Zacchaeus over years has distanced himself: he distanced from his own people through collaboration with the Romans. He broke away from the community that formed him, named him, prayed over him as a child. He distanced from his conscience through the accumulation of wealth extracted from the vulnerable—wealth extracted from the vulnerable creates its own insulation, the more you have, the less you must feel. You are afraid to come in touch with your conscience. Now when the time comes to meet Jesus he again distances himself from that possibility by climbing a tall sycamore tree (Luke 19: 1-10). Short people think of walking to the front to see and be seen, but Zacchaeus ran away on to a sycamore tree. He climbs. He creates distance once more. The sycamore tree is not just a solution to his short stature; it is the culmination of his entire life's distancing. From the safety of the tall tree, he can observe without being observed, see without being seen, and remain a spectator than a participant—for he knew what it would mean to fall into the hands of the living God. He must have heard the stories of the unyielding fishermen, or Simon the zealot, who are now Jesus’ disciples.
We too are Zacchaeuses in keeping distance from the poor who challenge us, and the God who would change us. We are happy with the dogmas, doctrines, and theology of a God far far away, but uncomfortable with a God who walks with us and invades our minds.
There is Jesus; everything about Jesus moves in the opposite direction. He is covering distance, he is coming closer. He has come closer to Zacchaeus through his constant association with sinners and tax collectors and eating with them; he had declared his closeness unambiguously when he said, “what I want is mercy and not sacrifice.” Now is the final act of drawing close. He walks by the tax office, arrives under the sycamore tree, looks up and tells him, “I must stay at your house today.” Jesus catches up with a running away Zacchaeus, like a shepherd goes after a lost sheep. And the only thing Zacchaeus had to do was to come down quickly, in joy, and receive him? It is effortless to meet our God.
Zacchaeus, abandoning the safety of distance, comes down quickly and joyfully. People innately take pride in being truthful, compassionate, and holy. But they also like happiness, celebrations, acceptance, and success. Spirituality often is presented as mortifying, sorrowful, and being weak. Jesus proposes that both can go together. Rightly so, Zacchaeus gives up his corrupt and unethical ways.
When Zacchaeus distances himself from his people and God, Jesus draws close—scandalously close—to sinners and tax collectors, eating with them, touching them, declaring solidarity with precisely those the righteous have marked as untouchable. His entire ministry is an exercise in collapsing distance: between God and humanity, between clean and unclean, between the holy and the broken.
This is what the religious crowd cannot tolerate. They grumble: ‘he has gone in to be the guest of a man who is a sinner.’ But their complaint reveals their theology. They believe in a God who waits for us to cover the distance, who expects us to climb down from our trees, clean ourselves up, prove ourselves worthy. They believe in distance as a theological principle—God here, sinners there, and salvation as the reward for successfully navigating the gap. The religious establishment, the middlemen, never forgave him for this. Their entire system was built on maintaining proper distance: from Gentiles, from sinners, from anything that threatened their profit. And here was Jesus, systematically violating every boundary, closing every gap they had so carefully constructed.
Jesus is still covering distance. Still seeking. Still looking up at our hiding places with eyes full of recognition and a voice that says, you were always mine. Come down. Receive me. Come home.
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