Summary: Most of us have scrolled through screen after screen of fine print for no other reason than to get to the icon which says, "I agree." We often have no idea what we're agreeing to. Something similar can happen with our faith. We know the language of religion. We know the vocabulary of discipleship. We say the prayers, recite the Lord's Prayer and Apostles' Creed and nod along with the teachings. In a sense, we've clicked the box. But every now and then Jesus opens the document again and asks a question we'd perhaps rather avoid: Did you actually read and understand what you agreed to?
Quick question. You're on your computer and about to confirm a booking or open a new app, and suddenly a screen pops up asking us to do something very important: "Please review the terms and conditions." How many of you've ever actually read the complete "terms and conditions" before clicking "I agree"?
A box appears filled with legal language written in a font apparently designed for ants. Paragraph after paragraph explains exactly what you're agreeing to -- how your data will be used, what rights you're granting, what responsibilities you're accepting. Unless your name is Sheldon Cooper (and he's fictitious!), I'm betting no one reads all that fine print.
And then, at the bottom of the screen, there's a little button that says: "I agree." What you didn't know is that somewhere in all that legal gobbledygook, there's probably a clause giving away custody of your firstborn child.
And if we're honest, something similar can happen with faith. We know the language of religion. We know the vocabulary of discipleship. We say the prayers, recite the Apostles' Creed and nod along with the teachings. In a sense, we've clicked the box.
But every now and then Jesus opens the document again and asks a question we'd rather avoid: Did you actually read and understand what you agreed to?
This is the moment we encounter in Matthew 23. Black-robed Pharisees, preening around in the public square like a murder of crows, seem more interested in drawing attention to themselves than in serving God or others. Theirs seems to be a performative religion, not really a helpful one. (The larger view from the Bible and other works of antiquity tell us that not all Pharisees fit this unflattering caricature, but apparently the particular ones Jesus had in mind at this time did.)
So, performative religion. What gives?
How many of us have heard the words, "Do as I say, not as I do" come out of our parents' mouths when we were growing up? Of all classes of people, parents are the ones who know best that their actions may not always align with what they nag their kids about.
The disconnect happens. But here, the problem isn't what's being taught, because Jesus himself said he'd not come to abolish the law but to fulfill it.1 What's at issue is rather the distance between what one professes and what one practices. "Do whatever they teach you and follow it," Jesus says, "but do not do as they do, for they do not practice what they teach." Jesus went on to describe these religious types like those who "tie up heavy burdens, hard to bear, and lay them on the shoulders of others; but they themselves are unwilling to lift a finger to move them." In other words, they've become experts at assigning weight without carrying it.
Most people have worked for two kinds of bosses. There's the boss who stands in the doorway with a clipboard pointing out what everyone else needs to do. And then there's the boss who rolls up his or her sleeves and gets into the work with everyone else. When the shipment arrives late or the kitchen gets slammed or the deadline is looming, that guy's right there helping carry the load and leading by example. The scribes and Pharisees not so much. They know how to assign the work of faith. They just don't carry the weight of it themselves.
It's no secret that it's much simpler to describe virtue than to practice it. Words are impressive, but people can sense the gap between what's said and what's lived, thus reinforcing the truth of the well-known mantra, "actions speak louder than words." When verbal and nonverbal messages contradict, the nonverbal message is generally believed because it is considered more honest, uncontrollable and authentic.2 No one believes us when we say we're fine just before slamming the door behind us. No one.
Jesus himself never allows this gap to exist. When he calls people to mercy, he practices mercy. When he teaches forgiveness, he forgives. When he tells us to love our enemies, he embodies love all the way along the Via Dolorosa to a Roman cross atop Golgotha. His authority doesn't come from a reading of the fine print of the Mosaic law but from living authentically in or above the spirit of the Law.
This warning here isn't limited to first-century religious leaders. It reaches all of us -- parents, priests, teachers, fathers, mothers or anyone who wishes to be and to act like Jesus. Faith can survive a lot of things, but what it can't survive for long is a double standard.
Jesus then says that he's got a problem with visibility or showboating: "They do all their deeds to be seen by others." He points to the religious habits of the Pharisees: phylacteries widened, fringes lengthened, places of honor sought at banquets and in synagogues, greetings relished in the marketplaces.
None of these practices were wrong in themselves. Visible reminders of the law were part of Jewish tradition. The problem wasn't public faith; the problem was curated faith. Somewhere along the way, religious piety had become -- in a quite ostentatious way -- performance art.
It's a temptation that's easy to recognize because everyone understands the difference between appearance and reality. We tidy the house when guests are coming, frantically throwing pillows, toys and dirty clothes into a nearby closet. We straighten the living room and hide the clutter and make everything look orderly for a while. The moment the door closes behind the guests, however, life spills back into the room again.
The same thing can happen in our lives as disciples. We know how to look patient, gracious and attentive when others are watching. We know how to speak in the language of kindness and humility. But Jesus is interested in something deeper than the version of ourselves we present to an audience.
Earlier in this same gospel, Jesus tells his followers, "Let your light shine before others, so that they may see your good works and give glory to your Father in heaven."3 But there's a difference between light and spotlight. Lights illuminate. Spotlights perform. The problem arises when, truth be told, we're doing what we're doing because it looks good. When this happens, our discipleship is slowly becoming not much more than mere theater. We begin arranging our actions so they'll be noticed, admired or affirmed.
Yet, would we behave so piously if no one saw this act of kindness or whatever it is? If no one applauded, would we still serve? If no one knew, would we still choose what is right? For whom are we performing? God? Or friends, family, the culture, the boss?
After exposing the dangers of hypocrisy and performance, Jesus offers an alternative. His solution isn't stricter regulations or more elaborate displays of piety. Instead, he calls his followers back to humility. "But you are not to be called rabbi, for you have one teacher, and you are all brothers and sisters. And call no one your father on earth, for you have one Father, the one in heaven. Nor are you to be called instructors, for you have one instructor, the Messiah. The greatest among you will be your servant. All who exalt themselves will be humbled, and all who humble themselves will be exalted."
At first glance those instructions can sound confusing, especially in traditions like ours where titles like "Father" are commonly used. But Jesus isn't abolishing every form of address. He's using sharp language to challenge the spiritual ego that feeds on status. The issue isn't vocabulary. The issue is identity.
In the kingdom of God, God is God and we are not. Every role within the community of faith is derivative. We are all recipients of grace before we're givers of grace. This realization produces the kind of greatness Jesus describes at the end of the passage: "The greatest among you will be your servant."
Greatness often means upward visibility, recognition or influence. In the kingdom of God, however, greatness moves in the opposite direction. It bends downward toward service, a role that rarely attracts too much attention. It shows up in small, repetitive acts: listening patiently, carrying another person's burden, choosing kindness when irritation would be easier. These actions rarely appear dramatic, yet they build the trust and integrity that make genuine faith visible.
Humility, in the gospel, isn't self-hatred. It's simply truthfulness about who we are before God -- dependent, loved and accountable.
Returning to terms and conditions and those pop-up screens that ask us to accept those terms and conditions, the truth is that most of us scroll to the bottom, click the box and move on with our lives.
Sometimes faith can feel a little like that. We say "yes" to the teachings of Jesus. We affirm them. We agree with them. But every now and then Jesus opens the document again and asks whether we've actually read what we accepted.
Jesus' warning about hypocrisy isn't meant to humiliate people who struggle. In fact, the gospel assumes that every disciple will struggle. What Jesus challenges is the temptation to hide that struggle behind a carefully managed image. Unfortunately, over time people can recognize the difference between performance and integrity. They know when someone's actually walking the walk when actions are aligned with one's testimony.
And when that alignment begins to appear, people can see the difference between those who merely clicked "agree" and those who are actually living as God intended their lives to be.