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“Frozen Chosen”

Luke 18:9-14

October 26, 2025

Rev. Rebecca DePoe

Our Scripture reading for this morning comes from the Gospel of Luke, Chapter 18, beginning in verse 9.  Hear now the word of God.

Luke 18:9-14

He also told this parable to some who trusted in themselves that they were righteous and regarded others with contempt:

 “Two men went up to the temple to pray, one a Pharisee and the other a tax collector. The Pharisee, standing by himself, was praying thus, ‘God, I thank you that I am not like other people: thieves, rogues, adulterers, or even like this tax collector. I fast twice a week; I give a tenth of all my income.’ But the tax collector, standing far off, would not even look up to heaven, but was beating his breast and saying, ‘God, be merciful to me, a sinner!’ I tell you, this man went down to his home justified rather than the other; for all who exalt themselves will be humbled, but all who humble themselves will be exalted.” This is the word of the Lord, Thanks be to God.

You can tell a lot about a church’s denominational identity by the way it does a coffee hour.  The Methodists might hug you, the Baptists might recruit you, and the Pentecostals might pray over you - but we Presbyterians will make sure the cookies are organized by type and the coffee line moves decently and in order.

 And honestly, there’s something lovely about our desire to treat every person moving through the coffee line with dignity and respect.  There’s comfort in our structure.  In knowing where to stand, what kind of cookies are available, and that the coffee will be strong and the napkins folded just so.  We like things done well, respectfully, and predictably.  We like being the kind of people who have a plan - especially when it comes to God.

 Our brothers and sisters in Christ may not find our love of order and structure so lovely.  Fellow Christians have called Presbyterians the Frozen Chosen for generations.  The “chosen” part comes from John Calvin, who taught that God’s grace finds us long before we think to go looking for it.  That’s the idea behind predestination - that God’s love isn’t random or earned, but steady and sure, like a promise that can’t be undone.

 It’s beautiful theology.  But somewhere along the line the deep assurance of God’s sovereignty got paired with our legendary calm, our cautious emotions, and our love of Robert’s Rules of Order, and voila, the “frozen” part stuck.  We became known as the people who feel everything deeply but show it politely, who would rather form a task force than make a scene.

 And maybe there’s a little truth to that.  We Presbyterians prefer to keep our emotions in check - we’re not known for raising our hands in worship, preferring to offer a thoughtful nod along to the music instead.  But beneath that calm exterior, there’s a deep river of faithfulness running.  We show up week after week, we pray for each other, and we show up with casseroles before anyone asks us to.  Maybe we’re not totally frozen - maybe we’re just slow to thaw, waiting for the right moment when grace breaks through and the Spirit catches us off guard.  

And that’s where today’s parable hits close to home.  Because Jesus tells a story about two men who went up to the temple to pray - and one of them would have made a very good Presbyterian.  

The Pharisee’s prayer sounds faithful on the surface.  He’s in the temple.  He’s praying out loud.  He even starts with thanksgiving - “God, I thank you.”  If this were a modern Presbyterian worship service, he’d be the one serving an extra term on Session, who is faithful in attendance, chair of the finance committee, and proud of the church’s beautiful budget spreadsheet he created and color coded.  

But if you listen closely to his prayer, you’ll notice that it’s not really addressed to God.  “God, I thank you that I am not like other people…”  And aren’t you a lucky God that I’ve chosen to follow you? 

And that’s the subtle danger for people like us - for those of us who like decency, order, and control.  We can begin to believe that our goodness, our organization, our effort is what keeps us close to God.  We mistake being right for being righteous.  

The Pharisee doesn’t need forgiveness, because he’s convinced he’s already earned it.  He’s what happens when faith gets frozen - when we start to believe that God’s grace is something we manage instead of something that melts us.  

If the Pharisee’s prayer is polished and public, the tax collector’s prayer is messy and personal.  He stands at a distance, can’t even look up.  There’s no eloquence, no theological flourish - just:   God.  Be.  Merciful.  To.  Me.  A.  Sinner.  

He doesn’t try to explain himself, doesn’t compare himself to others, doesn’t promise to do better next time.  He simply throws himself on the mercy of God.  

The contrast couldn’t be sharper.  One man stands tall, certain that he’s already close to God.  The other can barely lift his eyes, certain that he isn’t.  And Jesus flips the story - the humble one is the one who gets it right.  It’s not that good works don’t matter.  Of course they do.  But the difference is where their hearts rest.  The Pharisee rests in his achievements; the tax collector rests in God’s compassion.

It’s almost offensive in its simplicity, isn’t it?  The wrong person gets right with God.  The man who doesn’t have his act together walks away forgiven.  Meanwhile the one who did everything “decently and in order” walks home untouched by grace.  

Friends, today is Reformation Sunday.  A day where we remember the saints of our faith upon whose shoulders we stand.  As we dream new dreams about how we might carry their work forward. Our parable for this morning speaks to the heart of the Reformation:  salvation has never been about earning our way to God; it’s about God’s mercy finding us first.  It’s grace alone that thaws the frozen heart.  

This afternoon, when I stand before you again for my installation as pastor of this congregation, I’ll be standing on the shoulders of the saints who came before me.  On the shoulders of theologians like John Calvin and John Knox.  Of pastors like John Witherspoon, John McMillan, and Samuel Jennings.  But also on the shoulders of the fifteen previous pastors of this church, whose portraits line the walls of our chapel.  Those stubborn saints who believed that the Church could always be renewed, that the Spirit wasn’t finished with us yet.  

I often think about what it must have felt like for them - to preach through depressions and wars.  To baptize babies who grew up to become elders.  To believe that even when pews were emptying or the world was changing too fast, God was still calling the Church to be faithful.  Their courage to preach God’s unchanging word in a changing world gives me courage.  Their faith gives me hope that the same Spirit who carried them will carry us too.  

They built the foundation we now stand on, and our call is to keep building - to keep reforming, keep listening, keep trusting that God is still writing the story of this congregation.  

I don’t take that lightly.  To be installed as your pastor on Reformation Sunday feels like both a promise and a dare: a promise that God’s grace still reforms frozen hearts, and a dare to lead this church into a new era of mercy and imagination.  

Because the work ahead isn’t about preserving what was, but participating in what God is doing next - and that always begins the same way:  with a humble prayer, “God, be merciful to me, a sinner.” 

Reformation Sunday isn’t about looking back at history; it’s about remembering that God still reforms us.  The same Spirit that drove John Calvin to pay attention to God’s grace at work in the world.  The same Spirit that drove John Knox to form the Church of Scotland.  It’s the same Spirit that keeps nudging us out of comfort and control - melting our certainty, softening our edges, and freeing us to be the Church again.  

The Reformation was never about being right for all time - it was about trusting that God keeps speaking, and we have to adjust our traditions to keep up with a God who is constantly on the move.  That the Church, at its best, is not a monument to past certainty but a living movement of grace.  Every generation has to rediscover what faithfulness looks like - not by returning to old answers, but by returning to the same merciful God.  

Because when mercy gets in, it loosens what’s rigid in us.  It unfreezes our compassion.  It reminds us that being “Reformed” isn’t about getting it right once and for all - it’s about being open to God’s ongoing work in and through us.  

So here we are on Reformation Sunday - a day when Presbyterians remember that the Church is reformed and always being reformed according to the Word and Spirit of God.  And this afternoon, when Pittsburgh Presbytery gathers to install me as your pastor, we’ll step into that same ongoing story.  

Installation isn’t about celebrating all of the ways we’re doing church right.  It’s about saying, together:  “We’re ready to listen.  We’re ready to grow.  We’re ready to be reformed again.”  When I take my installation vows this afternoon, I’ll promise to keep following wherever God’s grace is leading next - even if it means letting go of what once felt safe, sure, or comfortable.  

Because if we’ve learned anything from this parable, it’s that God isn’t looking for perfect people or polished prayers.  God is looking for open hearts.  Hearts humble enough to say, “Be merciful to me.”  Hearts soft enough to be reshaped by grace.  

So maybe being the “Frozen Chosen” isn’t the worst nickname in the world.  If we remember that grace has a way of melting us.  Melting our pride, melting our rigidity, melting our fear of change, until all that’s left is gratitude and love.  

That’s the Reformation still happening - right here, right now, in this congregation, as God reforms not just the Church, but us.  I think that’s what it means to belong to a living faith.  We don’t freeze in one moment of certainty.  We keep thawing into grace.  We keep learning how to love this community, this world, and one another a little more tenderly.  The Spirit keeps warming the Church from the inside out.  

And that’s the kind of work I’m honored to do alongside you.  

Thanks be to God,

Amen.