He’s there sitting at his kiosk, his booth, his cubicle, manically shuffling through the papers, making sure everything is just so. Some might think he has a tick, a stereotypical OCD habit, but he doesn’t. He’s just organized, and everything has its place. Such a vision helps him when the authorities roll in with their demands — it’s always more: “We need a little more this month.” “Swords and spears don’t grow on trees, you know.” “You wouldn’t want something bad to happen to your people, now would you…” He knows them because he’s said them himself, in one version or another. Better to be prepared, even if that means being meticulous.
So focused on his work, he almost misses the insult hurled his way. “Hypocrite!” He looks up and can’t figure out who it was. He knows who everyone is but doesn’t know them at all — not invited to their parties, their ball games, their dinners. When he knocks on their door, they only begrudgingly open, shoving that month’s bill in his face as quickly as they can before slamming the door. Shunned by the community, left out because of his profession.
He only took this tax-collector job so he could help his mom — she had all those bills before she passed. They needed the money or else they wouldn’t have been able to keep up. They had felt like they were on a slowly sinking ship, and this job was the lifeboat. It was his duty to make sure she stayed afloat as long as possible! Don’t they remember that? Don’t they remember he’s one of them?
Of course, he said he would give up tax collecting when he didn’t need it anymore, but he got good at it and the pay was good. After all that heartache of caretaking for his mom and then her passing, a little security, a little cushion for himself couldn’t be bad, right? So what if that security came at his neighbors’ expense? They were going to have to pay someone anyway; why not him, right?
Hypocrite? Maybe. But he’s a richer hypocrite than they can hope to be. Who needs their parties, ball games, or dinners? Who needs them when he never has to wonder where his next meal comes from, or if he could get a new shirt if the old one got stained, or if he could afford to take a vacation to the lake. They say they hate him, but who would they call on when they need to build a new synagogue? Their contempt feeds his ego and self-importance, papering over whatever misgivings he might secretly hold. At least, that’s what he tells himself when lying awake deep into the night.
But he knows such justifications didn’t hold up to scrutiny. Deep down he knows the truth: tax collecting isn’t right. Charging more than what is owed only to line his own pockets — this isn’t honoring God, loving his neighbors. This isn’t what his mama taught him. This isn’t what he wanted to do and be — a sort of reverse Robin Hood, taking from the poor for the benefit of the rich (including himself.) He had dreams of making a difference, of helping the people around him, of being a teacher or a firefighter or a nurse … and now? Now he just can’t help himself. Now he’s alone. Mama gone and neighbors filled with contempt. There’s a distance between what his life is and what he hoped it would be: a brokenness whose hurt lingers.
“It’s the system! I’m trapped in a system bigger than myself!” he says to himself to console his sorrow. And that’s true, but his greed and want of comfort supersedes any attachment he has with those around him. He could have tried to break out of the system, but why do all that work and take the risk? Easier just to go along, play his part, and deal with the insults; he’s heard worse than hypocrite. Plus, he’s grown accustomed to a certain standard of living.
But then he hears a voice and is snapped out of his daydream and back to reality. “Follow me.” That’s it. That’s all that was said. That’s all that needed to be said. Like a gong, the Word reverberates long after it is spoken. It goes out and does not return empty, accomplishing what is intended. Out of nothing, something new is born. A way has been made out of no way. Deliverance has come to he who was broken and hurting.
He looks up and looks into the eyes of a man he’s never met but who seems to know everything about him and does not turn away. Jesus. He sees Jesus, the Word made flesh. And that invitation, that command really, “Follow me,” still reverberates. He hears the Word continue to sound but feels the call in his bones.
Follow me and leave that empty rat race trying to find happiness in the hollow category of “more.” Follow me and leave the self-justification and self-importance that only serve to separate you from those who would love you. Follow me and leave the excuses that keep you from seeing and feeling and believing the truth, tough as it is.
The Word that was spoken before time began, which will still be reverberating long after time ends, goes into the deepest valleys filled to the brim with hurt and the most jagged parts of his broken heart; it does not sidestep or erase or reframe but meets him right in those real places that everyone has. The Word meets him where no one, not even himself, would dare go. The Word meets him there to bring mercy: forgiveness and new life.
“Is it too good to be true?” No. It’s good because it is true.
“Follow me.” And he does. He gets up, leaves his kiosk, his booth, his cubicle and follows. He follows, leaving his corrupt job, broken vision, and hurting soul. He follows and immediately is shown that he is not alone; he never was.
He hosts a dinner party, a grill out really, and finds out that there are more like him — more who have heard the whisper of something new, something different, something hopeful. He didn’t put the word out, post it on Insta, or invite anyone — he had no one to invite, but still people came. People like him — people who are used to insults, people with skeletons in the closet, people who aren’t usually invited, and yet they are people who are willing to admit the truth of their hurt and brokenness, walking alongside others who are hurt and broken. They came and joined the party.
But of course, the Debbie Downers with the local HOA got wind of it — they always do. You know the type: the ones who think their stuff don’t stink. The ones who are all too comfortable telling other people what to do to get back on the up and up. The ones who make sure everyone knows how good and successful and right with the LORD they are. They come and try to shut the whole thing down. Why? The guests look … like they don’t fit.
“Why THOSE people here? Doesn’t he know who they are and what they have done? Can’t he get them to act right before calling, freeing, and forgiving them? There is a proper way to do things, and this isn’t it!” They’re talking about the Word, but they’re furtively side-eyeing him and all the other guests.
But then he hears the Word speak one more time.
The Word spoke, and it still reverberates throughout time to you and me right now. The Word spoke, and it still echoes into the deepest valleys of hurt and the most jagged edges of our brokenness. The Word spoke, and forgiveness and new life meet us right here and right now: “Healthy people don’t need a doctor, but sick people do. Go and learn what this means: I want mercy and not sacrifice. I didn’t come to call righteous people, but sinners” (Matt. 9:12–13).
