Title: Being Seen
Intro: We are called to be like Jesus—to look up, to see the lonely and lost, to extend radical acceptance, to invite ourselves into people’s messy lives.
Scripture: Luke 19:1-10
Reflection
Dear Friends,
There is something about being seen, really seen, that changes everything.
I remember visiting a wealthy businessman some years ago. His office was on the top floor of a gleaming building. Everything around him spoke of success—the expensive furniture, the awards on the wall, the view of the entire city from his window. But when he sat across from me, I saw something in his eyes that all that success could not hide. It was emptiness. “Father,” he said quietly, “I have everything, but I feel like I have nothing.”
That conversation stayed with me because it reminded me of a short man in Jericho two thousand years ago, climbing a tree like a child, desperate to catch a glimpse of something he could not name, something his money could not buy.
Zacchaeus was rich beyond measure. As chief tax collector, he essentially owned the taxation rights of an entire city. Imagine that for a moment. Every transaction, every business, every household—he had his hand in all of it. The wealth he accumulated was staggering. He could buy anything, go anywhere, have anything his heart desired. But here is what money could not buy him: he could not buy back his reputation. He could not purchase respect. He could not acquire genuine friendship. He could not obtain peace.
The people of Jericho despised him. And they had good reason. He had become rich by overtaxing them, by collaborating with the Roman occupiers, by betraying his own people for profit. In their eyes, he was not just a sinner—he was a traitor. The religious leaders had long ago written him off. He was unclean, unwelcome in the synagogue, cut off from the community of faith. His wealth had built walls around him, and he lived in a prison of his own making.
Yet something was stirring in his heart. He had heard about Jesus—this poor rabbi from Nazareth who welcomed sinners, who ate with outcasts, who seemed to see people differently than everyone else did. What was it about this man? Why did the crowds follow him? Why did broken people seem to find hope in his presence?
When Zacchaeus heard Jesus was passing through Jericho, something inside him moved. He had to see this man. But how? He was short. The crowds were thick. And if he pushed his way through, can you imagine the reception? The people he had been extorting for years would have blocked him, mocked him, pushed him away. He was the last person they would make room for.
So he did something undignified, something completely beneath his station. He ran ahead and climbed a sycamore tree. Picture this wealthy, important man, probably in his finest robes, scrambling up a tree like a schoolboy. Tax collectors did not climb trees. Important men did not climb trees. Only children and slaves climbed trees. But desperation makes us do desperate things. When your soul is hungry enough, you stop caring about dignity.
And then it happened. Jesus reached that spot, and he did not just pass by. He stopped. He looked up. And he saw Zacchaeus.
Let me tell you something about being seen. Most of us go through life feeling invisible in the ways that matter most. People see our job title, our bank balance, our house, our car. They see what we do, what we have, where we stand in society. But how many people really see us? How many people see past the mask we wear, past the persona we have constructed, past the walls we have built?
Jesus saw Zacchaeus. Not Zacchaeus the tax collector. Not Zacchaeus the wealthy man. Not Zacchaeus the sinner. He saw Zacchaeus the human being, created in God’s image, hungry for something real, desperate for connection, longing for meaning.
And Jesus did not just see him—he called him by name. “Zacchaeus, come down immediately. I must stay at your house today” (Luke 19:5).
Those words must have felt like water to a man dying of thirst. Jesus was not asking permission. He was not negotiating. He was inviting himself into Zacchaeus’s life, into his home, into his world. And that simple act of acceptance, that radical gesture of inclusion, broke something open in Zacchaeus’s heart.
The crowd was scandalized. “He has gone to be the guest of a sinner,” they muttered (Luke 19:7). They could not understand it. Jesus was supposed to be a holy man, a prophet. Holy men did not associate with people like Zacchaeus. They kept themselves pure, separate, uncontaminated by sinners.
But Jesus never saw people as contamination. He saw them as possibilities.
We do not know exactly what happened in that house. Luke does not give us the details of the conversation. But we know the result. Something in Jesus’s presence—his acceptance, his grace, his genuine love—transformed Zacchaeus from the inside out. He stood up and made a stunning announcement: “Look, Lord! Here and now I give half of my possessions to the poor, and if I have cheated anybody out of anything, I will pay back four times the amount” (Luke 19:8).
Do the mathematics. Half his possessions to the poor. Four times restitution for everything he had stolen. Zacchaeus would have been nearly bankrupt. But did you notice something? He did not care. His face must have been radiant. Because when you find what truly matters, when you discover real life, when you experience genuine love—you realize how worthless all that other stuff really was.
Jesus responded with words that must have made heaven rejoice: “Today salvation has come to this house, because this man, too, is a son of Abraham. For the Son of Man came to seek and to save the lost” (Luke 19:9-10).
Son of Abraham. Not outcast. Not sinner. Not traitor. Son of Abraham. Restored. Reclaimed. Brought home.
My dear friends, here is what I want you to hear today. There are people all around us hiding in trees. They are successful on the outside but dying on the inside. They have made mistakes, accumulated guilt, built walls around their hearts. They think they are too far gone, too unworthy, too contaminated for God’s love. The religious people have written them off. Society has labeled them. And they have learned to live with the loneliness.
But Jesus is still walking through our streets, still looking up into the trees, still calling people by name.
Maybe you are reading this and you feel like Zacchaeus. Maybe success has not brought you peace. Maybe you are hiding, ashamed of your past, convinced you are too far from God to ever come back. Let me tell you what Jesus is saying to you today: Come down. I want to stay at your house. Not tomorrow, after you have cleaned up your act. Not next year, after you have proven yourself worthy. Today. Right now. Just as you are.
Or maybe you are like the crowd, muttering about sinners, keeping your distance from people who do not meet your standards. Remember this: Jesus did not wait for Zacchaeus to repent before he showed him love. The love came first. The transformation followed. Grace precedes change, not the other way around.
We are called to be like Jesus—to look up, to see the lonely and lost, to extend radical acceptance, to invite ourselves into people’s messy lives. Not with judgment. Not with conditions. But with genuine love.
Because when people experience that kind of love—the kind that sees them, accepts them, values them—that is when hearts change. That is when lives transform. That is when salvation comes to the house.
Zacchaeus came down from that tree a different man. Not because Jesus preached at him. Not because Jesus condemned him. But because Jesus loved him. And love, real love, is the most powerful force in the universe.
It still is today.
May the heart of Jesus, live in the hearts of all. Amen…
