It happened again. There I was, following the rules, doing exactly what I was supposed to do, and it happened again. Due to some poor planning on my part, I needed to get on 880N during a recent morning rush hour. I got in the correct traffic lane, with all the other law-abiding folks. The metering lights were on, and I waited my turn, just like all the other law-abiding folks. I was patient, I had my latte to keep me company, I was following the rules, and I had allowed enough time for all of the traffic issues, so I was feeling pretty good. Finally, just as I approached the on-ramp, a car roared up on my left and cut into the lane in front of me. For a few moments, I lost track of what a very nice day it was. As we say back home, I was fit to be tied.
And so were the Pharisees that day in Jesus’ hometown. Fit to be tied. Because we see the story from the perspective of Jesus’ disciples, we tend to forget that the Pharisees’ primary purpose was not to get in Jesus’ way. We tend to forget that they were doing their dead level best to follow God’s will in the only way they knew. We tend to forget that their goal was salvation, and they were following the rules they believed would result in salvation not only for themselves but also for their entire community. They are following the rules, doing the best they can, and here comes Jesus, putting the entire community at risk by what they see as his reckless actions.
At this point in the story, the Pharisees are beginning to be concerned. Jesus has just preached what we call the Sermon on the Mount, pushing aside the teaching that has guided the peoples’ lives, saying over and over again, “You have heard it said that this is the way it should be, but now I tell you a new way.” And having said all those things, Jesus proceeds to commit a public act that shocks them all: he heals the paralyzed man and tells him his sins are forgiven. Then, in the story we hear today, he invites Matthew the tax collector to come eat with him.
In Jesus’ time, sharing food was not a casual act. The dietary and purity codes were clear that breaking bread with people who weren’t ritually clean would result in uncleanness for those with whom they were eating. Meals were usually taken only with family or close friends—people known to comply with the Law—people who were in covenant together.
In the gospel we’ve just heard, Jesus brings Matthew to break bread with him, to be part of his family. Matthew, the tax collector. Matthew, the man who collected taxes from his neighbors on behalf of the Roman occupation forces in Jerusalem. Matthew, the Jew who lived off the backs of the Jews in his community. Being a tax collector in the first century was quite different from being an IRS agent in today’s world. There was no uniform tax code, there were no big books, no guides to interpretation, and there was certainly no court of appeal. Tax collectors paid a set amount to the Roman government for the privilege of collecting taxes at specified points on roads and bridges. These taxes can be more accurately described as tolls. They were the price people paid to use the roads and bridges, and the price was at the discretion of the tax collector. He based the toll on his assessment of the person’s worth, and he charged what he thought he could get away with. He charged in hope of making a profit over the money paid for the toll concession. The more money he claimed from his neighbors, the more he could keep for himself. Matthew wasn’t necessarily a thief or a scoundrel, although some tax collectors certainly were. What we do know is the most damning facet of his occupation: that he acted as an agent of the Roman occupation.
Even as Jesus is responding to the Pharisees’ question about the people he has brought to his table, two other events happen. First, a community leader approaches Jesus, begging him to come and lay his hand on his daughter who has just died. As Jesus walks with the man, a woman whose physical condition has made her an outcast for 12 years dares to touch the fringe of his cloak, believing that even this slight contact will make her well. Instead of berating her, Jesus assures her that she is healed. He then continues to the leader’s home. He takes the dead girl’s hand and she rises from her bed. This act must surely have brought some confusion to the Pharisees, and it’s important that we pay attention to what happened and to how Matthew records this sequence of events.
First Jesus invites the tax collector—the outcast—to his table. Then he has mercy for a leader of the community and his daughter, and then he has compassion for the woman with the hemorrhage—yet another outcast. This mix of folks—those in power as well as those who are outcasts—brings me into an awareness of grace that I rarely notice. I have no trouble seeing Jesus embracing those people for whom we might feel compassion—or for whom we’d like to feel compassion. We can see him healing them, bringing them into wholeness through his acceptance. After all, there have been times when most of us have felt rejected—when we’ve been cast aside in one way or another through what seems to be no fault of our own. We take comfort in the knowledge that Jesus reaches out to us when others have turned their backs. We take comfort that his mercy will continue to enfold us, even when we feel most alone.
But what about those other times? What about those times when we’re the Pharisees—those times when we’re self-righteous and holier-than-thou? Perhaps you never have the experience of finding yourself on the side of the oh-so-righteous. Perhaps you never have the experience of finding yourself being the judge-and-jury. Perhaps you never have that experience, but I certainly do, and I’m grateful for the knowledge that Jesus has compassion for me even when I can’t find compassion for others.
The Pharisees were shocked when Jesus invited the tax collector to his table. They might have been even more shocked if they had known that they were invited also. To be included by those we seek to exclude is perhaps the greatest reminder of God’s love for us. To be included by those we seek to exclude is perhaps the greatest reminder that we are called to love our neighbors as ourselves. And perhaps that’s why he finally stopped teaching the people who followed him. Perhaps that’s why he simply gave them the bread and the wine and told them to treasure it in remembrance of him.
Perhaps that’s why he calls us to this table today.