By Lucia Lloyd, St. Stephen's Episcopal Church, Heathsville, VA
I'm Better Than You :(
Luke 18:9-14
“Dear God, please make me the kind of person my dog thinks I am. Amen.” It is a sweet prayer, and a tribute to the affectionate nature of our canine companions. But it also reveals a deeper truth. When we receive that kind of devotion and affection, even if it is from someone small and furry, our response is often the feeling that being loved so completely is more than we really deserve. The person my dog thinks I am seems different from the flawed person I know myself to be. The adoration makes each of us aware of the ways in which we fall short.
We discover the same response in other circumstances. A small child who literally jumps for joy at the mere sight of you walking in the door is one of the deep joys of parenthood, and also reminds me of the times my parenting has been impatient or inadequate. Who am I to receive love that is that exuberant?
Even though those expressions of unbridled affection tend to get socialized out of us as we grow up, they do not disappear completely. At the moments of our lives when we feel most overwhelmed by how much we are loved, there is a sense of being embarrassed by it. It’s like receiving a far too extravagant gift. When our loved ones speak from the heart that way, we often feel the impulse to make a joke or change the subject to try to avoid our sense of unworthiness.
If we feel unworthy of the love of a beagle or a preschooler, what is it like to receive the full love of God? If listening to professions of love from our nearest and dearest makes us want to look at our shoes, how will we respond to the face of God?
“The tax collector, standing far off, would not even look up to heaven, but was beating his breast and saying, ‘God, be merciful to me, a sinner!’”
There are certainly plenty of ways in which a sense of unworthiness before God can be pathological, or even ridiculous, like something out of a Monty Python skit. But it can also be deeply honest; this tax collector gets it right. The full splendor of genuine love is something none of us has earned.
If I were God, I would be up in heaven rolling my eyes at the so-called “prayer” of the Pharisee; “God, I thank you that I am not like other people: thieves, rogues, adulterers, or even like this tax collector. I fast twice a week; I give a tenth of all my income.” Or, if I were God, I might be making that little gagging gesture that was popular when I was a teenager. Well, it is a true blessing for all of humanity that I’m not God.
I’ve said before that all the insults in the world boil down to the same four-word sentence: “I’m better than you.” The use of prayer as insult is probably the most insufferable: “I thank God that I’m better than you.” Hearing someone say one of these the holier-than-thou “insult prayers” is almost enough to provoke a slightly different finger gesture. I would certainly understand if the person this insult prayer referred to, turned around and said, “Oh yeah? Well, I thank God that I’m not judgmental, pompous, and holier-than-thou, like this Pharisee.”
But that’s the twist in the parable, isn’t it? As we read the parable we thank God we’re not like that Pharisee. Everyone knows someone like that Pharisee, and as we read the parable we thank God we’re not like that. But as soon as we thank God that our faith is less judgmental than theirs, the parable holds a mirror up to the way in which we have now become judgmental in our faith. When we judge the Pharisee, we become judgmental Pharisees ourselves.
So then it gets to be almost laughable: the other person’s Pharisee wants to scold you (piously, of course) and your Pharisee wants to scold them (either in the holier-than-thou or the more-open minded-than-thou mode). Then as soon as your conscious mind realizes what’s happening, it wants to start scolding your Pharisee to get it to shut up already. Because we know we “ought” to be better than the Pharisee. Oh dear. So maybe that’s a good time to say simply, “God, be merciful to me, a sinner.”
And God’s mercy shows up like a little wet nose nuzzling you when you’re having a rough day. Or God’s mercy comes bounding in with a wagging tail and nearly knocks you over trying to lick your face. God’s doglike mercy extends to us, including the Pharisee inside us. God’s doglike mercy extends to the people who drive us crazy, including the Pharisee inside them. So we can be gentle with ourselves, and gentle with them. And then we can pray, “God, even though I’m not the kind of person my dog thinks I am, thanks for loving me anyway.”
10/24/10
Note: If you are still confused about how a gay Christian can feel they are 'right' with God I encourage you to read the section of the web site entitled "Gay and Christian? YES!"