Football and Jesus

My husband will be the first person to mock my sports knowledge. He likes to quiz me when we're watching ESPN, which I find ridiculous. I thought the T and C on the Minnesota Twins' hats stood for Cincinnati and Toronto. And he asks me questions along the lines of, "Hey, do you know which second baseman made sixty-seven triple plays in one season, all while juggling batons lit on fire?"

Absolutely. Not.

I imagine this situation is similar to what would happen if you brought an English major into and organic chemistry lab and said, "We're extracting the beta-carotene from spinach leaves today. Set up your Bunsen burner."

All this being said, it's not that I hate sports. I have a quasi-understanding of football, a good understanding of baseball and a really good understanding of basketball.

But a few days ago I attended my first college football game as an actual member of crowd. Mind you, for every game while I was a student, I attended wearing twenty pounds of wool and a hat with a plume, and spent most of my time playing a screeching piccolo. Geek alert: I thoroughly enjoyed this. But for whatever reason, it did little to increase my actual understanding of the game -- and absolutely nothing for my concept of what it was like to attend the game as an everyday fan.

I did spend a few minutes pondering the differences in the experiences, but it wasn't long into the game before my mind had wandered to somewhere else entirely: to football and Jesus.

The first thought came when I realized that "cheering" for the home team wasn't the "cheering" I had imagined. People were ruthlessly yelling about the faults of the players standing just a few feet in front of us. Blaming them for missed catches, for turnovers, for any part of their game that hadn't been executed perfectly. I was appalled and kind of heartbroken for the sweaty, exhausted boys in front of me. I couldn't imagine running a race with my "fans," my partners, those wearing my team colors, jeering about my mistakes.

The idea was absurd.

And I realized, almost instantly, that this "race" in my mind, this absurdly run race, was the race we run as Christians.

I think in general (and while I hate to generalize, it must be done here) that there are two kinds of Christians: those actually running in the race, and those watching it.

What's strange is being on either side doesn't necessarily say anything about what your outward appearance as a Christian will be, especially to non-Christians. But this division is dry-rotting the heart of our Church.

The bystanders do an excellent job of feigning a focus on the finish line. They call themselves Christians. They are, by definition, "religious." But instead of cheering on the runners -- or, Heaven forbid, lacing up their sneakers and joining the race -- they concern themselves with other things.

They worry about who's near the track itself. Who should or shouldn't be allowed to sit with them. Who should or shouldn't be allowed to cross the finish line. They viciously ridicule runners who are less than perfect. Instead of giving God their hands, they use their fingers to point out runners who slip, who fall behind, who give up and leave the track. Instead of giving God their feet, they plant themselves firmly onto the visible but fleeting Earth beneath them. They mercilessly, Christlessly judge those who cannot run a perfect race.

But isn't the point that we're all, by definition, not perfect? And didn't Christ explain to us that this race would be difficult?

These jeers and arguments are often so loud and so obnoxious that those outside our Christian track hear them. We bicker violently about what I feel are the tiniest parts of being holy. We are loudly discussing the religion of Christianity, and in doing so, drowning out the sound of the runners' feet hitting pavement. Drowning out progress. Drowning out Christ himself.

The runners are the bravest, boldest Christians in history. They belong to Christ, not Christianity, and have given their lives over to the race -- to what's behind the finish line and beyond death. They bear all kinds of good fruit, pouring their sweat and souls into Jesus, trading Earthly garbage for promised Heavenly treasure. The best runners tune out the sidelines, keeping their eyes fixed on Jesus. They understand that the decision to run is one that must be made every second of every day. That each step is a conscious test of our faith in the race itself.

The line between a runner and a bystander is blurrier than we'd like it to be. There are people who create a spectrum. Bystanders with sneakers on. Runners sitting on the pavement.

But what I realized while eating my overpriced nachos was that this division is crippling. A group only moves as quickly as its slowest member. And until we're all moving -- regardless of where we start from -- we are getting nowhere.