Do you remember The Wonder Years on television? It was all about the trials and tribulations of growing up in the '60s. In one episode, two of the youthful heroes were coming into the school cafeteria — "Where do you want to sit?" one asked the other ... a critical decision for these two seventh graders. Their anxious faces surveyed the options. Over here were the "cool" kids; over there were the "smart" kids; along the wall were the "greasers"; the "nerds" were in the back. It was a big decision. After all, in junior high school, "who you are" is defined less by "who you are" than by who is the person sitting next to you at lunch. We all remember it very well.

What brings that to mind is this very familiar gospel story. Here was arguably the best-known itinerant rabbi of his day sitting down to eat with a rather motley and disreputable crew. We have heard the story so often that we are not at all shocked by it anymore. From the time we were yea big, we have known that Jesus is the friend of outcasts and sinners. That is good. That is his job, we think ... to love everybody ... especially us. It is a warm, fuzzy picture, and we think, "How mean of those nasty scribes and Pharisees to object."

Oh, really? Perhaps to understand the story better, we should recast that dinner party scene to the twenty-first century to see how we would react, keeping in mind that, even as grown-ups, we are defined by those with whom we associate.

To begin with, the host is not a tax collector — we do not hate those folks. We might think they are aggravating or intimidating, especially if they call us for an audit, but we do not hate them. The host of this party must be someone completely despicable. Instead of a revenuer, this large and expensive home belongs to the biggest drug kingpin in Miami. His bodyguards stand at the perimeter of the property, cradling AK-47's in their arms, watching carefully as people arrive.

A liveried butler ushers the guests into an elegantly furnished hall where our host welcomes and chats with one after another. We move into the brightly lighted room and check out those in attendance.

Over here is a certain Ms. Biddle, sometimes known as the Mayflower Madam. Several of her attractive (ahem) "associates" are with her. Laughing and talking with them are Playboy's Hugh Hefner, Harry Reems of porno movie fame, and a fellow with long, unkempt hair who smells like he just dashed over from his job at the fish cannery. Whew! Someone whispers to you that he is a rock star. Ah-h-h!

Over in the corner are three men in Middle Eastern garb in serious conversation. You recognize one of them. He is Sheik Omar Abdel-Rahman, the blind Egyptian cleric who preaches such violence that his followers bombed the World Trade Center. He continues to enjoy US hospitality while appealing his deportation order.

Seated over here is one well-dressed but very thin young man who has trouble joining in with the others — he has trouble mustering the energy to stay upright — he tells folks it is just the aftereffect of a vicious bout with the flu, but it is not. He has AIDS. Standing next to his chair, holding his hand, is his boyfriend.

Those are just a few. Gathered in this room is a virtual "Who's Who" of those who would be unacceptable in reputable society. Who is the guest of honor among this wealthy riff-raff? What decent person would be seen in company with such a bunch, much less enjoying himself? Who else? The president of the United States. (Gotcha!)

Would that surprise or shock us? Of course it would. The scribes of the editorial page and the Pharisees of the pulpit would have a field day! Our president should know that, just as in seventh grade, our reputation is determined by those with whom we associate, those with whom we party, those with whom we sit in the cafeteria of this world.

Scribes and Pharisees have not changed much, have they? They had the same problem in the gospel story as we would have with our president. This Jesus was a well-known and respected rabbi who should have known better than to be seen with Levi and his crowd, the first-century equivalent of the group we have just envisioned. Decent people would have avoided them like the plague, and would never have sat down to eat with them.

It is no wonder Jesus got into trouble. He refused to play by society's rules. He came into the cafeteria and was willing to sit with anyone who needed him. He cared too much to be careful. Not that he would get down to the level of his companions, but simply by sitting and eating with them, would raise them to his.

Suddenly, we find ourselves in church. We are about to commemorate a dinner party long ago. Jesus, himself, was the host. There was more riff-raff — common folk — laborers, fishermen, no one really special. There was even one there who, within hours, would betray him, another who would deny he ever knew him. For three years he had sat with them in the cafeteria of this world. Now he was inviting them to eat from his plate and drink from his cup ... not because of who they were, but because of who he was, and who they might become.

Suddenly, another dinner. Right here in the sanctuary. The address on the invitation sounds strangely familiar: "... not the righteous, but sinners." Riff-raff, again? That's right. People whose sins are scarlet, and people whose sins are just tattletale gray ... you and me ... invited, not because of who we are, but because of who he is, and who we might become.