31 October 2010
Carolyn L Roberts
Luke 19.1-10 

            Today is one of those days that falls under the umbrella of “An Abundance of Riches.” It’s Halloween—in fact I believe the children were learning about some of the Halloween traditions in church school. It’s also Reformation Sunday–always the same date–October 31–the day in 1517 that Martin Luther tacked 95 points of disagreement with the Roman Catholic church on the doors of the cathedral in Wittenberg and ignited the Protestant Reformation. And it’s the third Sunday in our Season of Stewardship, just two weeks away from Consecration Sunday. So with all due respect to both All Hallows Eve, and to the Protestant Reformation, which we acknowledged with our opening hymn, I’m going to invite you to join me in turning our attention to Jesus and the story of Zaccheus.

            One of the unusual features of today’s reading is that it directly involves someone who is rich. That’s unusual because Jesus spent his time mostly with peasants in villages. The exception seems to be Jericho–the lowest city on earth at roughly 1000 feet below sea level in the Jordan Valley. It’s about four miles from the River Jordan, ten miles north of the Dead Sea, and roughly 17 miles north and east of Jerusalem. It is also an oasis, with abundant water coming from a generous natural spring, and a climate perfect for date palms. In Jewish scriptures, (Deuteronomy 34.3) it’s referred to as “the city of palm trees.” Behind Jericho are these barren white and grey mountains–wilderness, really, that  rise sharply, providing a natural defense for the city—and excellent hiding places in ravines and behind rocks. When John and I were in Jericho two summers ago, Israel had just allowed Palestine to re-open the main road between Jericho and Jerusalem, and we stopped in one part of town near a huge sycamore tree. Now, it’s way too many generations between the sycamore tree of Jesus’ time and ours for it to be the same tree, but according to local legend, it’s at the same site. Regardless, more than one local denizen was happy to sell us a souvenir of the tree.

            This is the area Jesus describes as the setting for his parable of the Good Samaritan. Jesus heals Bartimaeus on the outskirts of Jericho. But for today’s story, Jericho is where Zaccheus lives as the regional tax collector for Rome, whose huge empire includes tiny Israel. Among his own Jewish people, Zaccheus is viewed with about as much sympathy as a Nazi collaborator in German-occupied France or any one of the concentration camps. He is viewed as a traitor and treated as an outcast, as someone beyond redemption in every practical sense of the word.

            So when Jesus passes through Jericho and sees this ludicrous sight of one of the town’s richest men up in a tree—I mean, really, can you imagine George Soros or Bill Gates climbing anything to get a better view of Archbishop Tutu?!—and Jesus calls him by name, and invites himself over to the Zaccheus estate. How amazing is that!? A peasant itinerant preacher and teacher and healer invites himself over to the home of a man made rich at the expense of the very peasants who share Jesus’ background. And Zaccheus is happy to welcome him. Issues of exclusion, the practice of hospitality, and the faith community’s responsibility to care for the poor: they’re all here in this little nugget of a story.

            Years ago, when Bob Moss was the President and General Minister of the United Church of Christ, I was in seminary, and the male privilege of the institutional church was something a number of us were dealing with at every turn. From the few who welcomed women seminarians to the few  who did not, we grappled with petty tantrums and studied indifference.

            It didn’t take long for us to figure out that the language we used in church and society helped frame our world view. If women were to be welcomed into the full life of the church, our language needed to affirm that. So I wrote Bob Moss. I confess it was not my most tactful letter, and he had every right to take offense at the tone it set, if not the justice of my argument. At least, that’s how I remember it. So imagine my surprise when the next time I saw Bob, we were in worship, sharing the Passing of the Peace. He headed straight down the center aisle directly to me, and greeted me with a warm hug of welcome.

            The incident stays with me for several reasons. First, I remember what it is to be excluded, to feel like the one standing on the outside looking in. Most of us do from one experience or another. And when that experience is part of our social and institutional structures, it can be profoundly alienating. Second, I was hardly the only one who struggled with the changes needed at every aspect of the church’s life. Those struggles characterized an entire era, and still continue, taking additional forms as we look at our relationships with one another through experiences of race and class and sexual identity. Bob Moss was a leader in addressing those struggles. His personal, hospitable welcome kept the door open so that we could each do our part in meeting those issues.

            Our story suggests Zaccheus never stopped being a tax collector, any more than I stopped being a pastor. But because of the love extended through the ritual passing of the peace, because of the love extended through ancient rituals of hospitality, relationships were transformed, a more profound love of God, and an outpouring of generosity were the outcomes.

            We are created with the need to give. When we know we are loved, giving flows as a natural, spontaneous response to that love. So I ask you to reflect: When have you experienced being left out and someone has reached out to you with a word or a way of welcome? How have you experienced God’s transforming love? What are you called to give in response to God’s to that love?

            Those are the urgent questions of the moment. How ever you respond to them, may we live the kind of witness that binds creation back together, and like Zaccheus, serve God through the just and generous use of all our resources.