"Disciples Don't Judge" (October 26, 2025 Sermon)
/Text: Luke 18:9-14
I used to be a lifeguard. During college and graduate school, I spent several summers working as a camp counselor at my Presbytery’s summer camp on Lake Allatoona in Northwest Georgia. For a poor college student, earning an extra $1,000 each summer was too good to pass up, so I got certified as a lifeguard and completed the necessary training. If you’ve never been a lifeguard, you might think that the first response to someone in water distress—arms flailing, struggling to stay afloat, yelling for help—is to jump in immediately, grab them, and bring them to safety. But that’s actually the last thing you should do if you know what you’re doing. The reason is that someone in distress in the water can be extremely dangerous. In fact, a lifeguard should try every other option before physically entering the water themselves. The common phrase taught to lifeguards is “Reach and Throw. Don’t go!” When someone is in trouble, you first call for help, look for hazards, throw a flotation device, or reach out with a rescue pole. You try all alternatives before jumping in because, as a lifeguard, you should not become a second victim. When someone is drowning, they will pull you under with them.
Brené Brown uses this as the perfect metaphor to explain what happens when we judge one another and why we do it. When we judge each other, we pull each other down, and we all drown together! It’s a harmful cycle that Jesus expects his disciples to break. And I get it, y’all, it’s hard. Like, really hard. The Apostle Paul expresses this frustrating reality when he writes in the letter to the Romans: “I do not understand my own actions. For I do not do what I want, but I do the very thing I hate.” Indeed, we too often fail to do what we want, but we end up doing the very things we hate (or say we hate). I don’t think many of us wake up every morning thinking gleefully, “I can’t wait to judge people today.” Indeed, it’s dangerously instinctual. But I do believe we can understand why we do it. It’s quite simple: we are only as hard on others as we are on ourselves.
Brené Brown emphasizes this point in her book “Daring Greatly,” which I recommend to all of you. She argues that when we judge others, we are actually acting from a deep sense of shame and insecurity about ourselves. She states: “What's ironic (or perhaps natural) is that research tells us that we judge people in areas where we're vulnerable to shame, especially picking folks who are doing worse than we're doing. If I feel good about my parenting, I have no interest in judging other people's choices. If I feel good about my body, I don't go around making fun of other people's weight or appearance. We're hard on each other because we're using each other as a launching pad out of our own perceived shaming deficiency.”
When we’re drowning in the waters of our own self-judgment, we try to judge others to find safer ground. But it doesn’t work. It might give us a quick moment of self-righteousness or a fleeting feeling of superiority, but when it’s over, our insecurities are still there. Judging others by projecting our shame onto them only fuels disconnection.
And here’s the thing, friends: judging others fuels disconnection because it lowers our ability to regulate emotions on a neurological level, which directly impacts our capacity to treat ourselves and those around us with the kindness, generosity, and respect I hope we all strive for. I’ll use myself as an example to illustrate this. When I sat down with some of you last Tuesday to discuss this passage, I asked what situations most often make you tempted to judge others. One of the most common answers, of course, was when we’re driving. One of my favorite places to judge people is at the godforsaken intersection not far from where most of us are at the moment: where Lawndale, Battleground, Cornwallis, and Westover Terrace intersect (collide?). It is a place of lawlessness, reckless abandon, and deep, deep depravity. No one uses their turn signals. People run red lights all the time. Drivers block the intersection despite clear signage that says NOT to block it. And I love judging people for doing all those things. It makes me feel good…for a moment. Then I start heading east on Wendover, and I judge the people who do U-turns where it’s clearly forbidden. Then I turn south on US-29, and I judge the idiots who drive 10 miles under the speed limit in the left lane. And then I take the exit to Martin Luther King and turn on Liberty Road to go to my house, judging the person in front of me who either doesn’t use their turn signal or, worse, turns it on only after they’ve already slowed down and are turning! All these things make me feel good…for a moment.
But then I get home and feel my adrenaline rush. My self-righteous judgment has increased my cortisol, the stress hormone that makes us feel anxious, short-tempered, and “on edge." I’ve spent the last 15-20 minutes judging other people’s driving habits while cleverly neglecting to take responsibility for my own bad driving habits, and suddenly I’m a grouchy you-know-what. I yell at my kids. I’m short with my spouse. I’m so focused on my own stress that I struggle to be present with my family, whom I haven’t seen all day. In those precious few hours I get with them before the kids go to bed and we start the rat race again the next day, I feel like a terrible father, a grumpy spouse, and certainly not the Fred Rogers-esque pastor I try to be.
Now, listen up, church: none of us can be Mr. Rogers all the time. Heck, even Fred Rogers wasn’t “Mr. Rogers’ nonstop. It’s okay to get angry. It’s okay to mess up. It’s okay to be human. We can’t prevent ourselves from sinking into shame if we swim in the waters of unreasonable expectations. Eleanor Roosevelt once said that “comparison is the thief of joy.” No, friends, it’s okay to be human. I believe Jesus expects us to have honest talks about, and a healthy respect for, the fact that unchecked judgment is the root of all kinds of hypocrisy, cruelty, and suffering.
To illustrate this point, he shares a story everyone can relate to. The scene would be familiar to many in Jesus’ audience. The setting was the Court of the Gentiles in the Temple, an open-air space where anyone could gather to pray. In this Court, we see two characters with two very different kinds of prayers. The first is the Pharisee, who is praying a form of Jewish prayer called the berakah, which comes from the Hebrew word for “praise,” “blessing,” or “thanksgiving.” It is, above all, a prayer of gratitude, often spoken before eating a meal or making a sacrifice. It’s important to note that this is not the first berakah prayer in Luke’s gospel. Notably, two berakah prayers appear early in Luke’s gospel. First, Zechariah, the husband of Elizabeth and soon-to-be father of John the Baptist, prays a berakah prayer thanking God for raising up a Savior who will save us. Similarly, Mary offers her own berakah prayer, thanking God for blessing her by “looking with favor on the lowliness of his servant.”
Next, after about 17 chapters, this Pharisee’s prayer of blessing appears. However, his prayer contrasts with Zechariah’s and Mary’s because his expression of thanks is for what—or rather, who—he is not. “Thank you, God,” he says, “that I am not like those people.” I won’t ask who among us has prayed that prayer before, so I’ll raise my hand and admit that I have, and I suspect I’m not the only one. The Pharisee begins with a clear posture of self-righteousness. Notice, too, his physical stance: he is standing and praying “up.” It’s also worth mentioning that not all of what he prays is, in itself, problematic; rather, it’s how he delivers it. For example, he thanks God for two spiritual practices he embodies: fasting and tithing. Friends, there’s nothing wrong with expressing gratitude for God giving you the ability to do things that strengthen your faith and bring you closer to God and neighbor. I frequently ask God to soften my heart to those I judge and I also express gratitude when I’m able to do just that (with a healthy dose of help from the Holy Spirit!). Fasting and tithing can be wonderful ways to practice the generosity that God has first given to us. In turn, they can be powerful ways to remind us of our need for God's mercy and our mandate to share that same mercy with others.
Where the Pharisee gets tripped up, of course, is how he frames his gratitude. His gratitude isn’t really directed to God; it’s directed to himself. Sure, he aims his gratitude at God, but you and I know better, as did the first hearers of this parable.
We understand better because Jesus immediately directs our attention to one of the very people the Pharisee is glad he’s not: the tax collector. In contrast to the Pharisee’s “upward” prayer, the tax collector can’t even bring himself to look up to the heavens. Instead, he bows his head in shame, beats his chest, and simply asks for mercy. Nothing more, and nothing less.
Now, I have a theory about who this tax collector was. And I’ll openly admit that there is absolutely no proof that my theory is correct, but my sanctified imagination begs it to be true. Earlier in Luke’s Gospel, John the Baptist is preaching to anyone who will listen, and three different groups ask him specific questions for guidance in their spiritual lives. The “crowds” ask what they should do, and he tells them that anyone with two coats should share with someone who has none, and those with food should do the same. The soldiers then ask what they should do, and he advises them not to extort money from anyone through threats or false accusations, and to be content with their wages. Finally, a group of tax collectors ask what they should do, and he tells them to collect no more than what is prescribed for them.
My theory, friends, is that the very tax collector in today’s parable was part of that crowd back in the third chapter of Luke’s gospel. No, I can’t prove it. But it would make sense. It seems likely that this man heard that edict from John the Baptist and is now struggling with what it means for him as he tries to stay faithful. We talked a bit about “wrestling” last week with the story of Jacob in Genesis 32. This tax collector is in his own wrestling match; he’s limping before God because he recognizes his need for forgiveness and, like Jacob, he understands his need for God’s blessing.
Now, to return to Brené Brown's drowning metaphor, in this parable the Pharisee is drowning (though he would never admit it), but he thinks he can rescue himself. By contrast, the tax collector knows full well that he's drowning, and he recognizes that he needs a flotation device. The tax collector knew all too well what we are reminded of on this Reformation Sunday, that we are saved by grace through faith. We are not saved by ourselves.
Now, a couple of things to remember as we interpret this passage.
First, it’s important to remember that withholding judgment does not mean avoiding accountability. Withholding judgment does not imply ignoring the harm caused when someone hurts another person, whether through personal wrongdoing or systemic injustice. Jesus is not saying, “live and let live” or “just worry about yourself.” Those are overly simplified interpretations that, if left unchecked, can justify any kind of evil behavior. No, we can withhold judgment and protest injustice. We can withhold judgment and stand up for what is right. We can withhold judgment and hold one another accountable in our collective journey to embody God’s kingdom of righteousness and peace. None of these things are mutually exclusive.
Secondly, judging not only harms the person it targets, but also harms the person doing the judging. I mentioned earlier that judging others raises our cortisol levels, which, in the short term, increases our anxiety and, over the long term, can raise the risk of heart disease, depression, obesity, and various other health problems. I also want to frame this “self-harm” within a theological perspective. When we judge others, we diminish our own humanity. If we are to be fully human as God initially created us to be, part of that humanity involves recognizing our complete dependence on God’s mercies and living our lives as a grateful response to that mercy, which is freely given. Therefore, I don’t think the tax collector is the only character in this story we should feel pity for. Yes, he is lost in his own sinfulness, but the Pharisee is no less lost in his own self-righteousness.
And finally, I don’t believe the point of this parable is that God finds joy or satisfaction when we beat ourselves up like the tax collector. Let me be clear: beating ourselves up mercilessly to prove to God that we’re worthy of mercy is just trading one form of works righteousness for another. Yes, God calls us to repent, but that doesn’t mean we turn our hatred inward. Instead, God calls us to direct our love outward. That’s what repentance is all about. I think that’s an important distinction to make.
So, if you want to join me in training ourselves not to drown each other in harmful cycles of judgment and shame, I suggest a simple spiritual practice I’ve been trying lately. I find that when I try to give up a bad habit or at least cut back on it, it’s helpful to replace it with something else. Tricia is trying to cut down on her social media use, so she has taken up cross-stitching. I’m also working on reducing my social media time, so I’ve started spending more time on the DuoLingo app to improve my Spanish, especially since our five-year-old is learning the language rapidly in her Spanish immersion kindergarten at Jones Elementary. And so, this week I thought, “how can I apply that to my desire to judge people less?” And so, this week I’m trying something new. Whenever I catch myself in the posture of the Pharisee, hurling judgment at someone else, I’m going to do three things in rapid succession.
Unlike the Pharisee, I'm going to acknowledge my judgment.
Unlike the Tax Collector, I’m not going to beat myself up over it.
Finally, I’m going to redirect my judgment to gratitude.
And I’ll give you an example of how I did that. Yesterday, I was driving back from a wedding in Pinehurst, and I witnessed not just one but two people in front of me who blatantly ran a red light. My self-righteousness boiled up. I could feel the tension in my arms as my cortisol level increased. I white-knuckled the steering wheel and thought a rather uncharitable thing about those drivers. Then I chuckled to myself. I had one of those preacher moments when you have to laugh at yourself and remind yourself that you're literally preaching on this very thing in less than 24 hours! Afterward, I prayed a prayer of gratitude to God. No, I didn’t pray a berakah prayer thanking God that I wasn't like those drivers, tempting though that prayer might have been. Instead, I prayed a simple and brief prayer thanking God that I had a car I could use to safely get around, visit family, and do my job. Then I went about the rest of my day.
Did that make a difference? I don’t know yet, but I’m gonna keep on trying. And I think, ultimately, that’s exactly what Jesus is asking his disciples to do.
In the name of God the Creator, Redeemer, and Sustainer, may all of us, God’s children, say: Amen.