Perhaps when we look at Zacchaeus sitting awkwardly perched on the limb of that tree, we are supposed to see what Jesus is worth. Perhaps when we look at a man like Zacchaeus, climbing a tree just to get the opportunity to see Jesus — not talk to, recline at table with, or discuss the scriptures with, just the chance to see Jesus — we are supposed to understand what everything else in our life is worth. Perhaps we are supposed to recognize that just the chance to set our eyes on Jesus is more valuable than the approval of our social or professional superiors, the admiration of our employees, the respect of our family, friends, and of those who share our politics, morals, ethics, class…all of it. Jesus is worth risking all of it. And if we do risk it all, if we position ourselves to see Jesus, he will not only see us, but he will call us to himself. 

Picture the scene.

Jesus, walking on the streets of Jericho, surrounded by his disciples and talking with them as they go. Perhaps they are talking about the Law, or maybe of the Psalmist; Jesus, humming these lines softly as he listens to their questions:

“Oh God, you are my God; earnestly I seek you; my soul thirsts for you; my flesh faints for you, as in a dry and weary land where there is no water.” (Psalm 63:1)
Maybe Jesus’ answers cannot be heard over the calls of “Rabbi,” hands of all sizes reaching out, shoulders jostling one another, all to get close to him to ask for his healing touch. The crowd, like a wave, pushes Jesus onward. Men shout, laugh, and whisper among themselves while women push children along, hoping that the Rabbi will settle somewhere close, somewhere they can settle their own little handfuls and hear the teachings of a holy man known to look at – to look at and to see – and speak to women like themselves. It is hot; the air is humid; and the smells of sweat, wildflowers, and all manner of animals fill the air, sticking to everyone’s skin. Zacchaeus, sitting on the roof of his house, hears only confused shouting at first. But slowly, as the crowd approaches, he realizes what he hears: “Yeshua! Yeshua!” In an instant he knows that this Yeshua is not some ordinary Rabbi from Nazareth but a powerful miracle working teacher who was upsetting the order of things everywhere he went. “This time,” he thinks “I must see him for myself!” But when he runs down from the roof, he realizes that the crowd, which seemed from that height a small challenge to overcome, is indeed a massive moving swarm of bodies packed so tightly that it is impossible to get through. And this is where our story begins: suddenly filled with desperation, and seeing in an instant only one undignified solution, Zacchaeus runs ahead. Zacchaeus, the rich tax collector, runs up ahead and climbs up, with the children and men much younger than himself, and grabs a precarious seat on the limb of a sycamore tree.

In keeping with its practice, the Bible doesn’t tell us very much about Zacchaeus. We know that he is a tax collector, and we can infer from his repentance at the end of the scene that he was far from honorable. We can also infer from the story that his extortive and corrupt practices were well known by the people; he certainly wasn’t the most popular guy in town. But that’s it. That’s all we know. Well, that, and he was a shorty. Not in the cute way or the Wawa hoagie sorta way, but in the other-men-might-think-he’s-a-child way, which certainly completes the humiliating picture.

What we don’t know is his familial status, whether he had a wife or if they had children. What is the status of his household; is someone battling an illness, and can the sounds of death’s footsteps be heard pacing the halls? We don’t know his tribe, religious devotion, or even his age, but there is one piece of information that I always wish for when reading the story. I can’t help but think: what might have happened in the days, weeks, and months leading up to the moment between Zacchaeus and Jesus? What propelled this corrupt tax collector and agent of the oppressive Roman government, to climb like a child up into a tree for just a chance to see Jesus.

While I do not know his answer, I do know this: if the angel Gabriel appeared to me in the sky and proclaimed, “If you are willing to stand at the top of the Lincoln Memorial main stairs and hop on one foot, wave your arms frantically, and shout ‘here! Over here!’, your future husband might see you and introduce himself,” I would do it. I would hate it. I would be questioning my sanity and wondering why an angel felt the need to essentially dare me to do something so ridiculous. I would be sweating and probably weighing the pros and cons while making a very slow ascent. But I would do it.

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