Scripture | Luke 19:1-10

Good morning. I’ll begin this morning’s sermon with a song. I invite you to sing along with me, if you know the words. Accompanying motions are highly encouraged.

“Zacchaeus was a wee little man,

And a wee little man was he.

He climbed up in a sycamore tree,

For the Lord he wanted to see.

And as the savior passed that way,

He looked up in the tree.

And he said,

‘Zacchaeus, you come down!

For I’m going to your house today.

For I’m going to your house today.’”

As our collective chorus suggests, this is a popular song in many Sunday School classrooms. Though a significant portion of us did not grow up Mennonite–myself included–this song has crossed denominational boundaries. It seems many Christian traditions are intrigued by Zacchaeus’ brush with Jesus of Nazareth.

Yet, this song does not capture the complexities of the biblical narrative. The song tells us very little of Zacchaeus, and very little of Jesus, who invites himself into Zacchaeus’ home. The song reveals nothing that transpires after the invitation.

Luke’s text tells us that Zacchaeus is a tax collector. This career makes him wealthy, endears him to the Roman Empire, affords him a social and economic status unavailable to his peers. He is a messenger of Roman power, and holds a degree of political prestige, at the cost of communal respect and connection. The people despise Zaccahaeus.

This story comes toward the end of many others that depict Jesus’ life and travels toward Jerusalem, toward his eventual crucifixion. Luke is the only gospel that includes Jesus’ encounter with Zacchaeus. As we enter chapter 19, Jesus passes through Jericho, and the people gather. Zacchaeus is curious–perhaps even desperate–to catch a glimpse of this man, who is either renowned or notorious, depending on who is asked. Zacchaeus is so eager that he climbs a tree for a better look, an unexpected move from a person with his degree of social clout. He has access to the state’s regime, yet struggles to reach Jesus. Zacchaeus climbs among and above the people who loathe him, people he has undoubtedly harmed. His loyalty to the Roman Empire is in direct connection to the violent poverty, the lived, imperial oppression present in the crowd: Zacchaeus has no home in the broader community. Perhaps he senses the seething stares of those around him, yet still, he climbs. “He climbed up in a sycamore tree, for the Lord he wanted to see.”

I was taught that Zaccheus climbed because he was physically short, but biblical scholars disagree–as they often do–about this. Some say this description symbolizes a smallness of character, or perhaps a young age. Others understand Zacchaeus as a literally short man, whose physicality leads to his own experiences of oppression. Still others note that the original Greek is ambiguous, making it unclear whether it is Zacchaeus or Jesus who is short, and thus, hard to see through the crowd, which challenges our assumptions about the physicality of a Jesus often depicted as a tall and beautiful man (1). Even with this contextual uncertainty, the physicalities, the bodies, of those present matter enough to bear mention, and remind us: humans tend to form biases and make assumptions of one another based on our appearances, our bodies’ abilities and disabilities, our job titles. In this story, too, these realities matter.

No matter his physical form, what happens after Zacchaeus scales the tree–whether due to his own height, Jesus’, or something else entirely–is, for me, nothing less than miraculous in its unexpectedness. As Jesus passes by, I imagine his eyes finding Zacchaeus’ eyes among the crowd, “and he said, ‘Zacchaeus, you come down! For I’m going to your house today, for I’m going to your house today.’” Out of everyone present, Jesus beckons to this wealthy but wildly unpopular tax collector! Those gathered are appalled, they cannot believe that Jesus of Nazareth would invite himself into the home of Zacchaeus: minion of the Roman Empire, traitor of the people, a “sinner” (Luke 19:7).

Many biblical narratives show Jesus prioritizing the poor, the widow, the outcast, the sick. What are we to make of this story, a story in which Jesus prioritizes the wealthy and power-hungry Zacchaeus, the proverbial avocado pit (yes) in an otherwise easefully-composting community?

When composting, avocado pits are notoriously slow to break down, and are potentially harmful. Their outer skins create a barrier between the inner pit and its surrounding environment. While this may protect the pit itself, it is very difficult for the pit, in its unaltered form, to join the rest of the composting materials. Additionally, avocado pits contain persin, a chemical that prohibits the growth of some plants, and can be toxic to some animals. For those of us attempting to compost avocado pits for food soils, we should do so in an altered, ground-down form, which aids in the avocado’s capacity to breakdown, and minimizes potential harm to the rest of the compost community, now and in the future. It is also very important, when composting avocado pits, that we add “green materials” to balance carbon and nitrogen. The addition of these balance-inducing materials benefits not only the composting capacities of the avocado pit, but the entire composting ecosystem (2).

And so, let us note that it is to an avocado pit in the pile that Jesus gestures.

It is to Zacchaeus–in his outer armor of political positionality, harmful to his community, addicted to the allure of power, or perhaps resigned to surviving within it–to Zacchaeus, that Jesus extends his hand, “‘Zacchaeus, come down at once. I must stay in your home today’” (Luke 19:5b).

We cannot read contemporary personal or cultural assumptions onto Jesus’ self-initiated invitation. In the midwestern U.S., the English phrase, “they invited themselves” might allude to unspoken presumption on the part of the one who invites themselves, implying that the guest has become an addition of inconvenience, creating an obligatory demand on the host. But in the cultural context of the text, Jesus’ self-initiated invitation is one of compassionate care. He publicly honors Zacchaeus with a sacred hosting opportunity. This is a call-and-response interaction to which, we are told, Zacchaeus happily agrees.

Zacchaeus turns toward Jesus in an eager display of joyful hospitality. And he also turns toward his community, promising repair for the harms he has caused. Zacchaeus declares, “‘Look, Lord, I give half of my possessions to the poor. And if I have cheated anyone, I repay them four times as much’” (Luke 19:8). We do not know how or if Zacchaeus followed through on his word, but we are told that he promises repayment. Jesus calls to Zacchaeus, and Zacchaeus responds by welcoming Jesus and by taking responsibility for causing communal harm. He commits to new ways of being.

Hope.

For me, this passage is unabashedly hopeful, hinting at the rebirth of resurrection, the possibilities that bloom even within–and in spite of–harm, loss, pain, isolation, death, despair. While this story does not indicate that salvation is primarily for the tax collector, it does indicate that salvation is also for the tax collector. Jesus extends a hand of salvation even to those in power, even to those who harm, even to those the community has deemed irreparably lost and despised.

This message may have been particularly important for Luke’s author, often thought to be a Gentile. As a non-Jew, this message of inclusive hope is integral for himself and other non-Jews seeking belonging within the fledgling Jewish movement that we have come to call Christianity. Who is this salvific promise for? Only the Jewish people, or the Gentiles, too? “‘Today, salvation has come to this household because he too is a son of Abraham’” (Luke 19:9). The Jesus of Luke’s gospel is expansive, beckoning to those least expected: the poor, the widow, the outcast, the sick, and also the wealthy, socially-isolated, harm-causing tax collector, too.

This is not a story promoting economic wealth, nor is it a story about accepting injustice as inevitable. The belovedness of each human and all of Earth demands that we refuse the suffering of injustice and work together toward new and thriving collective futures. Hope moves from and through Jesus’ invitation to all: hope moves in recognizing that new and life-giving possibilities might arise in the most unexpected of places and people. Together, we grind into new forms that which causes harm, and incorporate all that is nourishing, protective, regenerative, for the sake of all life.

Like compost, stinking of death and renewed life, we churn, churn.

Who are the easily-identifiable Zacchaeuses in our world, our nation-states, our cities, our neighborhoods, our families? Who are those people for whom we have lost hope, those we despise, those we avoid at all costs, those we have exiled from the nest of community?

Churn, churn, grinding the rigid avocado pit into something soft, hopeful, less harmful.

Something new, remade together.

And, perhaps most painful, yet equally important: where is Zacchaeus in us? Where are we drawn to power and prestige, even when it comes at the detriment of someone else? Where are we rigid, unyielding, insistent that the problem is “them,” not us, “you,” not me? What aspects of ourselves do we struggle to release into the folds of community, what do we keep hidden, what do we assume is a chemical too harmful to be integrated into something new and life-giving? About what, in ourselves, have we given up hope?

Churn, churn, grinding the rigid avocado pit into something soft, hopeful, less harmful.

Something new, remade together.

If we can recognize the Zacchaeuses in ourselves, we are better equipped to recognize the very human-ness in Luke’s Zacchaeus. We can reach across the distance of space and time and feel our shared, human complexities, present within the violent inequities of systems of power.

We can extend compassion to the Zacchaeus in us, the tender human doing the very hard work of human-ing. And, we can allow that compassion to radiate outward, toward our personal, local, national and global Zacchaeuses.

Jesus recognizes Zacchaeus. Jesus calls out to Zacchaeus. Jesus invites himself into Zacchaeus’ home. Jesus extends a hand, an invitation. And, Zacchaeus–happily–responds in acceptance.

Churn, churn, grinding the rigid avocado pit into something soft, hopeful, less harmful.

Something new, remade together.

Amen.

Sources:

1. Daniel Steinmeyer, “Jesus the Short King: Measuring up Jesus and Zacchaeus in Luke 19,” Biblical Archaeology Society, October 1, 2025, https://www.biblicalarchaeology.org/daily/biblical-topics/new-testament/jesus-the-short-king/.
2. “Can you compost avocado pits?,” Can You Compost That?, January 11, 2023, https://canyoucompostthat.com/can-you-compost-avocado-pits/.