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Luke 19:1-10 · Zacchaeus the Tax Collector
The Gospel of the Little Man
Luke 19:1-10
Sermon
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Children of all ages quickly recognize Zacchaeus as the little man who shimmied up a sycamore in Jericho to get a glimpse of Jesus as he passed through town. His story has long been a favorite with the children of the church schools, especially those who have experience in climbing trees. His image is imprinted on the mental screen of everyone familiar with the story, for when pilgrims tour the Holy Land and come to Jericho, to see a sycamore rates high in their priorities, and travel guides who find exhibits in the land of Jesus for nearly everything the Bible mentions seldom disappoint them. A sycamore remains in Jericho to satisfy the curious.

But the little man deserves to be remembered for much more than being up a tree. He may have been a little man, small of stature, as the record has it, but he stood tall among the tax collectors in the region. He was the chief publican. He was also in the upper economic echelon of Jericho - very rich. And we remember, too, that on the list of those we love to hate, Zacchaeus held the top spot with his fellow town folk. He had sold out, not only in his compromise with Romans, but to avarice and greed, and his wealth had been accumulated as a traitor to his people. He collected taxes for the hated Romans, adding his own charges to the tax bill. Only when these facets of his character are in perspective does his story slip from the branches of the sycamore and land on us.

The Nub of the Account

The nub of the account is in the stated mission of our Lord: "The Son of man has come to seek and to save the lost," and that’s religion talk which many find impossible to understand. Another lesson in the story takes the measure of our penitence as we observe Zacchaeus yielding fruits appropriate to penitence while we have little more to say than "Pardon me, Lord, mea culpa." Or do we find our place among the city folk of Jericho as whisperers of the unrighteous prejudice that blossoms so profusely in the company of self-styled better people, defines the sinner on its own self-righteous terms, and excludes him? They murmured when they saw that Jesus went to be the guest of one who was a sinner, and they were stunned when Jesus said of him, "He also is a son of Abraham."

Recently I read the comments of a man who deals professionally with troubled people. "You see," he wrote, "the church is not for sinners." He explained that it’s a place where people come together to affirm their own well-being, not with a sense of guilt, but with a show of righteousness. Listen to the whispered chatter when someone in the company has fallen from their righteous heights. If we think we have no sin, this one is on our record, certainly.

If We Could Have Been There

We wish we might have been there as silent listeners to the conversation when the Savior visited Zacchaeus in his home. We might wish we could have seen the change that in this brief time came over him as Jesus saved the sinner, that we could have read his face when Jesus spoke the word of restoration, or experienced the pathos of his heart when lost Zacchaeus knew he had been found. There is a way we can be there. We can understand how small we have become, and come down from our tree now to be confronted by the living Word. Forget Zacchaeus for the moment. The lost whom Jesus seeks and saves have even more familiar names.

Our Story

The Gospel of the Little Man is one that tells our story. It refuses to be left behind in Jericho. It attaches to a desperate need that all of us have known in one way or another - the need, perhaps, created by a desperate outcast feeling, when we have concentrated on our negatives, consigned ourselves to that vast company of little people who are often regarded as of no account. This is not the story of the hot-shot member of the Kingdom from whose up-turned nostrils drip judgments on the little people. It is not the story of a parish godfather whose intention is to make others over in his perfect image. It is not the story of respected righteous people. It is the story of a man who was a sinner, and who in his heart sensed something of his lostness. It is our story. And in a day of shame and self-despising, if our own self-image has grown rusty, we can find new hope in him who seeks and saves the lost.

Little People Count

The story has been told of one of our great choral masters, that one day as he rehearsed his choir, the singers sloughed off on the eighth notes. He stomped hard on the podium, threw his baton against the wall in anger, stopped the choir in its chords, and shouted, "Eighth notes are little people. Pay attention to the little people."

Jesus pays attention to the little people. His mission was to seek and save the lost, the hurting, the despised, the outcast, whether they were always cognizant of being lost or not. He spoke of joy in heaven over one lost sinner who repents, one lost sheep that has been found, one lost coin returned. He spoke the justifying word on one lost sinner in the temple who could only beg for mercy. Here in Jericho he interrupted his procession to Jerusalem, where he would give himself for all the world, to give himself for this one sinner who was lost. When he comes to us wherever we might be, he calls us by our names: "Zacchaeus, hasten and come down. Today I want to have a talk with you." Can we, then, each one of us, come down, receive him joyfully, and listen to his word of grace?

Personal Salvation

Note, please, that salvation is personal. God so loved the world, indeed, but in Jesus, God gets personal. He is not a God-in-general who rides a chariot in distant regions of the universe, surveying his creation with a loving attitude. Nor does he love the crowd in general, "the community" (as churches like to call it), where each of us can hide and still be swept along somehow. "He’s got the whole world in his hands," but he’s got you and me, baby, in his hands as well. The best is that he knows us by our names, that he can read our hearts, that he knows our peril, and that he touches each of us personally with his love. We can say he is "our God," and "we believe," but we can also say he is "my God," and "I believe."

If we dare speculate on what that confrontation with Zacchaeus, face to face, involved, I think that it involved a lot of listening. Discipleship begins, not with our talking, but with our listening; not with our words, but with his Word. It certainly involved soul-searching at its deepest level, for however tall this man had stood among his peers or on the economic scene, a sense of smallness in another sense came over him. He was confronted in that visit by the mercy of the Lord in person. He saw and felt a love reach out to him that he had never known or felt before. In the man of Nazareth, Zacchaeus found more than he had anticipated.

No Merchandise

Jesus did not try to sell himself. He never did. He used no evangelistic formula to work conversion. He offered no mini-course in theological dogmatics, conducted no special classes for inquirers, suggested no guidelines for new members in the family of Abraham. He gave this little man the greatest gift that he could give. He gave himself. And this little man, whose tallness in one sense became his smallness in another sense, stood tall again. He was redeemed, restored, forgiven.

We should also add that Zacchaeus did not try to merchandise himself, present a resume of his accomplishments, his past experience, and his impressive references. The resume can be terribly deceiving, as those of us well know who have been stung by seif-sales-personship and have hired on a nerd whose only claim to brilliance was the power of deception. Undoubtedly, despite his riches, Zacchaeus never felt poorer, and though small of stature, never felt smaller. But whatever he had sought when he climbed up the sycamore was less than he received before the day was done. He became a walking miracle as he experienced the radical reversal of whatever life had been. More important, he had witnessed in our Lord the miracle that heaven’s love had given in the gift sent forth to seek and save the lost. He witnessed Jesus Christ, and in the brief encounter of this hour, he inherited the riches that made all his other riches worthless. He was given stature that no meter stick can measure.

Expectation and Surprise

Whatever prompted this little man to drop his dignity and climb the sycamore we cannot say, except that in his curiosity he sought a passing glimpse of this strange character from Nazareth whose name was on the lips of people everywhere. That he was prompted by a sense of personal need, or by a strong desire in his heart for mercy and a healing of his personal relationship with God and with his fellow citizens in Jericho - this, it seems to me, would push the story much too far. People do strange things and sometimes lose their dignity for lesser reasons, like chasing foul balls in the stadium. I hardly think this little fellow had a psycho problem, or that he felt a spiritual dilemma, or that his life was up a tree in any other way. But before the sun had set that afternoon, Zacchaeus was surprised beyond the wildest expectation with a healing that he never realized was in his catalogue of need.

Careful! Not Too Close!

Perhaps the story of Zacchaeus illustrates the reason why so many take great care to keep their guard up, hold Jesus at arm’s length, when all that they are seeking is a passing glimpse. They will brush against the manger in a Christmas worship. They come to smell the lilies Easter morning. But if he gets too close, or if he suddenly steps forward from the manger or the tomb to visit with us in our homes, those areas of life that we have carefully protected from his interference might be penetrated. Our need for him would then be clear as crystal, and his supply for our deep need a miracle that would upset our every value, attitude, relationship, and corner of our beings.

We recall the parable about a man who planned to build a tower, but who first sat down to estimate the cost. Not a bad idea. When we calculate the cost, we conclude that either we prefer not or we cannot. A rich young ruler came to Jesus with the question, "Tell me what I have to do to gain eternal life." The commandments were old hat, and he had mastered them. He wanted something more significant. But Jesus penetrated through the grease around the question, telling him to sell everything he had and give the proceeds to the poor. The price was too exorbitant. The man was sad, for he was rich. His way to life was blocked.

When we measure stature by the stocks we own, or in terms of our impressive peers, or on the applause meter of public acclaim, when self becomes the center of existence, the cost of being tall in Christ is much too high. The treasure of the living word is worthless in our sight, and life pursues its bitter and relentless course to tragedy. It is simply fact that when our universe is built around ourselves, it cannot get any smaller. Life quickly loses equilibrium and everything becomes disjointed.

"The half of my goods I give to the poor," Zacchaeus said. "And if I have defrauded anyone of anything, I restore it fourfold." It was not as though he questioned it. Fraud had been his lifestyle. His response expressed the fruits appropriate to penitence, not to gain eternal life, but in thanksgiving for the gift he had received.

Specific Salvation

This the Bible calls salvation. For Zacchaeus it meant salvation from the tyranny of things, a total break from the injustice he had practiced all his life, release from seeing town folk as potential customers and objects of his rip-off racket. Greed was transformed to generosity. Guilt was washed away in forgiveness. The barriers were broken down, and he, too, was acknowledged as a son of Abraham.

Salvation means many things in the Bible, but it is always specific, never nebulous. For blind Bartimaeus it meant salvation from his blindness. For the woman taken in adultery it meant freedom from condemnation. For the dying thief it meant the promise of paradise. And when you and I know what we need to be saved from, salvation is real and salvation is the gift of Jesus Christ. From an empty life, from the inner anguish of destroyed relationships, from the grief of loss, from tormenting guilt over those specific sins that clutch our throats, from the bondage of a habit we are powerless to break, from the fear of death - from these we look for salvation, freedom, deliverance. Jesus came to save - save you and me. From what?

Saved For What?

Is there now a warm response to the miracle that Christ has worked for us? Is there a response to demonstrate the miracle that he has worked in us? Those whom we have hurt, offended, lied against, betrayed, oppressed - do they wait in vain for restitution or the simple word, "Forgive me"? The homeless and the hungry, the aging and infirm, the unloved masses that surround us, do they still go begging while we huddle in a cozy enclave with our well-fed friends? The Son of man is come to seek and to save the lost.

Why, then, have we come? What is it that gives worth to worthless riches? The worthless riches of Zacchaeus took on worth when they were passed along and used to compensate fourfold those whom he had cheated. And the coins we jingle in the pocket take on worth, the checking-plus account has worth, and even when the Dow is in a dive the stocks increase in value when they support the mission Christ has given us.

Today salvation has come to this house. It has taken hold. Tell me, then, all you little people who have suddenly grown tall in Christ as children of the heavenly Father, what does that mean? Stand tall! Live tall!

CSS Publishing, Lima, Ohio,