“NOT FOR CIRCULATION WITHOUT PERMISSION”
Sermon at St. Jacobs Mennonite Church, March 30, 2025
Guest Speaker: Marcus Shantz, President, Conrad Grebel University College
Thanks for having me today. I grew up at this church – from when I was five years old to about fourteen, and I have many good memories of you, and of this place. Your pastors invited me here to talk about the story of Zaccheus. A couple of years ago, I gave a presentation to MCEC pastors about the similarities I saw between Zaccheus and my father – Milo Shantz. Your pastors thought it would be interesting to repeat that presentation here in St. Jacobs, where Milo developed tourism-related businesses and projects starting in the 1970s.
That sure would be interesting. However I’m going to focus more on Zaccheus and less on Milo today. I’m doing that for two reasons –
One, a version of original presentation about Milo and Zaccheus was published by Canadian Mennonite awhile ago, so many of you may have already read it, and if not, you can find it later if you want to.
Two, there are too many people in this room with direct experience in some of the stories I could tell about Milo and St. Jacobs – including members of my own family. My version of events and what they mean might not be yours. It could be really interesting someday to compare notes – but a sermon doesn’t lend itself well to that. We find the story of Zaccheus in Chapter 19 of Luke. It’s pretty much the last thing that happens before Jesus enters Jerusalem, unfolding the events that lead him to the cross. So it’s appropriate – in terms of the timeline of the Gospel story — to read this passage now, just before Easter week.
The first nine chapters of Luke are the Nativity and the stories of Jesus’ early ministry around Galilee. And then in Chapter 9, verse 51, it says that “Jesus set his face towards Jerusalem.” And that begins what bible scholars call the “Travel Account” – the journey from Galilee to Jerusalem that ends with the story of Zaccheus.
On the journey, Jesus repeatedly reaches out to outsiders and outcasts of various description: Samaritans, widows, the terminally ill and disfigured, and Zaccheus the tax collector. He does this because his mission “to seek out and save the lost”, as Luke repeatedly puts it. These episodes upset the Pharisees and confuse his disciples.
The trip to Jerusalem starts ten chapters before we meet Zaccheus. And it doesn’t begin well. The first episode Luke records is that Jesus and his disciples come to a village of Samaritans, and that the Samaritans did not welcome Jesus into the village. In response, some of Jesus’ disciples propose revenge and genocide to wipe out the Samaritans. It’s shocking to read. Here’s it is, in Luke 9, verse 54: “…they said ‘Lord, do you want us to command fire to come down from heaven and consume them? But Jesus turned and rebuked them.”
In her book The Origin of Others, Toni Morrison asks, “Why should we want to know a stranger when it is easier to estrange another? Why should we want to close the distance when we can close the gate?” Part of the answer must be that we have a powerful need to belong — to find identity and status in groups. And groups have a well-documented and tragic tendency to build belonging by creating “others” – people who do not belong with us.
The irony in the story of the disciples who wanted to wipe out the Samaritan village is that many of them had been outsiders themselves just a few pages earlier. They were tax collectors, prostitutes, widows, and others from the margins, and now they were somebodies – the followers of Jesus. They had some things in common with the Samaritans. But instead of empathizing with the outcast Samaritans, their first instinct was to destroy. They felt righteous and newly powerful, and they wanted to exert themselves.
I put it to you that we still harbor the impulse to build group identity by creating “others” . It is as alive in us, in the church today, as it was among the disciples 2000 years ago. It is, at least, alive outside the church, in the wider community, in our country.
How many of us secretly enjoyed that hockey fight in the USA Canada game a few weeks ago? Or maybe not so secretly. Have you caught yourself being just a little judgmental of friends and family
who went to Florida this winter? You may have heard news stories recently about the village of Point Roberts. Point Roberts is just a little smaller than St. Jacobs in terms of population. It’s also a tourist town that depends on Canadians popping across the border to visit, shop, buy gas, and so on. When the 49th parallel was established as the western border between the United States and Canada, Point Roberts fell south of the line, and became part of Washington State. But it has no land boundary with the United States. To get to Point Roberts by land, you have to go through Canada.
But this Winter, Canadians are angry, with talk of tariffs and trade wars, and annexation, and Point Roberts is in the wrong place at the wrong time. Border crossings are down and business owners are worried because their Canadian neighbours are boycotting the town. And some residents of Point Roberts who cross the border into Canada with their Washington State license plates are being cold shouldered.
When interviewed by a journalist a couple of weeks ago, residents point out that most people there didn’t vote for Trump and don’t support his threats towards Canada. One said: “We can’t do without Canada’s support. We won’t exist” Another pleaded: “…Don’t take it out on our little town. We’re probably the most Canadian town in the U.S.” Nationalism is a rather dangerous drug. It can create a powerful sense of unity, but it generally does so by creating outsiders. You may have seen the recent political ad, with Prime Minister Carney questioning the comedian Mike Myers about whether he is Canadian or not. They’re at an arena, watching a hockey practice, wearing hockey jerseys, and one of the questions Carney asks is what to do if you’re a defenseman defending a two-on-one. Satisfied with the answer, Carney says that he’s really a Canadian. It’s a brilliant piece of political advertising, and I know it’s just a joke, and I don’t want to be a downer. But what is a Canadian who doesn’t know, or doesn’t really care about hockey supposed to make of that ad?
In the times we’re in, I think it’s our job as Christians, and as Mennonites, to ask who we’re calling “we”, and who’s becoming “them.” That’s why we read these Bible stories. We hear stories of Jesus embracing outcasts and outsiders every year in church – and that’s because we always need to hear them, over and over. But the problem with hearing stories over and over is that they become overly familiar. We think we know what they mean, and they no longer challenge us. Stories that cast Samaritans in a positive light were meant to upset and offend first century Jews. But we aren’t in the first century, and we don’t have anything against Samaritans.
I thought about a way to update a well-known story about a Samaritan in a way that would upset and offend me, and perhaps you too. Here’s what I came up with: “The lawyer asked Jesus ‘And who is my neighbour’? Jesus replied, “One evening, a man was going from Toronto to Kitchener the 401, and was mugged in the parking lot of the En Route station in Cambridge, and left half dead. A member of the pastoral team at St. Jacobs Mennonite Church happened by, saw the man lying there, and got into her car and hurried away on the westbound lanes. Likewise, the president of a Mennonite College came by to buy gasoline. He pretended not to see the injured man, and drove off down the 401. Then a man drove up in a Tesla Cybertruck, with Ohio license plates and a red bumper sticker that said “Make America Great Again.” He was moved to pity, got out his first aid kit, tended to his injuries, and then took him to the Hampton Inn down the road, where he paid for a room where the man could spend the night. Now, which of these, do you think, acted as a neighbour to the man who was mugged?”
The point of the Good Samaritan is not just that we should help strangers in distress. Rather, the story is supposed to alert me to the alarming possibility that the very people I’ve dismissed — and even people I hate – might be capable of kindness and compassion. Might even, sometimes, be more righteous, faithful and loving than I am.
The Samaritans are a whole nation of outsiders in the Gospels. Jews and Samaritans shared a mutual and collective dislike of each other. But there are other “Others” in these stories. There are people who were part of the community but on the margins for a variety of reasons — their occupations, their sexual history, their marital status, or their disabilities and chronic illnesses. Jesus heals and offers salvation to them, and sometimes offers forgiveness. He does this, he says, because his mission is to seek out and to save the lost.
That phrase — “to save the lost” — can cause problems. How did they get lost in the first place? It’s easy to assume that outcasts and outsiders mostly have themselves to blame. That is, their own choices led them astray. And that Jesus’s main purpose in reaching out is to correct their mistakes and moral failings. And once they are corrected – which is to say – once they meet my standards – then they can be part of the community. If I identify as an insider, this is a very soothing thought. It restores my sense of superiority over the outsider. It allows me to forget that troubling idea that the outsider might actually be more faithful than me. This thinking lets me have it both ways. I get to feel good about inviting outsiders in, but I can still be judgmental. The outsider has to change themselves to fit my
expectations.
This is an all-too familiar dynamic in churches. For example, a few decades ago, Mennonite congregations around here began openly discussing whether and how to include gay and lesbian people in the life of the church. The entirely inadequate solution that some congregations arrived at was to say, you can be part of the church, but you must be celibate, you can’t marry, and you can’t be a pastor – even if you feel called to it. If I sound critical – it’s a self-criticism. I was a member of more than one congregation that took that position and made those decisions. If you go back a little further back in our history, a similar dynamic arose around people who were divorced in Mennonite congregations. Forty or fifty years ago, we Mennonites asked questions whether a divorced person
could take communion, or participate in leading worship, serve on church committees.
Toni Morrison says that, “we want to own, govern, and administrate the Other.” But this isn’t what Jesus does. Everything Jesus says to the outsiders he encounters in the Gospel of Luke is affirming and empowering: “You are a son of Abraham.” “Your faith has saved you.” “Your sins are forgiven” — in other words, you have nothing to be ashamed of. They have a rightful place in the Kingdom. He says these things unconditionally. Jesus came to seek out and save the lost. How were they lost? They were lost because their own community lost sight of them, despite their enormous value.
This brings me, finally, to the story of Zaccheus, the man in the tree. To recap, Zaccheus was a tax collector — actually the chief tax collector in the city of Jericho. Tax collectors were rich, and they were disliked because they extracted punishing taxes for the Romans. They were collaborators with an occupying army. Ironically, the name “Zaccheus” is derived from the word zakkai in Hebrew, which evokes “clean”, “innocent”, and “righteous.” A Muslim friend told me that it sounds like the Arabic word zakat, which means almsgiving or charity – the religious obligation to give to the poor. Zaccheus runs to see Jesus, but because he is short, he climbs a sycamore tree to get a good view. An old New Testament professor of mine always wondered why he was so eager to see Jesus.
Anyway, Jesus sees him, calls him down, and says “I’m coming to your house to stay.” Zaccheus comes down from the tree, but the crowd begins to grumble. At this, Zaccheus makes the impulsive decision to change his ways. He declares that he will give half of his money to the poor, and that he will pay back four times what he took from all of the people he’s cheated. Jesus,
pleased with this repentant sinner, declares “Today Salvation has come to this house.” That’s the normal, customary reading of the story — the conversion of a sketchy entrepreneur. And given my background, you might see why this story has not always sat well with me. Here’s what bothers me about the story of Zaccheus — or at least how we typically read it:
Firstly, the story has a transactional feel to it: Zaccheus gives his money away, and in exchange, Jesus proclaims his salvation. It’s a sort of contract. But in many other Gospel stories, salvation is more or less unconditional. For example, Jesus doesn’t offer to heal servant of the Roman centurion on the condition that the centurion quits his job as a Roman soldier — a policeman for an oppressive foreign power. Jesus does what the soldier asks, without expecting anything in return.
Secondly, the story contradicts what Jesus tells another rich man, just a few pages earlier. He tells the Rich Young Ruler that he must give away “everything” to the poor to enter the Kingdom of Heaven. But Zaccheaus only offers half of what he owns. Why is that enough, all of a sudden?
Thirdly, Zaccheus’s math doesn’t work. In addition to giving half of his money to the poor, Zaccheus also promises to return 400% of any money to people that he’s defrauded. If he’s cheated so many people, how can he possibly make good on that promise?
Fourthly, I’m uncomfortable that the story seems to reward the graceless crowd. They’ve already blocked his view of Jesus and sent Zaccheus up a tree. Then, when Jesus invites him to climb down, the crowd grumbles menacingly. So Zaccheus seems to make his promises in response to their grumbling — not in response to Jesus’ call. But the crowd is almost always wrong, in all the other stories. Jesus
spends most of his life disagreeing with crowds, rebuking crowds, correcting the crowd. This doesn’t fit the pattern.
Finally, I don’t like that we’ve come to see Zaccheus as a comic figure — a point you’ll soon discover if you Google “Sermons about Zaccheus”, or listen to VBS songs about this “wee little man.” We smirk at Zaccheus because he’s short. And we tell ourselves that it’s somehow OK to make fun of his size because he’s also rich and powerful. But in every other story in which Jesus encounters an outcast, the dignity and worth of the person is recognized and honored.
And so I was amazed, a few years ago, to discover an alternative interpretation of this story of Zaccheus. For me, it is a show-stopper. This is not something sketchy that I’ve pulled from the Internet. It’s from the Jesuit Biblical scholar Joseph Fitzmyer, who wrote a massive commentary on the Gospel of Luke decades ago. And if the size of a book alone gives it credibility, we should take Fitzmyer seriously. This is just one of two volumes. And the entire Gospel of Luke is only 40 pages in my bible. In his very close reading of the passage, Fitzmyer unearthed several points that raise doubts about our typical interpretation of this story. In many English translations of Luke, Zaccheus says: “Look, I will give half of what I own to the poor.” But Fitzmyer noticed that in the original Greek text, Zaccheus speaks in the present tense: “Look, I give half of what I own to the poor.”
Fitzmyer also noticed that in his next promise, Zaccheus says, “if”. “If I have defrauded anyone, I pay it back fourfold.” And this raises the intriguing idea that Zaccheus isn’t repenting at all. Let me read the last bit of the story again, with a different emphasis. (Jesus) looked up and said to him, ‘Zaccheus, hurry and come down; for I must stay at your house today.’ So he hurried down and was happy to welcome him. All who saw it began to grumble and said, ‘He has gone to be the guest of a sinner.’ Zacchaeus stood his ground and said to the Lord, ‘Look, I give half of my possessions to the poor; and if I have defrauded anyone of anything, I’ll pay back four times as much.’” What if being recognized and welcomed by Jesus gave Zaccheus the courage to “stand there” – stand up for himself — against the crowd? “Look, I may be a sinner, but I always give half of my possessions to the poor. And if you can prove that I’ve defrauded anyone, I’ll pay them back four times as much.” Fitzmyer asked: “Is it clear that Zacchaeus is really a ‘sinner’ in the episode…? He does not beg Jesus for mercy or express any sorrow. Jesus makes no reference to Zaccheus’ faith, repentance or conversion… In this episode, Jesus pronounces not forgiveness, but the vindication of Zaccheus. Jesus announces salvation “to this house” because he sees that Zaccheus is innocent and a true Son of Abraham.”
So… what if the crowd was wrong about Zaccheus? That tracks: the Crowd is usually wrong in the gospels. What if the meaning of Zaccheus’ name isn’t ironic at all? What if he really is “clean”, “innocent”, and “righteous” despite his seedy profession? What if Zaccheus was living righteously the whole time, using his position and influence to redistribute wealth among those who most needed it?
History shows that people living under foreign occupation have to make complicated choices – and sometimes people who look like collaborators actually aren’t. What if, instead of expecting Zaccheus to change his ways, Jesus saw great value in Zaccheus as he was — a person who put his street smarts and business sense to the service of God’s people? You might resist this interpretation, and many do. Fitzmyer spends several paragraphs taking up objections to his reading of the story, and defending his position. I think he does a pretty convincing job, but then I’m not a New Testament scholar. I’m a lawyer by training, and I’m trying to raise reasonable doubt about Zaccheus’s guilt. Why do we want to object? Fitzmyer put it this way. He wrote: “Part of the problem is the modern reader’s reluctance to admit that the Lucan Jesus could declare the vindication of a rich person who was concerned for the poor.” What attracts me to this interpretation of Zaccheus is that it answers my professor’s question: Zaccheus ran eagerly to meet Jesus because Zaccheus was already part of his Kingdom.
This reading brings the story into alignment with Jesus’s other encounters with people on the margins — those that the community had lost sight of and overlooked. When Jesus met outsiders, he affirmed their faith and their righteousness, he recognized their great value and worthiness, and he attached few, if any, conditions to their citizenship in his Kingdom.
May we go and do likewise.
“NOT FOR CIRCULATION WITHOUT PERMISSION”