Saints, Sinners, and Sycomores

Luke 19:1-10

Jesus has been busy since last Sunday, when he told the parable of the Tax Collector and the Pharisee to those who trust in their own righteousness and look down on others. On his way to Jerusalem, he’s been blessing little children, telling a rich young ruler that it would be easier for a camel to pass through the eye of a needle than for a rich man to enter the kingdom of God, and healing a blind beggar outside the gates of Jericho.

Now imagine you’re walking with Jesus into the bustling oasis city of Jericho: palm fronds whispering overhead, traders calling out beside the perennial spring named after the prophet Elisha, the scent of date syrup and sun-warmed mud-brick walls mingling with the salt-tinged breeze from the nearby Jordan Valley.
You and Jesus’ entourage make your way past the merchants and street vendors bargaining over figs, olives, and goats. And suddenly, Jesus stops. Here is what happens next, according to Luke’s gospel. Listen for God’s Word to you.

19 He entered Jericho and was passing through it. 2 A man was there named Zacchaeus; he was a chief tax collector and was rich. 3 He was trying to see who Jesus was, but on account of the crowd he could not, because he was short in stature. 4 So he ran ahead and climbed a sycamore tree to see him, because he was going to pass that way. 5 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.” 6 So he hurried down and was happy to welcome him. 7 All who saw it began to grumble and said, “He has gone to be the guest of one who is a sinner.” 8 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.” 9 Then Jesus said to him, “Today salvation has come to this house, because he, too, is a son of Abraham. 10 For the Son of Man came to seek out and to save the lost.”

No, there isn’t a typo in the sermon title in your service bulletin. Luke tells us that Zacchaeus climbed a sycamore tree, but this is not the sycamore we know here in Kansas. The sycomore of the Middle East is a cousin of the fig tree—Ficus sycomorus—also known as the sycomore fig. It’s a hardy tree that can grow in marginal soil and was easy to cultivate throughout Israel. Remember the prophet Amos who pierced the fruit of the sycomore tree? In Hebrew, the word for this tree is shikma, which comes from a root meaning regrowth. It was known for its ability to sprout again and again, even when cut down to a stump. In fact, the modern Hebrew word for rehabilitation, shikum, comes from that same root.

The sycomore tree is short and wide, with low branches that are easy to climb—an ideal perch from which to see Jesus. And it’s fun to imagine Zacchaeus scampering up those branches as the crowd gathers around.

Luke tells us Zacchaeus is the chief tax collector—the boss, the overseer of collectors like Levi (the one who threw a party for Jesus in chapter 5) or the tax collector who went home made right with God in the previous chapter. He’s not just a collaborator with the Roman occupation; he’s profiting mightily from it. To the people of Jericho, Zacchaeus wasn’t just disliked—he was despised. Yet Jesus looks up and calls that man by name. “Zacchaeus, hurry and come down, for I must stay at your house today.” And as Zacchaeus climbs down, happy to welcome him, the crowd begins to grumble. “Of all the people in town, why on earth would Jesus want to associate with this despicable character?”

You can almost hear them whispering, “Do you know who this man is?” “Do you know who he works for?” “Don’t you know he’s a sinner?”

Zacchaeus stands before Jesus in the midst of that crowd and says, “Half of my possessions, Lord, I will give to the poor, and if I have defrauded anyone of anything, I pay back four times as much.” If you’re like me, you’ve probably thought of this as a redemption story—Jesus notices Zacchaeus, which leads to his repentance and generosity.

But a closer look at the Greek suggests another meaning. Our New Revised Standard Version translates the verb didōmi—“to give”—in the future tense: I will give. But other translations—King James, NIV, CEB—render it in the present tense: I give. That small change in tense changes the story. It suggests that Zacchaeus isn’t promising to change his ways; he’s describing what he already does.

His name, Zacchaeus, means “pure” in Hebrew. Perhaps he wasn’t seeking redemption so much as recognition. Perhaps he’s not the only one in need of repentance—the crowd is too.

Maybe this story isn’t just about Zacchaeus’ transformation; maybe it’s about ours—about our tendency to jump quickly to judgment. The gospels often pair tax collectors and sinners, but simply being a tax collector doesn’t necessarily make one a sinner. And, after two examples of rich and powerful men who didn’t get it—the Pharisee in the temple and the rich young ruler—here we have a rich man who does get it and who does get in with Jesus.

How quickly we assume and label others because of their privilege, position, politics, or past. Who do we grumble about?

Maybe this story is about how God sees us differently than the crowd does. Because it’s not about how the world sees you. It’s about how God sees you and how you see God working through you.

Zacchaeus was willing to literally go out on a limb, to risk embarrassment and stand amidst the grumbling crowd, just to catch a glimpse of Jesus. Would we? Jesus declares, “Today salvation has come to this house, because he too is a son of Abraham. For the Son of Man came to seek and to save the lost.” Zacchaeus was lost—not in the moral sense, but socially. Cast out, cut off, written off by his community. Yet Jesus brings him back in.

On this All Saints Sunday, when we celebrate the saints who have gone before us, Jesus reminds us that we may be surprised by the saints among us—even those we might be tempted to despise. In our Reformed tradition, we affirm that we are all saints and sinners. Not one or the other, but both at once.

We are made holy not by our perfection, but by God’s persistent grace, the grace that keeps calling us down from our trees and inviting itself to dinner.

Zacchaeus reminds us that sainthood isn’t about moral achievement or spotless reputation. It’s about being seen by Jesus, called by name, and transformed by love. He is the unlikely saint in whom we see ourselves—flawed, curious, hopeful, seeking a glimpse of grace.

And that sycomore tree—that scrappy, regenerative tree that grows in hard places—stands as a witness to that same grace. Its roots dig deep into poor soil, and even when cut down, it sprouts again. That’s the persistence of God’s mercy: continually nurturing new growth, bearing fruit in unlikely places, in unlikely people—like Zacchaeus, like us. So on this All Saints Sunday, as we remember those who have gone before us, may we also remember that we stand among them—rooted in the same persistent grace, growing in the same enduring love, part of the great communion of saints whom Christ still calls by name.

May it be so in your lives, in the life of your families, in the life of this congregation, and in the life of Christ’s church.