Zacchaeus was trying to see who Jesus was, but on account of the crowd he could not, because he was short in stature. So he ran ahead and climbed a sycamore tree to see him, because Jesus was going to pass that way. Luke 19:3-4

This year I come to the story from the sycamore’s point of view — how it must have been for that traditional wayside tree, tall and with leaves like hearts, and figs near the trunk.

The tree had seen many passing on the road through Jericho – the soldiers of Rome and pilgrims for the festivals,

the rich and the poor, those who preyed on the poor — tax collectors and robbers, priests, and levites, and a few who cared for the wounded and the lost — some Good Samaritans, also Jesus and those who tried to follow.

The tree had waited long to be itself a point of view — somewhere a person could climb to see hope walk by, a fork of wood and bark high enough out of the crowd to see and be seen, to be called and accepted, and then to tumble down, and land in a new life.

It never matters to a sycamore that it is not invited to the party, paid back for its gifts, admired for its deep roots, sweet fruit, and wide safe branches.

It’s just being a tree.

Of course, I’ve known saints like that whose lives are hand holds for the lifting up of those who are short of something on their roads, and cannot catch a glimpse of what they desperately need.

Sycamore trees have twisted limbs and are known to take many shapes –

some look like therapists, an officer with Narcan, a Facebook friend, a teacher, a bartender or a sponsor, a neighbor, maybe people from a church, or people who’ve never been inside one.

They’ve all got roots, wide and inviting branches, and they never insist on being remembered when I tell the story.