The Family Room

The Rev. Dr. Whitworth Ferguson III

Manassas Presbyterian Church

Manassas, Virginia

April 17, 2011

Palm Sunday

The Family Room

Matthew 21:1-11

We can picture it, can’t we:

the parade with Jesus, his disciples,

and what Matthew tells us was a “large crowd”

as they shuffled and danced,

skipped and scuffed their way

along the dusty road that led into Jerusalem.

Jesus and his disciples were bedraggled,

wind- and sunburned,

a motley crew,

each person looking like an unmade bed.

Jesus led the parade riding on that donkey.

A donkey – a simple animal,

there is nothing at all impressive about a donkey.

A donkey has none of the beauty of a horse,

none of the function of a cow,

none of the power of a bull,

none of the desert practicality of a camel.

A donkey is humility itself;

Can a person look anything but humble

riding on the back of a donkey?

As Jesus rode along, he heard the shouts of the people

who had joined the parade:

“Hosanna to the Son of David

Blessed is the one who comes in the name of the Lord!

Hosanna in highest heaven!”

Were they shouting and singing to him?

…did they really understand?

Or were they simply caught up in holiday spirit?

It was, after all, Passover week and everyone was there

not just to observe the Passover,

but also to have a good time.

Jesus knew what lay before him:

confrontation, fear,

betrayal, arrest.

He knew he would be beaten,

and then suffer as agonizing a death

as any human could devise.

Still none of that kept him from focusing his attention

on the people all around him,

his beloved disciples who delighted him one moment,

and tested his patience the next;

the women who so quietly followed,

helping, serving, believing;

and all those strangers who lined the road,

who were caught up in the excitement.

How many of those shouting “Hosanna” today

would be shouting “crucify” before the week was out?

Anyone looking into Jesus’ eyes that afternoon

would not have seen worry,

or fear,

or concern,

or anything other than love;

love for all,

compassion for all,

especially for the hungry,

the alien,

the sick, the lonely.

As they kicked up the dust in their merriment,

they formed a cloud of witnesses

that filled Jesus with hope.

Across Jerusalem, over on the western side,

another procession wound its way down the road,

headed for another set of gates into the city.

This procession could not have been more different

from the one that Jesus led.

No donkeys, no rag-tag group –

no, this group was precise, professional proud.

It was led by Pontius Pilate

the governor of the region,

the representative of the Roman government.

Pilate was astride a glistening black steed,

the steed as proud as the rider,

each of them a display of the power

that was Rome.

In close order behind Pilate rode two columns of officers,

ten in each column,

each man gleaming in his armor,

each horse a picture of strength and grace.

Following behind them were two more columns:

foot soldiers, two hundred of them,

each man walking with determination

under the weight of helmet, shield,

spear, sword, and breastplate.

(Borg and Crossan)

The troops had been ordered to Jerusalem

for the Passover festival.

The population of the city always swelled three, four

even five-fold during the festive week

and the Romans wanted to assure there was no trouble.

Pilate smiled as he neared the gates of the city

just outside was the hill known as Golgotha,

where crosses lined the road on both sides,

a reminder of the brutal power of Rome.

Intimidation and fear have always been such helpful tools

for maintaining law and order.

Two processions,

each so very different.

One the very picture of order, power, and precision,

the men walking left, right, left, right,

the very sight instilling awe.

No one watched that procession;

they ran from it in fear.

The other group simply a collection of men and women,

singing, dancing, shouting,

having a wonderful time,

as they waved their palm branches and shouted Hosanna.

Those who didn’t join in the parade,

watched from the side,

everyone was entranced by the spirit.

Jesus and his followers were such a homely group,

homely in the sense of not much to look at,

certainly nothing as magisterial,

even elegant, as the Roman legion marching across town.

But homely also in the sense of homey,

welcoming, inviting.

While the Romans instilled awe,

they also inspired fear.

But Jesus as his group were like family,

welcoming all, even the stranger.

Even as Jesus rode into the holy city of Jerusalem,

the city he would weep over, calling it,

“… the city that kills the prophets,

and stones those who are sent to it!”

still he was doing what he had been doing

since he came up out of the waters of the Jordan:

building community,

creating a homely and homey place

for anyone and everyone.

As he rode along on that humble donkey

his “big carpenter hands” were opened wide in welcome,

as though he was inviting everyone into his home,

the beggar, the leper,

the blind, the lame, the hungry, the homeless,

the sick, the distraught.

“Come to my home.”

Come where you will find welcome,

even a gathering along the road to Jerusalem.”

But Jesus doesn’t stop there, of course,

with an invitation into his home.

He invites all into the best room of the house.

Not the living room;

the family room –

the place where everyone can relax, sit back,

no concern for minding the good furniture,

or finding a coaster.

Jesus says to all: come in, sit down,

relax – you are among family, among friends.

The Temple leaders weren’t keen

to invite anyone into their home,

and on those rare occasions when they did invite someone,

it was as though they were invited into the living room,

a place requiring a special invitation,

and special behavior.

Even in his lament over Jerusalem,

Jesus offered such a expression of his desire

for the men and women, young and old to come join him,

to come into his community:

“How often have I desired to gather your children together

as a hen gathers her brood under her wing.”

(Matthew 23:37)

        

As Easter reminds us of the promise of eternal life

that is ours in Christ,

Palm Sunday reminds us of the promise of community that is ours

in Jesus.

                                   

Palm Sunday reminds us that  we are called to join

a wonderful parade,

a wonderful community,

family gathered to sing and dance

and shout out Hosanna.

Community is what we are as we gather in the name of our Lord,

both here at Manassas Presbyterian Church,

and as part of the larger holy catholic church,

“catholic” with small “c” meaning the church universal,

all churches of all denominations in all nations

where people gather in the name of Jesus Christ.

We live out our faith in community.

We cannot live our faith on our own.

We need community.

Jesus calls us together, in community.

The Psalmist sang “how very good and pleasant it is,

when kindred live together.”

(Psalm 133)

We give life to Christ within this community;

It is why Paul calls us the Body of Christ,

each of us called to our part within the body,

every part needed, necessary,

no part more important, or less important.

We’ve seen in such a powerful way

the blessing of community this past week

as we’ve gathered in grief,

gathered together to shed tears,

to comfort,

to care for one another.

I’ve seen such an extraordinary outpouring of love and concern for

Pam Sackett and her family,

for Ann Curtis,

and for Kathy Wulf.

None of them grieve alone;

none of them shed tears alone;

they’ve all found themselves embraced by the love

that is this community, this Body of Christ.

Dietrich Bonhoeffer, the German theologian

who was killed by the Nazis

just weeks before the end of the war,

wrote a wonderful little book entitled “Life Together”

in which he spoke of the joy we find in community.

He reminds us that, “It isn’t an ideal we are called to create;

it is a reality we are called by the Spirit to participate in,”

a reality in all its messiness,

the messiness that is a family room.

And community can be messy at times;

there’s no denying that.

A family room can often look like a cyclone has gone through it.

But still it is a place of welcome,

a place of family,

A few weeks back we talked a little about C.S. Lewis’s

wonderful characterization of the devil in the Screwtape letters

- those fanciful letters from the senior devil

writing his advice and counsel to a junior tempter

as he went about his diabolical his work.

In a different book, a book entitled The Great Divorce,

we find Lewis’s picturesque description of hell.

Notwithstanding the title, the book has nothing to do

with the breakup of a marriage,

Rather, the book describes the split between heaven and hell.

        

In Lewis’s mind, hell is nothing more than an empty town –

a town with lots of houses, but all of them unoccupied.

Not because corrupt banks have foreclosed on them,

but because when a person arrives, he moves into a house,

and before he’s been there twenty-four hours,

he quarrels with his neighbor.

Before the week is over he’s quarreled so badly he decides to move.

Very likely he finds the next street empty

because all the people there have quarreled

with their neighbors – and moved.

If someone moves near him,

they’ll eventually quarrel and each will keep moving out,

farther away from the center of town,

leaving the town empty, barren, lifeless.

Hell for Lewis is the utter absence of community.

And the utter absence of community

is the absence of God,

the absence of Christ.

It is to be alone.

“Our life together is the chief means God has chosen

for being with us,”

as Barbara Brown Taylor has written.

 (Family Fights 89)

You and I are part of a joyous community,

a community that traces its roots back

well before that simple, homely parade

that kicked up the dust on the east side of Jerusalem,

a community that goes all the way back to God’s words,

“it is not good that man should be alone.”

We may at times look more like that rag tag group

that shouted its Hosannas

than a proper group of Presbyterians doing all things

decently and in order.

But within every song we sing,

every word we speak,

is the word “welcome”.

For this is community,

this is family.

This is the place we call home.

AMEN