Having written about Zacchaeus in the previous entries, I stumbled across this beautiful entry by Neil Thorogood (cf. further below) on what is otherwise an interesting website from his college in Cambridge (with such writings they can do with more entries - ). It helped me developed my understanding of this passage in Luke 19:1-10 even more.
Thorogood’s contribution reflects on one particular aspect of the story in Luke 19:1-10 which I find intriguing. It relates to an important aspect of spirituality. The life changing touch of God comes to us without warning, unannounced, often unexpected, (Paul on the way to Damascus), but always beyond any human contribution, : the divine outreach to humanity cannot be forced, earned or deserved. We can only wait on it. It is given, free, out of grace, as it behoves....
But then, how does this free gift of divine grace looks like practically? It is sometimes given to some without them having to wait too long. Others have to wait for years while they travel through dark nights of the soul, crying out for the divine touch. For some the touch is given in the overwhelming fire of pentecost, for others like Zaccaeus it comes amidst everyday life, amidst the hectic crowds, when a Man of Love stops and calls them by their name. Practically it came in “Jesus calling to Zacchaeus in his tree and, without it seems discussion, inviting himself in to this man’s home for food and fellowship and a conversation that will change life for a sinner,” as Thorogood remarks. But now, even more significantly, it is given in such a remarkable manner without any condition. No catechism! No reciting of a confession of faith! No theological cross-examination... It is just given.... away... Without calculating the risks.
The touch is recognized, it is felt, and it has life changing consequences.
And yet, God’s grace is about God taking risks, about God daring to love. There is, after all, the figure of Judas and the treason of Peter.
What I like most in Thorogood’s remarks is the challenging, but especially practical way in which he reflects on the consequences of the free gift of divine grace to Zacchaeus. This story challenges us: do we dare to love conform to Christ’s example? And do we dare to do so in our professions and jobs – in the prison where we work with abusive, hard, merciless people? Like Zacchaeus? Is the chaplain really serious when it is said: “And as we talk faith in this place begins to unfold as he speaks of value, worth, humanity and the inexhaustible grace of God that can transform the most powerful evil and claim shattered lives”?
This is truly conformity to Christ – experienced by someone in a prison as chaplain, nameless in this story, with no reference to his anxieties, his fears, his prayers, his exhaustion during all the times he dares to love, dares to speak of Christ, dares to seek the Zaccaeus solution. Dares to take the risk.
This is true spirituality. Such a risk was never an easy option – as Jesus found out when the crowds began to grumble menacingly, and, later on, killed him (Others you saved...) . It still is not the easy road, as Thorogood’s many questions at the end of his remarks reveal.
But it is the way of God – the journey of adventure, taking risks.
Here is the reference to the blog entry of Thorogood:
http://www.westminster.cam.ac.uk/index.php/reflect/27-reflections-on-my-first-visit-to-wayland-prison
Reflections on my First Visit to Wayland Prison
Written by Neil Thorogood
Arriving on a grey day I’m immediately aware of scale. A vast and featureless wall, rounded and bulging at its peak, shuts out the world of prison from my world. There’s a neat car park with small trees off an unremarkable country side road, and this great wall. In the gate house I’m warmly welcomed and my passport is checked. They’re expecting me. The strangeness is calmed a little by being expected, my name on a list, my reason for being here understood. But I’m conscious of fidgeting and turning pages without reading the magazines as I wait for the chaplain to see me through the gates. And I think of prison as a place where God is. I recall that role of apostles, and Jesus, heading into the cells. They were captured, or handed themselves over, alive in faithfulness. I think of Daniel. I think of Bonhoeffer. What might it mean for me to bring my faith into prison? What faithfulness will I meet here? How is God busy?
Then we’re in, surrounded by the hardness of concrete and stone, the clanging shut of gates and the endless clinking of huge bunches of keys. There are dogs with handlers in the exercise yard. But otherwise it is empty and the chaplain and I make a lonely procession towards the normality of his office and a welcome coffee. And as we talk faith in this place begins to unfold as he speaks of value, worth, humanity and the inexhaustible grace of God that can transform the most powerful evil and claim shattered lives.
Root is carved from a great block of limestone. It has been worked on, yet retains much of its original form. It isn’t hard to think of it still as just a block of rock. Yet there is also transformation here with twisting forms and a whole language of tiny marks incised on its sheen as if it is some sort of Rosetta stone remembering another language, offering a voice into the stillness around it.
In Wayland I encountered people who carried still the weight of evil done. I talked with some who have hurt others beyond imagining, and some who hurt themselves beyond enduring. They carry scars, a language of broken lives like the marks of the chisel on the stone.
I find myself drawn to glimpses of salvation; Jesus calling to Zacchaeus in his tree and, without it seems discussion, inviting himself in to this man’s home for food and fellowship and a conversation that will change life for a sinner, and for a community that must welcome back a sinner (Luke 19:1-10). Jesus makes the approach, but Zacchaeus eagerly responds to it. A way is opened, but a step over the threshold is taken. I encountered in chaplaincy this willingness to constantly open a way: a way into relationships; a way into honesty; a way into giving an account; a way towards taking hold of consequences; a way towards God. Some of the prison officers, I gathered, saw chaplaincy as the feather bed offering a place of comfort for anyone with the wit to befuddle the chaplains. But in the chaplains I found a realism about the possibility of being lied to by prisoners gifted in dishonesty, yet a conviction that following Christ here meant always risking. Zacchaeus has to re-enter his community able to demonstrate change, yet unable to remove the past. He carries the scars and, maybe, every day has to live out being forgiven all over again. How does that work with a convicted sex offender contemplating release into a society hostile? What would ministry mean for me in a congregation welcoming Zacchaeus yet also upholding the victims of deceit and abuse? How do I now understand what Jesus means when he speaks of seeking and saving the lost?
Neil Thorogood (February, 2009)
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