When Grace Finds You

Luke 19:1–10 NKJV

1 Then Jesus entered and passed through Jericho. 2 Now behold, there was a man named Zacchaeus who was a chief tax collector, and he was rich. 3 And he sought to see who Jesus was, but could not because of the crowd, for he was of short stature. 4 So he ran ahead and climbed up into a sycamore tree to see Him, for He was going to pass that way. 5 And when Jesus came to the place, He looked up and saw him, and said to him, “Zacchaeus, make haste and come down, for today I must stay at your house.” 6 So he made haste and came down, and received Him joyfully. 7 But when they saw it, they all complained, saying, “He has gone to be a guest with a man who is a sinner.” 8 Then Zacchaeus stood and said to the Lord, “Look, Lord, I give half of my goods to the poor; and if I have taken anything from anyone by false accusation, I restore fourfold.” 9 And Jesus said to him, “Today salvation has come to this house, because he also is a son of Abraham; 10 for the Son of Man has come to seek and to save that which was lost.”

When Grace Finds You

Have you ever gone looking for one thing and found something completely different—something that changed you in ways you didn’t expect? Maybe you were just browsing in a store and ran into someone who became a lifelong friend. Maybe you signed up for a class because you were bored, and it awakened a passion or a calling you didn’t know you had. Or maybe you came to church one Sunday just to sit quietly in the back, not planning to get too involved—only to find that God was waiting for you right there in your seat.

That’s how grace works. It doesn’t wait for us to have everything figured out. It doesn’t require that we come to God with perfect motives. Grace often begins with simple curiosity—just one small step toward something holy we can’t quite explain. And before we realize what’s happening, that curiosity turns into an encounter that changes everything.

That’s exactly where we find Zacchaeus in Luke 19. He’s not looking for salvation. He’s not looking for forgiveness. He’s just… curious. He’s heard rumors about Jesus—this teacher who healed the blind, ate with tax collectors, and preached about a kingdom where the last become first. And something in Zacchaeus stirs. He wants to see this man for himself. Not talk to Him, not follow Him, not confess anything—just see.

But curiosity alone can take you only so far when you’re short. Scripture says Zacchaeus was a “chief tax collector and very rich.” That means he wasn’t just disliked—he was despised. He had made his wealth off the backs of his neighbors, collecting more than Rome required and pocketing the rest. His name was spoken in whispers and curses. The crowd wanted nothing to do with him. So when he tried to slip into that mob in Jericho, they closed ranks. Nobody was making room for him.

So Zacchaeus did something a little undignified. He ran ahead and climbed a sycamore tree—grown men didn’t climb trees in that culture, especially not wealthy men in fine robes. But Zacchaeus didn’t care. He wanted a glimpse of Jesus, and if it meant looking a little foolish, so be it. Maybe that’s the first hint that something inside him was beginning to soften.

I imagine him up there—balancing awkwardly on a branch, adjusting his cloak, trying not to slip. The sun’s hot, the crowd’s noisy, and he’s peering through the leaves just hoping for one clear look at this mysterious rabbi everyone’s talking about. Then it happens. Jesus stops right beneath that tree. The noise fades. And Jesus looks up—straight at him.

And in that moment, the divine and the human meet. That’s the moment everything changes. Because grace has a way of finding us even when we’re trying to stay hidden.

It’s one thing to look for Jesus from a safe distance; it’s another to realize that He’s been looking for you. “Zacchaeus,” Jesus says, “hurry and come down, for I must stay at your house today.”

Imagine what must have raced through Zacchaeus’ mind in that instant. How does this man even know my name? Doesn’t He realize who I am? Doesn’t He know what I’ve done? The crowd knew. They were already whispering, “He’s gone to be the guest of a sinner!” But Jesus didn’t come to avoid sinners—He came to find them. That’s grace: it seeks before we seek it, and it calls us before we know how to answer.

Zacchaeus thought he was just climbing a tree. But Jesus saw a divine appointment. What looked like curiosity turned out to be the crack in the door through which grace would enter.

It’s a reminder that God’s grace doesn’t wait for us to come down out of our trees—the places we hide, the vantage points we use to keep faith at a safe distance. Grace climbs up into our story and calls our name. Sometimes that happens in a moment like this—in worship, in prayer, in a song where suddenly the words feel like they were written just for you. Sometimes it happens quietly, through a friendship, a conversation, or a nudge in your spirit you can’t quite ignore.

This isn’t a new story—Isaiah saw it long before Jericho. In chapter 1, God tells His people, “Stop bringing meaningless offerings. Wash and make yourselves clean. Learn to do right.” In other words, “I’m not after your rituals—I’m after your heart.” That’s what Jesus was after in Jericho. He wasn’t impressed by the crowd or by Zacchaeus’ wealth. He was after a heart ready to be changed.

And the beautiful thing is, Zacchaeus didn’t have to climb down the tree already transformed. He just had to respond. That’s the power of grace. It starts where we are, not where we think we should be.

So as we enter this story together today, hold onto this truth: Jesus still stops under the trees where we hide. He still looks up and calls our names. And when He says, “I must stay at your house today,” He means it—not because we deserve His presence, but because His presence is what changes us.

When grace finds you, it won’t leave you where it found you.

You can almost picture the scene—Zacchaeus frozen on that branch, his heart pounding as Jesus stops right below him. The crowd goes quiet, waiting to see what this famous teacher will do. Surely Jesus will ignore him. Surely He’ll choose a more respectable person to talk to.

But Jesus looks up.

That simple act—lifting His eyes toward someone the world had written off—changes everything. Because before Zacchaeus ever saw Jesus, Jesus saw Zacchaeus.

That’s the rhythm of grace—it moves first. It seeks before we even know how to seek.

We like to think that we find God, that we finally “come around” and choose Him—but the truth is, He’s been searching for us all along. Just like He walked through Jericho that day with a divine appointment on His heart, He walks through our own busy streets, our distractions, our disappointments—looking for the one who’s peeking through the branches.

Luke says, “When Jesus came to the place, He looked up.” That’s not just a detail—it’s a revelation. Jesus doesn’t pass by the places where people hide. He goes right to them. He stops, He looks, and He calls us by name.

Zacchaeus wasn’t climbing that tree to be found; he was climbing to stay unnoticed, to get a better view from a safe distance. But grace doesn’t honor our hiding places. It finds us there. It looks up into the tree and says, “Zacchaeus, hurry and come down.”

That’s the first movement of salvation—the seeking heart of God. Before repentance, before confession, before change, there is pursuit.

Isaiah spoke of the same divine pursuit when he said, “Come now, let us reason together, says the Lord.” God invites, God initiates, God reaches out to hearts that aren’t even sure they want to be reached.

Zacchaeus didn’t realize it yet, but that moment wasn’t about his effort to see Jesus. It was about Jesus’ mission to see him.

So the story of Zacchaeus isn’t just about one man in a tree. It’s about the God who keeps walking through our cities, through our pain, through our shame—still looking up, still calling names, still finding the lost before they even know they’re being found.

That’s where our story begins: Grace seeks before we seek it.

Grace Seeks Before We Seek It

Zacchaeus thought he was the one doing the looking that day. He ran ahead of the crowd, climbed the tree, and strained to see Jesus. But from the moment Jesus stepped into Jericho, Zacchaeus was already the one being sought.

Luke’s Gospel says, “When Jesus came to the place, He looked up.” I love that phrase—“He came to the place.” Not just any place, not a random stop along the road. Jesus came to that place—the one where a man hiding in shame and curiosity was perched in a tree, pretending he only wanted a glimpse. Jesus walked straight to the very spot where grace was about to break through.

That’s what God does. He comes to the place. He finds us right where we are—not where we should be, not where we wish we were, but where we actually are. In the middle of our compromises, our half-hearted prayers, our unspoken regrets. God doesn’t wait until we climb down and clean up; He calls to us while we’re still up in the branches.

From the beginning, this has been God’s pattern. When Adam and Eve hid in the garden, it was God who came calling, “Where are you?” When Israel wandered, it was God who sent prophets to call them back. When the world sat in darkness, it was God who stepped into flesh and walked among us.

That’s why Jesus’ words to Zacchaeus carry such power: “I must stay at your house today.” That little word “must” isn’t about schedule—it’s about mission. The same Jesus who said, “I must be about My Father’s business,” now says, “I must stay with you.” In other words, “This—right here—is My Father’s business: to seek and to save the lost.”

Zacchaeus didn’t know it yet, but that moment under the sycamore tree was the fulfillment of the heart of God. The seeking grace of Christ had found its target.

And this is good news for every one of us—because it means we don’t have to chase God down. He’s already on His way toward us. Before we ever thought to look for Him, He was looking for us. Before we whispered our first prayer, He was already moving heaven and earth to draw us near.

Isaiah 1 paints the same picture from another angle. God says to His people, “Stop bringing me meaningless offerings.” They had the rituals right, but their hearts were far from Him. Yet even in their rebellion, God’s first word isn’t rejection—it’s invitation. “Come now, let us reason together,” He says. “Though your sins are like scarlet, they shall be as white as snow.”

Do you hear that longing? God doesn’t storm away in anger; He moves toward His people in grace. He seeks before they seek Him.

That’s what Jesus embodies in Jericho. The crowd sees a thief, but Jesus sees a child of Abraham waiting to be restored. The people want to push Zacchaeus to the margins, but Jesus wants to bring him to the table. Grace never sees what we’ve done as the end of the story—it sees what God can make of us when love takes hold.

And maybe that’s the message someone here needs this morning. Maybe you’ve been watching from the edges, unsure if you belong close to Jesus. Maybe you’ve been curious, but cautious. You’ve climbed just high enough to see, but not so close that He might see you.

The truth is, He already does. And He’s already walking your way.

Grace is not a reward for the religious. It’s a rescue mission for the lost. It’s the steady pursuit of a God who refuses to give up on us. Whether you’re in a tree of curiosity, or hiding in shame, or just stuck in the routine of religion—He’s still coming to the place.

Jesus’ whole life was one long journey toward people the world ignored. Toward lepers and beggars. Toward tax collectors and sinners. Toward the ones who didn’t think they deserved to be seen. He’s still doing that today. That’s why Luke closes this story with Jesus’ own summary: “For the Son of Man came to seek and to save the lost.”

When we read that line, we sometimes focus on the “save” part. But notice what comes first—He came to seek. Saving follows seeking. Grace starts with pursuit.

That’s where Zacchaeus’ story begins—not with confession, not with change, but with a Savior who looked up and called his name.

And that’s where ours begins too. Before we ever reach for Him, grace is already reaching for us.

Would you like to move next into Point 2: “Grace Calls Us by Name,” continuing in this same voice and rhythm so the flow feels natural?

Grace Calls Us by Name

When Jesus stopped beneath that tree, He didn’t shout, “Hey, you up there!” He didn’t say, “Hey, tax collector!” He said, “Zacchaeus.”

Names matter. In the ancient world, names carried identity, destiny, and reputation. For Zacchaeus, whose name means “pure” or “innocent,” that must have sounded painfully ironic. Everyone in Jericho knew his reputation—it was the opposite of pure. His name had become a joke, a reminder of how far he had fallen from who he was supposed to be.

But when Jesus said his name, He wasn’t just identifying him; He was reclaiming him. Jesus spoke that name the way God first spoke light into the darkness—as a creative word that brings something new into being.

That’s what grace does. It calls forth the truest version of who we were meant to be—the version sin and shame tried to bury.

Can you imagine the sound of your own name spoken by Jesus like that? Not rushed, not disappointed, not cold—but full of warmth and recognition. It’s as if He’s saying, “I know you—not just the mess you’ve made, but the person you were created to become.”

Isaiah 43 echoes this divine tenderness: “Do not fear, for I have redeemed you; I have called you by name, you are Mine.” Those words were written to exiles who had lost everything—to people who believed they’d gone too far. Yet God’s answer wasn’t, “Start over and try harder.” It was, “You still belong to Me.”

That’s the sound Zacchaeus heard under that tree—the voice of belonging. And that voice has been echoing through history ever since, calling names in hospital rooms, in addiction meetings, in pews and prison cells and quiet hearts.

When Jesus calls your name, He’s not interested in your title or your record or your mask. He’s after the real you—the one you hide even from yourself.

And notice what Jesus does next: “Zacchaeus, hurry and come down, for I must stay at your house today.” Not only does He call him by name, He invites Himself into Zacchaeus’s home. That’s the place of deepest intimacy and vulnerability. In that culture, to eat with someone was to accept them, to affirm their worth.

Think about how scandalous that was. The crowd grumbles, “He’s gone to be the guest of a sinner.” They can’t believe it. But Jesus isn’t looking for perfect hosts; He’s looking for open hearts.

Grace isn’t content to call your name from a distance. It wants to come home with you. It wants to sit at your table, in the spaces of your life you thought were too messy for God to enter.

And maybe that’s exactly what you need to hear this morning—that God’s grace is more personal than you’ve ever realized. It’s not some vague blanket of forgiveness floating through the air. It’s a voice that knows you, a Savior who speaks your name with love, even when everyone else uses it as a curse.

When Jesus called Zacchaeus, He restored more than a soul—He restored an identity. The name that once brought shame now became a testimony. That’s what happens when grace calls you.

It’s the same grace that called Mary Magdalene by name at the empty tomb, breaking through her tears. It’s the same grace that said “Saul, Saul” on the road to Damascus, turning a persecutor into an apostle. It’s the same grace that whispers your name when you think God could never look your way again.

The world labels, but Jesus names. The world condemns, but Jesus calls. The world sees your past, but Jesus speaks to your possibility.

Zacchaeus’s story reminds us that the gospel isn’t about us climbing our way to God—it’s about God calling our name until we come down.

When Jesus said, “Zacchaeus, hurry and come down,” He was saying more than “get out of the tree.” He was inviting him to come down from pride, from isolation, from control. Grace never just calls you out—it calls you down, into humility and communion, into a life you could never have built on your own.

And that’s the beauty of it. Grace doesn’t just find us—it finds us personally. It calls us by name. It looks up into whatever tree we’ve climbed and says, “Come down. I want to be with you.”

That’s what Jesus still says today.

Grace Transforms What It Touches

When Jesus called Zacchaeus down from that tree, something shifted. The crowd saw a man climbing down, but heaven saw a man being raised up.

The moment his feet hit the ground, Zacchaeus was no longer the same man who had climbed up the tree. He was still wealthy, still known as a tax collector—but something had changed on the inside. The way he saw Jesus, the way he saw himself, and the way he saw others—all of it was being rewritten by grace.

Because that’s what happens when Jesus calls your name. He doesn’t just invite you to feel better about your life. He calls you into a new one.

The story could have ended right there—with Zacchaeus coming down, Jesus smiling, and the crowd whispering. But grace never stops at the moment of encounter. It always keeps moving toward transformation.

And that brings us to our third movement: Grace transforms what it touches.

Luke tells us that after Jesus called him, Zacchaeus “stood up and said, ‘Look, Lord! Here and now I give half of my possessions to the poor, and if I have cheated anybody out of anything, I will pay back four times the amount.’”

It’s worth noticing how sudden this is. There’s no record of Jesus commanding him to do anything. No lecture about restitution, no list of rules, no threats or conditions. Zacchaeus isn’t obeying a demand—he’s responding to love.

That’s what real grace does. It doesn’t force change through guilt or fear; it creates change through gratitude and joy. Zacchaeus’s heart had been awakened to something bigger than greed, bigger than status, bigger than the walls he had built around himself.

Before this moment, money was his god. Wealth was his identity. But now, grace has rearranged his priorities. Instead of grasping for more, he starts giving away. Instead of taking from others, he begins restoring what he’s stolen.

The man who once hoarded is now generous. The man who once deceived is now honest. The man who once oppressed others is now setting things right. That’s the unmistakable fruit of grace—transformation that moves from the inside out.

Isaiah 1 echoes this very call. God says, “Wash yourselves; make yourselves clean; remove the evil of your deeds from before My eyes. Cease to do evil, learn to do good; seek justice, correct oppression.”

That’s not God demanding perfection—it’s God describing what happens when grace finally breaks through. When our hearts are washed clean, our hands begin to act differently. We start to live in a way that reflects the mercy we’ve received.

It’s easy to miss how radical Zacchaeus’s actions were. Under Jewish law, the normal restitution for theft was returning what was taken plus one-fifth more. Zacchaeus didn’t just meet the requirement; he exceeded it by fourfold. That’s the difference between religion and redemption. Religion does the minimum. Grace does the impossible.

When salvation truly takes hold, the old calculations of fairness and obligation give way to a new economy of love. We stop asking, “What do I have to do?” and start asking, “What can I do to make it right?”

And Jesus sees this transformation and declares, “Today salvation has come to this house.”

Notice that word again—today. Salvation isn’t some distant reward. It’s a present reality. It happens when grace touches a heart and reorders it toward love.

For Zacchaeus, salvation looked like generosity and reconciliation. For you, it might look like forgiveness you thought was impossible, honesty you’ve avoided, or compassion you’ve held back. Whatever form it takes, real grace always leads to real change.

Because grace isn’t just pardon—it’s power. It doesn’t simply excuse what we’ve done; it equips us to live differently.

That’s why Jesus ends the story by saying, “The Son of Man came to seek and to save the lost.” Those two verbs—seek and save—are inseparable. Jesus doesn’t just come to comfort the lost; He comes to change them.

Maybe that’s what you need to hear today: that the same grace that found Zacchaeus can still transform you. No matter what tree you’ve climbed, no matter how tangled your past has been, no matter how far you’ve drifted—grace is still climbing up after you, calling your name, and inviting you into something new.

And when it touches your life, it won’t just make you feel forgiven—it will make you free.

Grace transforms what it touches.

When Grace Finds You

Zacchaeus thought he was just going out to catch a glimpse of Jesus. He didn’t realize that heaven had already scheduled a meeting under that tree.

That’s the story of grace—it always starts before we do.

Before we pray the prayer, before we make the change, before we even realize how lost we are, grace is already moving toward us. It seeks before we seek. It looks up into our hiding places and says, “I see you there.”

Then it calls us by name. Not with condemnation, but with compassion. Not to embarrass us, but to invite us. “Come down,” Jesus says. “I want to come home with you.”

And when we finally come down—when we stop pretending, stop performing, stop hiding—grace does what it always does. It transforms what it touches. The greedy become generous. The bitter become kind. The self-protective open their hearts again. The sinner becomes a saint, not by merit, but by mercy.

It’s no accident that Jesus ends this story with the words, “The Son of Man came to seek and to save the lost.” He didn’t say, “to judge the lost,” or “to lecture the lost,” or even “to fix the lost.” He said “to seek and to save.” His mission wasn’t about finding the spotless—it was about finding the ones stuck in the branches, still wondering if God could ever look their way again.

And the same voice that spoke to Zacchaeus is still speaking today. He still stops under our trees. He still looks up into our complicated stories and calls us by name.

Maybe you’ve been curious—drawn to Jesus, but keeping your distance. Maybe you’ve climbed just high enough to observe without getting involved. Or maybe you’ve been hiding, ashamed, convinced you’ve disqualified yourself from being found. But grace doesn’t consult your résumé. It doesn’t wait for you to have the right words or the right posture. Grace just looks up, calls your name, and says, “I must stay at your house today.”

That word “must” still matters. It’s the language of divine necessity. Jesus didn’t go to Jericho by accident; He went because Zacchaeus mattered. He doesn’t come to you by coincidence, either. You matter to Him. Your name is known. Your story is not beyond His reach.

And when grace finds you—truly finds you—it never leaves you where it found you. It walks home with you. It sits at your table. It changes how you see your neighbors, your money, your past, your future. It turns your “if only” into “look, Lord.” It makes you new.

So maybe today is your “tree moment.” Maybe grace has stopped beneath the branches of your life, and you can feel Jesus calling your name. You don’t have to climb higher; you just have to come down.

Because the miracle of this story isn’t that Zacchaeus found Jesus—it’s that Jesus found Zacchaeus.

And He’s still in the business of finding people.

He still seeks. He still calls. He still transforms.

That’s what grace does. That’s who Jesus is. And that’s why salvation can still come to your house today.