Part One — The Ache for Home
There is a painting by Norman Rockwell that I have loved for years. Even before I knew why it gripped me, it spoke to something deep inside — that universal ache, that timeless yearning we all have for home. Not simply a house or a street address, but the place where joy meets memory and belonging meets safety. The painting is of a young soldier returning from war, stepping into his family’s yard for the first time in a very long time. He is in uniform, duffel bag slung over his shoulder, the dust of a dozen faraway places still clinging to his boots.
The house behind him is old — an aged red brick tenement, weathered by the years, worn by the stories it has seen. In fact, the bricks are so old a fern has grown out of the mortar near the gutter on the second floor. The building is frayed at the edges, but it is home. And somehow that makes it beautiful.
Rockwell has captured the precise moment when joy — sudden, unpolished, unrehearsed joy — bursts open at the young man’s return. It’s like the house itself inhales and holds its breath in wonder.
His mother is the first one you notice. She stands on the wooden porch wearing her work apron, her arms thrown wide, her whole body calling out the welcome that her voice hardly needs to say out loud. Behind her, in the shadowed doorway, is his father, pipe in mouth, steadying himself against the doorframe as if his knees might go weak with relief. Rockwell liked to put himself in his paintings, and there’s a hint of his own face in that father — a quiet nod from artist to canvas.
On the porch roof sits the soldier’s older brother, hammer in hand, mid-task, mid-strike, mid-life — but frozen now, taking in the miracle of the moment. And then there’s the little brother, caught by Rockwell with both feet off the ground, suspended in that wonderful instant between joy and embrace. He is leaping off the porch and running like a little dog toward the brother he has missed with the kind of pure-hearted love only children can express without embarrassment.
Above them the laundry flaps — sheets billowing, shirts dancing in the breeze — as if the wind itself has joined the celebration and is waving a banner of welcome home.
But then your eye shifts, and you see her. A girl — a beautiful young woman now — standing partly hidden against the wall near the downspout. She’s not in the foreground. She’s not part of the noisy commotion. She stands a little apart from everyone, but the look on her face reveals everything. She is waiting for the moment when the soldier will turn his head and recognize her — the girl he left behind. She is home. And now he is home. Home to his mother, home to his father, home to his people, home to the girl he loves, home to the old red brick house.
And something happens inside us when we look at that painting. A tug. A memory. A longing. Because home is the treasure chest where we store our fondest memories. Home is where dreams were whispered and love first learned its name. Even in dysfunctional homes — and many of us have lived in those — there is still something about home that pulls on us. Even if it wasn’t perfect, even if it was painful, even if it was complicated, it formed us. And there is something deep in the human soul that says:
“I want to go back to the place where my story began.”
Home always draws us.
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A House Left Desolate
And that brings us to one of the saddest statements Jesus ever made:
> “Your house is left unto you desolate.”
Not, “Your nation” or “your city” or “your synagogue.”
Your house.
Your house is the place where your heart sleeps.
Your house is the place where your soul rests.
Your house is the place where your identity is shaped.
To be told, “Your house is left unto you desolate,”
is to hear that the place where you were supposed to belong
has become empty.
Empty of peace.
Empty of fellowship.
Empty of joy.
Empty of God.
And Zacchaeus — the man in the sycamore tree — knew all about that desolation. He lived in a beautiful house, but his soul lived in a desert. He was alienated from himself, from his community, and from God. His house looked fine on the outside, but on the inside it was hollow. A shell. A quiet, echoing emptiness.
He was the victim of a cruel response to his own cruelty. He had cheated others, and in turn, he had been emotionally exiled by those same others. He had money, but he had no welcome. He had wealth, but he had no warmth. He had security, but he had no belonging.
He desperately needed a homecoming.
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The Three Taxes
Zacchaeus was the chief tax collector — not just any tax collector. The chief. He didn’t wear a government badge and a uniform. He didn’t receive a salary from Jerusalem. Instead, Rome offered contracts. You could bid on a region, and if you won the bid, you had the right to collect taxes on behalf of the Empire.
There were three main taxes that Zacchaeus collected:
1. The harvest tax — on whatever people grew from their land.
2. The border or poll tax — required every time someone crossed into Jericho’s jurisdiction.
3. The income tax — assessed on what a person earned.
Now, here’s the important part: Zacchaeus didn’t get paid for collecting these taxes. His income came entirely from whatever he charged above Rome’s required amount. Rome didn’t care how much extra he collected as long as they got their cut.
And Zacchaeus was good at collecting extra. Very good.
He squeezed people.
He bullied them.
He extorted them.
He built his wealth on other people’s pain.
And the people hated him for it.
Not silently. Not secretly.
They despised him openly.
He didn’t get wishes of shalom in the marketplace.
No one tipped their hat or gave him a nod.
People crossed the street when they saw him coming.
He didn’t belong anywhere.
Not in Jerusalem.
Not in Jericho.
Not in the synagogue.
Not in his own home.
He was alone.
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“If You Prick Us, Do We Not Bleed?”
His loneliness reminds me of Shylock in The Merchant of Venice. Discriminated against, mocked, alienated, he finally erupts with the words:
> “I am a Jew.
Hath not a Jew eyes? Hath not a Jew hands, organs,
dimensions, senses, affections, passions?
If you prick us, do we not bleed?
If you tickle us, do we not laugh?”
Shylock wasn’t simply angry; he was alone.
He wasn’t just wounded; he was unseen.
He wasn’t just demanding justice; he was crying for belonging.
Zacchaeus felt that cry deep in his bones.
He was wandering through life like a spiritual orphan.
---
Hearing That Jesus Was Coming
But one day, word spreads that Jesus is passing through Jericho — the second-largest city in Israel at the time. Zacchaeus knows the path the procession must take. And because he is short — not in value, not in worth, but in stature — he climbs a sycamore tree.
Zacchaeus was — small, but searching.
Wounded, but willing.
Rich, but empty.
Lonely, but looking for a glimpse of hope.
So he climbs a tree — the only vantage point his brokenness will afford him — and waits.
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Where Jesus Always Appears
Before Jesus arrives beneath that branch, let me ask you something:
What if I told you there is a place where Jesus absolutely appears?
A place He guaranteed with His own words?
Would you go there?
Would you make the effort?
Would you climb the tree?
Or would you say:
“I’ll go if they play my music…”
“I’ll go if the preaching is my style…”
“I’ll go if my type of people are there…”
But Jesus said:
> “Where two or three are gathered together in My name,
there am I in the midst of them.”
Jesus always appears in the place where His people gather.
And if Jesus is appearing, I’ll climb the tree.
And I want to see Him.
---
Part Two — When Jesus Stops Under Your Tree
When Jesus finally comes down the road toward the sycamore tree, something happens that no one expects — least of all Zacchaeus. The crowd is thick, the noise rising and falling like waves around Him. People are pressing close, craning their necks, stepping on toes, jostling for position. Some want a blessing, some want a miracle, some want a spectacle. But Jesus isn’t distracted by the commotion. He is doing what He has always done — looking for the one heart ready to be found.
And in the midst of all that noise and motion, Jesus stops.
He stops at the exact foot of the tree where Zacchaeus has perched himself. Imagine that moment. Jesus is surrounded by hundreds, maybe thousands, yet He stops for the man nobody stops for. He halts the entire procession for the man the town avoids. He pauses for the one soul who feels the most alienated.
This is the gospel:
Jesus always stops under the tree where you hide.
He always looks up into the place where you think you are unseen.
He always pauses under the branches where loneliness has driven you.
He always knows exactly where you are, even when you aren’t sure where you belong.
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A Painting That Preaches
This week I came across a remarkable painting by the Japanese Christian artist Soichi Watanabe. It is one of the most moving depictions of Zacchaeus I have ever seen. At first glance you think you’re looking at a stained-glass window — it glows with the same radiant colors and soft, luminous transitions. But what catches your attention is the shapes.
The crowd in the foreground is painted in hard triangles — flat on top, pointed at the chin, almost alien in their uniformity. Blues, grays, deep reds — impersonal, cold, faceless. They represent the press of humanity around Jesus, the crowd that sees but does not see, hears but does not hear.
But in all that mosaic of triangles, there are only two ovals.
Only two faces shaped differently.
Only two figures with warmth.
Only two who are truly looking at each other.
Jesus and Zacchaeus.
Both faces glow with a warm orange — almost like firelight on clay. And their eyes meet across the tangled branches and the swirling colors of the crowd. Everything else fades, and what remains is this simple, holy connection: Jesus seeing Zacchaeus. Zacchaeus seeing Jesus.
But Watanabe paints one more detail — and it is profound. Zacchaeus is not merely sitting in the tree. He is emerging from the center of a six-petaled flower — bright yellow, blooming outward like the Star of David. A great blossom opening from the barren wood of the sycamore. On Zacchaeus’ own chest sits the Star as well — but distorted, as if bent or twisted by the life he has lived.
He belonged to the people of Israel, but didn’t feel like he belonged.
He had a heritage, but no home.
He had a story, but no community to hold it.
But the moment Jesus looks at him — truly sees him — something begins to bloom. Something begins to unfold inside him. He is emerging again, as though he is being reborn in the branches.
That’s what grace does.
It finds you in the place where you feel least alive.
It blooms in the tree where you climbed to hide.
It opens petals where you expected only wood.
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When Grace Calls Your Name
Jesus looks up and says the words that reorient Zacchaeus’ entire life:
> “Zacchaeus.”
He says his name.
Not “tax collector.”
Not “cheater.”
Not “traitor.”
Not “sinner.”
His name.
There are moments in Scripture where God calls someone by name — and everything changes.
“Samuel. Samuel.”
“Fear not, Mary…”
“Saul, Saul, why persecutest thou Me?”
“Lazarus, come forth!”
And now: “Zacchaeus.”
The crowd must have gasped. Jesus is speaking to him?
The little man in the tree?
The outcast?
The cheat?
The government collaborator?
Yes. Jesus always speaks to the one the crowd avoids.
And then Jesus adds the second sentence — one of the most startling, grace-filled statements in the Gospels:
> “Come down immediately, for today I must stay at your house.”
Not, “May I?”
Not, “Would it be convenient if…?”
Not, “If you get your life together first…”
Not, “If you prove yourself worthy…”
But: “I must stay at your house.”
This is the urgency of grace.
Jesus does not ask for permission to enter a desolate place.
He declares it.
He proclaims it.
He insists upon it.
Grace refuses to leave you lost.
Grace refuses to let you stay in the tree.
Grace refuses to let your house remain empty.
“Let’s go to your house, Zacchaeus.
Let’s go to the place you hide from.
Let’s go to the place you fear most.
Let’s go to the rooms where shame hangs like old curtains.
Let’s go to the table where no one has eaten with you in years.
Let’s go to your house — not the house you show others,
but the house where your soul actually lives.”
---
The Crowds and the Criticism
As soon as Jesus invites Himself over, the criticism begins.
It always does.
People start whispering:
> “He has gone to be the guest of a sinner.”
And here is the irony:
they didn’t mind when Jesus healed strangers,
or when He fed the hungry,
or when He preached from boats.
But they lose their religious minds when He goes home with the wrong person.
It turns out Jesus is a very poor judge of respectable company —
and a perfect judge of human need.
Let us be careful about criticizing the people Jesus chooses to sit with.
Let us be slow to judge the guests He welcomes.
Let us be humble enough to admit that if Jesus had refused to eat with sinners,
He would have had to eat alone.
---
The Feast
Zacchaeus climbs down, trembling, stunned, overwhelmed, and Jesus walks with him through the streets of Jericho. People stare. Some look angry. Some look confused. But Zacchaeus is not looking at them. His eyes remain on Jesus.
They reach his house — a large, well-appointed place with a courtyard and small, arched windows. The kind of house that looks full but feels desolate. The kind of house where silence echoes. The kind of house where wealth has bought everything except peace.
But today, everything changes.
Jesus enters the house, and suddenly the emptiness begins to fill.
They prepare a feast — a kind of communion meal before communion ever existed.
The table is set.
The bread sliced.
The food placed.
The wine poured.
But the true feast is not on the table — it is at the table.
The true feast is Jesus, sitting where no one expected Him to sit.
Zacchaeus has never had a guest like this.
Never had a friend like this.
Never had a chance like this.
---
Coming Home to Yourself
Something breaks open in Zacchaeus.
Something long shut begins to rise.
The flower in the tree begins to bloom inside his chest.
He stands from the table — the table he never thought he’d share with Jesus — and declares:
> “Behold, Lord, half of my goods I give to the poor.
And if I have taken anything from anyone by false accusation,
I restore fourfold.”
This is not the speech of a man trying to earn salvation.
This is the speech of a man who has already received it.
Zacchaeus is finally coming home — to himself.
For the first time in a very long time, he is honest.
I spent years working with addicted individuals, and I can tell you with absolute certainty:
there is a moment — a holy moment — when recovery begins.
And it always begins with honesty.
It always begins when denial cracks and truth gets a foothold.
That is the moment salvation starts blooming.
Zacchaeus is breaking open.
Truth is flowing in.
Grace is flowing out.
---
Coming Home to Jesus
Jesus listens.
He sees the tears in Zacchaeus’ eyes.
He sees the courage it takes for a broken man to be honest.
He sees the blooming flower in the soul of a man who thought he had no more petals left.
And Jesus says:
> “This day salvation has come to this house.”
Not tomorrow.
Not someday in heaven.
Not after more spiritual progress.
Today.
Because salvation is not a future prize.
It is a present presence.
It is Jesus in your living room.
It is Jesus at your dinner table.
It is Jesus in the rooms where shame once lived.
It is Jesus saying,
“Let’s go to your house — I’m already here.”
---
Coming Home to Your People
Then Jesus adds:
> “For he also is a son of Abraham.”
He doesn’t say, “He will be,” or “He was,” but:
“He IS.”
Zacchaeus — the cheat, the traitor, the outcast —
is restored to his community.
The distorted star on his chest begins to straighten.
He belongs again.
And he belongs not because the crowd accepts him
—but because Jesus does.
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Part Three — When Jesus Enters the House
Something happens when Jesus walks into a house.
Something changes.
Something shifts in the atmosphere.
You can feel it.
Every story in the Gospels where Jesus enters a home — whether it is Peter’s mother-in-law, Jairus’ daughter, Matthew the tax collector, or the disciples in the upper room — the same pattern appears:
Jesus walks in,
and emptiness walks out.
Jesus steps inside,
and something begins to heal,
something begins to breathe,
something begins to live again.
And so it is with Zacchaeus.
As Jesus reclines at the table, as bread is broken, as conversation fills a house once filled with echoing silence, something becomes clear:
This is what home was always meant to be.
Warmth.
Belonging.
Truth.
Joy.
Redemption.
Recognition.
Reclaiming.
The house that was desolate is now alive.
---
What Church Really Is
This is why the church matters — not because of architecture, or programming, or music, or the plans we make — but because of the mysterious, reliable, promised presence of Jesus Christ.
Jesus said:
> “Where two or three are gathered together in my Name,
there am I in the midst of them.”
This is why we come.
Not for a style.
Not for a preference.
Not for a performance.
Not for our favorite hymn.
Not for our favorite preacher.
We come for Him.
Because when Jesus is here,
home happens.
People begin to belong again.
Desolate houses begin to fill again.
Hearts that have been wandering begin to recognize themselves again.
To leave the gathering because the music wasn’t “my music,”
or the sermon wasn’t “my style,”
or the people weren’t “my kind,”
is to say:
“I will only go home if the furniture is arranged the way I like it.”
If Jesus is here,
I’ll climb a tree to see Him.
I’ll walk 10 miles to find Him.
I’ll sit on the floor if I have to.
Because if Jesus is here,
life is here.
And where life is,
I want to be.
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Emerging From the Flower
Back to that Watanabe painting — Zacchaeus emerging from the great six-petaled flower blooming from the tree. The Star of David glowing on his chest, twisted before but beginning now to straighten. The orange light of Christ’s face reflecting on his.
That is you.
That is me.
That is every soul who has ever climbed a sycamore tree for a glimpse of hope.
You and I are that distorted star on the chest of Zacchaeus.
We are the ones who belong to God but don’t always feel like we do.
We are the ones who have history but not always home.
We are the ones who have heritage but sometimes no community.
But as Jesus looks at you — truly looks at you — you begin to bloom.
Grace unfolds in you like a flower long dormant.
Light shines on you like morning after a long night.
And suddenly you begin to emerge.
You emerge from the branches of fear.
You emerge from the leaves of shame.
You emerge from the habits that held you.
You emerge from the loneliness that shaped you.
You emerge from the tree where you hid.
You emerge because grace has called you by name.
This is the picture of salvation.
Not a distant reward.
Not a far-off heaven.
Not a someday hope.
But a now reality:
“This day salvation has come to this house.”
Your house.
Your heart.
Your desolate place.
Jesus does not wait for you to climb down clean.
He calls you down as you are
so He can make you what you are meant to be.
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The Lost Face of God
Paul Tillich said something beautiful:
“In Christianity, God is encountered in the face of the other.”
You see God’s compassion in the eyes of those who sit beside you.
You see God’s patience in the wrinkles of a grandmother’s smile.
You see God’s forgiveness in the tear of a brother’s repentance.
You see God’s tenderness in the child who reaches for your hand.
You see God’s hope in the face of someone who refuses to give up.
This is why we gather — because Jesus shows up in the faces of His people.
Zacchaeus found God in the face of Jesus.
The crowd found God in the face of Zacchaeus.
And we find God in the faces around us.
In this place.
In this space.
In this gathering where He promised to be.
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Coming Home — The Gospel
Zacchaeus came home:
Home to himself — healed by honesty.
Home to Jesus — welcomed by grace.
Home to his people — restored by mercy.
Home to his purpose — transformed by love.
This is what Jesus does.
He leads you home.
There is someone here today who feels far from home.
You’ve been wandering, searching, trying to climb a tree high enough to see hope again.
You’ve been hiding behind branches of self-protection.
You’ve been staring at the road, wondering if Jesus ever walks your way.
Hear me clearly:
Jesus always walks your way.
Jesus always stops under your tree.
Jesus always looks up and calls your name.
Jesus always says,
“Let’s go to your house.”
The place you fear to show Him
is the place He most desires to heal.
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APPEAL — “Let’s Go to Your House”
My friend…
Jesus wants to go home with you today.
To the places no one sees.
To the rooms you keep locked.
To the thoughts you don’t speak aloud.
To the memories that make your heart ache.
To the habits that keep you bound.
To the shame you’ve carried too long.
To the emptiness you thought you had to hide.
He isn’t waiting for you to prove you’re worthy.
He isn’t asking you to climb higher.
He isn’t calling you by your failures.
He is calling you by your name.
“Come down.
Come today.
Come now.
Let’s go to your house.”
Today — not tomorrow — salvation wants to walk through your front door.
Today healing wants to sit at your table.
Today grace wants to stand in your living room.
Today Jesus wants to bloom something new inside you.
If there is a part of your life that feels desolate…
If there is a part of your soul that feels like an empty house…
If there is a part of your story that feels twisted like Zacchaeus’ star…
Jesus says to you:
“Let’s go to your house.
I must stay with you today.”
If you hear His voice,
don’t stay in the tree.
Come down.
Come home.
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CLOSING PRAYER
Lord Jesus,
Thank You for stopping under our tree.
Thank You for seeing us when we felt unseen,
for calling us by name when shame called us by failure,
for inviting Yourself into the houses of our hearts
even when we feared You would find them empty.
Come into our homes today.
Come into our desolate places.
Come into the rooms we hide from others.
Come sit at our table.
Fill our emptiness with Your presence.
Bloom Your grace inside us until we emerge new.
Make our homes places of belonging,
places where salvation lives,
places where You dwell.
We come down from our trees, Lord.
Take us home.
In Jesus’ name, Amen.
