In the Sycamore Tree

Recently I went to a gathering of Presbyterian pastors from a variety of different ministry settings. Each day’s worship included a few folks sharing a reflection on the day’s Scripture as it related to their own story and the ways we belong to God, to our true selves, and to each other. The day I shared, we heard about Zacchaeus. Here’s what I said.

I don’t know if Zacchaeus climbed the tree because he wanted to know something about God or just because he wanted to know what everybody was talking about. And honestly, I don’t think it matters. What matters is that he showed up.

When I showed up and majored in religion in undergrad, I was definitely not going to seminary and for sure not going to be a pastor. I just liked learning about cultures and practices different from my own.

When I worked at my first summer camp in college it was because I needed a summer job and my mom had sent me a link to one whose website said something like: Do you like being outside? Do like hanging out with kids? I’m sure it said something about God too, but if I’m being totally honest that wasn’t the most motivating factor.

When I said yes to a Young Adult Volunteer year (twice) I thought it was a way to buy time until I figured out what I actually wanted to do with my life.

When I said yes to seminary, I wasn’t sure about ordination because I knew I didn’t feel called to traditional parish ministry. (Still true, so far.)

I’ll spare you my rendition of the Zacchaeus song, but the point is, I climbed tree after tree to see what I could see. I was curious, trying to listen to a nudging that seemed much less defined than many of my peers.

As it turns out, all those trees were part of the same forest after all — the thing that helped me recognize it was the friends and mentors who saw me up there, looking, and said, “I see you. Climb down and let’s share a meal. You belong here.”

The seminary professor who said I should apply for the pastor cohort program because my non-parish perspective on ministry was important.

The camp directors and leaders who made room around dining hall tables and on high ropes courses, in craft huts and on hiking trails, recognizing all of it as church.

The college students who showed up week after week in our former bar turned ragtag sanctuary and trusted me — trusted our community — to hold the most honest questions of their hearts.

The friend who, when I said I wasn’t sure I should apply for the job I have now, gently but firmly informed me it would be pretty dumb not to at least try.

To be clear, I’ve had my fair share of skinned knees from some rough branches along the way — sore muscles from being stretched too far too quickly. Some are still healing and I’m quite sure they won’t be the last.

And also, I feel like I need to say out loud that our work is not our whole self — even if it feels that way sometimes.

But as I wondered what I might say about the idea of belonging to our true selves, it felt like a chance to give thanks for the people who have helped me belong to mine.

So. My hope for all of us — for you — is that when someone tells you that your perspective matters, that you matter — believe them.