Zacchaeus Redux

Luke 19:1-10 – Zacchaeus, the short tax collector who climbed a sycamore tree to see Jesus.

Yes, I’m short. Can we get that out of the way?
Short and rich and despised—
The triple crown of Jericho’s outcasts.

I took taxes for Rome. More than taxes, actually.
Let’s be honest—I took whatever I could,
Called it “fees” and “surcharges,”
Built my beautiful house on other people’s bread.

The righteous crossed the street when they saw me coming.
Parents used my name to frighten children:
“Eat your dinner or Zacchaeus will get you!”
As if I were some kind of monster.

Maybe I was.
Maybe when you squeeze people for Rome’s profit
And skim your share off the top,
You lose the right to humanity.

But I heard he was coming—
This Jesus who ate with tax collectors and sinners.
And I thought: maybe. Just maybe.

So I ran. Yes, ran.
Rich men don’t run in Jericho,
But I didn’t care anymore
About dignity or reputation.
What was left to lose?

The crowd was impossible—
A wall of backs and shoulders,
No one stepping aside for the tax man.
Why would they?

Then I saw the tree.
Ridiculous, I know.
A grown man climbing a sycamore
Like a child playing hide-and-seek.

But up I went,
My expensive robes hiked up,
My short legs finding purchase
In the forgiving branches.

From up there I could see him coming,
This rabbi who everyone said
Loved the unloved.
I wanted to see if it was true.

He stopped right below my tree.
Right below it.
Looked up. Saw me.
And smiled.

“Zacchaeus.”
He knew my name.
Not “hey, you up there,”
Not “tax collector,”
But my name.

“Hurry and come down,
For I must stay at your house today.”

Must. Not “would like to”
Or “if you don’t mind.”
Must—as if he needed my house
More than I needed his approval.

The crowd grumbled. Of course they did.
“He has gone to be the guest
Of a sinner.”
As if that were news.
As if everyone in Jericho
Didn’t already know.

But I was scrambling down that tree,
Suddenly eager as a child,
Suddenly welcoming him joyfully
Into the house I’d bought with stolen money.

And there, over dinner,
Something broke open inside me—
Not because he scolded me,
Not because he demanded repentance,
But because he saw me
And still wanted to eat at my table.

The words came tumbling out:
“Look, Lord, half of my possessions
I will give to the poor.
And if I have defrauded anyone,
I will pay back four times as much.”

Half my possessions. Four times repayment.
The math didn’t work—
I’d end up with nothing,
Or worse than nothing.

But for once in my life,
The math didn’t matter.
Something more valuable than wealth
Had climbed down from that tree with me:
The possibility of being human again.

“Today salvation has come to this house,”
He said, as if it were obvious,
As if everyone could see it.
“For the Son of Man came to seek and save the lost.”

Lost. That’s what I was.
Not short. Not rich. Not even despised.
Just lost.
And now found.

They still cross the street in Jericho.
Old habits die hard.
But some nights I climb that tree again—
Not to see him this time,
But to see the crowd below,
All those people who know exactly
Where they stand with God.

And I wonder if any of them
Are as lost as I was,
Just better at hiding it.

I wonder if any of them need to hear
That the Son of Man came to seek and save
Not the found, not the righteous,
But the lost.

Like me.
Short and rich and despised.
Climbing a tree to catch a glimpse
Of grace passing by.