The Mirror We Turned into a Window
On the word “hypocrite” in Jesus’ mouth—and our remarkable ability to hear somebody else’s name.
There are passages in the Gospel that make us uncomfortable.
Fortunately, we have developed a reliable defence.
We think of someone else.
Jesus says, “You hypocrite,” and immediately a face appears. Sometimes several. We could provide names, dates, supporting documents and, if required, screenshots.
How reassuring to discover that Scripture understands our neighbours so well.
Then Jesus turns the mirror.
The word we enjoy from a safe distance
In Matthew 23, Jesus speaks fiercely about religious hypocrisy: teaching without practising, making a public display of holiness, and placing burdens on others without helping to carry them. These are accusations about conduct and the use of authority.
For this reflection, that is where the word begins to sting.
We know what it means to fall short of something we believe. We lose patience. We speak carelessly. We recognise the hurt afterwards.
But something more troubling happens when we make our principles demanding for others and remarkably accommodating for ourselves.
My anger has a context. Yours reveals your character.
My harshness defends the truth. Yours proves you lack charity.
I require understanding. You require correction.
The courtroom is open. By a happy coincidence, I am the judge.
A beam with excellent visibility
In Matthew 7, Jesus addresses the person who notices a small fault in someone else while overlooking a much larger fault of their own. He calls that person a hypocrite and tells them to attend to their own obstruction first, so they can see clearly enough to help. The warning reaches the disciple listening to him.
That last detail rather spoils the seating arrangement.
We had placed ourselves beside Jesus, nodding wisely while he corrected the people opposite.
Now we discover that we are among those being addressed.
And the image itself is gloriously uncomfortable: someone attempting delicate eye care while carrying a timber delivery in their face.
“Hold still. I can see your problem perfectly.”
We laugh because it is absurd.
Then remember the last argument we had.
The polished cup
Jesus also describes a cup whose outside has been cleaned while its contents remain corrupt. The appearance of righteousness conceals something very different within. —Matthew 23:25–28.
It is a sharp image for the distance between our public presentation and our inward life.
We may know the language of generosity while quietly keeping score. We may speak beautifully about forgiveness while maintaining an unusually well-organised archive of offences.
Some of those archives have subfolders.
And backups.
The disturbing question is how much energy we can spend preserving the appearance of a virtue that we resist practising when it costs us something.
The cup shines.
Would we drink from it?
When holiness becomes an exemption
In Mark 7, Jesus confronts a practice by which resources declared dedicated to God could be withheld from supporting one’s parents. He challenges the use of religious tradition to evade a responsibility it should have upheld. —Mark 7:6–13.
Here, the reflection becomes painfully concrete.
A sacred explanation can make an ordinary refusal sound admirable.
“I cannot help. I am occupied with more important things.”
Perhaps I am.
Perhaps I have also found a noble name for what I prefer.
We do this outside religion too. Family, duty, freedom, loyalty, even kindness: any cherished word can become a shelter from an inconvenient obligation.
The words may remain true and valuable.
The question is what I am doing with them.
Before we congratulate ourselves
There is another temptation waiting here.
We can read Jesus’ criticism of scribes and Pharisees and turn a whole group into a convenient portrait of everything we dislike. Yet Matthew’s own Christian readers are also being warned about these failings; the passage gives them reason to examine their conduct.
So the mirror belongs in our hands too.
A Christian can use these passages to feel superior to a Pharisee. A nonbeliever can use them to feel superior to a Christian. A modest person can become quietly delighted with their superiority to both.
Hypocrisy travels lightly.
It can manage with almost any wardrobe.
The danger of a successful reflection
At this point, I would like to offer a magnificent paragraph about humility.
Something memorable.
Something people might quote while observing how perceptive I am about the human condition.
You see the difficulty.
Even a reflection on hypocrisy can become a little stage on which we display our freedom from it.
Perhaps the most honest place to pause is somewhere smaller.
With the apology I have been explaining away.
With the person whose tone I judged before hearing their pain.
With the rule I defend until it inconveniences me.
With the good thing I could quietly do, before preparing a statement about my values.
Let the glass remain a mirror
My reading of Jesus’ severity is that it interrupts a dangerous comfort: the belief that knowing the right words places us safely beyond their judgment.
The interruption can hurt.
It can also open something.
If I can recognise the distance between what I profess and how I live, I can begin to answer for it. I can listen. Make amends. Accept help. Practise the mercy I admire so much in a paragraph.
No grand announcement required.
For once, the audience can go home.
The mirror is still here.
And when I hear the word “hypocrite,” perhaps I can resist the urge to hold it up to the window.
Just long enough to ask:
What have I been hoping this reflection would show me about somebody else?
Let us reflect on our own…
Article written with help of openai‘s chatGPT language Models, Dalle and Picsart
