In days gone by, some Catholic churches used to have a pew tax. You would pay money to get a particular pew, or part of a pew, and it was your seat. The most expensive pews were always the ones up front, closest to the Communion Rail, so that you could see as much as you could. I think if we instituted a pew tax these days, the most expensive pews would be the ones in the back of the church, which people would pay more for so that they could get out earlier!
The tax collector in today’s Gospel was at the back of the temple, but not because he wanted to get out earlier. He chose the back because he didn’t feel worthy to approach God, because he was a sinner. The Pharisee, on the other hand, is very confident that he is doing just fine, and, in fact, feels like he is doing much better than the tax collector.
As we approach November, the month in which we traditionally pray for the dead, we think of our loved ones who have died. There’s a strange phenomenon that has taken hold in the church over the past 50 or years, and that’s making a funeral into a canonization. You hear it in Words of Remembrance at the funeral home, and priests are sometimes the ones who perpetuate this practice in the homily: John Doe lived a good life and is in heaven now. He did good things for the Church, loved his family, and worked hard. He’s no longer in pain.
To be clear, we should all hope that everyone who dies is in heaven. We hope for the resurrection. But what’s a bit odd is if we look toward those who are canonized saints, those whom the Church acknowledges are in heaven, they had a much different view of themselves. The canonized saints were the first to say during their life, “I’m a sinner. I have offended God. My sins are an offense to God’s goodness, and I rely on His mercy.” The people who are canonized saints were the first to tell people not to canonize them at their funeral, while those who maybe didn’t live such a heroically virtuous life are the first ones we talk about being in heaven.
Again, our hope is that all God’s children are in heaven. But is our attitude that of the Pharisee or the tax collector? It was the Pharisee who said, “I go to church (temple), I pray often, I work hard, I donate to the church (temple), and I love my family. I’m not a sinner like those other people!” It was the tax collector who didn’t think he was worthy of the presence of God, and acknowledged how much he sinned. Maybe the Pharisee didn’t do that many bad things; they weren’t known for big sins. The tax collector, on the other hand, was seen as a traitor for collecting taxes for a foreign government. And yet, the tax collector went home justified–in right relationship with God–whereas the Pharisee did not.
I loved my grandmothers, now deceased, very much, and I had experienced a lot of love from them over my thirty-odd years of life. Rarely, if ever, had I heard my grandmothers say a cross word; they lived a good life; they went to church. But I still pray for them to be in heaven. I have Masses said for them each year. I hope that they’re in heaven, but I also know that, as much as I experienced perfection from them, they weren’t perfect, and in case they’re not in heaven, I want to do everything I can to help them to get there. Do I think they’re in hell? No. But might they be in purgatory and in need of my prayers? That could easily be the case, but even that is good, because the purification of purgatory only leads to heaven; it’s a one-way trip up. And if they’re already in heaven, which I hope for, then I’m sure they’re sharing my prayers with someone else who needs it.
When there’s a tough goal, the temptation is to lower the bar so it’s more accessible. But the great witness of the saints is that they were just like us, in so many ways, and yet they did live a saintly life; so it’s possible for each of us, we don’t have to lower the bar. But even in their sanctity, they were acutely aware of their sins. They didn’t paint over them, but acknowledged them and threw themselves on the mercy of God. The temptation for us who maybe don’t live that heroically virtuous life is to pretend like we’re not sinners, we’re not that bad, because we’re not “greedy, dishonest, [or] adulterous” as the Pharisee said. But if we aren’t living like a saint in the daily choices we make, at least we can do penance like a saint, and plead for the mercy of God.
You already know this, maybe more acutely than others, but I’m not a saint. I try to be, but I fail often, and often in the same ways. I’m aiming for heaven, but I know that I don’t regularly hit the mark. So even when I die, I’ll be buried in a purple vestment, as a way of saying that I need your prayers if I’m going to be welcomed into heaven. I don’t have to make-up sins when I go to confession. In my examination of conscience, they’re quite clear before my soul. And so I try to go to confession every couple of weeks. And every time I say Mass, in the silence after receiving Holy Communion, I make my own the prayer of the tax collector: “Lord Jesus Christ, have mercy on me, a sinner.”
As we stand before God today at Mass, what is our prayer? “God, I’m not that bad, I’m not a big sinner?” Or “O God, be merciful to me a sinner”?
