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Chapter 3
Friend of Flops

Shady People
MATTHEW 9:9–13

As Jesus was going down the road, he saw Matthew sitting at his tax-collection booth. ‘Come, be my disciple,’ Jesus said to him. So Matthew got up and followed him” (Matt. 9:9 NLT).

The surprise in this invitation is the one invited—a tax collector. Combine the greed of an embezzling executive with the presumption of a hokey television evangelist. Throw in the audacity of an ambulance-chasing lawyer and the cowardice of a drive-by sniper. Stir in a pinch of a pimp’s morality, and finish it off with the drug peddler’s code of ethics—and what do you have?

A first-century tax collector.

According to the Jews, these guys ranked barely above plankton on the food chain. Caesar permitted these Jewish citizens to tax almost anything—your boat, the fish you caught, your house, your crops. As long as Caesar got his due, they could keep the rest.

Matthew was a public tax collector. Private tax collectors hired other people to do the dirty work. Public publicans, like Matthew, just pulled their stretch limos into the poor side of town and set up shop. As crooked as corkscrews.

His given name was Levi, a priestly name (Mark 2:14; Luke 5:27–28). Did his parents aspire for him to enter the priesthood? If so, he was a flop in the family circle.

You can bet he was shunned. The neighborhood cookouts? Never invited. High-school reunions? Somehow his name was left off the list. The guy was avoided like streptococcus A. Everybody kept his distance from Matthew.

Everyone except Jesus. “‘Come, be my disciple,’ Jesus said to him. So Matthew got up and followed him” (Matt. 9:9 NLT).

Matthew must have been ripe. Jesus hardly had to tug. Within a punctua-tion mark, Matthew’s shady friends and Jesus’ green followers are swapping e-mail addresses. “Then Levi gave a big dinner for Jesus at his house. Many tax collectors and other people were eating there, too” (Luke 5:29 NCV).

What do you suppose led up to that party? Let’s try to imagine. I can see Matthew going back to his office and packing up. He removes the Quisling of the Year Award from the wall and boxes up the Shady Business School certificate. His coworkers start asking questions.

“What’s up, Matt? Headed on a cruise?”

“Hey, Matthew, the Missus kick you out?”

Matthew doesn’t know what to say. He mumbles something about a job change. But as he reaches the door, he pauses. Holding his box full of office supplies, he looks back. They’re giving him hangdog looks—kind of sad, puzzled.

He feels a lump in his throat. Oh, these guys aren’t much. Parents warn their kids about this sort. Salty language. Mardi Gras morals. They keep the phone number of the bookie on speed dial. The bouncer at the Gentlemen’s Club sends them birthday cards. But a friend is a friend. Yet what can he do? Invite them to meet Jesus? Yeah, right. They like preachers the way sheep like butchers. Tell them to tune in to the religious channel on TV? Then they’d think cotton-candy hair is a requirement for following Christ. What if he snuck little Torah tracts in their desks? Nah, they don’t read.

So, not knowing what else to do, he shrugs his shoulders and gives them a nod. “These stupid allergies,” he says, rubbing the mist from one eye.

Later that day the same thing happens. He goes to the bar to settle up his account. The décor is blue-collar chic: a seedy, smoky place with a Budweiser chandelier over the pool table and a jukebox in the corner. Not the country club, but for Matthew, it’s his home on the way home. And when he tells the owner he’s moving on, the bartender responds, “Whoa, Matt. What’s comin’ down?”

Matthew mumbles an excuse about a transfer but leaves with an empty feeling in his gut.
Later on he meets up with Jesus at a diner and shares his problem. “It’s my buddies—you know, the guys at the office. And the fellows at the bar.”

“What about them?” Jesus asks.

“Well, we kinda run together, you know. I’m gonna miss ’em. Take Josh for instance—as slick as a can of Quaker State, but he visits orphans on Sunday. And Bruno at the gym? Can crunch you like a roach, but I’ve never had a better friend. He’s posted bail for me three times.”

Jesus motions for him to go on. “What’s the problem?”

“Well, I’m gonna miss those guys. I mean, I’ve got nothing against Peter and James and John, Jesus . . . but they’re Sunday morning, and I’m Saturday night. I’ve got my own circle, ya know?”

Jesus starts to smile and shake his head. “Matthew, Matthew, you think I came to quarantine you? Following me doesn’t mean forgetting your friends. Just the opposite. I want to meet them.”

“Are you serious?”

“Is the high priest a Jew?”

“But, Jesus, these guys . . . half of them are on parole. Josh hasn’t worn socks since his Bar Mitzvah . . .”

“I’m not talking about a religious service, Matthew. Let me ask you—what do you like to do? Bowl? Play Monopoly? How’s your golf game?”

Matthew’s eyes brighten. “You ought to see me cook. I get on steaks like a whale on Jonah.”

“Perfect.” Jesus smiles. “Then throw a little going-away party. A hang-up-the-clipboard bash. Get the gang together.”

Matthew’s all over it. Calling the caterer, his housekeeper, his secretary. “Get the word out, Thelma. Drinks and dinner at my house tonight. Tell the guys to come and bring a date.”

And so Jesus ends up at Matthew’s house, a classy split-level with a view of the Sea of Galilee. Parked out front is everything from BMWs to Harleys to limos. And the crowd inside tells you this is anything but a clergy conference.

Earrings on the guys and tattoos on the girls. Moussified hair. Music that rumbles teeth roots. And buzzing around in the middle of the group is Matthew, making more connections than an electrician. He hooks up Peter with the tax collector bass club and Martha with the kitchen staff. Simon the Zealot meets a high-school debate partner. And Jesus? Beaming. What could be better? Sinners and saints in the same room, and no one’s trying to determine who is which. But an hour or so into the evening the door opens, and an icy breeze blows in. “The Pharisees and the men who taught the law for the Pharisees began to complain to Jesus’ followers, ‘Why do you eat and drink with tax collectors and sinners?’” (Luke 5:30 NCV).

Enter the religious police and their thin-lipped piety. Big black books under arms. Cheerful as Siberian prison guards. Clerical collars so tight that veins bulge. They like to grill too. But not steaks.

Matthew is the first to feel the heat. “Some religious fellow you are,” one says, practically pulling an eyebrow muscle. “Look at the people you hang out with.”

Matthew doesn’t know whether to get mad or get out. Before he has time to choose, Jesus intervenes, explaining that Matthew is right where he needs to be. “Healthy people don’t need a doctor—sick people do. I have come to call sinners to turn from their sins, not to spend my time with those who think they are already good enough” (vv. 31–32 NLT).

Quite a story. Matthew goes from double-dealer to disciple. He throws a party that makes the religious right uptight, but Christ proud. The good guys look good, and the bad guys hit the road. Some story indeed.

What do we do with it?

That depends on which side of the tax collector’s table you find yourself. You and I are Matthew. Don’t look at me that way. There’s enough hustler in the best of us to qualify for Matthew’s table. Maybe you’ve never taken taxes, but you’ve taken liberty with the truth, taken credit that wasn’t yours, taken advantage of the weak. You and me? Matthew.

If you’re still at the table, you receive an invitation. “Follow me.” So what if you’ve got a rube reputation? So did Matthew. You may end up writing your own gospel.

If you’ve left the table, you receive a clarification. You don’t have to be weird to follow Jesus. You don’t have to stop liking your friends to follow him. Just the opposite. A few introductions would be nice. Do you know how to grill a steak?

Sometime ago I was asked to play a game of golf. The foursome included two preachers, a church leader, and a “Matthew, B.C.” The thought of four hours with three Christians, two of whom were pulpiteers, did not appeal to him. His best friend, a Christ follower and his boss, insisted, so he agreed. I’m happy to report that he proclaimed the experience painless. On the ninth hole he turned to one of us and said, smiling, “I’m so glad you guys are normal.” I think he meant this: “I’m glad you didn’t get in my face or club me with a King James driver. Thanks for laughing at my jokes and telling a few yourself. Thanks for being normal.” We didn’t lower standards. But neither did we saddle a high horse. We were nice. Normal and nice.

Discipleship is sometimes defined by being normal.

A woman in a small Arkansas community was a single mom with a frail baby. Her neighbor would stop by every few days and keep the child so she could shop. After some weeks her neighbor shared more than time; she shared her faith, and the woman did what Matthew did. She followed Christ.

The friends of the young mother objected. “Do you know what those people teach?” they contested.

“Here is what I know,” she told them. “They held my baby.”

I think Jesus likes that kind of answer, don’t you?