Lord of all eagerness

When's the last time you climbed a tree? Personally, I haven't the slightest idea. But I can vividly remember the last time I aided in a tree-climbing venture. I was staying with my mom, and the darling four year-old who lives next door excitedly called me over. It seemed he had just discovered that delightful art of scaling branches, and his joy was contagious. I lifted him to the lowest bough and watched a little nervously as he climbed higher, my arms ready to catch him if he took a misstep. His look was one of triumph as he reached the spot his elder siblings had, a look I know well as a younger sister myself.

And when's the last time you saw a grown man climb a tree? Aside from the men wearing helmets and wielding chainsaws to lop off precarious branches near my house, I never have. Indeed, the thought is quite ridiculous. But that's just what Zacchaeus did in today's Gospel. And what could drive a presumably sane adult to do such a thing?

Eagerness.

And not just any eagerness, but eagerness to see Jesus. He ran ahead of the crowd, Luke writes, and climbed a sycamore tree just to catch a glimpse of this mysterious man—teacher? Prophet? Messiah? And from his perch, Zacchaeus could not only see Jesus, but Jesus could see him, too. And that initial spark of eagerness ignited in his heart as they locked eyes and Jesus called out, Zacchaeus, come down quickly, for today I must stay at your house. What began as eagerness to merely see Jesus turned into eagerness to receive Him. He came down quickly and received Him with joy. But that seeing and receiving transformed again as the indignant crowd began to grumble at Jesus' regard for this greedy, contemptible tax collector. Ostensibly in an instant, Zacchaeus became eager to repent: "Behold," he boldly proclaims, "half of my possessions, Lord, I shall give to the poor, and if I have extorted anything from anyone I shall repay it four times over." I can't imagine that that was premeditated—he simply saw Jesus, heard His voice, and he was ready to change his life.

I wonder if I can say the same for myself: am I eager to see Jesus, to receive Him, to repent?

As I make my way to Mass each morning, bleary-eyed before the sunrise, am I eager as I pull open the heavy door and make my way to my usual pew? As I sit and stand and kneel, is there a growing desire in my heart to encounter Jesus? As I wait my turn in the communion line, do I long to receive that little host, knowing Who hides within it? My well-worn routine is a far cry from that tree-climbing day that changed Zacchaeus' life, but can't I follow in his footsteps of childlike zeal?

Of course I can. And in fact, eagerness is one of my most predominant traits. At my best, I'm eager to love and be loved, eager to make a gift of myself, eager to do what it right. More often, I fear, I'm eager to know what's going to happen, to be in control, to do what I want. I've been reflecting lately about a phrase from one of my favorite hymns. We sing out to the Lord of all hopefulness and joy, eagerness and faith, kindliness and grace, gentleness and calm, to give us bliss, strength, love, and peace in our hearts throughout the day. Lord of all eagerness catches my attention especially. For I want the Lord to be Lord of all of my eagerness. I want to follow after Him, not blaze a trail on my own without a thought of His will. I want to let my heart leap at His presence and His working in my life. I can't imagine that He wants to dampen my enthusiasm even a little, but rather enhance it, and make me even more alive, even more myself. As Zacchaeus did, I want to see Him and let Him see me, to listen to His voice and receive Him with joy, to leave my sinful ways behind and live in love, rejoicing each day over His gift of salvation. And I want the same for you.

Now if you'll excuse me, I'm off to climb a tree.