Matthew 9 is getting us to ask ourselves, would I rather be liked, admired, and always scandal-free, or would I rather be like Jesus? Much of the time, maybe most of the time, we won’t have to choose. But at some point, we will.
More specifically, would we rather always have a seat at the “cool kids’” table? (We don’t grow out of the desire for proximity to those who are the most admired and respected just because we’re “grown ups.”) Or, would we rather Jesus liberate us from the desire to be at the cool kids’ table in the first place?
Jesus comes across a tax collector named Matthew and calls on him to be a disciple (Matthew 9:9-13). A normal work day for Matthew probably involves one angry customer after another. So when a rabbi stands before him, not with a complaint about taxes, but with an invitation to take a journey with the Son of God, he does not hesitate to accept the invitation.
Then comes a meal. Jesus, Matthew, and the disciples are there. Many other tax collectors are there too. One gets the impression that these tax collectors have to rely on each other for community; no one else is inviting them to dinner. It’s little surprise that this invites controversy. “Why does your teacher eat with tax collectors and sinners?” the Pharisees ask Jesus’ disciples. This is the opposite of the cool kids’ table. This is a crowd that any respectably religious person would avoid at all costs. It’s a real mystery to these religious leaders. Why is Jesus so popular when he surrounds himself with such unpopular people? What a riddle. What a scandal.
Jesus gives an answer so obvious that we all overlooked it. You won’t find healthy people visiting a doctor, but sick people. Doesn’t it make all the sense in the world for Jesus to spend his time, and his dinner plans, with the most spiritually sick people (which includes the Pharisees – a fact only the Pharisees cannot see). Then, Jesus says to them, “Go and learn what this means.” He’s giving them homework? It’s no wonder they don’t like him. When someone you believe to be wrong is telling you that you’ve got some more learning to do, it doesn’t sit quite right. “Go and learn what this means,” Jesus says, drawing from Hosea 6, “I desire mercy, not sacrifice.” I desire that more people be brought to the table more than I desire religious excellence. I desire that mercy finally be shown to those who never receive it more than I desire an elite fraternity of rule followers. Mercy, not sacrifice. Sacrifice, and the whole religious machine surrounding it, can run for a long time without mercy or grace or compassion ever finding its way in. But then mercy appears and throws a heaping pile of dynamite into that machine. Mercy is a virus in the programming of religious respectability.
Mercy is the name we give to the heart of God that looks at followers of Jesus and looks at tax collectors and sinners and looks at prim and proper Pharisees and says to all: come to the table.
You belong at the table with Jesus. But so does “that” person that you’d rather not share a table with. Go ahead and earn your seat at the cool kids’ table. Jesus will be sitting somewhere else.
Do you find that offensive? Off-putting? Disturbing? Scandalous? You wouldn’t be the first.