain. He’s a traitor. He works for the occupying Roman forces, collecting money from his own people to fund their oppression. And he wasn’t just a civil servant; tax collectors were notorious for “skimming off the top,” enriching themselves by extorting their neighbors. He is the person everyone loved to hate.

So, they both go to the temple to pray. And this is where the story turns.

The Pharisee stands by himself—perhaps so as not to be contaminated—and he prays, “God, I thank you that I am not like other people: thieves, rogues, adulterers, or even like this tax collector.”

His prayer starts with “God, I thank you,” which is a great start! But it quickly devolves. It’s not really a prayer to God; it’s a press release about his own accomplishments, delivered at God, and at the tax collector over in the corner.

His prayer is public theatre. You have to wonder, would he pray this way if no one else was in the temple? His entire spiritual identity is built on comparison. His righteousness isn’t just about what he does; it’s about what others don’t do.

This is the heart of what Jesus is getting at. Commentator Eric Barreto, points out the toxic link between self-trust and contempt for others. He writes, “To trust yourself in this way is to believe that being right supersedes curiosity about others, love for those who move through the world in a different way… to see your neighbor in contempt presupposes their fundamental error and your righteousness.”

The moment our prayer, our faith, our identity, is built on “At least I’m not like them…”—we have become the Pharisee.

Then there’s the tax collector. He stands far off. He can’t even bring himself to look up to heaven. He just beats his breast and says one thing: “God, be merciful to me, a sinner.”

That’s it. No resume. No list of accomplishments. No comparison. Just pure, unfiltered self-knowledge and a desperate plea for mercy.

And here’s the key: We don’t actually know if this tax collector is “good.” His prayer might be 100% accurate. He might be the worst tax collector in Judea, preying on the weak and enriching himself. Jesus isn’t setting him up as a moral hero to be emulated. He’s setting up his prayer as the one that connects with God.

This parable isn’t just about a “good” Pharisee and a “bad” tax collector. It’s about the human need to be right above all other things. In his book The Cost of Ambition: How Striving to be Better Than Others Makes Us Worse Miroslav Volf writes the following in the preface, “It takes only a quick perusal through the Bible to see that striving for superiority is a dominant theme in the story of human suffering and wrongdoing.”

The Pharisee trusted in his own righteousness, his own superiority. The tax collector knew he had none to trust in and choses to trust in God.

And here is Jesus’s punchline, the narrative flip that would have shocked everyone listening: “I tell you, this man”—the tax collector, the traitor, the sinner—”went down to his home justified rather than the other.” The tax collector was made right with God.

Why? Because the tax collector was honest. He told God the true state he was in. As Eugene Peterson phrases Jesus’s conclusion: “If you walk around with your nose in the air, you’re going to end up flat on your face, but if you’re content to be simply yourself, you will become more than yourself.”

This is the “bad news” that comes before the good news. The bad news is that our self-righteousness, our comparisons, our spiritual resumes, they are worthless before God. They are a wall, not a bridge.

Life has a way of teaching us this, doesn’t it? Aging, health problems, seeing our social status change, watching the decline of things we love like the church, these things are humbling. They strip away our illusion of control and self-sufficiency. The question is what we do with that humility. Do we become bitter, or do we let it drive us to God, like the tax collector?

The good news is that God isn’t waiting for our resume. God is waiting for our honesty. Godis in the business of changing hearts, and that change begins with the simple, humble prayer: “God, be merciful to me, a sinner.”

So, what does a “justified” life look like? If the Pharisee’s rigorous righteousness was rejected, should we just give up on living a good life?

No. For that, we can look to the example of the Apostle Paul. In his second letter to Timothy, written from a prison cell right before his death, Paul takes stock of his life. He writes:

“I have fought the good fight, I have finished the race, I have kept the faith. From now on there is reserved for me the crown of righteousness…”

Now, wait a minute. That sounds a lot like the Pharisee, doesn’t it? “Look at me, God, I did it!”

But read the very next phrase. Where does this crown come from? “…which the Lord, the righteous judge, will give me on that day.”

This is the crucial difference. The Pharisee trusted in his own righteousness, which he built by comparing himself to others. Paul trusts in the righteousness from God, which he receives as a gift. Paul’s confidence wasn’t in his own performance; it was in God’s promise. He could say he “fought the good fight” only because, as he says later, “the Lord stood by me and gave me strength.”

The Pharisee’s prayer was about self-trust. Paul’s declaration was about God’s faithfulness.

As we celebrate the anniversary of our shared ministry together, we are called to reflect on our understanding of how God’s righteousness is reflected by us as a community of faith. That what we do is not for us or about us, but for and about God. A reminder that it isn’t always an either or scenario.

This is the prayer life Jesus is calling us to. It’s not about choosing between the Pharisee’s actions and the tax collector’s prayer. It’s about combining the faithfulness of the Pharisee—praying, giving, striving—with the humble heart of the tax collector, knowing that none of it earns us anything.

It’s about showing up, telling the truth about our brokenness, and trusting that God’s mercy is enough to make us right. That’s what we are called to do as a community of faith.

So, who are we in this story? The invitation today is to stop performing. To stop comparing. To stop trusting in our own flimsy righteousness. And to join the tax collector in the back of the temple, with our heads bowed, and find the incredible, liberating, justifying grace that comes when we finally, honestly, pray:

“God, be merciful to me, a sinner.”

Amen.