Take me out to the...church!

 “A hot dog at the ballgame beats roast beef at the Ritz.” 

                                                  Humphrey Bogart

 

It's as American as apple pie, hot dogs, and Uncle Sam. Baseball prides itself in curses, superstitions, and strange rituals. Baseball helps boys and girls pass the time in the heat and magic of summer. They can meet in dusty neighborhood ballparks to play a game or two, or watch their home team play. Some of my fondest childhood memories are of playing a game of ball in the front yard of my home in Atlanta. 

  One hundred sixty-two games a season. Nine innings per game. Three outs to end half an inning. Three strikes and you’re out. Four balls a walk. Eight playoff teams. One championship. Baseball is known for its confusing and often laborious statistics on nearly everything that goes on in the game. ERA, RBI, OPS, batting averages, home runs, steals, wins, strikeouts, saves, shutouts, walks, and hits. The complexity that comes from this simple, slow-paced game is what makes baseball beautiful. Families bond through the traditions of going to see a game, the seven-inning stretch, and the ceremonial first pitch. 

  So I have a Major League Baseball confession to make. When I attend a baseball game, I feel kind of like I do when I go to church. A perfectly manicured ballpark has to be one of the most beautiful works of art to be found in our world. Late baseball commissioner, Bart Giamatti, was fond of talking about the unusual symmetry and beauty of the game and its parks. The simple enjoyment of taking in the confident uniqueness and beauty of a well-worn and well-kept ballpark is enough to savor. And I’ve always appreciated the fact that baseball fans are not simply drawn to the atmosphere of the event like many football fans are (for many tailgating is the main event and the game is anticlimactic). Generally, baseball fans love the game with all of its quirky nuances. This love for the game rarely begins in the abstract. There’s often a particular time, place, and person. 

  Have you ever noticed when baseball players are asked about the origination of their love of the game, often their first words are, “my dad” or at some point “there was this little park in my hometown,” catch with Dad, countless conversations, or the soil of a particular baseball diamond. 

  When you arrive at the ballpark of your favorite team, often a couple of hours early (after all, infield and batting practice possess a beauty all their own) the other people you see are ethnically, socioeconomically and culturally diverse, yet many essentially have the same story; playing catch and a sandlot in their hometown. A time, a place, and a person provide a wonderful rootedness in a transient rootless culture. It also explains why people who sit beside each other at baseball games nearly always chat. They talk about the game they’re watching and their general love of the game. No matter how different their socio-economic background they often possess a common metanarrative related to their love of the great game. 

  Yet, as much as I appreciate the inherent beauty of an empty ballpark and its idiosyncratic design, it was built for a game to be played and for stands to be filled. No other day in sports possesses the excitement and hopefulness of an opening day. Baseball season doesn’t just begin; it’s celebrated, from tiny, dusty, rural diamonds to Yankee Stadium. Unlike any other sport, the beginning of a new baseball season births a newness and hopefulness that this just may be the year for your favorite team (perhaps with the exception of Cubs fans). 

  There’s a sense, as Thomas Boswell wrote, that “time begins on Opening Day.” This hopefulness is warranted because baseball depends as much on the intangibles as it does 40-yard dash times and bench press maxes. A baseball equivalent of the NFL combine would be essentially worthless. 

  You really can measure what made Babe Ruth a great player. A baseball team’s success depends a lot on clubhouse chemistry. As you drive to the park or turn on the TV to watch your favorite team, you’re right to be full of hope…this just might be their year. 

  Personally, I love the rhythm of baseball. The uninitiated see the length of the season as a knock against baseball, but it’s that very element that makes the game such a powerful metaphor for life. A sport where one loss ruins an entire season and perfection is an attainable goal is at odds with the managed failure of our actual lives. The 2011 World Series champion St. Louis Cardinals lost 72 games that season – 45% of the regular season. 

  Babe Ruth had a .342 batting average. That means his failure average was .658. Managed failure in the pursuit, not of perfection, but greater consistency. It’s something that resonates with my own Christian walk. 

  Yet, as much as I love and enjoy baseball, it pales when compared to my love and enjoyment of the gathered church. One of my favorite moments every Sunday is walking in to our church and seeing the eternally hope-filled faces of people from different ethnic, socioeconomic, and cultural backgrounds. Ordinary people involved in extraordinary work. A group of people who’d never have gotten together if not for the fact they possess a common metanarrative as it relates to the cross and the saving love of Jesus Christ. Their stories are all different and yet at their core they’re all the same. No one begins to follow Christ in the abstract. There was a time, a place and a person when they heard the Good News and believed. Even though they may not have been cognizant of it (who remembers their natural birth?), the new birth took place. Now their lives are forever rooted in His grace. As they gather for a worship service to celebrate the resurrected Christ, they’ve struggled all week and often failed. But their goal is not perfection (their Savior was the perfect substitute in their place) just simply greater consistency. Worship is a precious gift built into the rhythm of our lives. Every weekend is full of newness and hope through faith in Jesus Christ no matter our failure. 

  Baseball isn’t heaven. It’s certainly not church, which is a glorious taste and window of heaven on earth. But I do confess, baseball reminds me of church and for that, I’m glad and say with renewed gusto, “Play ball!”

Can we help you spiritually? Can we help you know Jesus better? Please check out more resources on our church's web page, Gracechurchwi.org. Or, call us at 262.763.3021. If you'd like to know more about how Jesus can change your life, I'd love to mail you a copy of how Jesus changed my life in "My Story." E-mail me at Carson@gracechurchwi.org to request a free copy. Please include your mailing address.