Come Down

Everyone in Jericho already knew who Zacchaeus was.
Chief tax collector. A loan shark collaborating with imperial authorities and getting rich in the process. They knew his type. They had a word for it. Sinner.

Jesus was just passing through. He’s headed to Jerusalem. Jericho is on the way. And Zach wants to see him. But the crowd is deep and he is small. You know the song. He climbed up in a sycamore tree, for the Lord he wanted to see.

Why a tree?
The straightforward answer is the one Luke gives us. 
He was short. There was a crowd. He wanted a view.

But I wonder if there was another reason. A tree offers more than a higher perch. It offers anonymity. Close enough to see. Far enough to avoid notice. No one has to look at you.

It’s the back pew of the sanctuary that always fills first. It’s the edge of the room with the exit in mind. That sycamore is the perfect place for the tax collecting turncoat.

Zacchaeus is a sinner. 
Can you believe he showed up here? 
At least he’s in the back. 
Best to avoid eye contact.

Jesus is passing through. Then he looks up. And he’s no longer passing through. He’s staying for supper with this sinner.

Zacchaeus, hurry and come down; for I must stay at your house today.

Jesus is insistent. He doesn't wait for an invitation, and his instruction is not a suggestion. Must. Not might. Today. Not tomorrow. 

It’s important to pause over what Jesus does not say.

Come down here now and explain yourself.
Come down after you’ve made it right. 
Come down once you’re worthy.
No. Just come down.

Everyone in Jericho already knew who this man was. Jesus was just passing through. But he sees what the certainty of the crowd will never notice.

Has certainty ever clouded your judgment? Have you been in that crowd? 

Every congregation has one. A member who tests the limits of your call. In my first church, that man was Clay. To call him a curmudgeon would be generous. He was a fountain of criticism and complaint. I was a young pastor with thin skin. I’d see him coming and look for a way out, another conversation to jump into. 
I knew exactly who Clay was. I was certain I had him completely figured out. 

But it bothered me enough that I finally confessed the evasions to my mentor. I was seeking sympathy. She surprised me with a question. 

Have you ever been to visit him?

Him? Why would I do that?

Well. You're his pastor. For starters. 

So I went. When I stepped inside the house, my certainty evaporated. Clay’s wife was mostly confined to her bed. Had been for many years. And every day, his life centered on her care. He fed her, bathed her, took her outside for sunshine, read to her at night.

Every day. None of us knew. I was his pastor. I had no idea. 

I ended up visiting Clay and Betty regularly. He became my friend. My teacher. I learned that he baked banana bread for widows in the neighborhood. Slipped cash to the baggers at the Kroger. Kept an eye on his neighbors. Saved silver dollars for the kids.
 
It’s become a pattern in my life. The conversations I dread often go places I could never have predicted. I walk in with the whole thing already scripted, and twenty minutes later I am hearing about a child who has drifted away, a parent whose memory is fading, a marriage on the brink of collapse. When you listen, when you ask questions, when you take the risk to go a little deeper, transformation is possible.

Certainty has a cost. The crowd knew all about Zacchaeus. They had no idea.

So he hurried down, ran home, and started cooking. 
From out on a limb to setting the table.

The crowd isn’t finished assessing the situation. They grumble their disapproval.
Can you believe it? One meal in town and he spends it with a sinner. 

No doubt Zacchaeus heard them. No doubt they wanted him to.
He speaks to Jesus. But the whole town is listening. 
Look, Lord! Half of my possessions I give to the poor.
If I’ve cheated anyone, I pay back fourfold. 

The Bible in your pew turns that into a kind of morality play. 
That is how I learned this story as a kid. 
The little crook meets Jesus, has a change of heart, and repents on the spot.
But notice what Zacchaeus doesn't say. 
He doesn't say: I will start giving or I promise to pay back.
The original Greek is present tense. 
I give to the poor. I pay back four times what was defrauded.

What if Zacchaeus is not making a pledge or changing direction?
What if he is telling Jesus, and the crowd, what he’s been doing all along? 

Half of everything he has. Four times back for any error. 
This is not a miserly man squeaking past what the law requires. 
This is extravagance.

They already thought they knew everything about him. 
Which meant they never thought to ask. 
Had they ever been to visit him?

Only when Jesus invites him to the table does Zacchaeus raise his voice.
I hope the crowd was listening. 
I hope they saw this man they had despised with new eyes.

Jesus tells us what just happened.
Today salvation has come to this house…he too is a son of Abraham.
He too. Not above them. Or against them. Among them. 
Son of Abraham. Just like you. He always was.

I love the restraint of Jesus in this moment. 
He will not argue with the crowd. 
He will not tell them they've got the man wrong. 
He just tells a different story.

The town called him sinner.
Jesus names him son. 

Here is what I think is so hard about this. Our certainties are often what is holding us together. We’ve constructed the world a certain way and it makes sense to us. What’s more, we've turned our opinions into our identities. Who we are is defined by what we think. Our enemies are those who think differently. They are not wrong. They are evil. Sinners. Once we’ve built an identity on being right, we will defend it with all the passion we can drum up. In our politics. In our families. In our nation. In our homes. The lines are drawn. If I'm wrong about them, then who am I?

If we release our grip on certainty, what's left to hold onto?

I’ll tell you what. This table. This table. That’s what’s left.
You can cling to certainty. Or you can come to communion. You can’t do both. 

In a moment, we’ll be invited to come down these aisles and to this table. 

You don't have to give up your convictions to eat here. 
But you do have to stop using them to build a wall around yourself.

The prophet Isaiah saw a mountain where God spreads a feast for all peoples. Rich food. Well-aged wine. Every tear wiped from every face. But before the feast can begin, God destroys the shroud cast over us. Whatever divides us, whatever keeps us from seeing each other's faces, God tears it down. 

This is not a gentle image. God does not lift the shroud. God demolishes it.
One day, our silos and our certainties will be shattered. 
And we will break bread together. 
And no one will be up a tree.

Until that day, we must be willing to discover we were wrong about one another.
And then admit it. 

One encounter with Jesus changes everything. 
And you’re about to have one.

At Zacchaeus's house, Jesus was the guest. At this table, he is the host. 
Which means it is not our table. We do not get to decide who is let in.
Zacchaeus, hurry and come down.
You cannot set a table in a sycamore tree.

On what turned out to be our final visit, though his energy was nearly gone, Clay managed to lift his head to describe a vision that had filled his mind. His grandmother, Mama Cain, standing outside the front door of his childhood home. In an unmistakable voice, he heard her say:
Come on in, boys. 
Supper's almost ready.
Come home.