(Luke 19.1-10, Zacchaeus)
You've got me treed, held in the cross-hairs of your sharpshooter grace up here with all my complications, trapped among these anxious limbs (we hold each other nervously). I just wanted to peek, to keep my distance, observe and play it safe— but now you've named me, nailed me (I could just die)— and there is no way to save myself from this tree of my undoing (I could just fall) but through you, through your grave command, your invitation to become the host in breaking bread (still clinging, white-knuckled) where I will recognize myself at last, at last let go, and rise from the table into a spacious place, a future I can't imagine until it cuts me loose.
Deep Blessings, Pastor Steve
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