Prayer From the Abyss: How Brokenness Became the Path to Grace

On February 9, 2025, the Orthodox Church marks the Sunday of the Pharisee and the Tax Collector—the first of four special Sundays preparing our hearts for Great Lent. On this day, the Gospel of Luke’s timeless parable takes center stage: two men enter the Jerusalem Temple to pray. One is a Pharisee, a model of piety; the other, a tax collector, a symbol of moral failure. Yet Christ startles His listeners—and us—by declaring one of these prayers pleasing to God.

“Two men went up to the temple to pray, one a Pharisee and the other a tax collector. The Pharisee stood and prayed thus with himself, ‘God, I thank You that I am not like other men—extortioners, unjust, adulterers, or even as this tax collector. I fast twice a week; I give tithes of all that I possess.’ And the tax collector, standing afar off, would not so much as raise his eyes to heaven, but beat his breast, saying, ‘God, be merciful to me a sinner!’ I tell you, this man went down to his house justified rather than the other; for everyone who exalts himself will be humbled, and he who humbles himself will be exalted.”

(Luke 18:10–14)

But why? What makes humility more powerful than eloquence? Why does God seem to dismiss the “good” man’s righteousness and embrace the “sinner’s” brokenness? And what does this story reveal about the posture our hearts must take as we approach the Lenten journey?

This parable isn’t merely ancient history. It’s a mirror. It confronts us with uncomfortable questions: Do I pray to impress others—or to meet God? Do I cling to my virtues like trophies, or do I dare to stand before Him with empty hands? Join us as we explore the paradox at the heart of this story—and discover how its lessons can shatter our illusions, reorient our prayers, and prepare us to walk the path of Lent with resurrected hope.

The Pharisees were respected and revered by the people. They were zealous guardians of religious tradition, as their very name suggests. The word “Pharisee” derives from the Semitic root parush, meaning “one who is separated.” The Pharisees were the “separated ones”—separated from all that was defiled and unclean. They distanced themselves from pagans with their false beliefs, from irreligious Jews whose lukewarm indifference betrayed the faith of their ancestors, and from anything that hindered true devotion to God. In short, the Pharisees were guardians of the purity of Mosaic Law. They not only studied the Torah meticulously and scrupulously observed its commandments but were also prepared to die for it—a commitment they proved not merely in words. In the second century BC, they spearheaded the Maccabean Revolt against pagan forces. Many gave their lives, yet they secured Judea’s independence and preserved faith in the One God. Their loyalty, it must be said, was sealed with blood. To many Jews of that era, the Pharisees were heroes of the faith and true patriots. As a result, their movement enjoyed immense authority and widespread support among ordinary people.

During Christ’s earthly ministry, disaster struck Palestine once more—this time in the form of Roman occupation. The local population was forced to pay taxes to their conquerors, and the task of collecting these levies fell to Jewish officials known as publicans (tax collectors). Many of these men were unscrupulous in their dealings. While the occupiers demanded a fixed sum, publicans often arbitrarily doubled the amount, pocketing the difference for themselves. The Roman authorities largely turned a blind eye to such corruption and extortion. Their primary concern was that payments flowed into the imperial treasury on time and in full; the rest—as they saw it—was left to the locals to “sort out.” Moreover, tax collectors frequently acted as the eyes and ears of the Romans among their own people. In short, publicans were universally despised. To their fellow Jews, they were thieves, traitors to the faith of their ancestors, and collaborators with pagan oppressors. In a word: they were seen as greedy enforcers and informants.

Here, then, we encounter the paradox that pierces the soul: Christ does not point His listeners to the Pharisee—a man revered as a pillar of tradition, whose polished prayers ripple with eloquence. No. The Lord instead unveils holiness in the unlikeliest of places: the fractured whispers of a tax collector, his words choked by shame. This is the prayer that ascends to heaven. This is the cry that moves the heart of God. What transforms such brokenness into power?

The answer lies in the tax collector’s unbearable clarity. He sees himself as he truly is—a man stripped of every illusion. Hated by his people, scorned by his family, revolted by his own reflection, he stands utterly alone. A traitor. A thief. A pawn of Rome, tolerated by his overlords but despised even by them. Every path to redemption has crumbled; every scheme to reinvent himself has collapsed. He is a man with nowhere to fall but to his knees. And there, in the rubble of his life, he gasps the only words left: “God, be merciful to me, a sinner!” No grand speeches. No ledger of virtues. Just the raw confession of a heart that knows it has nothing to offer—and everything to receive.

This is the man who clings to prayer as his last thread over the abyss. No earthly hope anchors him; no self-made righteousness steadies his feet. His cry erupts from a place beyond pretense, beyond calculation—a primal plea for mercy. And here, in this nakedness, God meets him. For the Divine thirsts not for our trophies, but for our truth.

Yet the Pharisee, too, is heard. He, too, walks away justified—but not as the tax collector does. The Pharisee’s feet are planted on the solid ground of his achievements: his reputation gleams, his piety is admired, his moral balance sheet impresses. “How grateful I am not to be like that wretch!” he sighs, mistaking self-congratulation for gratitude. His prayer is a monument to his own virtue, sturdy and self-assured. Why seek mercy when you believe you’ve earned approval? Why hunger for grace when you’re already full?

Thus, Christ reveals a foundational spiritual truth: God responds not to our words, but to the posture of our hearts. He delights when we grow disillusioned with the self-image we cling to. He meets us where our excuses crumble, where the comfortable illusions of our wounded egos collapse, where we surrender the need to have the final word. He is present where every fantasy fades—every dream that anyone or anything but God could satisfy our hearts. In short, He is found where we lose all sense of footing in ourselves: our talents, wealth, or relationships. These are the moments when the soul plunges into darkness and emptiness, dying to all it once relied on. It is here, in this void, that we birth the raw cry of true prayer—the cry of one who has no hope but God. And He waits for us in that darkness. For this, He came: to die, descend into hell, and lead all who longed for a Savior into the light of His Resurrection. He came to give our hearts the undying joy of His victory.

Translated by The Catalogue of Good Deeds
Source: https://foma.ru/molitva-kotoraja-derzhit-tebja-nad-propastju-kak-ponimat-pritchu-o-mytare-i-farisee.html