Broken Holiness

(originally this was titled "Not Supposed to Be")
sermon by Carrie Eikler
March 28, 2010 (Palm/Passion Sunday)
Luke 19:28-40 and 22:47-62

Dr. Gregg and Kathryn Korbon had a son named Brian. Brian was a very healthy boy and was almost 9 years old when he told his parents he wouldn't make it to his "double digits," meaning he wouldn’t make it to 10 years old. "That's when I got worried," said Kathryn, who took her son to see a therapist.”

One day, Kathryn came home to find young Brian pulling a red wagon down the driveway of their home in Charlottesville, VA. The wagon was filled with his toys and camping gear. "I'm ready to go on my trip," the boy said. Kathryn replied, "Brian, I'll be so sad if you leave." "Mom,” he said, “I have to go." She told him that he couldn’t go because he was going to have a birthday party soon. He relented.

But before the celebration — planned for May 8, 1993 — Brian wrote letters to some of his friends, and put a sign on his door that read, "Brian's on a trip. Don't worry about me." After his party Brian played in a Little League game. Though he was the smallest player on the team and normally was afraid of the ball, his father recalls that during that game, Brian was fearless.

It was his first at-bat, and he was walked to first base. The next batter hit a triple — Brian ran the bases, charging across home plate. "He was the happiest little boy you ever saw. He gave me a high-five and went into the dugout," Gregg recalls, "and then he collapsed.”

When his coach brought Brian out of the dugout, Gregg tried to revive him. "I'm an anesthesiologist. That's what I do, I resuscitate people," he said. "And something inside told me he wasn't coming back."[1]

Soon after leaving the hospital, Kathryn realized her son had somehow known what would happen to him. "That's what he was trying to tell us all that time," she said. Gregg replied, But “it [just] wasn't in my belief system that something like that could happen."
*
This is not a story about how things are supposed to be. Human beings are supposed to have a prescribed sequence of events: we have happy childhoods, disruptive but decent adolescence, frustrating yet promising young adulthood, productive middle-adulthood, and then become a fulfilled older adults as we prepare for the next phase, that phase that none of us really knows about.

While we may think that’s how it’s “supposed” to be, we know it isn’t the reality for many people. It wasn’t the reality, for young Brian.
I wonder if, for a brief moment, Jesus forgot about what was supposed to be, as he entered the fanfare of the crowds. Did he think that maybe what was at the end of this journey might not really happen, like yelling at a movie we’ve seen a dozen times, hoping the girl doesn’t go down the stairs? Do you find yourself yelling at the story, “No Jesus! Don’t do it! Don’t get on the colt!”

But that’s not how it was supposed to be. All along Jesus was predicting his death, in subtle and not-so-subtle ways. It was going to happen. Even though the gospels were written after Jesus died, written by people who knew what came at the end of that journey, I can believe that Jesus somehow knew—knew that what the crowds thought was “supposed to be” or what his disciples thought was “supposed to be”—he somehow knew, that wasn’t how it would be.

Martin Luther King Jr, spoke these words: “We've got some difficult days ahead. But it doesn't matter with me now. Because I've been to the mountaintop. And I don't mind. Like anybody, I would like to live a long life. Longevity has its place. But I'm not concerned about that now. I just want to do God's will. And He's allowed me to go up to the mountain. And I've looked over. And I've seen the promised land. I may not get there with you. But I want you to know tonight, that we, as a people we will get to the promised land.” The next day, the day after he said these words, he was killed.

Was he predicting his death? Did he know the next day he would be gunned down? I can’t say for sure, but I doubt it. But I don’t doubt that King, and those around him, knew that what he was doing, what they all were doing, would likely end in death. It is the illogical, yet somehow predictable consequence of what they were doing. Of what Jesus was doing. Of looking in the face of the powers that dominate and oppress, that kill and stigmatize, and saying “this is not how it is supposed to be.”

Today is known as Palm Sunday, but also Passion Sunday. We remember both events: the splendid parade of Jesus entering into Jerusalem that ushered in the week that would end in his death, and desertion. It is a week of paradoxes… It is Holy Week. It starts with fanfare and waving branches, moves through death and desolation, to meet the complexities of Easter. As one commentator noted, today is the most disorienting Sunday of the year.[2]

It all starts with that colt, or donkey, as one gospel refers to it. A donkey? That’s not how it’s supposed to be. The messiah should be riding a war horse, at least, something with a little more dignity than a donkey. (first Lenten cloth comes off)

No you are not supposed to cower behind your fear when people ask you if you know Jesus, you’re supposed to bravely, boldly speak your allegiance. (second Lenten cloth)

No, a kiss is supposed to express devotion and love. A kiss is not supposed to betray a friend.(third Lenten cloth)

But you know, it wasn’t only those around Jesus who were brazenly assured of how things should be.

When Peter insists that he should was Jesus’ feet at the Last Supper, an action we will participate in this week, Jesus says No Peter, that’s not how it is supposed to be. I should wash yours.

No, you are not suppose to attack your enemy--to cut off their ear, to take their life--you are to heal your enemy.

Jesus was full of “supposed to be’s.” The disciples, the crowds, the religious leaders, they had them too. And yes, even us. And maybe that’s our paradox: we want to continue being the people waving the branches, but end up being the one to betray, deny, and crucify. Proclaiming one thing, and living another. Believing one thing, and never fully living up to that belief. And we think, “that’s not how it is supposed to be.” But the reality is, that’s how it is.

And yet if we can wrap up the events of this week and call it Holy, then I think that God can wrap up these paradoxes in our lives, and call us holy as well, a broken sort of holy.Our palm branches and our kisses of betrayals, our hosanna and our cries to crucify him. God leaves us with this cup, holding it, wondering…with what are we supposed to fill this broken cup?

Young Brian Korbon, the loving, unafraid little boy whose life did not follow the path we think it should have, was determined to have died of heart failure. After his death, the ballpark where he had played that day was renovated and renamed the Brian C. Korbon Field.

Gregg Korbon, Brian’s father, returned to the field after Brian's death, to get his car. On a beautiful spring day, he watched another game of Little Leaguers. "All of a sudden, everything got very clear," Gregg recalls. "And I had this sense that if I could bring Brian back, it would be for me, not for him — that he had finished. Any unfinished business was just mine."

And yet, what was finished in Brian, was not unfinished for his community and those around him. A plaque was placed at the site: On May 8, 1993, Brian Korbon died suddenly in the south dugout after scoring the first run of his Little League career. This ball field is dedicated to his wisdom, faith and courage. May those who play here share Brian's sense of fair play and joy of life, and those who cheer them find a greater sense of community and love for their children.

The finished yet the unfinished is the journey of this holy week. God’s working and fashioning in us the broken sort of holy that surrounds us when we try to replace violence for healing, or denial for acceptance.

Maybe it’s the broken sort of holy that a father and mother experience when holding the lifeless body of a child, yet sensing the life-giving power that he gave them in their lives, and would continue to give his community.
I think it is that broken sort of holy, that paradoxical nature of God, that we see ahead of us this week.

And that broken sort of holy, is maybe, the way it’s supposed to be

[1] A son’s premonition, and a final baseball game. Storycorps http://www.npr.org/templates/story/story.php?storyId=120580047
[2] Dylan Breuer, Sarah. www.sarahlaughed.net

Confession
I clench my hands and hold them tightly in a fist.
I’m holding onto my colt-riding King.
I picture myself by the road,
throwing down my cloak,
waving my branch,
shouting blessings for the One who comes in God’s name.
*
I open my hands,
I release the Pharisee inside who says,
“Teacher, order your disciples to STOP. This is not how it should be”
Instead, I unleash the praises that sometimes get stuck inside me–
the ones I usually leave to the stones to shout.
I unleash the shouts of joy
that would otherwise be silenced by conformity, pride, and apathy.
I hold the cup, the cup of broken holiness, and ask God not to take it away,
but in some mysterious, awesome way
I ask God to fill it.

Words of Assurance
God fills our cups with love, forgiveness, compassion, and redemption. The broken people we are today can be transformed, freeing us from death, singing on. Rise now, in confidence that while we watch Jesus ride onto the Cross, death is not, and never will be, God’s last word for us.

Benediction
Go into this joyful week, weeping with the joy of God’s broken holiness for you.