The road through Jericho hadn’t drawn a crowd like this in years. I was halfway up a ladder, patching the awning of my family’s olive stand, when the shouting started—happy shouts, not angry ones. That’s how I first saw Zacchaeus.
Zacchaeus the tax collector was never welcome in crowds. He took money from his own people to fund the Roman Empire—our enemies—and lined his pockets doing it. Even the children knew not to speak to him. Most of them ran when he passed by on his tall horse, pretending not to see the way their parents spat on the ground after him.
But that morning, Zacchaeus wasn’t on a horse. He was running.
I nearly dropped my hammer watching him. He darted between baskets, barrels, and women holding babies, shouting, “Excuse me! Pardon me!” like a man being chased—not by guards, but by something inside his chest. He sprinted all the way to the sycamore tree near the well and started to climb.
“Is that Zacchaeus?” a boy whispered beside me.
“What’s he doing?” someone else asked, laughing.
The tree groaned under his weight as he pulled himself into its wide branches. “He’s trying to see Jesus,” I said aloud, more to myself than anyone else.
We’d heard Jesus was coming through Jericho—that healer from Nazareth who’d made the blind see and the lame walk. Some said He spoke with more authority than priests. Others said He forgave sins, as if He were God Himself. Honestly, I wasn’t sure what to believe.
But Zacchaeus? He believed enough to leap into a tree like a child who couldn't stand being left out.
The air seemed to hush as Jesus walked into view. He didn’t wave or preach or touch the sick right away like I had expected. He simply stopped—right beneath the sycamore tree—and looked up.
“Zacchaeus,” Jesus said, smiling as if He’d known him forever. “Come down. I’m coming to your house today.”
Gasps rippled through the crowd. “His house?” several people muttered. A few men scoffed openly. “Doesn’t He know what kind of man that is?”
I looked up at Zacchaeus, whose mouth was open in disbelief. He grabbed the branch like he needed it to steady himself—as if the invitation had knocked the breath right out of him. Then he scrambled down like someone half his age and stood eye-to-eye with Jesus.
“If you're coming to my home,” he said shakily, “then I need to fix what I’ve done. I’ll give back everything I’ve taken—four times as much, even. And half of all I own—I’ll give it to the poor.”
I don’t know what surprised me more: that he had said it, or that he meant it.
Jesus placed a hand on Zacchaeus’s shoulder. “Today,” He said, his voice calm and unshakable, “salvation has come to this house.”
Salvation. That word landed like a heartbeat I didn’t know I was holding.
Long after the crowd had followed Jesus away, I stayed behind by the tree. I kept thinking about how quickly a heart could change when it finally caught sight of grace.
Zacchaeus was still despised that morning—but by sundown, he had become someone new.
And the miracle wasn’t just that Jesus saw him. It was that He stopped for him. For the worst of us. For the one nobody wanted.
That day, Zacchaeus found someone worth climbing for—and I found hope for the rest of us.
The road through Jericho hadn’t drawn a crowd like this in years. I was halfway up a ladder, patching the awning of my family’s olive stand, when the shouting started—happy shouts, not angry ones. That’s how I first saw Zacchaeus.
Zacchaeus the tax collector was never welcome in crowds. He took money from his own people to fund the Roman Empire—our enemies—and lined his pockets doing it. Even the children knew not to speak to him. Most of them ran when he passed by on his tall horse, pretending not to see the way their parents spat on the ground after him.
But that morning, Zacchaeus wasn’t on a horse. He was running.
I nearly dropped my hammer watching him. He darted between baskets, barrels, and women holding babies, shouting, “Excuse me! Pardon me!” like a man being chased—not by guards, but by something inside his chest. He sprinted all the way to the sycamore tree near the well and started to climb.
“Is that Zacchaeus?” a boy whispered beside me.
“What’s he doing?” someone else asked, laughing.
The tree groaned under his weight as he pulled himself into its wide branches. “He’s trying to see Jesus,” I said aloud, more to myself than anyone else.
We’d heard Jesus was coming through Jericho—that healer from Nazareth who’d made the blind see and the lame walk. Some said He spoke with more authority than priests. Others said He forgave sins, as if He were God Himself. Honestly, I wasn’t sure what to believe.
But Zacchaeus? He believed enough to leap into a tree like a child who couldn't stand being left out.
The air seemed to hush as Jesus walked into view. He didn’t wave or preach or touch the sick right away like I had expected. He simply stopped—right beneath the sycamore tree—and looked up.
“Zacchaeus,” Jesus said, smiling as if He’d known him forever. “Come down. I’m coming to your house today.”
Gasps rippled through the crowd. “His house?” several people muttered. A few men scoffed openly. “Doesn’t He know what kind of man that is?”
I looked up at Zacchaeus, whose mouth was open in disbelief. He grabbed the branch like he needed it to steady himself—as if the invitation had knocked the breath right out of him. Then he scrambled down like someone half his age and stood eye-to-eye with Jesus.
“If you're coming to my home,” he said shakily, “then I need to fix what I’ve done. I’ll give back everything I’ve taken—four times as much, even. And half of all I own—I’ll give it to the poor.”
I don’t know what surprised me more: that he had said it, or that he meant it.
Jesus placed a hand on Zacchaeus’s shoulder. “Today,” He said, his voice calm and unshakable, “salvation has come to this house.”
Salvation. That word landed like a heartbeat I didn’t know I was holding.
Long after the crowd had followed Jesus away, I stayed behind by the tree. I kept thinking about how quickly a heart could change when it finally caught sight of grace.
Zacchaeus was still despised that morning—but by sundown, he had become someone new.
And the miracle wasn’t just that Jesus saw him. It was that He stopped for him. For the worst of us. For the one nobody wanted.
That day, Zacchaeus found someone worth climbing for—and I found hope for the rest of us.
