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But I say to you...'
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But I say to you...'
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Connected by scripture or shared themes.
Identity used to be something given to you—by your family, community, or religion. But today, we live in a world of endless options. We have access to global education, global careers, and a global spiritual marketplace. The question is no longer "Who am I?" but rather "Who do I want to be?" We have become masters of the created self, inventing our own identity, gender, purpose, morality, and even spirituality.
Theologian Don Strange, building on the work of Dutch missiologist J. H. Bavinck, notes that people don't just invent random ideas about God. As Bavinck explains: "They are antithetically against yet parasitically dependent on the truth of a Christian worldview." In other words, they create for themselves a substitute—like off-brand cola. They are similar in appearance but lack the real thing.
But here's the kicker: this isn't just true of world religions. It's true of every one of us here. All of us are curating the world around us and our identity within it, including our righteousness and our understanding of how we should relate rightly to God. We carefully choose, edit, and present every aspect of our lives that we want other people to see, while also hiding the mess, the bad days, the mistakes, and the sin. We try vainly to manage the narrative of "brand me." And once we have constructed this fragile curated self, we will do almost anything to protect it.
Jesus told a parable to those "confident of their own righteousness and looked down on everyone else." Two men went up to the temple to pray. One was a Pharisee and the other a tax collector.
The Pharisee stood by himself and prayed, "God, I thank you that I am not like other people, robbers evildoers adulterers, or even like this tax collector. I fast twice a week and give a tenth of all I get." But the tax collector stood at a distance. He would not even look up to heaven, but beat his breast and said, "God, have mercy on me, a sinner." I tell you that this man, rather than the other, went home justified before God. For those who exalt themselves will be humbled, and those who humble themselves will be exalted. (Luke 18:11-14)
Jesus highlights for us the anatomy of pride. Pride doesn't just destroy our own trust in God; it also destroys our view of others. Self-righteousness produces contempt, a deep dislike and lack of respect for other people.
In first-century society, the Pharisee was a genuine pillar of the community—morally upright, legally perfect, uncompromised by the surrounding culture, one of those who stood opposed to the Roman authorities. It was an achievement to be proud of, a brand to be recognized and protected. But negatively, the Pharisee had also become decidedly uncharitable towards anyone who was compromised, who was not one of them.
Notice the Pharisee's prayer: it begins sounding like a psalm of praise. "God, I thank you"—but instantly it turns into a monologue of self-congratulation. It's all about himself. Count the pronouns: "I I I I." He is the true subject of his prayer and his worship. He speaks out a resume of everything that he has done for God. As the commentator Darrell Bock puts it, "Clearly God's program could hardly advance without his contribution."
His efforts go far beyond what the Lord demands. The Lord demanded fasting once a year on the day of atonement; he fasts twice a week. The law required tithing on major harvests; he tithes down to the herbs in his kitchen. He is a saintly showman, a content creator with perfect brand recognition.
But behind the outward appearance, his heart is far from loving God or loving his neighbor. His prayer has no confession, no expression of need, no plea for help. He has done it all.
For the Pharisee, his acts of righteousness were inputs—reasons for God to favor him, to justify him, to declare him innocent and worthy of a relationship. "Look at what I have done for you, God. Now, I return the favor." He believed he could put God in his debt.
But this isn't just history; it is reality. I spoke to a man recently who felt just like that. Christianity was great, and he enjoyed church very much. But he was also keen to make sure I knew he was fine with God. He even pulled out his phone as visual proof—photos listing all the people that he had helped that week.
The merit system makes sense to us, doesn't it? It's how the world largely operates. If you work, you get a wage. If you do wrong, you pay the fine. It feels fair. But it is very destructive.
It is destructive to our relationship with ourselves, as it demands constant, flawless performance. The freedom to do what we want to do soon feels like a prison. It is destructive to our relationship with others, as comparison lies at its heart: "Perhaps I'm not perfect, but I'm better than him. I'm better than her." And it is destructive to our relationship with God as it expresses our independence from him. If I can do it all, then really I don't need God.
As John Stott writes, "Eternal life is a gift, not a wage. It is free, not earned. It is not working, but receiving." The Pharisee has fallen for his own PR. But the curated self needs no savior. It only needs an audience.
The contrast could not be sharper. Instead of a respected religious insider, we have a Roman collaborator, an extortionist, a man compromised in every way—and he knows it. Rather than standing proud and upright, the man keeps his distance and is too ashamed to look up. Like Moses before the burning bush, he knows he stands fearfully in the presence of God.
The tax collector stood at a distance. He would not even look up to heaven, but beat his breast and said, "God, have mercy on me, a sinner." (Luke 18:13)
There is a raw penitential air about him. Historically, chest-beating has been a visual expression of a heart broken when confronted with the magnitude of one's own mess. He stands in a remote corner of the temple court and beats his chest knowing he has failed to love God and neighbor. He offers no defense, pleads no merit, has no expectations.
He sees that God can never be put in his debt. He is out of options. And he simply cries out, "God, have mercy on me." This man is certainly not the subject of self-praise. Rather, he has resigned himself to being the object of God's mercy.
In the original language, the words are very specific. He's not just a sinner, but "the sinner." He has come to own his fallen, unmasked identity.
Years later, Paul would use the same language to describe himself: "Christ Jesus came into the world to save sinners, of whom I am the worst." These are words that shatter the illusion of the curated self.
Jesus comes not to applaud our achievements, but to save those whose finest works reveal their need of salvation. Paul's confession points us to three unavoidable truths. Firstly, there is something to be saved from—the absolute justice of a perfect God. Then there is something to be saved for—a restored relationship and a transformed future. Thirdly, there is the direction of saving: it is from God to us, not the reverse.
Other religions try to build a ladder to God, hoping to gain sufficient merit to be loved and accepted. But in Christianity, salvation comes down the ladder. We are already loved, so Christ comes to find us, to gift us salvation that is unmerited, undeserved, and unearned. Free salvation.
The tax collector understood this. There is no requirement to airbrush out the past and polish up "brand me." It is to the unmasked sinner that Jesus comes—to all who know their true condition and plead for mercy without mitigation.
Merit makes us proud of who we are and what we have done. We want in some measure to point to ourselves. We want to share in some of that worship for ourselves. But grace offers no grounds for boasting. Salvation comes as a gift without effort. And that demands we acknowledge our total dependence on someone else.
The story ends with a shocking plot twist that would have stunned the first-century audience and ought to stun us today:
I tell you that this man, rather than the other, went home justified before God. For all those who exalt themselves will be humbled, and those who humble themselves will be exalted. (Luke 18:14)
Think how scandalous that sounds. The pillar of society goes home condemned, while the corrupt criminal goes home justified—found blameless, declared innocent, proclaimed right in the eyes of God. Perhaps that feels like injustice: rewarding the wrongdoer while punishing the diligent.
But in reality, justice is at the very heart of this verdict. The Pharisee asked to be judged on his own performance, on his list of curated inputs, and he got it. It was just that his resume proved to be so inadequate. It failed to reach the standard that perfect justice demands.
In contrast, the tax collector had nothing to offer. So he appealed not to his own character, but to the character of God—a God he had come to understand as compassionate, gracious, slow to anger, and full of love and truth. And he found precisely that.
John Stott brings beautiful clarity to all of this: "The tax collector was not justified because he was a sinner, but because he acknowledged his sin and threw himself at God's mercy. Likewise, the Pharisee was not condemned because he was righteous, but because he was self-righteous."
Trusting in your own merit isn't faith. It's pride. You cannot be full of yourself and full of God at the same time.
John Stott brings us inevitably to the final work of Christ—to the cross. For it's there at the cross that sin is actually dealt with. The Pharisee failed to see that sin affects every part of our nature. His efforts focused on the outside in the hope of masking the mess on the inside. But in attempting to achieve everything by himself, he declared that Christ's death on the cross was unnecessary. And so there was no remedy for his sin.
It is at the cross that God justifies the ungodly. Romans 5:6 puts it this way: "The judgment followed one sin and brought condemnation, but the gift followed many trespasses and brought justification." Jesus takes our condemnation so that we can receive his justification. This is the only ground on which the unrighteous person can be made righteous.
Why is the doctrine of justification by grace through faith so unpopular today? Surely it is because it leaves no room for boasting—no room for presenting the best version of ourselves to others and to God.
In contrast, Jesus invites us to follow the path of humility. In the story that immediately follows this parable, Jesus welcomes little children. His kingdom, he says, must be received humbly as a child—as those who come empty-handed with nothing to offer and who rely on simple faith.
John Stott titled this chapter "Merit or Mercy." It presents a stark choice that lies at the heart of reality. You can rely on your own checklist of moral deeds, performance, and curated goodness. Or you can trust in God through the finished supernatural work of Jesus Christ on the cross.
Today, each of us stands metaphorically in the temple courts before God. Two men, two prayers, two choices. Which prayer will be yours?
Identity used to be something given to you—by your family, community, or religion. But today, we live in a world of endless options. We have access to global education, global careers, and a global spiritual marketplace. The question is no longer "Who am I?" but rather "Who do I want to be?" We have become masters of the created self, inventing our own identity, gender, purpose, morality, and even spirituality.
Theologian Don Strange, building on the work of Dutch missiologist J. H. Bavinck, notes that people don't just invent random ideas about God. As Bavinck explains: "They are antithetically against yet parasitically dependent on the truth of a Christian worldview." In other words, they create for themselves a substitute—like off-brand cola. They are similar in appearance but lack the real thing.
But here's the kicker: this isn't just true of world religions. It's true of every one of us here. All of us are curating the world around us and our identity within it, including our righteousness and our understanding of how we should relate rightly to God. We carefully choose, edit, and present every aspect of our lives that we want other people to see, while also hiding the mess, the bad days, the mistakes, and the sin. We try vainly to manage the narrative of "brand me." And once we have constructed this fragile curated self, we will do almost anything to protect it.
Jesus told a parable to those "confident of their own righteousness and looked down on everyone else." Two men went up to the temple to pray. One was a Pharisee and the other a tax collector.
The Pharisee stood by himself and prayed, "God, I thank you that I am not like other people, robbers evildoers adulterers, or even like this tax collector. I fast twice a week and give a tenth of all I get." But the tax collector stood at a distance. He would not even look up to heaven, but beat his breast and said, "God, have mercy on me, a sinner." I tell you that this man, rather than the other, went home justified before God. For those who exalt themselves will be humbled, and those who humble themselves will be exalted. (Luke 18:11-14)
Jesus highlights for us the anatomy of pride. Pride doesn't just destroy our own trust in God; it also destroys our view of others. Self-righteousness produces contempt, a deep dislike and lack of respect for other people.
In first-century society, the Pharisee was a genuine pillar of the community—morally upright, legally perfect, uncompromised by the surrounding culture, one of those who stood opposed to the Roman authorities. It was an achievement to be proud of, a brand to be recognized and protected. But negatively, the Pharisee had also become decidedly uncharitable towards anyone who was compromised, who was not one of them.
Notice the Pharisee's prayer: it begins sounding like a psalm of praise. "God, I thank you"—but instantly it turns into a monologue of self-congratulation. It's all about himself. Count the pronouns: "I I I I." He is the true subject of his prayer and his worship. He speaks out a resume of everything that he has done for God. As the commentator Darrell Bock puts it, "Clearly God's program could hardly advance without his contribution."
His efforts go far beyond what the Lord demands. The Lord demanded fasting once a year on the day of atonement; he fasts twice a week. The law required tithing on major harvests; he tithes down to the herbs in his kitchen. He is a saintly showman, a content creator with perfect brand recognition.
But behind the outward appearance, his heart is far from loving God or loving his neighbor. His prayer has no confession, no expression of need, no plea for help. He has done it all.
For the Pharisee, his acts of righteousness were inputs—reasons for God to favor him, to justify him, to declare him innocent and worthy of a relationship. "Look at what I have done for you, God. Now, I return the favor." He believed he could put God in his debt.
But this isn't just history; it is reality. I spoke to a man recently who felt just like that. Christianity was great, and he enjoyed church very much. But he was also keen to make sure I knew he was fine with God. He even pulled out his phone as visual proof—photos listing all the people that he had helped that week.
The merit system makes sense to us, doesn't it? It's how the world largely operates. If you work, you get a wage. If you do wrong, you pay the fine. It feels fair. But it is very destructive.
It is destructive to our relationship with ourselves, as it demands constant, flawless performance. The freedom to do what we want to do soon feels like a prison. It is destructive to our relationship with others, as comparison lies at its heart: "Perhaps I'm not perfect, but I'm better than him. I'm better than her." And it is destructive to our relationship with God as it expresses our independence from him. If I can do it all, then really I don't need God.
As John Stott writes, "Eternal life is a gift, not a wage. It is free, not earned. It is not working, but receiving." The Pharisee has fallen for his own PR. But the curated self needs no savior. It only needs an audience.
The contrast could not be sharper. Instead of a respected religious insider, we have a Roman collaborator, an extortionist, a man compromised in every way—and he knows it. Rather than standing proud and upright, the man keeps his distance and is too ashamed to look up. Like Moses before the burning bush, he knows he stands fearfully in the presence of God.
The tax collector stood at a distance. He would not even look up to heaven, but beat his breast and said, "God, have mercy on me, a sinner." (Luke 18:13)
There is a raw penitential air about him. Historically, chest-beating has been a visual expression of a heart broken when confronted with the magnitude of one's own mess. He stands in a remote corner of the temple court and beats his chest knowing he has failed to love God and neighbor. He offers no defense, pleads no merit, has no expectations.
He sees that God can never be put in his debt. He is out of options. And he simply cries out, "God, have mercy on me." This man is certainly not the subject of self-praise. Rather, he has resigned himself to being the object of God's mercy.
In the original language, the words are very specific. He's not just a sinner, but "the sinner." He has come to own his fallen, unmasked identity.
Years later, Paul would use the same language to describe himself: "Christ Jesus came into the world to save sinners, of whom I am the worst." These are words that shatter the illusion of the curated self.
Jesus comes not to applaud our achievements, but to save those whose finest works reveal their need of salvation. Paul's confession points us to three unavoidable truths. Firstly, there is something to be saved from—the absolute justice of a perfect God. Then there is something to be saved for—a restored relationship and a transformed future. Thirdly, there is the direction of saving: it is from God to us, not the reverse.
Other religions try to build a ladder to God, hoping to gain sufficient merit to be loved and accepted. But in Christianity, salvation comes down the ladder. We are already loved, so Christ comes to find us, to gift us salvation that is unmerited, undeserved, and unearned. Free salvation.
The tax collector understood this. There is no requirement to airbrush out the past and polish up "brand me." It is to the unmasked sinner that Jesus comes—to all who know their true condition and plead for mercy without mitigation.
Merit makes us proud of who we are and what we have done. We want in some measure to point to ourselves. We want to share in some of that worship for ourselves. But grace offers no grounds for boasting. Salvation comes as a gift without effort. And that demands we acknowledge our total dependence on someone else.
The story ends with a shocking plot twist that would have stunned the first-century audience and ought to stun us today:
I tell you that this man, rather than the other, went home justified before God. For all those who exalt themselves will be humbled, and those who humble themselves will be exalted. (Luke 18:14)
Think how scandalous that sounds. The pillar of society goes home condemned, while the corrupt criminal goes home justified—found blameless, declared innocent, proclaimed right in the eyes of God. Perhaps that feels like injustice: rewarding the wrongdoer while punishing the diligent.
But in reality, justice is at the very heart of this verdict. The Pharisee asked to be judged on his own performance, on his list of curated inputs, and he got it. It was just that his resume proved to be so inadequate. It failed to reach the standard that perfect justice demands.
In contrast, the tax collector had nothing to offer. So he appealed not to his own character, but to the character of God—a God he had come to understand as compassionate, gracious, slow to anger, and full of love and truth. And he found precisely that.
John Stott brings beautiful clarity to all of this: "The tax collector was not justified because he was a sinner, but because he acknowledged his sin and threw himself at God's mercy. Likewise, the Pharisee was not condemned because he was righteous, but because he was self-righteous."
Trusting in your own merit isn't faith. It's pride. You cannot be full of yourself and full of God at the same time.
John Stott brings us inevitably to the final work of Christ—to the cross. For it's there at the cross that sin is actually dealt with. The Pharisee failed to see that sin affects every part of our nature. His efforts focused on the outside in the hope of masking the mess on the inside. But in attempting to achieve everything by himself, he declared that Christ's death on the cross was unnecessary. And so there was no remedy for his sin.
It is at the cross that God justifies the ungodly. Romans 5:6 puts it this way: "The judgment followed one sin and brought condemnation, but the gift followed many trespasses and brought justification." Jesus takes our condemnation so that we can receive his justification. This is the only ground on which the unrighteous person can be made righteous.
Why is the doctrine of justification by grace through faith so unpopular today? Surely it is because it leaves no room for boasting—no room for presenting the best version of ourselves to others and to God.
In contrast, Jesus invites us to follow the path of humility. In the story that immediately follows this parable, Jesus welcomes little children. His kingdom, he says, must be received humbly as a child—as those who come empty-handed with nothing to offer and who rely on simple faith.
John Stott titled this chapter "Merit or Mercy." It presents a stark choice that lies at the heart of reality. You can rely on your own checklist of moral deeds, performance, and curated goodness. Or you can trust in God through the finished supernatural work of Jesus Christ on the cross.
Today, each of us stands metaphorically in the temple courts before God. Two men, two prayers, two choices. Which prayer will be yours?
