2 Timothy 4:6-8, 16-18 | Luke 18:9-14
Mitch Chilcott
Audio recording: https://podcasts.apple.com/us/podcast/10-27-19-life-review-mitch-chilcott/id1479727299?i=1000455205840
I’m going to begin with a piece by the poet Marie Howe, called “What the Living Do.”
Johnny, the kitchen sink has been clogged for days, some utensil
probably fell down there.
And the Drano won't work but smells dangerous, and the crusty
dishes have piled up
waiting for the plumber I still haven't called. This is the everyday
we spoke of.
It's winter again: the sky's a deep, headstrong blue, and the
sunlight pours through
the open living-room windows because the heat's on too high in
here and I can't turn it off.
For weeks now, driving, or dropping a bag of groceries in the
street, the bag breaking,
I've been thinking: This is what the living do. And yesterday,
hurrying along those
wobbly bricks in the Cambridge sidewalk, spilling my coffee down
my wrist and sleeve,
I thought it again, and again later, when buying a hairbrush: This is it.
Parking. Slamming the car door shut in the cold. What you called
that yearning.
What you finally gave up. We want the spring to come and the
winter to pass. We want
whoever to call or not call, a letter, a kiss—we want more and
more and then more of it.
But there are moments, walking, when I catch a glimpse of myself
in the window glass,
say, the window of the corner video store, and I'm gripped by a
cherishing so deep
for my own blowing hair, chapped face, and unbuttoned coat that
I'm speechless:
I am living. I remember you.
The mundane, yet somehow significant features of life. We tend move through this world in the day-to-day activities—grocery shopping, picking up the kids from daycare or school, cooking a 30-minute meal, picking up our dogs’ poop in the park. We may not hold up these things as all that significant or meaningful, but these common moments, these yearnings, may be much more meaningful than we first realize.
Like this poem from Marie Howe, our two scripture readings this morning are about things the living do. And, yet, they are also an exercise in contrast. In our reading from II Timothy, we encounter one person’s joyous reflection on his life and work. Paul, or whoever it was that wrote II Timothy, is looking back on the good work he has done, the ways he has poured into people’s lives and helped many. This person has worked tirelessly, against all odds. He has “fought the good fight” and he feels good. He wells up with pride as he does this looking back and he remembers and realizes the way that God has been with him on this bumpy and windy road called life. In moments of deep dread and despair, even physical danger, he sees the way that God protected him along the way. And through everything, this person looks back on their life and finds meaning and purpose. They can see how they were part of something bigger and can grasp all the ways that their story was intertwined with God’s story from the very beginning. So, that’s the first reading. And, if it weren’t for our second reading, I could just end the sermon now. But we have a second reading.
And in the second reading, things start to get a little complicated. Our passage from the gospel of Luke is a case study. It’s an invitation to explore the dynamics and intricacies of what it means to live a faith-filled life. In many ways, it is an answer to the question posed by the gospel reading from last week. Remember that eerie question in Luke 18:8, when Jesus asks: “…when the Son of Man comes, will he find faith one earth?” What does faith look like? So, we have two characters in this little parable. We have a Pharisee, an expert in the law, a person who has a robust spiritual life. As he says, “I fast twice a week, I give a tenth of all my income.” The Pharisee also prays, right? I mean, he’s praying in this parable. Based on what we know about Pharisees, I think it’s safe to say that the Pharisee also reads his Bible. He probably reads it every day. So, let’s sum this up. We have a person who has a deep, intimate, individual spiritual life and practice. He prays, fasts, and reads scripture daily. And on top of that, he gives financially and is actively engaged in the life of his faith community. I mean, that’s pretty good. I would say that’s probably the type of person many of us would want as our pastor. And this is especially true when we compare the Pharisee to the tax collector. I don’t think many of us would want a tax collector as a pastor, nor would we want a thief or an adulterer. We want a Pharisee. Deep down, that’s who we want as a faith leader and in many ways, that’s who we want to be around all the time. We want to be with the people that we believe are doing the right thing. And I think we want this not for some artificial reason. I think we want this because, deep down, that’s where we believe God is.
But the key to this parable, in my view, is not that the tax collector was right to admit how bad of a person he is and that therefore we all need to just admit that we’re terrible people. No. The key to the parable is that the tax collector is wrong. The tax collector is wrong about what kind of life leads to deeper relationship with the divine. The tax collector, unfortunately, is also caught up in the idea that the love of God is reserved for those who read their Bibles every day. The tax collector is humble, yes, but he thinks the same way the Pharisee does. He’s honest, but he believes the lie that God communes only with the pious. The tax collector comes away surprised by God’s action in his life—that God would overlook the piety of the Pharisee and draw close to a sinner. The Pharisee must have come away equally surprised by this event. I imagine the Pharisee went home and took a hard look at his life, likely struggling to make sense of things as he pondered all that he valued and the ways he found meaning and purpose.
Most of you know that I am a hospital chaplain. I’ve been in this racket for a couple years now and I’ve sat beside many people in hospital rooms as they share about their lives with me. And there’s a specific type of sharing that often occurs with people who are near the end of life. It’s a process we in the industry call “life review.” It’s a process of looking back at key memories, relationships, hardships, moments in time. The purpose could be to celebrate, to comfort, to resolve, to reconcile. I’ve had a number of these conversations that resemble our reading from II Timothy. Conversations where people well up with pride and joy about the life they lived and, as a result, have come to a place of acceptance and peace about their death. But the great thing about life review is that you don’t have to wait until the end of your life to do it. In fact, I have also had many encounters with people who are taking a hard look at their lives and still have a lot of life left to live. I think this what’s going on in our passage from Luke. Both the Pharisee and the tax collector receive an incredible gift from God. They receive the sobering gift of looking deeply at their life and asking some hard questions.
We could do a life review of Grant Park Church. We could talk about significant moments in this church’s history. We could talk about our church’s beginnings. We could talk about the various pastors in our church’s life, leading all the way up to our current pastor, Jeremy. We could parse and analyze all the big moments of our life together, the good times and the bad times, and the things that led us to where we are now. And if we did that, I believe that a very important chapter in Grant Park’s story could be titled “Shelley and Yovanny.” There is no doubt in my mind or my heart that the two of you have made a lasting impact on this place and in the lives of many of us individually. You both have been key characters in our journey together. And though you may be leaving physically from this church community, your story is now intertwined with Grant Park’s story. Our life, with your life. Our God, with your God. That intertwining means that we will never be the same.
We could all do some life review right now. If we did, I wonder what sorts of things would come to mind. Perhaps some key relationships, jobs, longings, joys, concerns. We could be proud of all our accomplishments, we could feel regret over the things we’ve left undone. But my hope is that as we look deeply our lives, we don’t make the same mistake that the tax collector makes. My prayer is that we continue to break down the ways we have separated the lovable from the unlovable people in our world. My prayer is that we do this in our own daily lives, but also in our life as Grant Park Church. It’s up to us to see that God’s grace and mercy flow continuously and freely for all of God’s children. Even for the tax collectors. Even for the Pharisees. Even for you. Even for me.