Dreaming of Trees
Habakkuk 1:1-4; 2:1-4
Psalm 119:137-144
2 Thessalonians 1:1-4, 11-12 andLuke 19:1-10
What does it mean to welcome another human being into one’s life? This question is at the root of the story of Zacchaeus the tax collector. Zacchaeus climbs a tree as Jesus is passing in the midst of a crowd because “he wanted to see who Jesus was.” This is a laughable image, to say the least—a grown (though very short) man scurrying up a tree. He was risking embarrassment, no doubt, by doing so. What did he expect to gain, anyway, from a glimpse of Jesus? The story is too brief to offer an answer to this question.
Somehow, Jesus sees Zacchaeus. He looks up and says, “Zacchaeus, come down immediately. I must stay at your house today.” And so Zacchaeus welcomes Jesus—but he doesn’t stop there. He goes on to give half his possessions to the poor, making amends for the greedy life he’s lived up to that point. He promises to pay back anyone he has cheated “four times” the amount the person lost. And Jesus says, “Today salvation has come to this house, because this man, too, is a son of Abraham. For the Son of Man came to seek and to save what was lost.”
I am considering adopting a girl who talks often about climbing trees. Nobody knows exactly why she is so interested in doing so—she is too old for this activity, and is not particularly coordinated or athletic. And yet, again and again, she speaks dreamily of climbing.
I dreamed recently that I was standing below the tree, looking up at her. We locked eyes but it was as if we were both frozen in space and time, unable to reach each other. The process of responding to her profile (she’s an older child than I’d anticipated adopting) and learning about her has been long and difficult, and still, it is not clear if she will ever come to live with me.
Of course I would never claim a literal connection between my dream and this story. I would never claim to be a Jesus figure who is able to save her—in fact, it’s exactly the kind of vision about adopting from foster care that I want desperately to avoid. I had to search my heart long and hard when I started this process to be sure I wasn’t trying to be a hero, wasn’t expecting to be the maker of miracles.
And yet I do think the communication between Zacchaeus and Jesus can tell us a lot about what human connection is about, regardless of the type of relationship. Zacchaeus takes a risk when he climbs that tree, just as the child I’m considering adopting did when she chose to be considered for adoption, to risk leaving a relatively stable foster home for something more permanent and whole. The risk is about embarrassment, about shame—but it is also about hope, about being willing to look at one’s surroundings in a new way, about inviting change.
Jesus had to look up to see Zacchaeus. He had to be paying attention even in the midst of a crowd—to look for the one person who most deeply needed his love. And what did Jesus do when he saw Zacchaeus? Did he ask him what he was doing in the tree? Did he offer him salvation? No. He responded by asking for what he needed—namely, a meal, a place to stay. It is not until later that he claims for Zacchaeus the family to which such a sinner could never belong—the family of Abraham, the chosen people. It is not until Zacchaeus accepts his request, offers to change his life, that Jesus offers the full measure of his holiness in return. In this story, the seeker (Zacchaeus) is the one who fulfills the needs of the one being sought (Jesus). But this honor of giving what he has leads to a radical change in Zacchaeus—and in his ultimate salvation.
In my last post, I wrote about unconditional love. This story could suggest that life-changing love is actually conditional—that it requires two people to open their lives to each other, to give whatever they have for the benefit of the other. But consider what Zacchaeus offered (food and shelter for one day) compared to what Jesus offered (salvation, wholeness, membership in a family). Also consider that Jesus offered these things only because Zacchaeus invited him in.
As Christ’s body in the world, we are both Zacchaeus, the seeker, and Jesus, the one who is sought. We are both the one in need and the one who fulfills needs--sometimes in the same moment. The story shows us that we need to risk silliness and shame, risk the ridicule of others, to see holiness clearly. We need to respond to holiness as we would to any living thing—we need to listen to its needs, to feed and shelter it. We need to respond to holiness with unbounded, heartfelt repentance. We need, also, to offer what holiness we have generously to the world. Sometimes in the same encounter we feed and are fed, we love and are loved.
But we know from other stories that Jesus’ encounters did not always go this way. Some of hte people he healed ran off without showing gratitude. Some turned on Jesus when they had trouble hearing his words. Still, Jesus went on, encountering new people, forgiving those he knew best as readily as strangers, speaking truth to power.
There can be brokenness and pain in even the most profound encounter. There can be deep, abiding change in even the briefest brush with another human. Maybe Jesus’ story, in its entirety, is meant to teach us to cherish BOTH each encounter on its own AND the story in its entirety, to recognize both the light and the darkness in every relationship, however long-standing or brief. Perhaps Jesus’ story, in its entirety, suggests that we must respond to others’ needs AND speak out about our own, and that these two impulses are not always mutuall exclusive.
A friend and I recently decided to take a break from talking heart-to-heart about our lives. At almost the same moment, we realized that our reaching out to each other was actually impeding our ability to move forward with our own lives. This was a good lesson for me in what it means to love profoundly—to be able to cherish encounters that have changed me while also recognizing that each relationship changes as time passes, and that such changes do not diminish what each person has learned. In time, I will probably better understand our mutual need for a break in new ways—but for now, I need simply to breathe in its mystery.
I think about what this story might tell me about my adoption journey, and I don’t know. I am both Zacchaeus, climbing the tree, “going out on a limb,” and Jesus, looking up to see a person who is despised by the world’s standards as a child of God. But Jesus’ encounter with Zacchaeus, like the friendship from which I am taking a break, were brief, demanding attention at a particular time in the lives of two people but not a longstanding commitment. Or perhaps it did. My friend and I have likely been changed by each other in ways we haven't even yet realized. In the gospel, after Jesus left Zacchaeus’ home the next day, Zacchaeus had to decide whether to act on the promises he’d made as a result of the encounter. If he followed through, he must have given up his livelihood, sought out a new career, faced his enemies, who likely did not trust him, even after he’d paid back what he’d stolen from them. In short, he was in for a hard road—a road that would reveal his commitment to a man he’d never see again.
And Jesus? Eventually, his insistence on loving the most hated people cost him his life.
So, the story comes back to unconditional, radical love, life-changing love. It comes back to acting on impulse born of integrity. It comes back to following through, to asking for and receiving both tangible love (food, shelter, family) and less tangible holiness (salvation).
Zacchaeus’ decision to climb that tree was a sudden decision—there was the crowd, there was Jesus, and he wanted to see him, but couldn't. But it was no doubt rooted in some period of reflection on this man, Jesus, and His message. What would Zacchaeus have done if Jesus had not looked up at him, had not demanded a place at his table? Would the mere sight of Jesus have changed him? And where would Jesus have stayed that day, where would he have eaten, if Zacchaeus had not responded by climbing down and offering an extravagant welcome? We do not know. We will never know. And this, too, is part of the lesson. Being awake in the moment means we are willing to see in new ways, to radically change, to feed and shelter others, to ask for the food and shelter we need. It means we hear each other and our own hearts. It means we are living lives grounded in love given as well as love received.
It means we go on climbing trees, regardless of our ages or abilities or life experiences or what anyone else will think of such silliness, such risk.
Psalm 119:137-144
2 Thessalonians 1:1-4, 11-12 andLuke 19:1-10
What does it mean to welcome another human being into one’s life? This question is at the root of the story of Zacchaeus the tax collector. Zacchaeus climbs a tree as Jesus is passing in the midst of a crowd because “he wanted to see who Jesus was.” This is a laughable image, to say the least—a grown (though very short) man scurrying up a tree. He was risking embarrassment, no doubt, by doing so. What did he expect to gain, anyway, from a glimpse of Jesus? The story is too brief to offer an answer to this question.
Somehow, Jesus sees Zacchaeus. He looks up and says, “Zacchaeus, come down immediately. I must stay at your house today.” And so Zacchaeus welcomes Jesus—but he doesn’t stop there. He goes on to give half his possessions to the poor, making amends for the greedy life he’s lived up to that point. He promises to pay back anyone he has cheated “four times” the amount the person lost. And Jesus says, “Today salvation has come to this house, because this man, too, is a son of Abraham. For the Son of Man came to seek and to save what was lost.”
I am considering adopting a girl who talks often about climbing trees. Nobody knows exactly why she is so interested in doing so—she is too old for this activity, and is not particularly coordinated or athletic. And yet, again and again, she speaks dreamily of climbing.
I dreamed recently that I was standing below the tree, looking up at her. We locked eyes but it was as if we were both frozen in space and time, unable to reach each other. The process of responding to her profile (she’s an older child than I’d anticipated adopting) and learning about her has been long and difficult, and still, it is not clear if she will ever come to live with me.
Of course I would never claim a literal connection between my dream and this story. I would never claim to be a Jesus figure who is able to save her—in fact, it’s exactly the kind of vision about adopting from foster care that I want desperately to avoid. I had to search my heart long and hard when I started this process to be sure I wasn’t trying to be a hero, wasn’t expecting to be the maker of miracles.
And yet I do think the communication between Zacchaeus and Jesus can tell us a lot about what human connection is about, regardless of the type of relationship. Zacchaeus takes a risk when he climbs that tree, just as the child I’m considering adopting did when she chose to be considered for adoption, to risk leaving a relatively stable foster home for something more permanent and whole. The risk is about embarrassment, about shame—but it is also about hope, about being willing to look at one’s surroundings in a new way, about inviting change.
Jesus had to look up to see Zacchaeus. He had to be paying attention even in the midst of a crowd—to look for the one person who most deeply needed his love. And what did Jesus do when he saw Zacchaeus? Did he ask him what he was doing in the tree? Did he offer him salvation? No. He responded by asking for what he needed—namely, a meal, a place to stay. It is not until later that he claims for Zacchaeus the family to which such a sinner could never belong—the family of Abraham, the chosen people. It is not until Zacchaeus accepts his request, offers to change his life, that Jesus offers the full measure of his holiness in return. In this story, the seeker (Zacchaeus) is the one who fulfills the needs of the one being sought (Jesus). But this honor of giving what he has leads to a radical change in Zacchaeus—and in his ultimate salvation.
In my last post, I wrote about unconditional love. This story could suggest that life-changing love is actually conditional—that it requires two people to open their lives to each other, to give whatever they have for the benefit of the other. But consider what Zacchaeus offered (food and shelter for one day) compared to what Jesus offered (salvation, wholeness, membership in a family). Also consider that Jesus offered these things only because Zacchaeus invited him in.
As Christ’s body in the world, we are both Zacchaeus, the seeker, and Jesus, the one who is sought. We are both the one in need and the one who fulfills needs--sometimes in the same moment. The story shows us that we need to risk silliness and shame, risk the ridicule of others, to see holiness clearly. We need to respond to holiness as we would to any living thing—we need to listen to its needs, to feed and shelter it. We need to respond to holiness with unbounded, heartfelt repentance. We need, also, to offer what holiness we have generously to the world. Sometimes in the same encounter we feed and are fed, we love and are loved.
But we know from other stories that Jesus’ encounters did not always go this way. Some of hte people he healed ran off without showing gratitude. Some turned on Jesus when they had trouble hearing his words. Still, Jesus went on, encountering new people, forgiving those he knew best as readily as strangers, speaking truth to power.
There can be brokenness and pain in even the most profound encounter. There can be deep, abiding change in even the briefest brush with another human. Maybe Jesus’ story, in its entirety, is meant to teach us to cherish BOTH each encounter on its own AND the story in its entirety, to recognize both the light and the darkness in every relationship, however long-standing or brief. Perhaps Jesus’ story, in its entirety, suggests that we must respond to others’ needs AND speak out about our own, and that these two impulses are not always mutuall exclusive.
A friend and I recently decided to take a break from talking heart-to-heart about our lives. At almost the same moment, we realized that our reaching out to each other was actually impeding our ability to move forward with our own lives. This was a good lesson for me in what it means to love profoundly—to be able to cherish encounters that have changed me while also recognizing that each relationship changes as time passes, and that such changes do not diminish what each person has learned. In time, I will probably better understand our mutual need for a break in new ways—but for now, I need simply to breathe in its mystery.
I think about what this story might tell me about my adoption journey, and I don’t know. I am both Zacchaeus, climbing the tree, “going out on a limb,” and Jesus, looking up to see a person who is despised by the world’s standards as a child of God. But Jesus’ encounter with Zacchaeus, like the friendship from which I am taking a break, were brief, demanding attention at a particular time in the lives of two people but not a longstanding commitment. Or perhaps it did. My friend and I have likely been changed by each other in ways we haven't even yet realized. In the gospel, after Jesus left Zacchaeus’ home the next day, Zacchaeus had to decide whether to act on the promises he’d made as a result of the encounter. If he followed through, he must have given up his livelihood, sought out a new career, faced his enemies, who likely did not trust him, even after he’d paid back what he’d stolen from them. In short, he was in for a hard road—a road that would reveal his commitment to a man he’d never see again.
And Jesus? Eventually, his insistence on loving the most hated people cost him his life.
So, the story comes back to unconditional, radical love, life-changing love. It comes back to acting on impulse born of integrity. It comes back to following through, to asking for and receiving both tangible love (food, shelter, family) and less tangible holiness (salvation).
Zacchaeus’ decision to climb that tree was a sudden decision—there was the crowd, there was Jesus, and he wanted to see him, but couldn't. But it was no doubt rooted in some period of reflection on this man, Jesus, and His message. What would Zacchaeus have done if Jesus had not looked up at him, had not demanded a place at his table? Would the mere sight of Jesus have changed him? And where would Jesus have stayed that day, where would he have eaten, if Zacchaeus had not responded by climbing down and offering an extravagant welcome? We do not know. We will never know. And this, too, is part of the lesson. Being awake in the moment means we are willing to see in new ways, to radically change, to feed and shelter others, to ask for the food and shelter we need. It means we hear each other and our own hearts. It means we are living lives grounded in love given as well as love received.
It means we go on climbing trees, regardless of our ages or abilities or life experiences or what anyone else will think of such silliness, such risk.
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