The Gospel According to the Neighbour
(short version)

Based on Luke 19:1-10 – Zacchaeus the tax collector meets Jesus and repents.

The town always had a smell: salt, diesel, and the faint sweetness of sugarcane. But that night it smelled like rain that wouldn’t come.

Mae saw him first outside the bakery, standing too comfortably for a man who’d once vanished in shame. Zac Carter, former councillor, former golden boy, former everything.

He was back.

Two years ago, his name had filled the front page: missing council funds, dodgy land deals, the inquiry, the resignation. Then silence.

Now here he was, smiling at the bakery window like a bloke deciding between apple or steak-and-kidney. A few people nodded to him. A few crossed the street.

Mae sat in her car, hands gripping the steering wheel so tight the skin on her knuckles shone white.

Her family’s café hadn’t survived the scandal. The redevelopment he’d promised had never come. The loan they took, believing his pitch, buried them instead.

The town whispered: He’s found God. He’s making amends. He’s paying people back.

Mae wasn’t buying it.

At the pub, the rumours were thicker than the beer.

“He’s writing cheques,” said one man. “Paid old Vince back last week.”

“Probably hush money,” said another. “He’s trying to clean the slate before the next election.”

Someone laughed. “He’s having dinner tonight. Invited the homeless fella who sleeps behind the council chambers. Imagine that! Charity begins at home, eh?”

Mae sat in the corner, half-listening, fingers tracing the rim of her empty glass.

The irony burned. Her café gone, her partner long gone too, and Zac Carter was playing the part of the penitent saint, breaking bread with beggars.

Continue reading the full story here.

The Gospel According to the Neighbour

Based on Luke 19:1-10 – Zacchaeus the tax collector meets Jesus and repents.

The town always had a smell: salt, diesel, and the faint sweetness of sugarcane. But that night it smelled like rain that wouldn’t come.

Mae saw him first outside the bakery, standing too comfortably for a man who’d once vanished in shame. Zac Carter, former councillor, former golden boy, former everything.

He was back.

Two years ago, his name had filled the front page: missing council funds, dodgy land deals, the inquiry, the resignation. Then silence.

Now here he was, smiling at the bakery window like a bloke deciding between apple or steak-and-kidney. A few people nodded to him. A few crossed the street.

Mae sat in her car, hands gripping the steering wheel so tight the skin on her knuckles shone white.

Her family’s café hadn’t survived the scandal. The redevelopment he’d promised had never come. The loan they took, believing his pitch, buried them instead.

The town whispered: He’s found God. He’s making amends. He’s paying people back.

Mae wasn’t buying it.

At the pub, the rumours were thicker than the beer.

“He’s writing cheques,” said one man. “Paid old Vince back last week.”

“Probably hush money,” said another. “He’s trying to clean the slate before the next election.”

Someone laughed. “He’s having dinner tonight. Invited the homeless fella who sleeps behind the council chambers. Imagine that! Charity begins at home, eh?”

Mae sat in the corner, half-listening, fingers tracing the rim of her empty glass.

The irony burned. Her café gone, her partner long gone too, and Zac Carter was playing the part of the penitent saint, breaking bread with beggars.

By the time she reached home, the sky had bruised into a purple stormlight. She went to the shed, found the old hammer hanging by a nail. The handle was cracked, worn from fixing fences, shelves, and once, her son’s bike.

She weighed it in her hand.
“Just to talk,” she muttered.

Zac’s house sat on the hill above town, smug as ever, the same one he’d built with “consulting” money, just before everything fell apart.

Mae parked at the bottom. The air buzzed with cicadas and the sea’s slow hiss.

As she climbed, light spilled from his windows. Laughter drifted through the trees.

She crept close, peering through a sliver in the curtain. Inside, a small table. Zac. A barefoot man, the one from behind the chambers. And a teenage girl, Mae didn’t remember seeing before, maybe his daughter.

No fine wine, no crystal plates. Just stew, bread, and cheap candles.

Zac’s voice carried softly through the screen door.
“I don’t deserve any of it, mate. Not one bit. But I’ve got to try and put things right.”

The barefoot man spooned another mouthful, slow and calm. “Then don’t talk about it,” he said. “Do it.”

Mae froze.

Before she could think, she was at the door. The hammer felt heavier now, as if it knew better than she did what she was there for.

Zac opened it before she knocked. He looked thinner, older, and genuinely startled.

“Mae,” he said. “You came.”

She pushed past him. “You think dinner makes it right? You think feeding one bloke fixes what you broke?”

The barefoot man rose slowly. His eyes were calm, the kind that saw everything and judged nothing.
“He’s been talking about you all week,” he said quietly.

Mae blinked. “About me?”

Zac nodded. “You ran the café, down by the foreshore. You made the lemon slice I liked.”

Mae’s glare hardened. “You liked taking everything, didn’t you?”

He flinched but didn’t argue. He reached for an envelope on the bench. “This is yours,” he said.

Mae didn’t take it.

The barefoot man rested a hand on the table, steady. Watching.

Zac’s voice cracked. “You don’t have to forgive me. Just… don’t let me be the only one who changes.”

Mae lifted the hammer slightly. Her arm shook.

“Too little,” she said, the words trembling out before she could stop them. “Too late.”

Then came the shouting.

From down the hill, voices, rough and slurred. The mob from the pub.

“He’s home! Tonight’s the night!”

Mae turned toward the window. Flashlights bobbed like will-o’-wisps in the dark. Someone hurled a stone. It clattered against the gate.

The barefoot man said softly, “They’ll be here soon.”

Zac swallowed. “Mae, if you go now, they’ll think you did it.”

Her breath caught.

She looked from Zac to the envelope, then to the hammer.

Another shout tore through the night. “Justice for the town!”

A rock smashed against the window, and the crack spidered across the glass.

Zac’s daughter screamed.

Mae stepped toward the window, heart in her throat.

The barefoot man moved beside her, unflinching, his voice barely more than a whisper.
“Whatever you do next… that’s the real sermon.”

Another rock flew.

The hammer grew heavy in her hand.

Someone outside called her name.

She turned toward the door, toward Zac, toward the noise; she wasn’t sure which.

The lights flickered. The cicadas fell silent.

And before she moved, the story ended.