Zacchaeus Sunday

There's something about Zacchaeus. I remember him from Sunday School. "Zacchaeus was a wee little man. A wee little man was he. He climbed up in a sycamore tree to see what he could see...". I never thought much of Zacchaeus aside from the song. Cute story for kids. In the past year, I've thought a lot about Zacchaeus, though. I see him everywhere.

My children and I were Chrismated on Zacchaeus Sunday 2008. The date my priest picked as most convenient. The last Sunday of ordinary time before the liturgical calendar launches into the mystical journey of Great Lent. Zacchaeus didn't mean much to me that day. I remember making a mental note to study his story again. Take another look at the man whose day of remembrance now held a special meaning for me as well.

Weeks later, I attended my first Holy Unction service on Holy Wednesday. An Unction service is the Orthodox version of an old-time healing service. The sick in body, mind, and soul come with the hope of being relieved from their suffering in all its forms. While physical healing is the desired result, it is not a necessary outcome of the Sacrament. Sometimes God does not heal the body, but the ill can be given the strength and wisdom to bear the burden of sickness. A precious gift of its own.

Seven Epistle and seven Gospel readings make up the Unction service. Each time the priest reads the Gospel, he places the book on the head of a sick person. In this way, faith is deepened for all present and the sick especially feel the comfort of God's Word.

My priest read the first Gospel over a lady in our parish who is fighting a long and tiring battle with cancer. I was touched by the intimacy of the service. One more tie that binds me to the community of my parish family and Orthodox Christians around the world. Then, Father motioned to me. He placed the Gospel book on my head and began to read--- the story of Zacchaeus. The weight of the book bowed my head even lower as I stared at my hands in my lap. I was filled with memories of the days when I first became chronically ill with my cardiac disease. At the time, I was a spiritual wanderer, searching for the Truth in an ocean of Protestant denominations. I remember many Pentecostal healing services. I went "expecting" as directed, but I always left wanting. I longed for someone to tell me that the suffering had value. That God could still use me, even though I was broken. That God still loved me, even when he chose not to heal me. I didn't find it during those years, but I felt it at that Unction service. I felt comforted. I didn't expect God to heal me that day, but I left with something unexpected. Peace. Peace that there is beauty in suffering. And Zacchaeus was there...

Two more times over the summer this event repeated itself. I went on pilgrimage to two different monasteries and attended Holy Unction services. Each time, the familiar story was read over me without my requesting it. I was just the one that happened to be picked by the priests. It was always Zacchaeus. Each time I felt the peace. Each time I wondered more and more about this little man who kept showing up in ways that couldn't be coincidence.

I haven't thought about Zacchaeus for awhile. Until the Reader's schedule came out. I started reading at our Wednesday morning Divine Liturgy back in August. Our group for that service is small and I'm the youngest one by about, oh...30 years. No members of the choir are able to come. No readers. It was making for some odd services. A one man show for the priest, since he had to do all the parts.

So, I started reading the Epistle. Then added on the Hours before the service and the prayers after Communion at the end of the service. Mid-week Feast days and other occasional services followed. When I was a little girl, I dreamed of singing in church. Like the sopranos who would belt out the big numbers during the offering. But my voice is not a soloist's voice. No special numbers for me. So, finding the treasure of reading at this point in my life is a special gift. Learning to chant has enhanced my private prayers and opened up a new level of depth to the services.

I had never thought about reading on Sunday. I wasn't part of the choir/reader clique. The dynamics of our parish have changed recently, though, and Father made the announcement that he would be adding new readers to the rotation for Sunday morning. He e-mailed the new schedule out, and I scanned for my name. There I was...on Zacchaeus Sunday. As I read the Hours this morning, I thought again about that wee little man. What is the deal? What am I supposed to be learning from him? Is it God just giving me a reminder that He's out there? Kind of our little private joke. A nod and a wink. Or is it more?

I listened to the Gospel with a close ear, searching for a clue to the significance. Nothing. No lightening bolt mountaintop experience. Just the same story. Same sycamore tree.

Father started the sermon. Zacchaeus was a tax collector in the way that gave tax collectors a bad name. He cheated. He took advantage. He was a small man in more than just his stature. Yet, he climbed up in a tree in the middle of a crowd. With all the people he controlled watching. His job was to hold people under his thumb. Since he was short, he probably tried extra hard to make sure he looked as intimidating as possible. His appearance was extremely important. But on that day, he looked absolutely ridiculous. I'm sure they laughed at him. Hanging from a sycamore tree looking at this crazy Jesus guy walking down the road. Some might even have got quite a view up his robes. An embarrassing situation. Not at all his usual image. But he did it. To see Jesus.

Sometimes you have to be willing to look ridiculous to follow Christ. When Father said those words, I finally, finally got it. That's why that wee little man keeps following me around.

Even though I didn't know it last year at my Chrismation, the first time Zacchaeus appeared, God was going to lead me down a new path. He was going to ask me to dress modest and put on a skirt...in the snow...at the beach...at swim meets where the other two hundred women in the room have on pants. He was going to ask me to cover my head...when no one else in my parish does...when my relatives think I'm crazy...when in the world's eyes, I look ridiculous.

I was talking to a friend the other day about a bit of the loneliness I feel in covering. I don't expect anyone else I know to do it, but gee whiz, it sure would be nice to have just one person who understands! A spiritual buddy of sorts who knows what it feels like to look a little ridiculous and choose to get up the next day and do it all over again. Someone who makes the same choice to buck the system of the world's standards and climb up a tree, hanging out on a limb, just to get a little, teeny glimpse of Jesus. No matter how it looks.

I don't have someone like that in my parish. But I have Zacchaeus. We keep bumping into each other. With a wink and a nod of understanding. He knows what it's like to look ridiculous for Christ, and he knows how much it's worth it. Because Jesus called him down from the tree. To make him a new man. To change him forever through one, ridiculous moment.

I'll climb that tree. I'll hang out on that limb. Just to see Christ. Just to follow Him. I'm starting to get a knack for looking ridiculous...