Zacchaeus Means Clean
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November 3, 2019“Jesus looked up and said, ‘Zacchaeus, come down quickly, for today I must stay at your house.’” (Lk 19:5)
Zacchaeus, when people look at you, they see a chief tax collector and a rich man, that is, a sinner and a traitor. Your name means clean, but those who pass you in the street mutter under their breath: “dirty money.” You are described as a short man – in physical stature and in moral stature – but you are seen rushing ahead to climb a tree to see Jesus. The outward image and the inner reality betrayed by this action do not match. There is more to you than meets the eye. You want to see Jesus to understand who he is. Something in you tells you that setting eyes on this man will change your life. “Who are you?” this is the unspoken question that quickens your steps to the sycamore tree.
What is your secret, Zacchaeus? How did you come to be so in touch with your inner need for Christ that you did not stand on your dignity, but climbed that tree to see him? What was it, I wonder, that awakened in you a holy curiosity about this man? Something has been happening inside for a long time now: a growing discontent, a search for something more, an inner battle between the urge for self-satisfaction, and the longing to have done with compromise and give your life away as a gift. Long before he walked under the sycamore tree, Jesus had been walking through the virgin forest of your heart, preparing the way, making space. You are ripe for change, Zacchaeus, low-hanging fruit just waiting to be picked by a passing Messiah.
When Jesus reaches the spot, he looks up and sees you. And you know then that it is not seeing Jesus that transforms you but being seen by him, being recognized as a brother, a fellow descendant of Abraham, called by name and drawn into joyful hospitality. On this tree, Christ looked for and found good fruit awaiting him. Not only do you allow him to draw you down, but you spontaneously offer fourfold restitution. Joyful abundance flows from you all of a sudden, as if for all these years you were just waiting for someone to look at you and see goodness, to recognize you as Zacchaeus the clean.
When I was thirteen years old, I went through phase in which I felt urged, pressed, driven to practice gospel values in daily life. I did things that made people uncomfortable, that made them angry with me. I took to sitting next to loners in class, to befriending the friendless. Somehow this was received by others as a criticism of them and their behavior. Do you remember how in school, some people are just not popular, for no real reason at all? Maybe they’re short, or pudgy, or have a funny haircut or don’t wear the right clothes. Like Zacchaeus. Some kids come from poor families. When I say that, it sounds romantic, conjuring up images of noble simplicity and virtuous living in want. It wasn’t like that. In this country one would refer to them as “trash.” So, I sat next to the trashy kids, and spoke and laughed with them. One day, my watch went missing from the gym class safety box. The murmuring began. “So-and-so (the trashy girl) took your watch. That’s just the kind of thing these people do. See what kind of person you were being nice to? She’s made a fool out of you.” For some reason, rather than giving in to peer pressure as I usually would, this time, I didn’t. I sat next to the girl in class. I talked and laughed with her as usual. The whispers were audible. I felt like persona non grata # 1. People wouldn’t look at me. Later that day, my watch reappeared. What I learned from this experience was that if people are looked upon as bad, they will behave accordingly. But if they are looked upon with respect, we can be amazed by the goodness that emerges. As I look back on this, I am sorry to say that I have never since lived up to the zeal of my thirteen-year-old self.
But what about those grumblers? The word used in Greek is wonderful: diegongguzon – they began to grumble. Zacchaeus receives Jesus into his house and gives away half his money to the poor, and all around we have people complaining that he is a sinner. We’re used to hearing this, aren’t we? Think of the older brother who resents how his prodigal younger brother is received back with open arms; think of the workers in the vineyard who started earlier, and felt the need to stand up for their rights when latecomers were paid the same wage; think of those who say the woman who anointed Jesus’ feet should have given the money to the poor instead. Pharisees are the chief grumblers in the gospels. It is part of their job description. They can’t stand seeing unclean people enter the kingdom before them, those sinners with whom Jesus chooses to associate.
St Benedict also talks a lot about grumblers. He is writing in Latin, so he doesn’t have the word gongguzo, but his word is also wonderful: murmuratio. Usually he is referring to that kind of under-the-breath rehearsal of everything that isn’t the way it should be: the food is cold, the work is hard, the tools are broken, the clothes are too long/short/thick/thin, the laundry is damp, the singing is off-key and the cat smells. You name it, and monks can complain about it! What interests me more than this ever-present facet of the human condition, is the particular usage of murmuratio in regard to other people. In chapter 4, Benedict pairs two sayings: “Do not grumble or speak ill of others” (RB 4.39-40). In chapter 34 he says: “Whoever needs less should thank God and not be distressed, but whoever needs more should feel humble because of his weakness, not self-important because of the kindness shown him. In this way all the members will be at peace. First and foremost, there must be no word or sign of the evil of grumbling, no manifestation of it for any reason at all” (RB 34.3-6). A line from chapter 55 goes on to tell the abbot not to be afraid to give more to some than to others if it is needed: “In this way the abbot will take into account the weaknesses of the needy, not the evil will of the envious” (RB 55.21). In other words, the abbot has to be brave when he lets someone have something special and risk comparisons, bad feelings and grumbling. Here we have the same kind of grumbling as is found in the gospel stories: sadness because of another person’s good. This is the definition of envy.
What if my sister is like this little man climbing a tree, whose heart is ready to receive Jesus, but all I can see is the rich tax collector, whom I despise and envy in equal measure? And yet I fully expect everyone to realize that there is more to me than meets the eye. What the gospel means by short in stature might be weakness of body and behavior, in Benedict’s terms (RB 72.5). The monastic vow of conversatio morum obliges me to believe, hoping beyond hope, that by the grace of God and my fidelity to the monastic way, conversion is possible, for me and for those I live with, as well as for all people. This is important – faith is the basis of the vow, faith in God’s ability to convert me and those I live with. Zacchaeus is an image of the inner transformation open to all of us. Do we recognize him in our daily lives? Do we allow him to be clean, to show his true goodness, or do we condemn him by looking upon him as unclean? For some people, it may be very difficult to believe in one’s own cleanness. But for many of us, the difficulty is to acknowledge that there are other forests besides my own in which Christ walks in search of fruit. In spite of all outward indications to the contrary, other people possess an inner world – vast, uncharted, wild in its beauty.
