Sermon, 10/22/22. Humility: ‘How do I love Me, let me count the ways.’

20 Pentecost

Psalm 65; Joel 2:23–32; II Timothy 4:6–8, 16–18; Luke 18:9–14

And the Pharisee, standing by himself, was praying thus, I thank you, God, that I am not like the rest of mankind… Luke18:11b

I have a confession to make this morning, and where could I find a better, more appropriate place to make my confession than in church, during Divine Liturgy?  My confession: As a student, whether in high school or at university, I did not particularly care for poetry.  Indeed, I did exceptionally well in English courses, but I had no love for poetry.  I did not “hate” poetry.  Poetry just did not “grab me,” as did prose, such as Pearl Buck’s The Good Earth, or Ralph Ellison’s Invisible Man.  So there you have it.  That’s my confession.

Yet, to this very day, I recall still a line from a sonnet, indeed from the 43rd Sonnet of Elizabeth Barrett Browning’s Sonnets from the Portuguese which she published 1850, and which she dedicated to her husband, Robert Browning, who was also a poet.  And the irony of it all is, that today, on 23 October 2022, the 20^th Sunday after Pentecost, many decades later, I find myself urging you to take a look at that sonnet.  If you so do, you will discover a poem which, because of the language used by Browning, is an attestation of true love, a love based on humility.  For her, love, true love, is an article of faith, an all-consuming passion, which demands a willingness to place oneself at risk, to place oneself at the mercy of another, a recognition of not knowing what lies ahead, but, because of past evidence, true love, grounded in humility, becomes the anchor for the future.  And it is this all-consuming passion which is at the core of today’s gospel.  But the vexing question of the day is “who is the object of that all-consuming love?”

In the 1970’s, when my wife and I, newly married, were living still in Germany, Willy Brandt, who himself had been exiled by the Nazis, and upon his return had become Mayor of West Berlin, and still later Chancellor of then West Germany, made headlines when he said: “Germans, we can be proud again.”  (Deutsche, wir können wieder stolz sein.)  Given the destruction which Germany had wrought upon millions during WWII, including my now late wife’s family, we found Brandt’s assertion to be initially off-putting.  Where was the humility which we had come to expect of the Germans?  However, as Chancellor Brandt proceeded, it became clear that through reconciliation and acts of mercy and contrition, Germany had acknowledged its faults and was making every effort to prove its readiness to move once again among civilized nations of the world.  It was this effort, for which Germany could be proud, said the Nobel Peace Prize recipient.

Paraphrasing my favorite muppet from Sesame Street, Kermit T(he). Frog, I say it’s not easy being humble, because when you are right and you know that you are right, you are right: You ought not to shrink stating the truth.  So what is all the fuss about the Pharisee who declares his rightness, but is then denounced for it by Jesus?  The answer to that question, the answer to how and why he failed the humility test, is given in that one simple sentence of self-appreciation: “I am not like the rest of mankind…”  The issue which the Pharisee posed can be captured in a tweaking of Elizabeth Barrett Browning’s poetic line to read: ‘How do I love Me, let me count the ways.’

All the things which the Pharisee could and did list on his resume were accurate and honorable.  Tithing and fasting and giving alms for the poor—those were and are excellent example of living and leading a god-fearing life.  Assuming that the tithe went for the upkeep of the Temple or Synagogue and its clergy, assuming that his fasting brought him to understand how some in his community could not fast, because given their status in society, that what he called fasting, is how they lived their lives daily, going without food; assuming that his annual pledge to social and religious organizations supported them in their outreach to the less fortunate—assuming all that, what could be wrong with the Pharisee’s declaration?  Does not our Book of Records, the Bible, teach us, that to whom much is given, much is expect?  It is that one liner: “I am not like the rest of mankind…” that indicates the Pharisee’s fault-line, his weak point.

That is the point.  His declaration of himself notwithstanding, our friend, the Pharisee, is like the rest of mankind, in fact precisely like the rest of mankind.  Recall for a moment a similar situation in which other Pharisees had questioned Jesus about paying taxes to Caesar, the Roman Emperor.  In that instance, using a coin, Jesus responds, as you recall, ‘give to Caesar that which is Caesar’s, and to God that which is God’s.’ That is to say, Caesar did not invent himself, and nor did he give birth to himself.  Neither did Caesar plant within earth’s core the metal out of which the coin was made.  Rather, according to Jewish religious belief, it is God who knows us all before our birth.  Our trajectory through life may bring us to believe that we have accomplished it all by dent of our own intelligence and physical strength.  Yet, who started the process, who endowed us with wisdom?

From my recent past, I share an example of the human and Christian dilemma in understanding humility.  On the occasion in mind, I had the privilege of celebrating with a former faculty colleague, and many of his closest friends, his 70th birthday.  To my amazement and, privately I thought, to his credit, not all in attendance were faculty members, but individuals from every sector in our college town.  There were folks there from our Building and Grounds Department; there were politicos from town; there were owners of businesses about town; folks from medical profession; and, then, there were children, lots of children. 

Even more amazing to me was the fact that I had been invited at all.  After all, this fellow and I had never spent any time in the other’s home, and we were not even in the same academic department.  To be sure, we had served on committees together, but almost all our conversations had been business related.  To be sure, once I had visited him during an illness at the hospital, but one hospital visit does not a friendship make.  Following his recuperation and return to matters affecting the faculty, I would occasionally inquire always about his health and his family. 

My surprise was even greater when, assuming that I would just sit with folks whom I knew, I was met by my colleague at the door to the private dining room of a local restaurant and informed that I would be sitting with his family, some of whom I had never met.  No amount of protesting succeeded in changing those seating arrangements. 

During the course of the luncheon, various individuals rose to tell humorous anecdotes, most of them extolling my colleague’s good humor and humility.  Literally, everyone, including his son, spoke about his humility and how he never found a request too mundane or demeaning, how he treated each person, whom he met, with respect.  I remained silent, still not sure why I should up front among his family.  So, when my colleague rose finally to address the assembled group and to thank everyone for sharing his special day, he demonstrated that humor, by saying, “As a former Jesuit, I am proud to be humble.” 

After the laughter subsided, he demonstrated that his Jesuitic training had not deserted him.  Without quoting Scripture, he proceeded to remind us of the parable which is before us in today’s gospel, and how we spend more time jockeying for recognition and that special place of honor, than in attempting to alleviate the real concerns of our fellow human beings.  Mind you, all this was said to us with great humor.  But we knew, he was serious and sincere, and unfortunately, also correct in his assessment.  His hope was, in those years remaining in his life, that he would have still the privilege of sharing the wonders of creation with others. 

To be humble has long been taught by the church as a cardinal virtue.  But it is not an attribute easy to define or to acquire.  In medieval philosophy and theology, the notion of humility carried a connotation of “abasement,” and was most obvious in the flagellants who went about flogging themselves with whips.  It was Thomas Aquinas, though, who taught that humility was a moral virtue that avoided both extremes.  One should neither exalt ones self-worth, nor should one deprecate ones talents falsely.  Humility begins with a notion of proper place and an honest appraisal of who we are, both as self-centered beings, creatures seeking our own advantage, and as virtuous beings capable of  demonstrating that we can be magnanimous and loving.

Long before Thomas Aquinas, though, Jesus was one discerning carpenter.  He understood that we would, by virtue of being human, put ourselves first, and that, if we could bring ourselves to treat those whom we encounter as we would treat ourselves, we would be on the right path to living humbly.  With a healthy dosage of self-esteem, we can move toward giving and receiving.  We become centered in God and have integrity in our person.  We use our talent and our abilities for others, because in the other, we see ourselves, thereby mirroring divine love.    It is then, if we take Jesus the Christ at his word, that we are truly humble. 

Reinhold Niebuhr, whose name is scarcely mentioned these days, except perhaps in our departments of religion or philosophy, often said, this love and the Christian life, are a paradox.  Our highest self-fulfillment comes about precisely through this disavowing of self, through this act of self- forgetfulness, when we actually forget or do not care, whether we sit at the head table, or lead the procession.  We do what we do, because we love ourselves and we recognize simultaneously in others our very selves, both of whom we believe are made in the image of a creator God.  And just as we would never expect payment for taking care of ourselves, so would we not demand payment from others.     

Humility, that elusive quality, is what serves as the foundation of true love, that article of faith, mentioned by Elizabeth Barrett Browning, because it settles us and prepare us for our individual, unique futures which, by virtue of our being human, remain unknown to us.  True humility, true faith, is profoundly transformative and pulls us away from our self-centeredness.  Humility places God first, and the I, the ego, on the same plane as the Other.  In such moments, we become truly “the people of God.”  Amen

Just for fun…