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.

Power of Persistence

Luke 18:1–8

Welcome to part two of our stewardship series, New Beginnings: Serving in Faith. We began last week with the story of the ten people healed by Jesus and the one who turned back to give thanks. We considered how gratitude leads to faith and faith leads to thanksgiving. We were reminded by the prophet Samuel to look upon our blessings with awe and to serve the Lord faithfully.

This morning we have fast-forwarded a bit in Luke’s Gospel, so let me catch you up. Jesus is wrapping up an extended response to a question: “When is God’s kingdom coming?” He tells them it is not something you can point to and say, “Look, here it is!” or “There it is!” The kingdom, he says, is already among you.

Then Jesus goes on to describe his coming suffering and the ominous arrival of the Son of Man—a time when “those who seek to secure their life will lose it, but those who lose their life will keep it.” Our parable follows that warning as a word of encouragement, a reminder not to give up when the way ahead feels uncertain.

It features a persistent widow and an unjust judge. Luke tells us that Jesus shared it to encourage people to pray and not lose heart. But I can’t help wondering if Jesus had something more in mind. You be the judge.

These are the words of Jesus, as recorded in Luke’s gospel, chapter 18, verses 1 through 8. The Greek is translated into English this way. Listen for God’s word for you.

Then Jesus told them a parable about their need to pray always and not to lose heart. He said, “In a certain city there was a judge who neither feared God nor had respect for people. In that city there was a widow who kept coming to him and saying, ‘Grant me justice against my accuser.’ For a while he refused, but later he said to himself, ‘Though I have no fear of God and no respect for anyone, yet because this widow keeps bothering me, I will grant her justice, so that she may not wear me out by continually coming.’”

And the Lord said, “Listen to what the unjust judge says. And will not God grant justice to his chosen ones who cry to him day and night? Will he delay long in helping them? I tell you, he will quickly grant justice to them. And yet, when the Son of Man comes, will he find faith on earth?”

Every time I hear this parable, I want to ask Jesus, “Is this really how prayer works? Is this how God works?”

At first glance, it sounds like Jesus is saying prayer is pestering—that if we just keep asking, keep knocking, God will eventually give in. Like a divine version of, “Fine, just take the cookie.” Every parent, or anyone who’s ever been around a determined child, knows this strategy.

The small, persistent voice that keeps asking:
“Can I have it?”
“Please?”
“Can I have it now?”
“Why not?”
“Just once?”

It’s the Ralphie Parker strategy—you know, the kid from A Christmas Story who spends the entire movie asking for a Red Ryder BB gun. Every conversation, every school paper, every visit to Santa is just another creative way of making the same request. He’s told, “You’ll shoot your eye out!” over and over, but he never gives up. And in the end, his persistence is rewarded by his seemingly detached father.

So maybe that’s the image in our minds when we hear this parable: if we just bug God long enough, we’ll get what we want.

But then—what happens when the thing we long for doesn’t come?
If we believe that asking enough times will make us rich, what does that say about poverty?
If we think persistence guarantees healing, what happens when the diagnosis doesn’t change?
If we think we can wear God down, what does that say about who God is?

Preaching great Fred Craddock once said, “Only after you have knocked at the door until your knuckles bleed and have still received no answer do you begin to understand what prayer is about.”

Prayer isn’t meant to change God. It’s meant to change us.

And this story is not a story about God. God is not the unjust judge. This is a story about us. It’s a reminder of how we should relate to God.

So maybe this parable isn’t about pestering God to get what we want, but about persisting in faith to bring about what God wants—justice, mercy, compassion, peace.

The widow’s persistence is not selfish. It’s faithful. She keeps showing up, day after day, because she refuses to give up on the promise that justice is possible, even if the judge is unjust. She believes that the world can still change, even when the system says otherwise.

We’ve seen that same holy persistence right here in Wichita.

On a bright, warm Saturday morning in July 1958, 19-year-old Carol Parks took a deep breath, opened the door to the Dockum Drug Store just down the street at Douglas and Market, and sat down at the lunch counter under a sign that said “white patrons only.”

She later said, “This was my first experience with fear.”

Carol Parks and Ronald Walters were leaders of the Wichita NAACP Youth Council. Inspired by the action of students at UCLA, they organized, planned, and trained college and high school students using a comic book based on the nonviolent practices of Gandhi. These materials were prepared and distributed all over the country by Chester Bowles, later the U.S. Ambassador to India.

The pamphlet had practices like, “If I insult you, if I shove you, maybe I hit you. What do you do?” Answer: “I keep my temper. I do not budge. I do not strike back. I turn the other cheek.”

After a few days a sign went up at Dockum’s: “This Fountain Temporarily Closed.” But the demonstrators didn’t quit. They kept coming back, day after day, sitting quietly and peacefully, forcing the restaurant to choose between business and discrimination.

For weeks they came—facing insults, threats, even danger—until August 7, when manager Walter Heiger announced that Dockum’s would serve everyone, regardless of race.

The sit-in ended without a big speech or photo-op, just a quiet moment of relief. But history remembers what their persistence accomplished and how it helped spark a national movement for civil rights.

That same spirit of persistence is still alive in this city: In the 1970s, when activists pushed for a Civil Rights and Equal Opportunity Commission. In the 1980s and 1990s, when churches and neighborhood groups organized around fair housing, refugee resettlement, and economic justice. In 2021, when Wichita passed a Non-Discrimination Ordinance protecting residents from bias in housing, employment, and public spaces, including protections for sexual orientation and gender identity. And today, through Justice Together, people of every faith are partnering with city leaders to care for our unhoused neighbors and to build a 24/7 mental health care system that serves everyone in our community.

Grace Presbyterian Church has stood in the midst of all that—praying, serving, showing up, giving, and loving. That’s what persistent faith looks like in action.

The question is not, does God hear us, or will God be worn down by our pleas. The question is, will we still be doing the work of Christ in the world when we are needed?

Because if we pray for justice without working for justice, our prayers are empty. If we work for justice without prayer, we’ll start to think it all depends on us. If we pray and work for justice without faith, we’ll lose heart when change comes slowly.

The Kingdom of God doesn’t come with obvious signs or quick victories. It comes when ordinary people persist—in prayer, in justice, and in faith—trusting that God’s kingdom is already breaking in among us, one conversation, one coalition, one act of love at a time.

Paul told the early church, “Be persistent whether the time is favorable or unfavorable; convince, rebuke, and encourage with the utmost patience in teaching. For the time is coming when people will not put up with sound teaching, but having their ears tickled, they will accumulate for themselves teachers to suit their own desires and will turn away from listening to the truth and wander away to myths. As for you, be sober in everything, endure suffering, do the work of an evangelist, carry out your ministry fully.”

That’s what stewardship is—persistence in faith. Our giving, our serving, our pledging are not quick fixes. They are steady acts of trust.

We give not because it is easy or everything is perfect, but because we believe God is still at work in the ministry and mission of this congregation—that God’s kingdom is coming into the world through us.

Every pledge card, every offering, every act of generosity is an act of persistent faith—a way of saying, “I still believe. I still trust. I’m still showing up.”

Like the widow, we keep knocking, even when our knuckles are swollen and sore. We keep knocking, not just with our prayers, but with our compassion, our generosity, and our love, trusting that the God of justice and mercy will not delay, and that through our persistence, God’s kingdom is coming to life right here, in our midst.

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