But in a way, it is a pity that we are so familiar with this parable--that we can see the punch line coming long before it gets there. Because in its original context, for the audience for whom Jesus first told it, this parable would have been shocking, scandalizing--and it was that very shock-value that gave the parable its power. You see, parables always have some sort of surprise or twist or shock-value to them. We make a mistake if we think of a parable as a nice little logical, rational, informational nugget of teaching wrapped up in a homey story in order to make it easier to understand. Parables are inspirational, not informational: parables don't teach us by telling us something, parables teach us by getting us to see something in a new way. Parables set us up to expect one thing and then deliver something else--and that something else surprises us into an insight which is a movement of God's divine Wisdom within our human minds. The point of the parable is to inspire, not just a thought, but an experience of God's present grace.

So what's shocking about this parable is whose prayer gets answered. Because in the original context of Jewish society in the first century, it was the Pharisee who was the good guy and the tax collector who was … not. The Pharisee is an upstanding citizen: he doesn't steal, he doesn't cheat, he doesn't break his promises, he is faithful to his wife, and he is dutiful to his faith. He prays regularly, he studies his scriptures, he fasts twice a week, he pledges his tithe--ten percent of all his income--to the Temple and the charitable work of God. The Pharisee is an upstanding citizen, and a model of devotion: he stands in the Temple with his hands spread--which was the proper traditional posture for prayer--and begins by giving thanks to God--which was the proper traditional opening for prayer. The Pharisee does exactly what he is supposed to do to fulfill the requirements of piety and devotion.

The tax collector, on the other hand, is kind of a creep. He works for the Romans, the hated oppressors of the Jewish people; he makes his living by cheating his neighbors--overcollecting on their taxes, passing on to the Romans just what they demand, and keeping the rest for himself; he is a thief and a traitor and a promise breaker. He doesn't even know how to pray properly: he doesn't lift up holy hands to God, like the scripture tells you to, but beats his breast; he doesn't give thanks and praise to God, like the scripture tells you to, but launches right into asking for things, begging for God's mercy. According to all the typical expectations of the time, the Pharisee is a model of devotion, and the tax collector is pretty much a spiritual wreck.

And that's what makes it such a shock and a surprise when Jesus says it was the tax collector who went home justified--it was the tax collector, not the Pharisee, whom God accepted into right relationship in divine love. The surprise ending of the parable cuts through the people's traditional expectations about righteousness and piety, and allows them to perceive God's grace in a new way. It's a surprise that being accepted by God, being invited into right relationship with God does not depend on praying right, or fasting right, or tithing right, or being right--it's a surprise that being accepted by God, being invited into right relationship with God does not depend on anything we do at all, but all depends on what God does--and that surprise, that wonderful, unexpected, generous surprise, is precisely the point of the parable. For those who are willing to let their expectations be overturned, this shocking parable opens up into an occasion, an experience, of grace.

Now we today cannot hear the parable in the same way that Jesus' original audience heard it. The parable today cannot overturn our expectations, because our expectations have changed; the parable can't surprise us with unexpected grace, because we expect different things. We already know that the tax collector's prayer is better than the Pharisee's; we already know that the prayer of humility is better than the prayer of pride; we already know that the prayer that asks for mercy is better than the prayer that boasts of pious accomplishments. We already know who's the good guy and who's the bad guy, so we are not so susceptible to the surprise of grace the parable intends. In our case, what we are so sure we "already know" completely gets in the way of hearing the parable as surprising Good News.

So let me say something that will be surprising: God accepts the Pharisee's prayer, too.

God accepts the Pharisee's prayer, too, because being accepted by God, being invited into right relationship with God, does not depend on praying right, or fasting right, or tithing right, or being right; being accepted by God, being invited into right relationship with God does not depend on anything we do at all, but all depends on what God does. And God is always inviting us into right relationship, God is always ready to accept us, the very moment, the very nanosecond, we ask.

The reason the tax collector goes home right with God and the Pharisee doesn't is not that the tax collector's prayer is better, that the Pharisee's prayer isn't humble enough or sincere enough or penitential enough. The reason the Pharisee isn't justified with God is that he doesn't ask to be, he thinks his relationship with God is just fine the way it is, thank you very much, he's not ready to have his expectations overturned by God's surprising grace. The surprise of the parable is that God loves both of these people equally well, God accepts both of these pray-ers equally graciously, yet only one of them is willing to accept his praying as a way of allowing himself to be loved by God. Only one of them sees prayer as a way of relationship with the One he prays to.

And that surprise of the parable is what invites us to look at our prayers in a new way. If we think this story tells us "the right way to pray," that we should pray like the tax collector, bowing our heads and beating our breasts and repeating over and over what terrible sinners we are, and that will make us right with God--then I think we've missed the point of the parable about as badly as it can be missed. If we think this parable tells us there's any one "right" way to pray, we've missed the point. But instead, if we let this parable subvert our typical expectations of prayer, if we let it open our eyes to the fact that prayer is not about how we move toward God but how God moves in us, if we hear in this parable that prayer is God's invitation to us to come into right relationship wherever and whenever and whatever we do--then I think the parable has done its surprising work, then the parable becomes not just information, but an occasion for us to experience prayer in a whole new way.

Jesus said, "Two men went up to the Temple to pray." Well let's try this scenario out for size: One Sunday morning, a whole churchfull of people came to St George's to pray. They stood up and prayed loudly, "We thank you, God, for all the wonderful things you do in us and in our lives." And they knelt down and prayed, "God, have mercy on us, for we are sinners, too." And they gathered around the Table and prayed, "Jesus, feed us with holy bread and wine; nourish us with your sacred Body and Blood; so that we may be your people, your Body, in the world." And they went home justified, in right relationship with God, because what mattered to them in their prayers was not what they did, but what God did in them.

Let us pray that way today, shall we?