Sunday, April 20, 2014

Serious Business


The Rev. Dr. Skip Ferguson
Manassas Presbyterian Church
Manassas, Virginia
April 20, 2014
Easter Sunday

Serious Business
Mark 16:1-8

Our feet hit the ground on Easter morning
as we get out bed
and somehow we feel lighter.
We’re fully awake,
with none of the weekday grogginess,
the cobwebs and fog that fill our heads,
the “I need two-cups of coffee to get me started” feeling.

No, it is Easter and there is energy, life;
there is joy in the very air we breathe.
It helps when it is sunny and lovely,
but the weather doesn’t really matter.
Even if it’s rainy,
it’s Easter!

It is a day to dress up,
to look our best.
Men who avoid neckties at all costs
happily knot a bright print
around their necks;        
women don colorful scarves and bonnets;
young boys comb their hair,
and keep their shirts tucked in –
at least for little while;
little girls feel ever so grown up in dresses
printed with the vibrant colors of spring.

Children are up as early on Easter morning
as they are on Christmas.
There are Easter baskets and eggs to find,
and of course, chocolate to eat.
Somewhere there must be a proverb
that speaks to the importance,
even the wisdom,
of chocolate before breakfast.

Bunnies and eggs,
pastels and flowers,
the scent of lilies –
they all add to the sheer joy of Easter.

The heaviness and somberness of Lent is gone.
Purple has given way to white.
We have alleluia wands to wave,
alleluia hymns to sing,
alleluias to shout out:
it is Easter,
and our Lord is risen!

It doesn’t matter how many times
we’ve heard the story,
we are as eager to hear it again this year
as we were last year:
the story of the empty tomb,
the story of Mary Magdalene setting out
in the darkness before dawn
on that first Easter Sunday morning.
Setting out to go to the tomb
to finish what had been left undone
Friday evening when the sun had set
and the Sabbath had begun:
The work of preparing Jesus’ body properly
for burial, anointing his body
with spices and ointments,
as was the custom back then.

We can almost hear Mary’s footsteps on the road
in the quiet darkness of dawn,
her steps light, quick, purposeful
as she approached the tomb,
the tomb where Joseph of Arimathea had so gently
laid Jesus’ battered, lifeless body on Friday
after taking him down tenderly from the cross.

They’d laid Jesus body in the tomb,
and wrapped him quickly in linens
even as the sun began to sink.
They knew they would not have time;
they knew they would have to return on
Sunday morning to finish their work.

And so, as the day gave way to evening,
they rolled a large stone in front of the tomb,
leaving it so they could go observe the Sabbath.
Matthew tells us that Pilate even sent
soldiers to guard the tomb.

But then, on that first Easter morning,
when Mary returned,
the stone was rolled away,
the tomb open,
the tomb empty;
in Mathew’s recounting the soldiers had
fainted dead away on the ground.
Jesus was gone – gone.
Nothing but the linen wrappings remained.

The four gospels differ in the details,
but they all agree on this:
the tomb was empty;                        
Jesus was not there.

As we heard in our lesson,
Mark tells us that Mary Magdalene
came to the tomb with another Mary,
and together they found a
“young man, dressed in a white robe,”
sitting inside the tomb,
who said to them,
“Do not be alarmed;
you are looking for Jesus of Nazareth,
who was crucified.
He has been raised;
he is not here.”
(Mark 16:6)

The words must have resounded against the rock
inside the small chamber:
“He has been raised.”
“Raised….
raised.”

The words unsettled the two Marys;
Mark tells us that they fled from the tomb,
seized with terror and amazement,
clearly not understanding,
clearly not remembering the times,
the three different times,
Jesus had spoken of his death,
spoken of his rising.

Even as recently as right before he and his disciples
had come into Jerusalem for the Passover
Jesus had said,
“See we are going up to Jerusalem
and the Son of Man will be handed over
to the chief priests and the scribes,
and they will condemn him to death;
then they will hand him over to the Gentiles;
they will …kill him;
and after three days he will rise again.”
(Mark 10:33)

In their grief, their fear,
their exhaustion,
in their sheer bewilderment,
it should not surprise us at all that the two Marys,
or for that matter any of Jesus’ followers,
didn’t remember Jesus’ words,
“after three days he will rise again.”
Who among us, had we been there,
would have understood what the young man,
God’s messenger,
meant when he said,
“He has been raised.”

We understand now.
Certainly not perfectly;
we see only through the glass dimly.
But we understand through faith,
so we can shout out with joy:
He is risen!
Christ is risen!
Christ is risen indeed!

The tomb could not hold our Lord,
death could not hold him.
The shackles of death have been broken.
The power of death has been broken!
As the poet John Donne wrote,
“death, thou has died.”
Jesus lives!
Alleluia indeed!

But of course there is more to Easter
than all our singing,
all our alleluias,
all our candy and bright clothing,
all our family get-togethers.

From all this revelry and celebration,
comes serious business.
Jesus is risen, yes,
but for more than joyful worship
on a beautiful spring morning.

God raised Jesus to grace us with new life;
God raised Jesus to call us to new life;
to call us from the old ways, the old life,
to new ways, new life as we follow him,
as we follow our Risen Lord,
follow the living Christ.

God raised Jesus to call us to the serious business
of discipleship,
the serious business of the work we are called to do
in the name of Jesus Christ
the work we are called to do
long after we’ve put away
the Easter baskets and decorations.

God raised Jesus to call us to the serious business
of kingdom building,
here, now.  

Yes, we do our part – we bring food for Serve,
we provide money for other missions
we try to reach out,
we try to be good and kind.
But this isn’t a part-time calling,
this discipleship,
something to fit in as time permits.
This is serious business,
full-time business.

Indeed, the great 18th century composer of hymns,
Isaac Watts put it perfectly when he wrote:
“Love so amazing, so divine,”
given us in the resurrection of Jesus,
“demands my soul, my life, my all.”

But we followers of Christ
so often seem to be like Mary in the garden
in John’s gospel;
the two disciples on the road to Emmaus;
even Peter the rock,
as he rowed back from a night of fishing
on the Sea of Galilee:
They all failed to see the Risen Lord.
Distracted, they failed to see the living Christ,
who was there, with them,
right in front of their very eyes.
        
He is all around us.
But do we see him,
truly see him?
Do we see his image everywhere:
in the faces of loved ones and friends,
and also in the faces of strangers,
in the faces of the different.

“All we like sheep have gone astray;
we have all turned to our own way.”
said the prophet Isaiah.
(Isaiah 53:6)
We all turn to our own way,
and go astray because,
even as we are bathed in the grace of God,
we hold back from responding fully –
from giving our souls,
our lives, our all,
to the serious business of discipleship.

Look at our history -
look at how the history of Christianity,
even contemporary Christianity,
has so often been,
and still is so often,
a force for divisiveness rather than reconciliation,
for judgment rather than acceptance,
even for war, rather than peace.                                  

Retired Anglican Archbishop Desmond Tutu,
a man whose life has been devoted to
the serious business of discipleship,
has written:
“Religion, which should foster
sisterhood and brotherhood,
which should encourage tolerance, respect,
compassion, peace,
reconciliation, caring, and sharing,
has far too frequently done the opposite.
Religion has fueled alienation and conflict
and has exacerbated intolerance and
injustice and oppression.”
(God is not a Christian, 50)

As Jesus hung dying on the cross,
the Roman soldiers cast lots to see
who would get his tunic.
John’s gospel tells us “the tunic was seamless,
woven in one piece from the top.”
(John 19:23)
The serious business of following,
the serious business of discipleship
calls us to build a seamless world,
woven in love –
not a world where everyone thinks and acts alike,
but where the common bonds are love
acceptance, tolerance, and
compassion.

The serious business of discipleship
calls us to build a world rich in the diversity God created
that is bonded and woven in love.
For as our Lord has taught us,
it is by our love for one another
that we are known as his disciples.

This is a joyful day,
for our Lord is risen
and we should celebrate;
we should shout out our alleluias!

But we should remember the reason for our celebration:
that we are called to new life,
that we are called to follow our Risen Lord
in the serious business of discipleship,
the serious business of building the kingdom,
God’s kingdom.

It is a calling we should respond to
seriously and purposefully,
but also joyfully,
shouting out not just today,
but every day:      
Christ is risen!
Christ is risen!
Christ is risen, indeed!
Alleluia!!    

AMEN

Sunday, April 13, 2014

Shadows on the Hill


The Rev. Dr. Skip Ferguson
Manassas Presbyterian Church
Manassas, Virginia
April 13, 2014
Palm Sunday

Shadows on the Hill
Matthew 21:1-11

They came from far and near,
men and women, young and old.
Some came from as far as the city of Cyrene,
800 miles away on the African coast,
a week’s voyage across the turbulent Great Sea.

The port city of Joppa bustled as boats
converged on the docks.
Passengers steadied themselves on
legs made wobbly by the sea,
before picking up their bundles and heading east,
taking the road down through Emmaus,
and then on to the great city of Jerusalem
where they would celebrate the Passover.

Passover in Jerusalem was a festive time,
as multitudes came to the city,
just as the faithful had for more than a thousand years,
ever since God first said to Moses,
“This day shall be a day of remembrance for you.
You shall celebrate it as a festival to the Lord;
throughout your generations
you shall observe it as a perpetual ordinance.”
(Exodus 12:14)

And so they came,
the crowds that walked the Emmaus road.
They were filled with the spirit of joy,
filled with a sense of celebration.
People talked,
people laughed,
people sang.
Some even danced as enthusiastically
as King David once had
as he led the Ark of the Covenant into Jerusalem.
(2 Samuel 6:16)

The teeming throngs were eager to get to Jerusalem,
to see the Temple,
the Temple rebuilt centuries before
after the Babylonians had destroyed it;
God’s house rebuilt on the foundation of the great
Temple of Solomon constructed
almost a thousand years before.

Nothing,
not the long journey,
not the heat of the sun,
not the dust kicked up by the thousands of feet
shuffling along the road –
nothing could darken their mood.

Nothing, that is,
except the sight that greeted them
just outside the western gate of Jerusalem.
Their journey almost over,
the city’s gates just before them,
yet, there it was, looming,
riveting,
terrifying.

Most had heard about it,
but they couldn’t imagine it,
couldn’t imagine how frightening it was.
To see,
to take in that scene on the hill,
the great hill that rose up on the left side of the road,
the hill planted with crosses:
two, four, eight, ten, more,
more than anyone wanted to count.

Large, heavy timber planted deep in the hillside,
rising up as though to the sky,
casting shadows on the hill,
shadows sharp and distinct,
shadows twice as long as the height of the crosses,
shadows dark and chilling.

The cross was Rome’s cruel executioner’s tool.
Crucifixion was Rome’s preferred way
for dealing with criminals.
It didn’t take much for a person to wind up there,
hung high on a cross to die a slow, agonizing death.
And that was just as the Romans wanted it:
the very image on that hill a warning,
a warning to all,
but especially to those coming to the city
for the very first time:
“Obey Rome.
Do not question or challenge
the authority of the empire.
Worship your God Yahweh if you will,
if you must,
but remember that it is Caesar who rules.”

The very name of the place froze their hearts:
Golgotha, the skull.
The crosses themselves,
the lifeless shadows they cast on the hill,
turned the festive crowd silent.
The laughter gone,
the singing gone,
not even the sound of a baby crying or a dog barking
could be heard from the crowd.
Nothing.

As they silently, somberly, slowly passed
the shadows on the hill, though,
the people could hear sounds coming
from the other side of the city,
the east side,
sounds carried on the wind,
the sound of people’s voices raised in cheer
and praise.

Hosanna to the Son of David!” came the cry.
People shouting out words that came from
the Passover Psalm:
“Blessed is the one who comes
in the name of the Lord.”
(Psalm 118:26)

The voices were loud and happy,
voices of people with something to celebrate.
The silent, doleful crowd on the west side
looked at one another,
all wondering what the celebration was about,
but no one dared to speak.
Clearly something exciting was happening
on the east side of the city,
on the Jericho Road,
by the Mount of Olives.
But what?

What was happening over there?
Who was it they were cheering?
Was it some great military leader,
resplendent upon a mighty steed?

To whom were the shouts of “Hosanna” directed?
The word meant, “Save us”.
Why were the people crying out “Save us,”
and who were they looking to as they shouted?  
Was it someone who bore the very image of David,
strong, fearless,
someone who would confront the power of Rome?

Those on the west side,
on the Emmaus Road,
walking in the shadows of Golgotha,
had no way of knowing that
the man the people were cheering
was not a mighty military leader,
not a man astride a fiercesome steed,
but a man riding a donkey,
a slight man,
his skin parched by wind and sun,
his feet dragging in the dust
as the donkey carried him past the Mount of Olives
toward the gates of the city.

The sounds from the east began to fade
as those on the west passed through the gates into the city,
finally leaving the shadows on the hill behind them.
Those on the east also began to make their way into the city,
and thoughts of the Passover,
the festival began to fill them all:
Praise the Lord!
Praise, O servants of the Lord;
   praise the name of the Lord.
Blessed be the name of the Lord
   from this time on and for evermore.
 From the rising of the sun to its setting
   the name of the Lord is to be praised.
…The Lord has been mindful of us; he will bless us;
   he will bless the house of Israel;
   he will bless the house of Aaron;
he will bless those who fear the Lord,
   both small and great.
(Psalm 113:1-3; Psalm 115:12-13)

When those who had come into the city from the west
heard about the man astride the donkey,
that he was the one the people were
shouting their Hosannas to,
most scoffed.
How could such a man stand up to
the power and might of Rome?
A man who carried neither sword nor spear,
who rode not a horse, but a donkey –
how could he be the Son of David?

It was stories of the shadows on the hill
that took hold of most of the people.
“Be obedient;
Don’t cause trouble;
Stay away from anyone
who might challenge the authority of Rome.”
This was, after all, a festival,
a time to celebrate;
No one wanted trouble.
                          
There was still laughter and singing
within the walls of Jerusalem,
but it was muted,
not as lively and joyful as it had been
for those on the roads.
Fear had cast a shadow over the Passover.

No one seemed to remember the words
of the prophet Zechariah:
“Rejoice greatly, O daughter Zion!
Shout aloud, O daughter Jerusalem!
Lo, your king comes to you;
triumphant and victorious is he,
humble and riding on a donkey,
on a colt, the foal of a donkey.
He will cut off the chariot from Ephraim
and the warhorse from Jerusalem;
and the battle-bow shall be cut off,
and he shall command peace to the nations;
his dominion shall be from sea to sea,
and from the River to the ends of the earth.
(Zechariah 9:9-10)

If they had remembered their Scripture,
they might have remembered
not only the words from Zechariah,
but that the name itself, “Zechariah,” meant,
“Yahweh remembers”.
Even if God’s children did not remember,
God remembered;
God always remembers,
remembers his promises to his children.

God remembers
and God will honor his promise,
his promise to usher in his kingdom,
a kingdom of peace,
a kingdom where no one wants for food or shelter,
hope or love,
a kingdom built not on power and might,
but on righteousness and justice,
peace and love.

Death itself will have no place in God’s kingdom;
Death won’t even be able to hide in the shadows,
for God will rid the world of shadows:
The Lord is God and has given us light!
        
So bind the festal procession with branches,
for our King comes to us,
humble and riding on a donkey.
He comes to bring light to all the world,
and shadows will be no more.
Hosanna in highest heaven!

AMEN