The Wee Little Thief?

Luke 19:1-10
October 30, 2022
William G. Carter

Jesus entered Jericho and was passing through it. A man was there named Zacchaeus; he was a chief tax collector and was rich. He was trying to see who Jesus was, but on account of the crowd he could not, because he was short in stature. So he ran ahead and climbed a sycamore tree to see him, because he was going to pass that way. When Jesus came to the place, he looked up and said to him, “Zacchaeus, hurry and come down; for I must stay at your house today.” So he hurried down and was happy to welcome him. All who saw it began to grumble and said, “He has gone to be the guest of one who is a sinner.” Zacchaeus stood there and said to the Lord, “Look, half of my possessions, Lord, I will give to the poor; and if I have defrauded anyone of anything, I will pay back four times as much.” Then Jesus said to him, “Today salvation has come to this house, because he too is a son of Abraham. For the Son of Man came to seek out and to save the lost.”

 

We have a tax collector in our congregation, as well as a couple of retired IRS agents. I haven’t asked any of them what they make of these New Testament tax collectors. There was the one in the parable last week, beating his chest and calling himself a wretched sinner. In the Gospel of Luke, there are a number of other tax collectors, not merely as characters in stories, but real people who were drawn to Jesus, ate meals with him, and even befriended him.

And then there’s Zacchaeus, the most famous tax collector of them all. Luke calls him a “chief tax collector.” That means the Roman empire had given him the franchise in the oasis city of Jericho. That was a big deal for such a short little guy. As I understand it, he had to front the money and pay off Rome. Then he employed a number of neighborhood tax collectors to collect what he needed and charge whatever more they could get. He was the Big Cheese in a first century pyramid scheme with political overtones. He got his cut first and made a lot of money. It was a filthy business, prone to corruption.

How curious that Zacchaeus and all the other tax collectors in the Gospel would want to see Jesus! What could he offer to them?

As I mentioned last week, tax collection was considered a despised trade in the first century. The Purity Police up in the Jerusalem Temple wanted nothing to do with the people who practiced that trade. Tax collectors were considered collaborators with the Romans. The neighbors hated them, often muttering threats beneath their breath. The empire’s army provided minimal protection for them since the taxes collected paid for the soldiers to occupy the town. And it wasn’t safe for a tax collector to be out in the open.

So that’s why Zacchaeus hides in a tree. He wants to see Jesus, but he doesn’t want anybody to see him. And it doesn’t work. We don’t know how the scheme falls apart. Maybe his foot slipped. Or a child spotted him. Perhaps the big leafy branches weren’t wide enough to hide him. But somewhere between verse four and verse five, he is outed. The crowd has him right where they want him.

Imagine the curses, the condemnations, and the slurs. They have treed the fox and there’s nowhere for him to go. He is exposed, unguarded, and vulnerable. The crowd circled that tree. Zacchaeus doesn’t dare come down. It will not do any good to climb higher. He is a goner.

To the tax collector’s surprise, Jesus calls out to him, “Zacchaeus, come down from that tree. I am under obligation to stay at your house.” This is the point at which the whole story turns. The chief tax collector climbs down. He welcomes Jesus and says, “Yes, yes, you must come to my home.” And the crowd that hated Zacchaeus now spews their venom on Jesus. The Bible verse says, “they murmured.” That’s an overly polite translation. Snarled is more like it.  

But don’t lose sight of what Jesus has just done. At risk to his own life, Jesus rescues a tax collector. He shields this man, a chief tax collector, from certain doom. The Lord is not merely imposing on the rich man’s hospitality. He is saving his life. The storyteller says Zacchaeus welcomes the Lord “joyfully.” There’s more to this story than everything we heard in Vacation Bible School. It’s a bit more complicated – it’s a rescue story.

And then it gets even more complicated. What happens next? The chief tax collector for the city of Jericho, the very rich man, stands to announce, “Half of my riches belong to the poor.” And then he goes on to say, “If there is the slightest chance that I have ever cheated anyone, I will pay them back fourfold.”

Now, let’s pause here for a second. A rescue story becomes a generosity story. Jesus saves a short man from an angry crowd – and the short man uses his money for financial justice. Let’s hold on here. What’s going on?

I have a half dozen other Zacchaeus sermons in my file cabinet. In previous efforts, I’ve claimed there must have been something in that table conversation in the short man’s house that transformed him. We can assume that, but the text doesn’t say that.

In one of my previous sermons, I imagined that Jesus looked into the tax collector’s eyes and let him know he was loved. And suddenly, magically, the cold heart of Zacchaeus melted, and he changed his ways. That’s a pleasant thought, kind of an Ebenezer Scrooge sort of plot, and we’d all like to believe that, too. But the text doesn’t say that, either.

No, my friend Jim the retired preacher cut to the chase last Sunday in our coffee hour. “Are you preaching again on Zacchaeus on the 30^th?” Yes sir, I am. And he said, “Ever notice that when Zacchaeus stands up to talk about his generosity and his commitment to justice, he speaks in the present tense?” I give half of my riches to the poor. If I ever cheated anyone, I repay them. He may be making the decision then and there – or he might already be giving away half of what he has to those who need it and making amends for any past corruptions.

Whatever the case, it’s a remarkable story. Because however the city of Jericho regarded Zacchaeus before, he is a different man. It could have been because Jesus saved his skin. Or it could have been that he was already living a righteous life with his money. Either way, he’s not what everybody perceived of a chief tax collector. Something more is going on.

What is it? Good question. I’ve long been curious what it takes to create generosity. Why do some people give away a high proportion of what they have to the needy while others hold back and play it safe?  

Certainly for a man like Zacchaeus, in (shall we say) a “high income bracket,” he could give away a lot of money and still have more than his neighbors. As an imaginary character on a TV show put it, “What’s a hundred million dollars when you have two hundred million?” And I must confess, “I have no idea.” That’s a lot of dough. And Zacchaeus gives it away. Half of what he has. Not three percent, not ten percent, but fifty percent. To lift up the poor.

Please notice: Jesus does not lay a guilt trip on Zacchaeus. He doesn’t appeal to his conscience. Nor does he ask him for a donation. There’s no evidence in the story that the Lord confronts the rich man’s greed or calls him to repentance. No, not at all. We can read that into the story, but none of that is really there.  

And neither does Jesus address with Zacchaeus the dark side of what affluence can do. Over on my bookshelf is a volume by two ethics professors, Bruce Birch and Larry Rasmussen. They wrote a book titled, The Predicament of the Prosperous. It’s a good book, a thick book, a worthy read. One of the takeaways is a line I will never forget: “The quality of life actually decreases with the increase of material abundance and indulgence.”[1] That is, the more you have, the more danger you’re in. Ouch!

I had that conversation with one of our church members just yesterday. The purpose of life is not to acquire as much as we can. The purpose of life is to participate in the life around us on this planet. We are woven into a vast, interconnected network of living. One of the temptations of having as much money as Zacchaeus is the temptation to let your affluence isolate you from others. To separate you from others. To protect you from the real needs that other people have. And we know this to be true.

A wise old duffer was asked by his socially climbing daughter if he was going to install a security system to guard his property and all that he had. “Of course not,” he said. “If somebody breaks in here to take something, they probably need it more than I do.” She looked at him, incredulous. “But Daddy,” she protested, “you’ve earned what you have. It’s yours.” To which he retorted, “I already have too much, and it would relieve me of the burden of finding a way to unload it. You don’t think I’m going to leave all to you, do you?” Now, there’s an honest man.

To whom does Zacchaeus give half of his riches? To the poor, that is, to the destitute. To those who beg. To those who buy their expired canned vegetables in the dollar store. Again, we don’t know how he goes about it. He’s a first century dude; it’s not like he could write a check or put it on his AmEx card. And there many ways when we want to help somebody, and try to help somebody, and how we do it robs them of their dignity.

Some of us were down in Haiti years ago and saw a man in Port-au-Prince coming toward us with a t-shirt printed in English. There was an arrow pointing down, with the words printed, “Got one in the oven.” I’m certain he spoke Creole, not English, and had no idea what he was wearing. We discovered that some of our castoff clothing that doesn’t resell in American thrift shops gets dumped on the docks of that city. The poor scramble to find something they can wear. And this is demeaning.

So how does Zacchaeus donate to the poor? We have no idea. Yet he pledges to do so. It’s going to be a journey. He commits himself to it. Something has punctured the protective bubble around his assets. Something empowers him to relinquish his grip. In the presence of Jesus, he affirms he is on a journey to generosity, something that the people of Jericho could never have imagined. Is he going to quit his work as a chief tax collector? No, it doesn’t say that. He’s already living a very complicated life. He’s accustomed to the complications of having a lot of money.

But the story reveals he is generous. Profoundly, deeply generous. In the end, I think we know why. It’s because Jesus has saved his life. Jesus has risked his own life to save the life of Zacchaeus. And that profound act of unexpected grace creates more grace. That’s how generosity works. When we start giving, more giving is created. When we commit to sharing, our hearts are enlarged. Generosity is an ever-deepening invitation to participate in the needs of the world, to the glory of God. And it’s an invitation that I make to you.

I invite you to support the work of God. If there is any way that God in Christ has found you, find a way to share it. If the Risen Christ has invited himself into your life, pass it along for others. If there is any way you’ve discovered yourself rescued or redeemed, make the same happen for others. Generosity is an essential discipline as we follow Jesus. And it’s so good for the soul! The more we give, the more joy we create for others.

And in our generosity, the Spirit of God is working in the world.   

(c) William G. Carter. All rights reserved.

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[1] Bruce C. Birch and Larry Rasmussen, The Predicament of the Prosperous (Philadelphia: Westminster Press, 1978) 27.