Faux Faithfulness | Sunday, May 31, 2026

And as Jesus spoke, a certain Pharisee asked him to dine with him... Then the Lord said to him, "Now you Pharisees make the outside of the cup and dish clean, but your inward part is full of greed and wickedness..." ...And now as he said these things to them, the scribes and the Pharisees began to assail him vehemently and to cross examine him about many things, lying in wait for him, seeking to catch him in something that he might say that they might accuse him. (Luke 11:37-54)

When religion makes you feel good without making you good, you've embraced a faithfulness that is only "faux."

A Very Religious City

For most of the last few weeks I was in Europe. Back in 2004 and 2005 I taught at a small international Bible school in Siegen, Germany, and developed great relationships with Calvary Chapel Siegen, one of the largest churches in Western Europe. I've had the privilege of returning to teach at a conference they hold every May. This time my younger daughter Evangeline came along, and after the conference we took the train through Lucerne, Venice, Florence, and on to Rome.

Rome is an amazing place. This was my fourth time there, and it always reminds me of what Paul noted in Athens, recorded in Acts 17:

Men of Athens, I perceive that in all things you are very religious, for as I was passing through and considering the objects of your worship, I even found an altar with this inscription: To the unknown God. Therefore the One whom you worship without knowing Him I proclaim to you.

When I go to Rome, you see the objects of their worship everywhere. We toured the Vatican, the Sistine Chapel, St. Peter's Basilica, and the Mamertine prison, traditionally believed to be where both Paul and Peter were held before their execution. If anything dominates the landscape of Rome, it is religion. You see it everywhere you turn.

Wired for Worship

That brings us back to a basic fact: by nature we are very religious. Religion is something close to a human universal. About twenty years ago a geneticist named Dean Hamer wrote a book called The God Gene, arguing that an inclination toward transcendence, spiritual experience, and worship seems innate to us.

You've probably experienced this. Out in the desert at night, seeing the beauty of the cosmos, you feel what David described in Psalm 8: "When I consider the heavens, the moon and all the stars." Or you stand at the edge of the Grand Canyon, see its greatness, and are reminded of your littleness. We are compelled to awe and drawn into worship.

Paul observed the same thing two thousand years ago in Romans. When we perceive the grandeur of creation, we're drawn to worship—but because we are fallen, we often end up worshiping the creation over the Creator, tending toward idolatry. We are made in God's image and have the capacity to create, which is why touring the Vatican or seeing Michelangelo's David in Florence pulls you toward awe.

The Danger of a Feeling

There is something about worship and awe that makes us feel complete. We are made for worship, and if we don't worship God—who is the Maker of all things, including us—we will be drawn to worship other things, which is invariably idolatrous.

But here is the danger. Those feelings of completeness, goodness, and righteousness are just that—feelings. There is a sense of virtue in that place of awe, but the sense of the thing is not the actual thing. Having a sense of goodness doesn't make you good. That is one of the real downsides of religion: it can complete the moment and make us feel as though we've entered into goodness, when we have not.

You see it throughout Europe. The most dominating feature of nearly every city is some great cathedral—we went up the tower of the Cologne Dome in Germany. The stained glass and carvings are awesome to see. But the devastating reality is that virtually every one of these places is now more museum than church, practically empty. That is the sad shell of religion. Religion is not necessarily bad, but it can be dangerous, because that sense of rightness doesn't make you righteous.

Two Miles of Ditch

We're closing the eleventh chapter of Luke this morning, and this passage zeros in on exactly this problem. After this study, we'll pause our journey through Luke for our summer series and return in September. But this is a good place to stop, because here Jesus confronts religiosity—religion for religion's sake.

Twenty-five years ago, when I was starting out in ministry, there was a resurgence of Reformed theology among younger people—the "young, restless, and reformed." Many of my friends were restless because they grew up in the consumeristic Evangelical church of the 1990s, full of Christian brands and superficial markers. The worst thing you could do was listen to secular music, so guys would destroy their CDs—yet they were still sleeping with their girlfriends. The movement's focus became intellectualization, as if knowing how to define soteriology made you right.

Fast forward a quarter century, and now there's a resurgence among younger people toward very traditional forms—a pull toward Orthodoxy and Catholicism, the Eucharist, and the ritualistic side of things. It's been said that for every mile of road there are two miles of ditch. If you take a truth and make it the truth, it becomes a lie. The hyper-rationalized and the hyper-ritualized are both seductive to our flesh. They make us feel good, but the feeling of good does not equal true goodness.

These feelings are like the comfort of a paper blanket. Isaiah 28 says, "For the bed is too short to stretch out on, and the covering so narrow that it cannot wrap yourself with it." I'm six foot two, and every long flight reminds me of it—a blanket made for a two-year-old and no room for your legs. That's religion: a blanket that doesn't quite cover you, a bed that's too short.

The Word "Woe"

As we read this passage, notice the word Jesus repeats six times: woe. This is one of the words that made people assume he might be a prophet, since it was a favorite of Isaiah, who uses it seven times in chapter five alone.

The original word in both Hebrew and Greek is similar-sounding—in Hebrew, hoy. You've heard "oy vey"; that's the same word. It's an exasperated sigh, the word you use when you have no words and you're in awe at the audacious, tenacious blindness of a sinner. You can see the bridge is out, and they're running headlong toward it, and you're stunned they can't see it. That is exactly what Jesus is expressing.

Bob the Pharisee

When you think of a Pharisee, think hyper-religious. Let's recognize there is something respectable about that, because there's a commitment to it that isn't cost-free. When someone knocks on your door Saturday morning from the Watchtower Society, you have to commend the commitment. I once asked some lovely ladies who came to my door, "Are you doing this honestly for you, or for me?" Behind so much religious effort is a compulsion: I must do this, because if I don't, I'm not right. Some of you came from a background like that.

This Pharisee—let's call him Bob—does a neighborly thing. He invites Jesus to dinner, which in the first century was a big deal. Breaking bread meant communion, koinonia, becoming one with someone. But they don't even reach the appetizers before he's judging Jesus, marveling that he had not first washed his hands.

Now, this isn't about hygiene. In first-century Judaism they kept stone water pots of running water for ritual purification, with detailed specifications, and a committed Pharisee would wash before every meal. Jesus didn't. He wasn't unhygienic; he was unceremonious. Not unclean, but uncouth. For Bob, that's all the confirmation he needs. He's been hearing rumors—this man might be the Messiah—so he runs his "Messiah test," and Jesus fails it in the first moments.

"Foolish Ones"

The Pharisee's disdain triggers one of Jesus's great responses. He's a guest in this man's house, and he calls him a hypocrite and a fool:

Now you Pharisees make the outside of the cup and the dish clean, but your inward part is full of greed and wickedness. Foolish ones, did not He who made the outside make also the inside?

You do all the right things and think they make you all right—but that's not the case. The ritual of religion is not all bad. In fact, we'll do two ritualistically religious things today: communion this morning and a baptism this afternoon. These practices can be good. The problem is that the practice can give the practitioner a false sense of goodness, leading to arrogance and judgmentalism: I did the thing, you didn't, so I'm good and you're bad.

Moral Licensing

The mechanics of religion are also fertile ground for moral licensing. You've all experienced it: "I went on a walk today, so that second piece of cake—no problem." It's about deposits and withdrawals. I went to church, I tithed, I prayed, so it's okay that I'm short and obnoxious with my spouse. The good thing outweighs the bad.

That's the essence of so much religion. One of the symbols of Islam is the scales—your good works weighed against your bad. And it's not just Islam; that's virtually every human-centered religion. Ask someone if they'll go to heaven and they say, "I'm a pretty good person; my good works outweigh my bad." We even grade on the curve: "I'm better than that guy." And you can always find someone—there's always Hitler, or Congress.

But point number one: moral mechanics do not make me moral. You can do all the moral mechanics and be quite bad. When I flew to Germany in 2004, an American serviceman beside me said, "Germany doesn't need missionaries; it's a Christian nation." And it is—every town has a Protestant and a Catholic church, many state-funded. But hardly anyone there is committed to faith in Christ. The moral mechanics don't make you moral.

Why Do Them at All?

So why do them? Why not just sleep in on Sunday like the people coming to third service—who, by the way, will be late? Look at verse 42:

Woe to you Pharisees, for you tithe mint and rue and all manner of herbs, and you pass by justice and the love of God. These you ought to have done without leaving the others undone.

There's the key. "These you ought to have done." There is an ethical imperative—but without leaving the others undone. Which brings point number two: faux religion frustrates Jesus. Just doing the mechanics because you think the mechanics are all that's required—God doesn't like that.

In Isaiah, God asks his people why they fast while being harsh and vindictive toward others. "You honor me with your lips, but your hearts are far from me." He told Israel he would rather they not even come to the temple—just close the doors—because their fake religion was defiling the holy place. As Jesus says in Matthew 23, "You pay tithe on your mint and anise and cumin, and you have neglected the weightier matters of the law: justice, mercy, and faith." The little thing over here doesn't pay the great debt over there. Through Micah, God says, "He has shown you, O man, what is good... to do justly, to love mercy, and to walk humbly with your God."

Like Unmarked Graves

Point number three: fake religion promotes fakery and not faithfulness.

Woe to you, scribes and Pharisees, hypocrites! For you are like graves which are not seen, and the men who walk over them are not aware of them.

In the first-century Jewish world, graves were clearly marked so people could avoid the ceremonial defilement of contact with the dead. Jesus says the Pharisees are like unmarked graves: their fake religion makes those who follow them unclean without their realizing it. They appear righteous, so people take them as role models—and are led astray, farther from God rather than closer.

This is the danger of false religion. Faux righteousness doesn't merely fail to help people; it harms them. This is why the outside world says the church is full of hypocrites—Jesus is essentially saying that here. I despise hypocrisy, and I don't want it to mark my life. Honestly, there are times I feel I'm not a very good pastor—I forget my devotions, I'm not great at family devotions. But what I've sought to do is to do justly, love mercy, and walk in humility. I don't think Jesus will greet me with, "Those family devotions could have been better." I want to hear, "Well done, good and faithful servant." One of the things I love about Jesus is that he made the falsely righteous angry simply by being real, by being normal. Real people really liked him.

Three Woes for the Lawyers

Notice that Jesus says, "Woe to you, scribes and Pharisees." A scribe is right there and speaks up:

Teacher, by saying these things, you reproach us also.

He seems to expect an apology. Instead Jesus says, in effect, "Now that you bring it up, I have three woes for you too." The scribes wrote down and were experts in the law—they dissected it, parsed it, and then inflated it. Point number four: false religion becomes a barrier and not a bridge.

Woe to you lawyers! For you load men with burdens hard to bear, and you yourselves do not touch the burdens with one of your fingers.

Take the fourth commandment—"Remember the Sabbath and keep it holy." They parsed and inflated it: how heavy a load is too heavy, how far is too far. In Israel today, observant communities string a wire on poles to mark how far a "Sabbath day's journey" is, and elevators stop at every floor so no one has to press a button. You make obedience harder than God. They memorialized the prophets their fathers killed while missing the prophets' message, and locked the door of knowledge so that neither they nor anyone else could enter. The law, an expression of God's nature, became merely a list of do's and don'ts.

The Wrong Response—and the Right One

You'd hope a hard prophetic message would lead to conviction and repentance, the way Isaiah, Jeremiah, and Ezekiel aimed for. But look at verse 53:

As He said these things to them, the scribes and the Pharisees began to assail Him vehemently and to cross examine Him about many things, lying in wait for Him, seeking to catch Him in something He might say.

That's clearly the wrong response. But the bigger question is, how should I respond? I'm prone to the same religiosity—the impulse that says, as I drive home past everyone who slept in, "At least I went to church; what's wrong with you?"

Means of Grace

This is where the ritual of religion is actually a good thing. Communion and baptism are the two sacraments Protestants observe, and the two Jesus himself instituted. Communion reminds me of two things. First, I did this. His body was broken, his blood shed—not by Romans or Jews, but by my sin and yours. Second, I need this. There is no ritual I can do to undo the debt. Every seventh Sunday we come to the bread and the cup and remember: I did this, and I need this.

Baptism reminds me that I'm dirty, that I need to be clean, that I cannot clean myself, and that I am only clean by the death, burial, and resurrection of Christ. It's not the water; it's what the water represents—buried with him and raised to newness of life.

These have traditionally been called means of grace. They are not the ends. You don't partake of the bread and the cup and say, "I did it, I'm good." They are reminders that his body was broken for me, his blood shed for me, and "by his stripes I am healed. He was wounded for my transgressions... All we like sheep have gone astray, and the Lord has laid on him the iniquity of us all."

Communion

Paul writes in 1 Corinthians 11:23:

For I received from the Lord that which I also delivered to you: that the Lord Jesus on the same night in which He was betrayed took bread; and when He had given thanks, He broke it and said, "Take, eat; this is My body which is broken for you. Do this in remembrance of Me." In the same manner He also took the cup after they had eaten, saying, "This cup is the new covenant in My blood. This do, as often as you drink it, in remembrance of Me."

Closing Prayer

Lord, thank you. As we've been saying, you did it all for us. We stand before you today forgiven, redeemed, and adopted—not because of the greatness of who we are, not for our goodness, not for the way we perform rituals and duties, but because you who knew no sin became sin for us, that we might be the righteousness of God in you.

Thank you that we have a new identity in you. If anyone is in Christ, he is a new creation; the old things have passed away and everything has become new. We renounce the hidden evil things of old, that we might walk before you in rightness by your grace and by your Spirit. We know there is therefore now no condemnation to those who are in you. Help us to walk after the Spirit. Thank you for your cleansing blood. Though our sins were as scarlet, you have made us white as snow.

And now may the Lord bless you and keep you. May he make his face to shine upon you and be gracious to you. May he lift up his countenance upon you and give you his peace. The grace of the Lord Jesus Christ, the love of God the Father, and the fellowship of his Holy Spirit be with you all. Amen.