Zacchaeus

We had finally reached
Jericho.
The journey had taken so much
longer than we expected
as we kept being stopped
along the way.
And what a sight it was.
It was packed
with people,
everywhere you looked.
Would you believe
they were even up
in the trees!
And the noise!
And the shouting!
It was tremendous.
We pushed our way slowly
through the crowds
until suddenly
Jesus stopped
and looked up.
So we all looked up.
I couldn’t see anything different;
just a tree
with someone sitting
on one of the branches.
I pushed closer and then
I saw
who it was.
It was Zacchaeus,
the tax collector.
At first
I was amused
‘This is something to tell them
back home,’ I thought.
‘Next time he comes collecting money
I bet people remember this;
Zacchaeus, up a tree!’
Maybe he’ll fall out and land
at our feet.
That would be even better,
to be able to look down
on him.
He wouldn’t be so pompous then.
But no.
I shouldn’t think like that
Jesus doesn’t like it.
I suppose he has every right
to watch like the rest of them.
But why has
Jesus stopped?
He must know who Zacchaeus is.
If not someone should tell Him,
and quickly,
before He puts His foot in it.
Then I heard
Jesus speak.
‘He’ll tell him off’, I thought,
‘And in public too. Good.’
But no.
Jesus spoke to him in a really
gentle, caring way and asked
to go to his house.
I was angry then.
Of all the people he could have asked,
Zacchaeus!
Well he was pleased;
why wouldn’t he be,
singled out for such
an honour.
He had probably planned it all.
So we all trouped off
to Zacchaeus’ house,
and the most annoying
thing happened.
Zacchaeus seemed to become
a different person
right before our eyes.
Not physically;
he was still the same outwardly,
but he changed.
Even I have to admit it.
He became generous,
kind hearted,
good, even…
Jesus then said something odd.
He said He had come
to save
what was lost.
But yes,
that summed it up perfectly.
Zacchaeus had been lost.
I hate owning up to being wrong
but I have to admit it.
Jesus knew what He was doing
when He stopped under
that particular tree.

© Kathleen Wilks