Learning to See Again
Growing up, the only things I knew about the Lenten season were that McDonald’s had specials on the Filet-O-Fish and the school cafeteria served a very similar product every Friday.
I had a vague understanding that all this fish-on-Fridays business had something to do with Catholics. But since I was taught that Catholicism was a cult, I didn’t really put much thought into it.
Which feels important to name now.
I didn’t begin to understand the beauty of the Lenten season until much later—after I had deconstructed some truly terrible theology and found myself wanting to see Christ more clearly. Not just the version of Jesus I’d inherited, but the Jesus I kept encountering in Scripture. And eventually, the beauty of Christian traditions I had been taught to fear.
I’ll be honest: my first attempts at anything sacrificial during Lent were rough. Embarrassingly rough. I was still completely missing the point.
It’s only been in the last few Lenten seasons that I’ve slowed down enough to approach Lent with intention—less about what I could give up and more about how I might actually see and encounter Christ.
Healing our vision doesn’t mean we’re done learning how to see.
Which is probably why I keep coming back to the story of Zacchaeus.
What’s striking is where Luke places this story.
At the end of chapter 18, Jesus heals a blind man—someone who cannot see at all. And then, without pause, Luke begins chapter 19 with a man who can see but still can’t see Jesus.
Luke doesn’t leave the theme of sight behind. He expands it.
One man is limited by blindness. The other is limited by crowds. Both need the same thing: an encounter with Jesus that restores their vision.
A Familiar Story With Sharp Edges
Like many of us, I learned the Sunday School song about Zacchaeus being a “wee little man” so early that I can’t remember a time when I didn’t know the story. But familiarity has a way of sanding down the sharp edges of Scripture—and this story has edges.
Luke tells the story of Zacchaeus at the beginning of chapter 19, and it remains one of my favorite stories in the Gospels. On the surface, it’s about a short man climbing a tree to see Jesus. But like most encounters with Jesus, there’s far more happening beneath the surface.
Zacchaeus was a tax collector.
And this part matters.
Not in a nerdy, footnote way—but in a this changes everything way.
Why Zacchaeus Was Despised
This wasn’t an IRS employee just doing his job. The Jewish people were living under Roman occupation, barely above slave status if they were lucky. They paid crushing taxes just to maintain a fragile sense of freedom—imagine an 85% income tax and you’ll start to get close.
Tax collectors weren’t neutral parties in this system. They were collaborators. They collected Rome’s cut—and then padded it for themselves.
So the man climbing a sycamore tree to see Jesus was also the man who had been robbing Jesus’s people every single day.
And yet.
Something about Jesus drew him in.
Overcoming the Crowds
When Zacchaeus couldn’t see Jesus clearly because of the crowd, he did whatever he had to do to get close enough.
That detail has been sticking with me lately.
For Zacchaeus, the obstacle was literal—crowds blocking his view. But I can’t stop wondering about the obstacles that stand between us and Jesus. The voices. The assumptions. The versions of Jesus shaped by power, fear, and control.
And I wonder how much would change if we worked as hard as Zacchaeus did just to see him.
Not the Jesus others have painted for us.
Not the misrepresentation shaped by politics or policy.
Not the Jesus used to prop up bad theology.
But the real Jesus.
Acceptance Comes First
Two things happen in this story that feel inseparable.
First: acceptance.
Then: change.
Here’s something I don’t hear discussed nearly enough—Zacchaeus wasn’t just seen by Jesus. He was accepted by him.
This tax-collecting sinner—despised, abusive, complicit in harm—wasn’t kept at arm’s length. Jesus didn’t correct him from a distance. He invited himself into Zacchaeus’s home.
In Jesus’s culture, sharing a meal was an act of solidarity. Eating with sinners wasn’t just frowned upon—it was scandalous, especially for a rabbi. But Jesus ignored cultural norms because people mattered more than policies.
In a world full of people who hated Zacchaeus, Jesus acknowledged him.
First.
Repentance as a Change of Consciousness
Only after acceptance comes change.
Luke tells us that Zacchaeus stood before Jesus and said, “Half of my possessions I give to the poor. And if I have cheated anyone, I will pay back four times the amount.”
No coercion.
No demand.
No checklist.
Just proximity.
Just grace.
Zacchaeus didn’t tweak his behavior—he dismantled his identity. His wealth. His power. His idols.
This is repentance—not shame, not groveling, not fear—but a genuine change of consciousness. A reorientation away from greed and scarcity and toward generosity, connection, and life.
Jesus names it plainly: life has come to this house.
Lent, Idols, and Bigger Tables
We don’t know what happened to Zacchaeus after that day. Scripture doesn’t give us a sequel. But we do know this—life came to him when he overcame the obstacles, encountered acceptance, and laid down what no longer belonged in his hands.
I talk often about building bigger tables, and I still believe we desperately need them. We need tables where both Jesus and Zacchaeus are welcome.
But I also worry that sometimes we use the language of bigger tables to avoid letting go of our own idols—the things we don’t want to name, the things we don’t want to release, the things that quietly keep us from seeing Jesus clearly.
As we enter the Lenten season this week, my prayer is simple:
That we would identify what stands between us and Christ.
And that we would encounter the acceptance of Jesus so deeply that laying those things down no longer feels like loss—but like freedom.
Reflection for the Week
What crowds—or voices—have made it harder for you to see Jesus clearly in this season of your life?
When you picture Jesus noticing you, what do you expect first: correction or acceptance?
Where might you be trying to fix yourself before allowing yourself to be fully seen?
What feels like an idol you’re being invited to lay down this Lent—not out of guilt, but out of a desire for life?
If repentance is a change of consciousness, what might need to shift in how you see God, yourself, or others?
If Lent were less about giving something up and more about removing obstacles, what might that look like for you?
Walking Through Lent Together
This year, I’m walking through Lent a little differently. I’ve written devotions for all 47 days, along with reflection questions, a prayer journal, and a gratitude practice. I’ll be sharing them here on Substack throughout the season.
And if you’d like to go a bit deeper, I’m also offering them as weekly PDFs you can print and use as a personal Lenten study. If that feels supportive for you this season, you can sign up here.
No pressure.
Just an invitation.
