So, as a Junior college, I spend a lot of time in books. Or, at least, I tell everyone I do, because books equal smarts. Actually, books equal “A’s”, and I enjoy that letter. Well, my folks do. I’m not discriminatory against any letter, really, but I kinda need a place to stay when I travel back home, so I try not to go past like, “L”. All this to say, I don’t have a TON of free time. But earlier this evening, in between studying for a test in a class on the Doctrine of God (and no, all the answers are not Jesus. Tried that.) and coming up with clever names for my Simon and Garfunkle cover band (so far I have “Bring the Funkle” and “Simon, Simon”) I drove up the road to the church I serve at as a youth small group leader here in town. This evening, instead of the usual services, which of course, on a Wednesday night, is making sure the youth don’t break anything or anyone, they were holding a church-wide kickball tournament. Now. I didn’t really have an intention to play in the kickball tournament, but the rest of that story will come later.
Growing up, at another Baptist congregation in Nashville, TN, I became quite aware of how church-wide sport functions go. It goes a little something like this: usually, its softball. Which from the beginning, is misleading, because that ball is harder than any rock you can find in the wild, and in no way do any of the participants play “softly”. I always went to my dad’s softball games as a kid, and the team dynamic is that of: the chairman and vice-chairman of the deacons, a couple ushers (who pitch or just stand and wait to pray after the game), some well-known Sunday School teachers, and a mixture of other various men from the congregation. It starts innocently. Ground-out here, pop-out here, an usher somehow by the grace of God makes it to first base and calls for a pinch runner…you know, the usual. Then, something usually happens. It’s one of three things: One, someone is called out when, in their mind, they are safe. Two, someone hits a home run and proceeds to “Kirk Gibson” around the bases, upsetting the chairman of the deacons on the church up the road’s squad, or Three: a team is losing something awful, and they proceed to act like the kid you didn’t pick on your team at recess because they were too emotional. The opposing team self-destructs and insults the phrases you have on your marquis outside your church, or they commit the cardinal sin and assaults the color of the carpet in your sanctuary. Luckily, the husband of the decorating committee chairwoman wasn’t on the team this evening, because he was out helping his wife discuss light fixtures for the vestibule that night. All this to say, I, as a child, would sit and watch these grown men argue. Normally, I had candy from the concession stand, so I wasn’t OVERLY concerned, but I just wanted to make sure my daddy didn’t get accused of taking extra casserole or something. The funny thing is, after the game, after all the runs and outs were recorded, and all the accusations leveled, what happened? They gathered together and prayed. Now as a child, I just assumed if you didn’t pray the win was annulled or something. But I’ve found that was not the case.
Fast forward to this evening…
As I walked up the collection of baseball fields on the church’s property, my childhood self saw the usual. Men wearing shorter shorts than they legally should, all for the sake of “aerodynamics”, wives with their strollers, prepared to use bottles and whatever other readily available objects as weapons if an argument broke out between moms about whose husband was better…the usual. But as I walked up to the field, one of the guys from school saw me, and said, “Jordan, get out here and play!” I was reluctant, seeing that they were about to play a group of dads, not dissimilar to a team my own father would’ve been on. None of the men had necks, and they looked like they were the guys that drank Bud Light and chased it with a Michelob Ultra. You know, the dads you don’t mess with. But, I decided to join. I played with a group of awesome guys and girls from my University. And in a total surprise….we lost. But as I stood on the field, I noticed something that I didn’t catch as a child. This was a body of believers and men, women, and children having what looked like…..fun. Fun is something that is rarely seen in today’s culture. Especially in church culture. We were brought together by a common bond in Christ, and decided to flesh it out through fun, safe (mostly), competition.
You see, as a child, I only understood as a child. These men and women that I’ve seen at church since I was young weren’t simply looking for a release, but they actually ENJOYED being together. Now, there may have been assaults on sanctuary carpet, or accusations of taking the five-finger discount from the offering plate, but there was a common understanding that we were together for a reason. Tonight, as I stood covered in dirt, at shortstop (colossal mistake), I felt the presence of the Holy Spirit, saying, “Son, these are my people. Now have some FUN.” So I did.
Christ calls broken people together. A mechanics shop is not full of fixed and perfectly running objects. The Holy Spirit calls us to live life with one another, broken machines. So whether it’s the usher who gets winded from hitting a foul ball, or the Sunday school class teacher with a huge dip in his mouth, or the college student that was just looking for a break, God allows us to be together. And he actually lets us have fun doing it. And he is given all of the glory.
Having FUN in light of the truth of the Gospel. What a concept
Mind the gap 