ATTENTION: Jesus Calling

based on Luke 19:1-10


I want you to use your imagination. Word has come that God is going to be coming to town. You can’t really believe it. There is no precedent for such an event. Angels maybe, but very unlikely. Even prophets are in short supply, and too often unreliable. What would you do?



As skeptical as you might be, let’s say you are still curious. Maybe not expecting to see anything that special, but at least to take a look at the stranger. More likely, your eyes focus on the crowds that clog the village street. That gives you some idea what to expect. If it’s the unwashed rabble, you can ignore the whole thing as unworthy of your attention. If the local rabbi is there, maybe you need to pay it more heed. Considering your wealth and your position in the community, you might be interested to see if any of your social circle shows up. Whatever you do, you may well prefer keeping a low profile until you have tested the waters to be sure you aren’t making a fool of yourself by being there. You may even be wondering why you’d show up in the first place. This is not your usual kind of event. Being a tax collector, you aren’t exactly welcome amongst your neighbors. Normally, that doesn’t bother you. You have a business to conduct, just like any other businessman. You’d be pretty bad at it if you let your feelings get involved. Widows with no resources, men down on their luck, fathers who have sick children or sons off in that secret militia of theirs - there’s always some excuse why they can’t pay their taxes. If you listened to them all ... well, you can’t collect taxes like that. And Rome is not going to excuse you from meeting your quota. If Pilate throws commoners into jail without blinking an eye, why would he hesitate throwing his tax-collector into the jail too? Everyone knows the tax-collector is the wealthiest man in the town. You pay up, and you pay up first.



So you go. You keep your eyes peeled. You try to figure the odds, even while you are asking yourself “Why should I care?” Well, why shouldn’t I care? I’m a human being, aren’t I? I’m as curious as the next guy. Only there are a lot of people who aren’t curious and could care less. They are standing out here in this dusty street craning their necks to look at a stranger, that’s all. This is Jericho. Strangers come through here all the time. Granted, they don’t usually claim to be the Messiah. On the other hand, neither has this man. It’s those disciples of his that make him look suspiciously like a holy man. It’s true, he’s done some strange things that look like miracles. Still, most of Jericho would usually ignore such a man.



In this case, there’s a big enough crowd here that you can’t see around them very well. Ah, the curse of being small. It always comes back to that, doesn’t it? That promised growth your parents said would come some day, long after you and they knew it wasn’t going to happen? It didn’t come. You knew it wouldn’t. You are old enough now not to pay attention to the teasing. You’ve heard it all before. And you’ve gotten your own back for it. Ah yes, you’ve made them pay, and pay handsomely. You’ve learned to make an asset out of your lack of height Only being in a crowd like this, it can still be a nuisance. A nearby tree looks handy. And it will cover you from public scrutiny. It might be inconvenient if people saw you staring like a wide-eyed child at a traveling magician in hopes of seeing some marvel or other. Best be inconspicuous After all, you owe it to your reputation to be above that sort of thing. You can’t be too careful.



You would never admit you had any other reason for being here, some hidden thought, some childish wish that at last you had seen - with your own eyes - a true visitor from God. You had looked for that God once, and the search was fruitless and painful. How can one go on believing in God when God so clearly doesn’t want to be seen by you? You and God aren’t friends. Can’t be. But still you wish you could be. Isn’t that ridiculous? Puzzle that one out if you can. You’ll never understand it. You do all the religious observances. You know the law of Moses in and out. You pretend to scoff at them, to act as if you’re too sophisticated and grown up to believe in those childish ideas. Yet, inside you there’s still that hurting soul that wishes it could believe. How comforting it would be.



Of course, it would be a problem too. Given the life you lead, the people you’ve cheated, the contempt you’ve had for your pious neighbors - no, you’re better off in a world where gods are just superstitious fancies. Leave your offerings at their temples if you like, but make them small so you won’t miss them. No one need ever know of that one offering you would gladly make if you could be sure that the God they all speak about was truly real.



So the crowds are thicker now, the furor more intense, and you’ve found a perch on a limb of a tree where the leaves are thick enough to keep you out of sight but also thin enough you can see what’s going on down below. When Jesus arrives, no one is more surprised than you when he stops, speaks to you directly and insists you come down out of the tree and hurry home to prepare a meal for him. This is the one thing you could never have imagined happening, and it is very embarrassing. Now everyone knows you were not only in this crowd, Jesus has chosen you to be his host for his stay in Jericho. Normally hosting dignitaries was a political function reserved for the Roman authorities. While you are wealthy and can afford the duties of a host, still you do not have the social standing such a person is entitled to. This is especially unsettling for your Jewish acquaintances because your general attitude toward things religious is well-known. No good Jew would do the things you have done and continue to do. Eating with a woman of the town would be easier to imagine than eating with you.



Then why on earth didn’t you laugh, sneer, mock this ridiculous idea? “You’ve got to mean somebody else, not me. Let your pious Jewish friends prepare your meal for you, the way Moses would insist it be prepared.” How did this total stranger convince you and make you climb down out of your tree? You didn’t have to. It’s true, you dislike scenes. It makes you uncomfortable having people scrutinizing you. Knowing all the acts you’ve committed that could blacken your name even more should they ever become public knowledge, you are always nervous when people start looking at you. So be inconspicuous, stay anonymous, shun the public eye. Perhaps it was just easier to go along with this unexpected command from Jesus than cause an even more embarrassing scene. At least it gave you an excuse to scurry home and hide your face.



You still could have turned Jesus away when he got to your door. “You were mistaken Jesus. I’m not your host. You would never be comfortable here.” Even as you survey the sumptuous surroundings of your home, the fine carpets, the silver and gold dishes, the silk hangings, you could still see they do not measure up to what the Roman palace could offer. Your staff of house slaves is far too small to accommodate Jesus and his entourage. No one could fault you for turning down this request. It was so unexpected, and so untimely. Such a feast would normally take months to prepare. The house is a mess.



Yet you work miracles with your slaves. When Jesus arrives at your door, the floors are swept, the carpets turned, the furniture ready. The cooks are well on the way to producing a fine feast, and even the best wines from your stock have been decanted and are ready to be poured. You scarcely know yourself. The last thing in the world you ever wanted to do - host a banquet for a visiting rabbi, a carpenter’s son from Galilee, along with his fishermen associates who have no manners at all - why are you so excited? What is there about this man that has made you forget Rome and taxes and jealous neighbors and stinging taunts and a whole life of never, never, never being able to measure up. You are so carried away by this impossible occurrence you find yourself volunteering to give away half your wealth to the poor and repaying four-fold any of the monies you have cheated out of your neighbors. This is not you.



And yet, this is you. To the marrow of your bones, to the core of your being, to the soul of your soul, this is the you you always knew was in you though you’d never once seen it, heard its cry, or felt its stirring. Something inside you always knew it existed. You almost danced with its leap of joy, shouted with its elation, stripped the walls of its finery and decked your guests with silks. All that stopped you was the certainty no one would understand. They would have been embarrassed, looked at each other with questioning eyes, made note of this man gone berserk and reported you to the authorities for at least deserving a reprimand if not severe punishment and demotion.



But even that would not have mattered to you - not really. For something in the tone of his voice and the look in Jesus’ eye gave you assurance beyond any certainty that what you were feeling he understood and recognized. Though born a Jew, a true son of Abraham, you had never ever belonged to this family of God. Here, now, before a disbelieving and amazed crowd, one man recognized you for who you truly were and called you his brother. You would live on that the rest of your life.



No wonder St Luke felt compelled to record this story, as bewildering and unlikely as it seems, for it fit so well his wider gospel - a story of a God who comes into our midst, calling our name and relying on us to make a space for him in our lives. It should come as no surprise that the tax- collector who once knew only one God, the God of money, should so eagerly seek out ways to give it away. For on this hot, dusty day in Jericho, Zaccheus, a lost and hurting soul was found at last. Amen