Did you play much baseball when you were a kid? I’m sure that all the men have played. And
probably most of the women as well. I certainly can recall a few co-ed games
when I was a kid growing up back in the dark ages. We would play at recess, in
Gym class, and on an old deserted lot halfway down the alley. No Little League,
though. The neighborhood was a bit too tough and too diverse for anything that
organized.
One thing that sticks out in my childhood baseball
memories, no matter where we played, was the way the games started. Two boys,
who were always the best athletes, or the natural leaders, would be, by
consensus the team captains. One would toss a bat into the air upside down. The
other would catch it, and then they would alternate placing hand over hand
until they reached the very tip of the handle.
Then the worst part of the game would begin. Everyone
would form a line in front of the two captains and they would begin to pick
players. The winner of the bat toss picked first. Invariably, he’d pick his
best friend, who invariably would be the best player still in line. Then the
other captain would pick. Back and forth they’d go. And if you weren’t such a
terrific baseball player, you’d stand there, hoping desperately to be picked
before you had to face the humiliation of being one of the last ones standing
there. That’s when the picking would slow down, while the two captains, with
whispered comments from their teams, would divvy up the last few klutzes and
stray girls.
It was mortifying—even if you knew that you weren’t
particularly good at baseball. And
nothing ever worked to spare you that experience. ESP, friendship, will power,
bribery— nothing could get you
picked early. You’d stand there, praying to be chosen. If you were really lucky
that day, you’d get picked before the girls. If you were really unlucky, you’d
suffer the shame of being picked last—after the klutziest girl.
Then
the team that had lost the initial bat test would get to bat first. If you were
on the team that was going to play the field, you had another embarrassment
coming. The captains, of course, would always pitch. Then the kid they had
picked first would invariably play Shortstop—where you had to be fast, or
Catcher where you had to be strong. Then the rest of the infield would be
assigned. First, Second, Third. If there were a lot of kids in the game, even
the outfield would be assigned— Left, Center, and Right. And then you and the
other leftovers heard the most terrible words in all sports.
“Go
play long.” That meant that your basic job was going to be chasing the homeruns
that the Captains and Shortstops hit out of the field and into the alley. And
while you were trying to do that, everybody would stand there screaming at you
for running too slow and not throwing the ball back hard enough to prevent the
other side from scoring four runs—because after all, those moments only come when the bases are loaded. (I
think that’s one of Murphy’s Laws).
The
rest of the time you were expected to pay attention to the game, shouting
encouragement and chasing any fly balls that came your way. But that’s kind of
hard to do when you’re playing long. Even the most avid baseball fan will admit
that the game can move slowly at times. And if you’ve never had the experience,
let me assure you that no baseball game ever looks as slow or as boring as one
viewed from right field.
You’re
out there, as Peter, Paul and Mary put it, “watchin’ the dandelions grow.” It’s
easy to lose interest in the game and start to daydream. And that of course, is
exactly when the other team’s
captain hits a homerun over your head while you’re daydreaming and you end up
having to chase it. (That’s another of Murphy’s Laws).
How
did the bases get loaded? I didn’t see that! The only way out of the shame and
boredom of playing long is to show some baseball ability. And who can acquire
ball playing skills stuck out there in far right field? It’s enough to kill any
future interest in baseball that you might have, frankly.
I
suspect this is a pretty wide spread experience, growing up in the USA
Even
in organized games coached by adults, in leagues where everybody is supposed to get to play, that
competitive principle will show itself. It seems as if nobody plays anything
for fun—or even just for the love of the sport. Winning is everything. I don’t
care what the teachers and scoutmasters and parents say, any kid would rather have a first place trophy than an award for
sportsmanship.
Maybe
that’s part of what’s behind the recent upswing of interest in individual
sports like running, bicycling, aerobics, Yoga and Tai Chi. The aim is not to
do better than somebody else—the aim is do better today than you did yesterday.
That can be a welcome change, believe me.
But
even those of us who forswear the competitive ethic still have a little bit of
it in us. We all want to excel. We all want a bit of recognition for our
accomplishments. That’s why even the most non-competitive serious runner will
enter a race. We tell ourselves we’re only competing against our selves. But
we’d all like the feeling of beating somebody else—at least once.
Even
Jesus’ disciples weren’t immune to that temptation. Mark tells us in this
morning’s Gospel reading how one day James and John approached Jesus, asking
for a promise that they would have places of honor in his coming glory. It’s
not clear exactly what they
understood that anticipated glory would be. Were they seeking the glory of
heaven? Or were they seeking earthly recognition in a glorious People’s Judaic
Republic of Palestine with Jesus as Messianic Ruler? It doesn’t really matter,
because in either case, the sons of Zebedee were after the same thing— power,
recognition, glory, authority, perks, fancy titles, and prestige.
They wanted to be in the
middle of things. They wanted to pitch— or at least play shortstop. No right
field for the Zebedee brothers! Nossir!
They were no dummies. They could tell that this Jesus was something special.
They realized Jesus wasn’t just blowing smoke when he spoke about his coming
Realm. Whatever that would turn out to be, they wanted an important place in
it.
They weren’t gonna get stuck playing long. Let Thomas, or Matthew
or somebody else get stuck out beyond right field getting bored. No, James and
John were going to be right in the heart of the action—or they were going to
know the reason why!
But Jesus threw them a
curve.
“You have no idea what you are asking
of me! Can you drink the cup of sacrifice that I drink? Can you withstand the
baptism of suffering?” And when they persisted, Jesus must
have shook his head sadly and told them, “You
will indeed have a share in my cup and my baptism. But it’s not for me to say
who will sit on my right and my left.”
Later, in front of all his
followers, Jesus tried to make clear to them the true cost of discipleship. His
was not going to be an earthly reign—at least, not as they understood it. His
coming realm was not going to be dominated by the clever and the well
connected, or the ambitious, or the most talented, or those with the most
seniority. even. His realm was not going
to be led by those with the correct interpretation of Scripture or the most
learned Theology.
“The last shall be first.” He told them. The glory of His Kingdom
would not be a glory or prestige and titles and privileges for the high and the
mighty. In the New Jerusalem He was building, there would be no high and
mighty. The angels and saints wouldn’t get to ride in the front of the heavenly
bus while the ordinary saved and forgiven would have to sit in the back. The glory of His call was a call to the glory
of serving others. His call was and is a call to the glory of giving, not
receiving.
If
you want to pitch on Jesus’ team, you’re playing in the wrong sandlot.
His Kingdom was and is not
built by those who sought to exalt themselves. To lead is to serve. The place
of honor would not be the head table; it would be the kitchen, scrubbing
dishes. The greatest reward is not a plaque on the wall—it’s a dishcloth.
Jesus does not call us to follow so
that we can feel self-satisfied, or pious, or more religious, or more spiritual
than the person in the next pew or even feel good because we’re saved. Jesus
doesn’t care which spiritual gifts you think you’ve got, or what mystical or
charismatic experiences you’ve had.
Jesus isn’t looking for those who want to be served. Jesus seeks those
who wish to serve.
You and I are called to a different ball game, with
different rules, played on a different field-- in this life, and in the life to
come. Jesus invites us to form with Him a different sort of community, a
different kind of institution. In His church, each person should be cherished
and used and appreciated and encouraged to reach their full potential in
Christ. Everyone must have all the opportunities they need to grow, to lead, to
contribute, to learn, and above all to serve as much and as best as they can.
Everybody gets
a turn at bat. Nobody has to play long. No one is excluded from the heart of
Christ’s community. The contribution of each brother or sister, veteran or
rookie, young or old, adult or child, humble or great, is welcome and needed.
Jesus wants to join with Him in building a community
based around unselfish service— and nothing else. In such a community, nobody
collects titles, or privileges, or prestigious offices, or authority. And nobody gets stuck doing a job, playing a
position they’re not interested in or burned out in. And there is no one
yearning to play, languishing in right field, bored and only half watching the
game.
Our Lord doesn’t care that we’ve been around the
congregation longer, or been saved longer, or are better educated. Jesus isn’t interested if we’ve been to
seminary, or are sure we know better than anyone else what His church
needs. Christ calls you and I to be a
community that is welcoming, equitable, respectful to all, fair to all, and
nurturing to all. And He promises us that— miracle of miracles, if we join Him
in building it, such an unlikely, impractical community can and will grow.
“The last shall be first.” We’re all called to serve in different ways. Sometimes it is a call to
responsibility and trust. Other times, not.
We may be called to contribute our talents in music, or bookkeeping, or
teaching or preaching or cooking, or art.
We
might be called to lend our professional expertise. We might be called to offer
the voice of hard-won experience. Or we might be called to change our negative
outlooks. Or we might be challenged to try something totally new to us—a
ministry we would never have imagined ourselves doing in our wildest dreams.
It might be a call to go on an Mission
trip, or join a Bible study, or volunteer at the food pantry, or sing in the
choir, or help out at our fundraisers, or take a church office. It might be a
call to scrub the kitchen floor. It might be a call to become a Scout Leader,
or a foster parent, or a literacy tutor, or to get involved with those working
for a more just world.
“The last shall
be first.” Sometimes our call is a
call to do exactly what we’re already
doing—only better. Other times we’re called to change, to make room for
another, to try something different— even when we’re competent and comfortable
in the role we’ve been playing for so long.
Jesus calls us to serve— not to
be served. But it won’t necessarily be
where we want to serve. It will be
where the Spirit leads-- where Christ Jesus needs us the most.
No comments:
Post a Comment