She had baggage. There was no avoiding that. She’d been married five times and was now living with a man to whom she was not married. That’s odd in our times. We can only imagine how deviant it must have seemed to people 2,000 years ago.

We don’t know why she’d had five different husbands. Maybe they all died. Maybe they all left her. Maybe she left some of them, and some of them left her and one of them died. We don’t know, but there are several combinations, and they all lead to the same outcome. She’d had her heart broken more than once.

It’s important to remember that once upon a time she was a little girl. She had dreams. She had hopes. She thought about what it would be like to get married, what she would wear that day, who would be invited, what the party would be like, how long it would last. She may have played that scenario out in her mind as the day drew closer and closer.

I doubt very seriously that she ever stopped to think that it might not last forever.

The end of a marriage is like a death in the family. Nothing prepares a person for it. And, to some extent, it doesn’t matter whose fault it is; when a marriage ends, more than one heart breaks. Maybe it was her fault — maybe it wasn’t — maybe it wasn’t anyone’s fault — maybe it just happened. Regardless, when it ended, she must have been devastated.

Now, can you imagine what she must have thought and felt when someone — after what was considered a proper amount of time had passed — asked her to do it again?

“I know your first marriage didn’t end up the way you had hoped, but would you marry me?”

Maybe she jumped at it and said, “Sure!” Or maybe she thought she wasn’t ready. Maybe she felt the icy grip of fear leap into her throat. Maybe every fiber of her being screamed out how there was no way in the world she would ever put herself in a position to go through that nightmarish hell again.

But somehow she managed to wrestle down the fear, put her past behind her and get on with her life. So she said, “Yes.”

And how long was it before her worst possible case scenario began to play out in front of her very eyes?

It happened again. And again. And again. And again.

Five times she gave her heart away. Five times she’d had it broken. When Jesus finds her, she’s only willing to go halfway — she lives with a guy, but they’re not married.

Angry? Bitter? Frustrated? Probably.

Thirsty? No doubt.

Now you know why the Bible says, “Jesus had to go through Samaria” (John 4:4, emphasis added).

See, Jesus wasn’t content to just be approachable. I mean, sure, he was probably glad to know that people felt like they could just walk up to him and ask him whatever was on their minds, whatever they wanted to know but were confused about God, about life here on earth, about what happens after life here on earth.

But Jesus didn’t just sit back and say, “Well, I’m here. They know where I am. If they want to talk, they can come to me.”

Jesus wasn’t just approachable. Jesus approached.

The only thing more conspicuous than a woman going to get water from a well at high noon would be a Jewish rabbi deigning to talk to a Samaritan woman (at a well at high noon) who had been married several times and was currently shacked up with a guy. But that’s exactly what we find in John 4, and it gets even stranger! Jesus asks her for a drink, but she notices he doesn’t have anything to drink with — no cup, no bucket, nothing. Does he intend to drink from her water jar?

Doesn’t he know how gross that is?! She’s a Samaritan. She’s a woman. She’s living in sin. She might as well be wearing a scarlet “A” right across her chest. You couldn’t get any further “outside” for a typical Jewish rabbi.

Ah, but Jesus is always far from typical.

The story of the Samaritan woman at the well is remarkable on its own merits. But read alongside the previous chapter — the bit where Jesus has his encounter with Nicodemus — it’s earth shattering. Here’s a Messiah who comes to the upper-uppers and the lower-lowers, the high and mighty as well as the down and out. Men and women, wealthy and poor, moral and immoral, proud and ashamed — no matter where you’ve been or what you’ve been up to, Jesus, the Equal Opportunity Savior, comes for you.

Some people have a hard time believing he came for people like them. Other people have a hard time believing he came for people unlike them. When you remember that he comes for all, it’s easy for you to go.

Jesus was obviously from God. Like Nicodemus had pointed out, all you had to do was look at all the miracles he did. But Jesus hung out with people who seemed an awful lot like Zacchaeus.

Still, the wee little man wasn’t sure he wanted to get too close. He wanted to see Jesus, but he also wanted to be able to keep a safe distance. That’s one reason he climbed a tree – he wanted to see without being seen.

And he probably thought his plan was going to work. Jesus came right up next to the tree, and Zach was probably thinking, “This is great. I can see him. I’m going to be able to hear every word he says.” But then Jesus stopped and actually looked up into the tree. Now, the plan had backfired. There was no escape. Jesus had the wee little man up a tree.

“Zacchaeus, come down from there.”

Notice that Jesus did not say, “Zacchaeus, don’t make me come up there!” Nor did he say, “Peter? John? Go up there and get him!”

Jesus invited Zacchaeus to come down, and then it was his choice.  Zacchaeus could have stayed up there. He could have held on for dear life, and Jesus would have probably gone away eventually. But then there would have been no healing, no restoration.

The first step is always this: Will you come out of hiding?

Until you do, there can be no real community, no real intimacy with God or others. Unless you’re willing to come out of hiding, you’ll be forever stuck up a tree.

But, if Jesus’ patience is astonishing (and it is), there’s something he’s about to say that’s even more breath-taking.

Jesus looks up into the tree and says to this man who is despised and shunned by his own people, “Zacchaeus, come down immediately. I must stay at your house today.”

Not, “Come down here so I can give you the thrashing you’ve got coming.” Not, “Come down here and apologize for what you’ve been doing to these nice people.”

“Come down immediately. I must stay at your house today.”

Not, “I want to.” Not, “I’m going to.”

“I must.”

I read other stories, and I root for Jesus. I want him to reach out and touch the leper. I want him to heal that man who was born blind. Neither of those guys did anything to deserve their situation.

I want Jesus to explain things to Nicodemus. He seems to be a good guy with a good heart. He just has some misguided beliefs and bad theology to work through. He’s been blinded to the truth, but if someone will just explain it to him in language he can understand, I’m sure he’ll come around.

When Jesus goes out of his way to call out Zacchaeus, there’s something in me that cringes. This guy had chosen his situation. Nobody forced him to become a tax collector. He brought this upon himself. He knew the right thing, and he chose to do wrong anyway.

Still, Jesus says, “This is what I must do. My mission will be incomplete unless I go to your house today.”

This is how grace is revealed. This is how the kingdom of God breaks into our world. This is the work or God – not some kind of distraction from it.

Jesus came to show kindness to people who would never receive it elsewhere. He came to offer acceptance to people who did not deserve it. He came to bring grace and mercy to sinful little people like you and me and Zacchaeus.

Jesus says, “I must.” He must offer acceptance, community, fellowship to those on the outside – even those who have done it on purpose!

Jesus says, “I must.” And, as those who claim to follow him, we must as well. We must go and find those whose lives are in shambles through no fault of their own. We must go and find those who are mistaken in their thinking and blind to the truth. But we must also go and find those who have chosen to do wrong even though they knew better. And we must offer grace and healing to them too.

When I finally manage to grow up, I don’t intend to be the next Billy Graham or Max Lucado. I don’t need to get a job that pays gobs of money and provides me with the kind of security most people have. Those things are nice and all, but I’ve set my sights way higher than that.

As cheesy as it sounds, when I grow up I want to be like Jesus. I want to see people the way he sees them and be open for them to come see me too.

A couple of years ago, someone asked me what I want to be when I finally grow up. They weren’t trying to be condescending; they were just pointing out the fact that for a long time I didn’t have much of a “real job”. I bounced around here and there as an itinerant kind of guy. I didn’t have an office or a company car. I didn’t have a corporate expense account. I didn’t have a regular paycheck.

Don’t get me wrong. I made a living. Sometimes we squeaked by, other times we had plenty of margin. I had a job, it just didn’t look like anything you’d call “normal”.

When I was a kid I wanted to be a Policeman for a while. I also wanted to be a trash collector because I thought they only worked on Tuesdays. I wanted to be a professional baseball player or a professional football player.

I never once thought, “I’d like to grow up and work for the IRS.”

In fact, I’ve never heard anyone say, “Working for the Internal Revenue Service has been a dream of mine since childhood.”

Doctors. Nurses. Astronauts. Firemen. Veterinarians. Rock Stars. Rodeo Clowns. Yes.

IRS Agent? No.

In ancient Israel there were certain jobs that were not just distasteful; they were downright despised. In fact, some rabbis actually maintained a list of jobs that were unacceptable. For example, physicians and butchers were considered socially despised trades – because they were constantly handling blood and guts, and they generally showed special treatment to wealthy people.

Tanners and dung collectors also made the list – for obvious reasons. There was even a special dispensation for women whose husbands became dung collectors. They could divorce their husbands with none of the normal social and religious repercussions.

Then there was a completely different category of jobs that were actually considered immoral. Merely taking one of these jobs was considered a sin, an affront to God and the nation. People who gambled with dice. People who were involved in usury (lending money to people). Pigeon trainers (pigeon racing was a common form of gambling at the time).

At the bottom of the list: Tax Collector.

It’s hard to overstate just how deeply the hatred ran towards people who earned their living collecting taxes. They were not only avoided and despised, they were also deprived of many of their civil rights. They weren’t allowed to testify in court. They weren’t allowed to serve as judges or elders. A devout Israelite wouldn’t even allow the hem of his robe to brush up against the robe of a tax collector.

All of this background makes what Jesus did in Luke 19 so remarkable. Jesus encounters this wee little man named Zacchaeus, who has climbed up in a sycamore tree. Zacchaeus wasn’t just a tax collector; he was “a chief tax collector”. That means he had ascended through the ranks of the other run-of-the-mill tax collectors and had distinguished himself as one of the best tax collectors around. Most Jewish people would have viewed him as one of the worst people in the world.

But there was something about Jesus that made the worst people in the world think there might actually be some kind of hope…even for them.

There are two major themes in yesterday’s story from John 9. The first is, of course, the idea of sight and blindness. The man born blind can now see; the Pharisees claim to see but are really blind. Jesus sums up his mission in v. 39 by saying, “For judgment I have come into this world, so that the blind will see and those who see will become blind.”

Two verses later he says, “If you were blind, you would not be guilty of sin; but now that you claim you can see, your guilt remains” (v. 41).

But there’s another theme: “I don’t know.”

That phrase appears three times in John 9. In verse 12, the Pharisees want to know where the man who healed the blind man went. The blind man’s response was, “I don’t know.”

Later, the Pharisees question the blind man’s parents and want to know how it is that he can suddenly see. Their response is, “I don’t know” (v. 21).

Eventually, the Pharisees try to discredit Jesus to the man he has healed by saying, “We know this man is a sinner.” The blind man’s response is again, “Whether he is a sinner or not, I don’t know. One thing I do know. I was blind but now I see!” (v. 25).

Sometimes, it’s important for us to remember that we’re not called to be scholars and systematic theologians (not that there’s anything wrong with scholars and/or systematic theologians). We’re not called to have all the answers and know all the finer points of Christian doctrine. We’re simply called to be witnesses – people who share with others what God has done and is doing in our lives.

I have a reputation for knowing lots of information about God. I can walk a person through the 11 major divisions of Systematic Theology. I can break down philosophical and theological arguments from Augustine to Freud. I’m conversant in Lewis and Luther and Schaeffer and McLaren.

But there’s so much I don’t know. Recently, I caught myself beginning every single prayer with that phase, “Dear God, I don’t know….”

I don’t know what I’m supposed to do next.

I don’t know how I’m going to provide for my family.

I don’t know where God wants me.

I don’t know what’s going on in the world, in the church, in my own heart sometimes.

What is God up to? How is God going to deliver this time? When will things become clear again?

I don’t know. I don’t know. I don’t know.

That’s disconcerting to say out loud. I’m the kind of guy who likes to know. Not knowing keeps me awake at night. Not knowing kills my appetite and gives me the heebie-jeebies.

I’m trying to learn how to rest in not knowing – to take comfort in the fact that the One I pursue and am pursued by knows. And when everything around me seems confusing or unclear, I can at least say: “One thing I do know. I was blind but now I see!”

I don’t know if these posts are going to help you have conversations with others who don’t know Jesus. If it does, I don’t know if those conversations will help those people connect with God in any meaningful way. I wish I could give you a formula – Seven Steps to Winning Your Brother-in-Law to Christ.

I can’t. I don’t know how or if anything like that will ever happen. But I believe that one day we’ll see how everything fit together and how God used it all for our benefit and for his glory.

There’s a big, long story in John 9 that’s too good to summarize. So, I’m going to go let you read it all before we continue. Go ahead. I’ll wait….

Cue the theme to “Jeopardy”.

Okay, that’s a long story, and it’s hard to figure out how to start. If you’ve read this far, though, you can see that there’s a lot we can get out of this story about how to have conversations like Jesus did and how not to conduct your conversations like the Jewish leaders Jesus railed against did.

How ‘bout we start at the beginning? The very first verse of the chapter says, “As he went along, [Jesus] saw a man blind from birth.”

Here’s a grown man. His parents say he is “of age”. He’s been blind his whole life. He’s spent countless hours begging in the same place day after day. People walked past him all the time without even noticing him. They must have. They don’t even know for certain what he looks like.

It’s easy to do that – to walk past the same people in the same places day after day and never really see them. Most of us do it all the time.

We don’t just do it with people, either. We read over the same Bible verses again and again and miss the message that is only glaringly obvious after it’s pointed out to us by someone else. We can drive through rolling hills or awe-inspiring sunsets, trees and grass and blue sky, rock formations and cloud formations and moving water and miss it all. We have a way of becoming immune to the beauty of creation, the truth of God, the goodness of life, the needs of the people all around us.

We have a way of seeing without seeing. We look past life in all its fullness – all the joy and sorrow – all the mystery and comedy and tragedy that is so close we could reach out and touch it. If we would only open our eyes and see!

Life wasn’t that way for Jesus. He saw. He noticed. He was frequently busy, of course. And he must have been burdened at times with the weight of his assignment. We would understand if Jesus was too pre-occupied with other things to notice one blind beggar.

And yet…over and over in the gospels, it seems like noticing people was the primary thing with which Jesus was pre-occupied.

Part of honoring God is doing what he says. Perhaps it mostly comes down to seeing what he sees.

I have a sneaking suspicion that if I could see as he sees, I would be more likely to do as he says, and the people all around me might start to take notice.

Nicodemus was a member of the upper echelon of Jewish society. He was wealthy, educated and well respected. He was part of a group that was responsible for making sure the Jewish people were happy with the Romans and the Romans were happy with the Jewish people. As long as they did their job, the Romans made life very comfortable for them. So, the name of the game was “Don’t Rock the Boat.”

Only one person was allowed to rock the boat as far as the Jewish ruling council was concerned: The Messiah. He could rock as hard as he wanted, because they knew he would drive the Romans out and return Israel to its rightful place of international prominence. When the Messiah showed up, they knew he would set things right (with all his might) and they would thrive in his kingdom much more than they had in the Romans’.

When Nicodemus showed up to talk to Jesus, he wanted to know if Jesus has any inside information on when God might actually show up and initiate this kingdom. But he didn’t actually get around to asking about that. Instead, he started: “Rabbi, we know that you are a teacher who has come from God. For no one could perform the signs you are doing if God were not with him” (John 3:2). He had planned this out, surely, and was about to go on.

Jesus kind of interrupted him. “I know you’re here to ask about when the kingdom is going to come. I tell you the truth, no one can even see the kingdom unless they’ve been born again.”

Nicodemus must have thought Jesus was joking. Born again? Nicodemus (like most other Jewish men) thought he’d been born right the first time. He didn’t need to be born again. He was already a Jewish man. It didn’t get any better than that.

What Jesus was saying to Nicodemus was so different from what Nick and his friends believed that it must have really taken him off guard. Jesus was saying that God was not a racist, that being related to the right people doesn’t get you into God’s kingdom.

The Pharisees of Jesus’ day (and of our day as well) believed that entrance into God’s kingdom is based on being born the right way and living the right way. Be Jewish and obey the law. That’s how you get in, and that’s how you stay in. There’s a good God who only lets good people into his good kingdom.

Jesus says that’s wrong. Good people don’t get into the kingdom; forgiven people do. This came as quite a shock to the people Jesus encountered. (And there are people today who still refuse to believe it). That’s really confusing to some, offensive, frightening, disorienting. But if you’ll stay there in the light for a while, your eyes will adjust and you’ll be able to see how great this arrangement really is.

You’ll also see how you don’t deserve it anymore than anyone else does.

Think about the story of Jesus and the leper. Jesus touched the leper, reached out his hand and touched the man before he healed him. This was, technically, against the law (see Leviticus). That’s got to be hard to read if you’re a legalist. But Jesus was willing and able to touch the leper because he knew something no one else seemed to know.

Jesus knew that leprosy is not the only thing that’s contagious. Sin and suffering spread, but so do love and joy and laughter.

The leper didn’t infect Jesus; Jesus infected him. What was in Jesus was simply stronger than what was in the leper. Maybe this is what the Apostle John had in mind when he wrote, “The one who is in you is greater than the one who is in the world” (1 John 4:4). That leper was more contagious after his encounter with Jesus than he was before he was healed.

So, who’s the leper in your world? Who’s the person you keep your distance from? Their sin is too bad, too contagious. You don’t even want to get close to that person lest you should catch what it is they’ve got.

Maybe one reason we aren’t as approachable as Jesus is because we don’t really have anything that contagious. If so, let’s admit it. They’re not the ones with the problem; we are.

Mark records a story for us. He writes, “A man with leprosy came to [Jesus] and begged him on his knees, ‘If you are willing, you can make me clean’” (Mark 1:40).

You probably already know how leprosy was viewed by people during Jesus’ time. In fact, most of us would still want to completely avoid someone with leprosy – even in our day of modern medicine. Back then, though, it was worse – way worse. Back then, leprosy wasn’t just a medical condition; there was a moral stigma attached to it as well.

People thought that if you had leprosy, you’d probably done something to deserve it. After all, God wouldn’t let a good person catch leprosy, would he? Lepers weren’t just required to announce that they were sick; they had to announce that they were “unclean”. Lepers weren’t ill; they were dirty.

Rabbis taught that if a leper got close enough to be hit with a stone, he should be pelted until he ran a safe distance away. Sin and suffering were contagious, after all. Get near enough to a person with leprosy – or a tax collector – or a prostitute – and their bad mojo might rub off on you. Better to keep away from all of them. Better to play it safe and maintain your own purity.

In other words, they practiced a strategy of isolation. The holier a person was (or wanted to be), the more unapproachable they became.

We’ve talked about this before. Lots of people in lots of churches and lots of Christian families still practice this strategy today. My local Christian radio station’s motto is “Safe for the whole family….” Free from all those pesky outsiders. Sequestered. Insulated. Quarantined. We like it that way.

And that makes what happens next in this story of Jesus and the leper so shocking. Mark continues, “Filled with compassion, Jesus reached out his hand and touched the man. ‘I am willing,’ he said. ‘Be clean!’ Immediately the leprosy left him and he was cured.”

Think of it. Jesus was the holiest man who ever lived. Never did one thing wrong. Never had an evil motive. Never told a lie. Never entertained an impure thought. Sure, he struggled with temptation, but he never one time gave in. He was the holiest, most righteous man of all time.

But no one heard any holier-than-thou-ness from him. You will not find a trace of self-righteousness in Jesus’ conversations. Instead, you find him to be the most approachable man you could ever imagine.

Lepers, IRS agents, hookers, lawyers, teachers, divorcees, men, women, soldiers, children – people of all shapes and sizes and colors flocked to him. Terribly worldly people felt totally comfortable having him at their parties.

But most of these same kinds of people who ran to Jesus now run from his followers. Something’s gone terribly wrong. Sinners received compassion from Jesus; too often they receive a stern, judgmental lecture from us.

The leper in the story didn’t doubt Jesus’ ability to help. He knew that Jesus was capable. He wondered whether or not Jesus would be willing to do something for someone like him. How many lost and hurting people keep their distance from Jesus because of the deep and profound shame they feel? How many stay at arm’s length from the Compassionate One because they think they are unworthy to meet him face-to-face?

Jesus is willing. Jesus, the Approachable One, invites all who desire to come close. We need not be afraid. We don’t have to clean ourselves up first. We couldn’t if we tried. He invites us to come as we are. He even does something unthinkable. He reaches for us before we reach for him.

There’s more to faith than content; there’s also quality. You can believe the right things well, or you can believe the right things poorly. On the other hand (how many hands is that?), you can believe the wrong things well, or you can believe the wrong things poorly. There’s right faith and wrong faith; but there’s also good faith and bad faith.

Good faith is open, humble, and gentle. Bad faith is closed and arrogant.

Good faith asks questions and seeks answers. Bad faith is afraid of questions and believes it has already found all the answers it needs.

Good faith is courageous. Bad faith is just loud.

Good faith listens patiently and learns. Bad faith shouts and interrupts and refuses to consider the notion that it could learn anything new from anyone else.

Several years ago, Time Magazine interviewed George Lucas about the spiritual themes in the “Star Wars” movies. He said, “I put the Force in the movie in order to awaken a certain kind of spirituality in young people – more a belief in God than a belief in any particular religious system. I wanted to make it so that young people would begin to ask questions about the mystery. Not having enough interest in the mysteries of life to ask the question, ‘Is there a God or is there not a God?’ – this is for me the worst thing that can happen. I think you should have an opinion about that. Or you should be saying, ‘I’m looking. I’m very curious about this and am going to continue to look until I can find an answer, and if I can’t find an answer then I’ll die trying.’” (April 18, 1999)

I’ve read enough about the content of Mr. Lucas’ spiritual beliefs to say I believe he believes some wrong things. But I appreciate and applaud his efforts to inspire curiosity and desire. In that sense, Mr. Lucas may be one of those people who believe wrong things in a good way.

In the end, bad faith will produce bad fruit. People who believe poorly are often sour, harsh, judgmental, and mean. Likewise, good faith will eventually begin to produce good fruit. People who believe well are far more likely to demonstrate love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, and self-control. Good faith ultimately leads to right faith. In fact, it is the only true path to real faith.

So, the wisdom of Ms. Dona rings true. There are Christians who have sullied the name of Christ – sometimes by believing and spreading falsehood. More often, though, it had nothing to do with the content of their faith but with its quality. They believed poorly, so they behaved poorly.

What are we to do now?

We could change our names. We could leave town. But it would be better to stay put, live well, and redeem our good name.