Ep. Mark 2:13–17 The Call No One Saw Coming

Then He went out again by the sea; and all the multitude came to Him, and He taught them. As He passed by, He saw Levi the son of Alphaeus sitting at the tax office. And He said to him, ‘Follow Me.’ So he arose and followed Him. Now it happened, as He was dining in Levi’s house, that many tax collectors and sinners also sat together with Jesus and His disciples; for there were many, and they followed Him. And when the scribes and Pharisees saw Him eating with the tax collectors and sinners, they said to His disciples, ‘How is it that He eats and drinks with tax collectors and sinners?’ When Jesus heard it, He said to them, ‘Those who are well have no need of a physician, but those who are sick. I did not come to call the righteous, but sinners, to repentance. Mark 2:13–17, NKJV)

Step back with me into Galilee. The shoreline is alive with noise—nets drying, gulls circling, fishermen yelling as they drag in the day’s catch. The smell of fish and sweat hangs heavy in the air. Jesus walks that road again, a crowd pressing in, eager for more. Then His steps slow at a booth everyone hates but no one can avoid: the tax office.

And there sits Levi. He’s not just disliked—he’s despised. A traitor. A thief. A man who pads his own pockets by squeezing his neighbors for Rome. In Jewish eyes, he’s scum. A rabbi wouldn’t even glance his way. But Jesus doesn’t glance—He stares. And He says the unthinkable: “Follow Me.”

The crowd must have gagged. No rabbi in his right mind would call a man like this. It would be like a pastor today making his first disciple a porn producer, a drug dealer, or a corrupt lobbyist. Offensive. Disgusting. That’s the point. Jesus calls the one no one else would touch.

And Levi—without a word—stands up. He leaves the coins, the ledger, the whole booth. Luke tells us he “left everything.” This wasn’t just quitting a job. This was burning his bridge to Rome. Once he walked away, there was no going back.

By evening, Levi’s house is alive with voices and laughter. The table groans under bread, fish, and wine. But the guest list is scandalous. Not synagogue leaders, not respectable neighbors—just other tax collectors, other outcasts, people the Pharisees labeled “sinners.” They fill the room, and at the center Jesus reclines, eating with them like family.

And that’s when the Pharisees show up, arms folded, eyes narrowed. For them, table fellowship isn’t casual—it’s covenantal. Who you eat with defines who you are. And here’s this supposed rabbi, shoulder-to-shoulder with traitors and the unclean. They sneer, not at Jesus but at His disciples: “Why does your Teacher eat with tax collectors and sinners?”

Jesus doesn’t let the accusation dangle. His reply slices clean: “Those who are well have no need of a physician, but those who are sick. I didn’t come to call the righteous, but sinners, to repentance. Go and learn what this means: ‘I desire mercy, not sacrifice.’”

That wasn’t a soft analogy. It was a confrontation. He’s saying, “If you think you’re healthy, you’ll die in your delusion. Only the sick get healed. Only sinners get saved.” To the Pharisees, it was a slap in the face. To Levi and his friends, it was hope for the first time in years.

And here’s where it gets uncomfortable. Because we like to boo the Pharisees, but their question is the one we ask too—just more politely. Why is Jesus blessing people who don’t deserve it? Why is He comfortable with “those” people? We want a church that grows, but if we’re honest, we want it to grow with people who already look like us.

I learned this firsthand years ago while pastoring in a small northern town in Alberta. One Friday night, I decided to go out and share the gospel on the street. I invited the church, the elders, everyone. Not one person came—except a man who’d once been a Baptist pastor, thrown out because he became a charismatic. So off we went, just the two of us, onto the streets—and eventually into a bar.

That’s where we met a woman I’ll call Molly. She was well-known in town for her reputation. That night she was drunker than skunk, but quoting Scripture like she’d just stepped out of a revival tent. By the end of the conversation, I knew she had a heart that God wasn’t finished with.

The next Sunday, Molly showed up in church. And the reaction was instant. People weren’t rejoicing—they were horrified. They wanted growth, yes. But what they really wanted was a church that grew with respectable people. Safe people. Clean people. What they didn’t want was Molly.

That’s when it hit me: the Pharisee spirit never really died. It’s alive in every church that wants mercy in theory but sacrifice in practice. It’s alive in every Christian who says “reach the lost” but means “reach the ones who already look saved.”

This story still cuts both ways. If you’re the outsider—written off, despised, shamed—hear this: Jesus calls you. He doesn’t wait for you to fix yourself. He calls you filthy, because He’s the Physician who makes you whole.

If you’re the insider—comfortable, religious, respectable—hear this warning: you might be too healthy in your own eyes to ever reach for the cure. The Pharisees thought they were guarding holiness, but they were rejecting mercy. And that blindness can still kill souls today.

And if you’re the disciple caught in the middle, here’s your challenge: following Jesus means sitting at tables that make polite people nervous. It means risking the sneers of the self-righteous to welcome those Jesus welcomes.

The question that hung over Levi’s house still hangs over ours: will we pretend we’re well, or admit we’re sick? Only those who know their need ever reach for the Physician. Everyone else dies with their arms folded, horrified that “Molly” came to church.