Baseball Season (And the faith story I've never told)

I was at-bat, facing a 1-2 count in the bottom of the 2nd inning on a baseball field in Indianapolis, Indiana in 1998 when things changed.

Some people know the story of what happened next, but they actually only know part of it. Today, as baseball season is once again nearly upon us and I'm feeling nostalgic for times spent on diamonds throughout my youth, I want to reflect on that moment, what led up to it, and tell you the strange twist of fate that led me in no small part to where I am today.

*   *   *

When I was ten I tried out for the Cubs--one of six teams in the Golden Valley Little League "major" league. Our Little League was divided into the Majors, consisting of the best 9-12 year olds, the Gold league (the rest of the 10-12 year olds), and the Blue league (the rest of the 8-9 year olds). Most leagues use similar systems, even if they have different names.

I was a scared ten year old. I was pretty good at baseball, but I honestly wanted no part of being in the "Majors." I had two years in the Blue league under my belt and I had played very well, but I wanted to have at least one year in the Gold league before trying my hand against the big boys. This was part of the reason I didn't make the Cubs. I actually skipped one of the tryout days to go to a Twins game (the real, professional Twins, of course). I was one of the last cuts and I was, frankly, relieved.

By the time the next year came around I was trying out for the Twins (the Little League ones) and this time I made the team as a confident 11-year-old. What followed was my best year of baseball at any level. Back then I could hit--not for power, and I wasn't super fast--but I didn't strikeout and in Little League that's about as valuable as anything. In my 11-year-old year I set all-time team records for batting average (.767), on-base percentage (something higher than that), doubles, and triples.

Yes, those who know me might find it hard to believe that I once held a record for triples (something usually reserved for fast people). I'm sure the Twins don't still keep records, but I'd consider it unlikely that anybody has batted better than .767 in a year. But, even then, I was a pitcher first. I loved to pitch, and that stuck with me for years after Little League, through Babe Ruth and high school. There was something about pitching that made me very happy.

I arrived in the Golden Valley Little League at exactly the right time, surrounded by a confluence of talent. The year before, while I was enjoying my time in the Gold league, twelve of the best ten-year-olds from the majors came together to win the State Championship for 9-10 year-olds. I didn't even know this was happening at the time, but the next year I found myself amongst many uniquely talented 11-year-olds. The expectations were high for our 12-year-old year. 1998 was that year.

Every sermon I've ever given (at least this is what this one feels like)

The following is a not-so-perfect transcript of this sermon.
 
Scripture: Matthew 18:15-35

Forgiveness is an impossibly challenging thing to talk about, because, being the human beings that we are, we are always acting like human beings, and the forgiveness Jesus is talking about is God’s kind of forgiveness—a kind of forgiveness that we not only fail to understand; we also find it offensive and downright stupid.

This requires some context.

Today's reading starts out with advice about how to point out faults to another. It seems like practical advice at first glance: Give them three chances. One on your own, one with others, and lastly with the church as a whole. Churches have followed this model. It seems practical, but it's also a bit strange coming out of Jesus’ mouth. After all, this story comes immediately after the parable of the lost sheep. Jesus just went from seeking out of the one lost sheep to the possible detriment of the 99, and now he's talking about a kind of limited forgiveness. What's going on?

So Peter asks for clarification: How many times should human beings forgive? 7? 77? Or is it 70 x 7? 490? Infinite?

Apparently, it's not so clear. So, Jesus clarifies by means of a parable, which is typical Jesus, illuminating by means that seem to obscure, and this is the brunt of what I'm going to talk about today.

On dust and bodily living

Scripture: Matthew 18:1-9

We are people who live in bodies, who move in bodies and experience life through senses that are embodied, and Ash Wednesday is a day to talk about embodied-ness in all its inadequacy. It’s a day to say “Remember you are dust and to dust you shall return” and to mean it—not only as a potentially depressing reminder of our mortality but also as the foretaste to a promise. You are dust, but dust chosen by God.

            When we talk about bodies in the church it tends to make people uncomfortable, because we all have bodily hang-ups. We can all pretend we have the perfect personality (which we don’t) or the perfect sense of humor (which we don’t), and we can try to fake having the perfect family (which is fooling nobody), but our bodies? We can’t even fool ourselves into thinking those are all that great. Even those among us who might feel they look pretty good, or who train their body to be an athlete, even they need only wait a year or two, a decade or two, and it will start to fall apart. Time makes all of our bodies out for what they really are. You are dust, and to dust you will return. It’s a promise; even if it’s not a very good one.

            So, on the one hand we’re uncomfortable with our bodies because they aren’t as great as we could imagine them being, whether you want to be more attractive or whether you’re just unhealthy and only want to be healthy again. And, on the other hand, we are also uncomfortable with our bodies because we have a tremendous capacity toward bodily guilt. When the typical person thinks about sin they don’t think about it as an orientation away from God. Most people think of sin as a bodily thing; that they have bodily urges that they should act on or not act on, that they have feelings that they can’t control. Even if most of the language of sin that we use in church is about sin in its universal sense, the way we feel sinful is usually in the core of our bodies—again, one might say, in our “embodied-ness.”

What is the church?

Matthew 17:1-8

What is the church? Is it a building or something more? A people or something more? And does it really matter?

            These are particularly appropriate questions when our sanctuary is under repair, because the nature of being “under construction” begs us to consider what it is that is sacred about this space. What is it that makes this space special, and how big a deal is a sacred space a church? Of course, this is temporary, and, when it’s done, will that mean the space is improved—not just structurally but spiritually? Or is it actually better to be “under construction?” Is the worst thing for our church when nothing is under construction?

            The Transfiguration doesn’t start out as a story about church, but very quickly Peter makes it that way. Here stands Jesus alongside Moses and Elijah—this incredible meeting of the stars of the faith—and Peter’s response is, simply, “Hey, let’s make a monument to this occasion! Let’s build a few houses for them to live in up on the mountain! And then when the occasion is over tourists will flock here and people can worship on the mountain. It’ll be great!”

            What Peter is talking about is building a church—or, rather, three churches. The moment of the Transfiguration is fleeting and he wants to remember it, dedicate it, preserve it. I think that’s not so different from what we do as church today. We’re remembering, dedicating, preserving. But, as it turns out, that isn’t always what we’re being called to do. God’s interruption of Peter begs us to consider: in our rush to remember, dedicate, and preserve, are we listening for Jesus?

It's not that you can't walk on water. It's that, eventually, you will sink

Scripture from Matthew 14:13-33

It’s not that you can’t walk on water. It’s that, eventually, you will sink.

When it comes to miracles Christians have wildly varying opinions. Some people put a ton of emphasis on the experience of miracles while others are forever trying to explain miracles away. Some can’t get enough of people talking about how God lifted so-and-so out of their particular impossible situation, and many of these folks have their own stories of something incredible happening to them. Others go out of their way to dismiss anything miraculous, spiritualizing miracle stories in the Bible and treating prayer as a psychological tool rather than a thing that might lead to God actually doing something. These folks are cautious about anything that crosses the bounds of what we know and are even more turned off by personal accounts.

Firstly, I should say that both groups have their points and their reasons for where they stand, and both are based very deeply on personal experience. Also, it’s perfectly OK to use personal experience to see God at work. It’s also OK to understand that the world tends to work in a certain way most of the time, and so it’s natural—and not unfaithful—to be skeptical when others claim a mountain top experience to which you cannot relate. Many of us stand somewhere in-between, living lives in a world that functions one way 99.9% of the time with the occasional eye toward the miraculous, but all of us need to be reminded, more often than not, that these waters are mysterious, deep, and the moment we think we have it all figured out, like Peter, we start to sink.