Apostolate: Matthew

I have always identified with Abraham. Or at least, I have always wanted to. His story begins so boring and benign, and expands to children more numerous than the stars in the night sky… including us.

Abraham, known then as Abram, lived in Ur, at the very beginning of civilization on earth, in a city bustling with life. Abram was surrounded by family, familiarity, and the steady (normal) rhythms of daily life. He was settled, comfortable, ordinary. His days were filled with the tasks of tending livestock, managing household affairs—normal daily life for the time. It seems he was a man of habit, not headlines; a man whose story, if it ended there, would have been lost to history—a name among names, if even that, and nothing more.

There was nothing dramatic about Abram’s beginnings. No burning bushes, no thunder from the heavens, no epic battles or miracles. Just the slow, steady tick of time in a land where time moved so slowly that nothing much ever seemed to change. Abram was, in every way, a man living a boring, benign life.

But then—God spoke. And EVERYTHING changed.

Everything changed for the disciples, we know that, but in the text today, we learn that the circle has been drawn wider than the inner circle—wider than those original twelve friends. Picture it: Jesus, the dust clinging to his sandals, gathers a band of seventy folks, hangers-on—potentially ones who shared in the bread and fish at the feeding of the thousands, perhaps ones who heard from John that the Messiah was here. Seventy folks, ready and willing to travel to tell his story.

No, these were not the twelve—not the ones with front-row seats to miracles and parables—but seventy others who heard the story or saw a flash of glory. Ordinary folks. Women and men with calloused hands, uncertain hearts, and names we’ll never know. Jesus looks them in the eye, each one, and sends them out two by two—never alone—not as soldiers or experts, but as humble travelers bearing peace and the Word of God in their hearts.

“The harvest is plentiful,” he says, “but the workers are few.”

It’s easy to imagine Matthew watching this scene from the edges, still uncertain if he belongs. He still remembers the day Jesus found him in his tax booth, the clink of coins still echoing in his ears. He remembers the scandal, the sideways glances, the heartbreaking rumors, the whispered names. Yet Jesus called him—not because he had it all together, but because he was willing to leave his old story behind.

“The harvest is plentiful,” he says, “but the workers are few.” It’s not a recruitment pitch, but an invitation to trust that God is already growing in the fields of the world—God is already planting life in fields of loneliness, of longing, of hope waiting to be found. Jesus doesn’t hand them a map or a manual. He doesn’t act as their sherpa on the mountain of faith. He tells them to travel light—no purse, no bag, no sandals. Just themselves, and the message that God’s kingdom is near.

He knows there will be doors slammed in their faces, tables where they are not welcome, towns that will not listen. But there will also be homes that open, bread broken together, and peace that settles among them, miraculously making family where there was none before. Jesus tells them: “When you enter a house, say, ‘Peace to this house.’” If peace is received, it stays; if not, it returns to you. It’s a journey of vulnerability.

Jesus sends them not to fix anything or to judge the wicked—not even to feed, but to be fed, hospitality received and peace given, not bread. They are sent to bless, to heal, to announce that God is already at work. Just notice it and hop on for the ride that God has already started. The seventy go out as witnesses—carrying nothing but the good news, nothing more than that.

The seventy are sent out, but Matthew was called in. As a tax collector, he was always an outsider—marked by suspicion and contempt, seen as a traitor to his people and an agent of Rome. His work made him wealthy but unwelcome, his table full of coins but empty of friends. To most, Matthew was beyond hope or trust, a man defined by compromise and rejection. Yet when Jesus passed by his tax booth, he saw not a pariah but a person—someone worth inviting, someone whose story could be rewritten by grace. In a single, startling moment, Jesus called Matthew in from the margins, and Matthew, leaving everything, stepped into a new community where even outsiders could become apostles.

He was invited to “come and see”—to witness the mercy that rewrites every person’s story, heals every reputation. But the story doesn’t end there. The same Jesus who says, “Come and see,” also says, “Go and tell.” The grace that gathers us in also sends us out.

In the church, it is the same—Jesus invites us with “come and see,” but sends us outward saying, “Go and tell.” We are gathered by grace, but scattered for the sake of all creation—called beyond our old names and stories, and sent to bring peace, hope, and healing, in the name of Christ, wherever we go.

Abraham’s story begins so boring and benign. No drama, no miracles, just the slow tick of time. But then—God spoke. And everything changed. It’s the same with the seventy. Ordinary people, unknown names, but then Jesus spoke. And everything changed. They were called out of the crowd and sent into the world with nothing but a blessing and a promise that God was already at work.

And then there’s Matthew. Always on the outside, always marked by his work and choices, but then Jesus spoke. And everything changed. Jesus called him in. Jesus saw past the labels, past the shame, and offered him a new story.

This is the pattern of the gospel: God calls us in, and then God sends us out. God finds us in the middle of our ordinary, sometimes boring, sometimes broken lives, and speaks a word that changes everything.

So here is the call, for you and for me: Don’t wait for your life to become extraordinary before you listen for God’s voice. Don’t believe the lie that only the insiders, the experts, or the holy are sent. God is calling you, right now, from your ordinary, from your edges, from your doubts and routines.

God is gathering you in, rewriting your story with mercy, and then sending you out—into your neighborhood, your workplace, your family, your world—to be a witness, a peacemaker, a bearer of hope.

In the church, Jesus invites us with “come and see,” but sends us outward with “Go and tell.” May we have the courage to answer both calls: To come and see. To go and tell. And to trust that God will meet us in both.

Amen.

Photo by Jan KIM on Unsplash