Caravaggio’s “The Calling of St. Matthew” brings to life the moment described in Matthew 9:9, where Jesus sees Matthew seated at the custom house and says, “Follow me.” Matthew rises and follows Him. Art historians generally agree that St. Matthew is the bearded man seated at the table, pointing to himself in surprise, as if to ask, “Me?”
By Fr. Leo Camurati, ISDA Chaplain
Christ did not come to call the righteous, but sinners. Yet the question might come to mind, what sort of sinners are we talking about? In Christ’s time, tax collectors were particularly infamous — a well-defined brand. In a time when Rome dominated the entire Mediterranean, tax collectors were responsible for extorting money from the local population. They would often go to great lengths to do this, even to the point of violence. They were widely despised for their role as collaborators; the money they were permitted to skim off the earnings certainly did not help.
Christ responds to such thievery and oppression like light, shining into the darkness. Perhaps you’ve seen Caravaggio’s “The Calling of St. Matthew,” which depicts the saint sitting amidst a retinue who, through their gestures and facial expressions, makes it clear that they do not understand what Christ is doing. But Matthew does. His eyes betray a recognition that he is being called by this divine intruder.
This light shines on much of what we know about St. Matthew but leaves one detail in the darkness — his sins. Christ does not give St. Matthew a catechism lesson on why stealing is wrong, or why colluding with an oppressive regime is dangerous to the soul. Christ does not produce the ledger of St. Matthew’s true debts. Rather, He extends a simple invitation: follow me. Leave all this tax business behind. Gold and silver will corrupt. Empires will rise and fall. All of this is vanity, chasing after wind. Transfer your assets to a heavenly account, for there your heart will follow.
Follow me.
We don’t know how far St. Matthew went in pursuit of wealth. We know as much about him as we do of our neighbor. When we see a friend, or fellow parishioner stepping out of the confessional, we don’t know his particular sins (nor do we want to), but we know that he is a sinner. And this is just as well. The Gospels have forgotten Matthew’s sins because Christ has forgiven Matthew’s sins.
This is the paradox of the Christian life, that there are sinners who convince themselves that they are saints, and true saints that know better of themselves. This applies to the great saints, even the Apostles. Even though they left everything else behind to follow Christ, they still experienced moments of weakness, and temptation. And, if we are to step out of the darkness, we must be ready to see the scars and weaknesses.
Acknowledging this weakness is important because following Christ is impossible if we try to do it on our own. This is why Christ, in our Gospel today, takes the time to exclude a group of people: the righteous. Not those who would seek to be perfected, and follow Him even in their weakness, but rather the self-righteous. These are the Pharisees who deny that there is any work to be done on them, and who scoff at the Lord as He invites the imperfect to dine at His table. The Pharisees are certainly judgmental of those who fail to meet their standards, but in another respect, they echo our culture’s attitude of “I’m okay, you’re okay.” For if they zealously seek the Law, no conversion, no transformation, is necessary.
But it is not so with us during Lent. We are not healed in order to follow the Lord. We are healed as we follow the Lord, in faith and humility. Let us take confidence in His power to act in our lives, for the Lord alone can set us straight.
This is what we share with St. Matthew. The ledger of our sins is secondary. But we have all been called Christians, and invited to follow the Lord, to follow Him to another banquet, surrounded by those who are sinners yes, but sinners transformed.
Buona Pasqua!
