Romans 4.13-end & Matthew 9.9-13,18-26
In today's Gospel, Jesus seeks to unsettle us.
First he calls a tax collector to follow him – one who was reviled in his day for being something of a traitor and religious outcast, collecting money from their own people to enrich themselves and to fund the occupying Roman Empire.
Then he sits down to eat with others shunned by society, and allows a woman who has been excluded because of her illness to touch him. And finally, he enters the home of a grieving family, embraces the taboo of death itself, and restores a young girl to life.
These stories may seem separate – a barrage of activity in a day full of encounters - but they are not. They are connected by a common thread: Jesus consistently moving toward those whom society pushes away.
Matthew, the tax collector, was not merely disliked; he was considered morally compromised, a collaborator with an oppressive system. Yet Jesus passes by his tax booth and says simply, "Follow me." There is no interrogation, no probationary period, no demand that Matthew first prove himself worthy. Jesus sees him, calls him, and welcomes him into community. And then he shares a meal with him.
And meals, as you know, matter in the Gospels. To eat with someone is to recognize their dignity, to acknowledge their humanity, to say, "There is room for you here."
When the religious leaders object, Jesus responds, "I desire mercy, not sacrifice." The issue is not whether holiness matters. The issue is whether holiness creates barriers or bridges.
Jesus reveals a holiness that draws near rather than pulls away. His concern is not preserving social boundaries but extending God's mercy.
The challenge for the Church is obvious.
It is often easier to speak about welcome than to practice it. Radical hospitality sounds beautiful until the people arriving are different from us, challenge our assumptions, or make us uncomfortable.
Yet Jesus repeatedly demonstrates that God's kingdom expands at the margins. The people who are overlooked, judged, excluded, or forgotten are often the very people Jesus seeks first.
We see this again in the story of the woman suffering from haemorrhages. For twelve years she has lived with illness and exclusion. According to the social and religious customs of her day, she would have been isolated from much of community life.
She approaches Jesus quietly, hoping only to touch the fringe of his cloak. Notice what Jesus does. He does not scold her. He does not recoil from her touch. He turns and sees her. Before healing her body, he restores her dignity. "Take heart, daughter."
What a powerful word: daughter. In a society that had reduced her to her condition, Jesus gives her back her identity. He names her as family. Radical hospitality begins with seeing people as God sees them—not as labels, categories, problems, or outsiders, but as beloved children of God.
The same pattern appears in the story of the ruler's daughter. Everyone around Jesus sees death, finality, and impossibility. Jesus sees potential for life. He enters a place of grief and transforms it into a place of hope.
Again and again, Jesus crosses boundaries that others considered untouchable. He touches the unclean. He welcomes the unwelcome. He restores the excluded. He brings life where others see only endings.
The good news of this Gospel is not simply that Jesus welcomed others long ago. The good news is that Jesus continues to welcome us.
Every one of us knows what it is like to feel unworthy, unseen, or excluded. Every one of us carries wounds, fears, regrets, and burdens that can make us wonder whether we truly belong. The answer of the Gospel is clear: Christ calls us anyway. He calls Matthew from the tax booth. He calls the woman from the crowd. He calls the girl from death itself.
But in the Gospel, a call is never simply an invitation to stay where we are. It is also a commissioning.
When Jesus called Matthew, he was not merely rescuing him from isolation; he was sending him into a new way of life. Matthew would become a disciple, a witness, and eventually the bearer of the Gospel itself.
The pattern of discipleship is always the same: we are welcomed by grace and then sent in love.
We gather around Christ's table so that we can be sent into God's world.
We receive mercy so that we can show mercy. We experience hospitality so that we can become hospitable people.
We are included in God's family so that we can extend that family circle ever wider.
And so the Church is called to be more than a place of welcome. It is called to be a people on a mission. Every act of inclusion, every gesture of compassion, every barrier removed, every stranger welcomed, every lonely person befriended becomes a sign of God's kingdom breaking into the world.
The question before us is not whether we have been welcomed by God. We have. The question is where God is sending us next. Who sits outside our circle? Who longs to be seen? Who has been told they do not belong? Who is waiting for someone to make room at the table? Jesus shows us the way. He walks toward them. He sits beside them. He calls them by name. And then he sends us to do likewise.
This calling feels especially urgent in our own time. We live in a world marked by deep divisions. Wars continue to force families from their homes. Refugees and migrants seek safety and belonging. Political discourse often encourages us to view those who are different from us with suspicion rather than curiosity. Many people feel isolated despite being more connected digitally than ever before.
In such a world, the Gospel's vision of radical hospitality is not a sentimental ideal; it is a prophetic witness.
When Jesus sat at table with those whom others rejected, he challenged the fear and exclusion of his day. When he called Matthew, he crossed social and moral boundaries. When he welcomed the woman who reached out in desperation, he restored someone whom society had pushed to the margins. The same Christ calls his Church today.
Not necessarily to solve every global crisis, but to embody a different way of being human. A way that begins with seeing the image of God in another person before seeing a label. A way that chooses encounter over fear, relationship over suspicion, and mercy over judgment.
The great challenges of our age can seem overwhelming. Yet the kingdom of God often begins with small acts of welcome: a conversation with a stranger, friendship offered across differences, advocacy for those whose voices are unheard, a congregation that makes room for those who wonder whether they belong.
In a world that too often asks, "Who is my neighbour?" Jesus asks a different question: "Will you be a neighbour?" That is the mission to which we are sent.
So when we leave this place today, let us go as people who have encountered the radical hospitality of Christ and who are ready to carry that hospitality into our homes, our workplaces, our neighbourhoods, and our communities.
For in the kingdom of God, there is always another place at the table - and God sends us out to prepare it.
Amen.