By
Keren Humphrey
Edited by W G Davidson
My name is Zaccheaus.
I’m the chief tax collector here in Jericho. You’ve heard of Jericho—they
call it the “pantry of Judea.” You see, all the caravan routes between
Jerusalem and the East meet here. We are a very wealthy town—and I am a
very wealthy man! I’m the tax collector!
Most people would call
me a “climber.” Economically I am very well set. Socially, well, that’s
another story. We tax collectors aren’t very popular at all. Most people
here see us as the disloyal underlings of the Romans. They say we gouge
out as much as we dare in taxes for ourselves. The Hebrew rabble speaks
of us as ruffians and robbers. They won’t even take my testimony in their
courts. They even refuse my money for alms. They say it is “blood
money.”
Everyone pokes fun at
me behind my back. No one takes me seriously. It’s because I’m short.
They call me names like “Pee Wee” and “Shorty.” But, I got back at them.
Those silly smiles and smirks disappeared quickly when they heard their
tax debt.
I’m a Jew but other
Jews won’t have anything to do with me because I married a Greek woman and
because of this tax collection business. But, after all, one needs to be
civilized. Things would have been so much better for me if I had not been
born a Jew. If I was a Roman I could have all sorts of privileges and
riches. The Romans laugh at me because I am a Jew, but one day I’ll get
back at them, too.
When I come to collect
the taxes I can see the hate and hear the sneers of the people. Well,
somebody’s got to collect taxes. Why shouldn’t it be me? And why
shouldn’t I make a good living at it? This is a dog eat dog world and I
want all that I can get from it.
But, sometimes, I get
rather lonely and depressed. I don’t have any real friends. The Romans
jeer at me but they come to drink my wine and enjoy my hospitality. My
wife doesn’t care about me as long as I give her enough money to keep her
happy. I am suddenly seized by fear and loneliness nowadays. The money
doesn’t help, except as revenge, and even that doesn’t mean much anymore.
I’m getting old and I’m sick. My life has meant nothing. I have nothing
to pass on to anyone. I’m lonely. I’m tired of life. There’s got to be
more than this.
I first heard of the
Nazarene from the crowds in the marketplace. His followers were talking
about Him; they were claiming all sorts of fantastic healings and
marvelous works. The people were getting stirred up. These people were
talking about another kingdom. This is dangerous. It is again the Roman
Empire—against the Emporer himself.
I passed along the word
to the Romans to be on their guard. All I need now is for some of these
political pretenders and revolutionaries to cause trouble with the
Romans. I could lose everything I have.
These followers,
disciples, kept on talking even when the Romans jostled and jeered at
them. I listened to their stories. They were very fanciful. Seems this
Jesus, the Nazarene, goes around healing and raising from the dead.
That’s nothing new. There are a lot of these itinerate rabbis claiming
these sorts of things. Mostly it turns out to be phony and magical in
nature. But, apparently, this Jesus isn’t taking in much money like the
others do. His followers are poor Galileans. They call this Jesus the
Messiah. Now, this is really getting serious. Usually that means someone
is talking of revolution. I wonder what kind of army this Jesus has.
This sort of thing comes down hard on everybody. Even though I work for
the Romans I’m still a Jew and they will punish me as much as the others.
I was down at the
marketplace the other day. Word was passed that the Nazarene had come to
Jericho. Suddenly the marketplace was empty. The crowds headed for the
outskirts of the city. I sent along one of my servants to see what was
happening.
About an hour later he
returned and told me that this Jesus had healed the old blind man that
begged at the city gate. Seems the old man had called him “Son of David”
and had asked for healing. I was about to silence the bumbling idiot when
I caught sight of the old blind man. He was running around the streets,
shouting and touching things. I was obvious that the man could see. I
was astounded. I knew this man had been blind yesterday but, today, he
could see as well as I. Something clicked in me. If this Jesus could
heal that old man surely he could help me. Perhaps he could make me
taller, or richer, or something else….. I began to run toward the
gathering crowd at the head of the marketplace. Something seemed to be
prodding me as I ran. I couldn’t stop. I didn’t want to. I had to see
this Nazarene. If I could just see Him then I would know if he could help
me.
I got to the crowd but
I couldn’t see anything. Everyone was so tall. I couldn’t get around or
through them at all. I looked ahead and spied the sycamore tree that hung
over the street. Yes, the tree, I could get up in that tree and see
Jesus. I ran down and scrambled up the tree as fast as I could. I could
hear my garments ripping on the branches. I grabbed a limb and held on,
straining my eyes for a glimpse of this Nazarene. The crowd came closer
and closer and then, I saw him! Why, he’s as small as I am! Oh, my Lord,
he’s looking at me! I felt like something had pierced my heart. That
look, It was…..respect! Jesus was looking at me like I was a real
person! I see it in his eyes!
Suddenly I was aware of
how ridiculous I looked. My already red face began to burn. He’ll laugh
in a minute, I’m sure of that. But, instead, he smiled and spoke to me,
“Zaccheaus, make haste and come down, for I must stay at your house today.”
I couldn’t believe my
ears. Jesus was speaking to me. He was coming to my house to eat with
me. Me, Zaccheaus, the tax collector. He was going to eat at my table.
I could hear the crowd muttering something about going home to eat with a
sinner. Who cares? Jesus is home to eat with me today!
I took off down the
street as fast as my legs could take me. I yelled for my servants to
prepare dinner. Bring up the best wine! Bring dates and rich spices!
Bring fish! Prepare bread, set the table, bring reclining pillows and
water and oil for my guest! Jesus, Jesus was coming to my house to eat!
That night was
remarkable. I listened intently as Jesus spoke of who He was and why He
was here. One of His disciples, Matthew, a tax collector once himself,
took me aside and explained many wondrous things to me. It was all so
difficult to take in. But, then, I would look at Jesus and I knew He had
to be the Messiah.
Then we prayed. O
Lord, what a prayer! Never have I heard the intimacy and humility of that
prayer. He was a son talking with a beloved father. Everything came
flooding back. I realized how corrupt my life had become. With shame I
thought of the life I had led. With guilt I remembered the faces of the
poor whom I had taxed so heavily. With tears I recalled my Hebrew
heritage and how I had abandoned it.
I stood and spoke to
Jesus: “Behold, Lord, half of my goods I give to the poor, and if I have
cheated anyone, I will return them that sum four times over.”
Jesus looked at me
again with those eyes. He realized how hard that was to say but,
nevertheless, he realized how good it felt to have said it. He stood and
placed His hands on my shoulder. There was joy in His voice: “Today
salvation has come to this house, since he also is a son of Abraham.”
Then Jesus paused a moment, as though reflecting on the future: “For the
son of man came to seek and to save that which was lost.”
Me, Zaccheaus, He was
calling me a true Jew and one of those lost souls who had forgotten the
marvelous teachings of our heritage. Peace stole over me. Now I was
whole again. Now I had something to pass on. Now there is meaning in my
life. I am again what I was meant to be. As Jesus looked at me with
those eyes of his, I knew this was so much more than the respect I had
longed for—that look was love. I see love in his eyes!
Truly this man is the
Messiah. Truly this man is the son of God.
