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The
date is September 24, 1994. It is one of those beautiful early
fall afternoons when the sky is blue, the clouds are fluffy,
the breeze is light, and the air is still warm. In the fall of
1994, I was entering the first of my two senior years of
college. (I had so much fun with the first one, I thought I
would do it again. I told my mom that lots of people go to
college for more than four years. And she said, “Yes, we
call them doctors.”) On this particular Saturday afternoon,
I was doing what I did most every Saturday afternoon—sitting
in my easy chair, pizza in one hand, Mountain Dew in the
other, nestled in to watch college football. On that
afternoon, the game was big—the biggest game of the season
thus far. It pitted the number four team in the country
against the number seven team. This was a game that had
national title implications written all over it. It had
Heisman Trophy hopefuls strutting their stuff. It was a game
not to miss, and I was hunkered down in my little apartment
with enough food and beverage to make it through the
afternoon. I was determined not to miss a moment of the
action. That day, September 24, 1994, was the day that the
number seven Colorado Buffalos journeyed to the Big House of
Ann Arbor to take on the number four Michigan Wolverines.
I have to
make a confession that might not make me very popular here
this evening. But I feel I have to make it anyway. On that
day, I was not cheering for the Maize and Blue, but had pinned
my hopes on the Black and Gold Buffs from Boulder. Truth be
told, I am not sure why. Maybe it was because they were the
underdogs. Maybe it was because my Wisconsin Badgers were
fresh off their Rose Bowl winning season and any loss by Big
Ten rival Michigan would have been helpful in giving the
Badgers a leg up for another run for the roses. Whatever the
case, it was Colorado that I found myself pulling for that
day.
It was a
great game. The 106,427 Michigan fans had much to cheer about.
After going down 14-9 at the half, three times in the third
quarter the U of M marching band would play “Hail to the
Victors” as the Wolverines would score 17 unanswered points
and enter the fourth quarter up 26-14. It was a seesaw battle,
and mid-way through the fourth quarter, the mighty Buffalos
from Colorado punched in another score to cut the Wolverine
lead to only five points—26-21.
In the last
half of the fourth quarter, it seemed as if Michigan was doing
everything it could to hang onto the lead. They controlled the
ball, hung onto the ball, and kept the Buffalos from moving
the ball. It appeared as if the Wolverines would hold on to
win, keep their undefeated season intact, remain ranked among
the top five teams in the country, and be poised for both a
Rose Bowl and a National Championship run. Colorado’s
inability to score in the waning minutes meant defeat for them
and disappointment for me. So with only seconds left in the
game, Colorado pinned deep in their own territory and the
victory for Michigan all but assured, I stood up from my chair
for the first time in hours, walked over to the television set
and turned it off. I then jumped in the shower, changed my
clothes, hopped in the car and went off to work, sure that
Michigan had won the game.
And I lived
my life for the next two days as if Michigan had won the game.
It wasn’t until Monday morning, when somebody asked me what
I thought of the game, that I realized something happened
after I quit watching that must have changed the outcome. I
knew this because as I told my friend that it was a good game,
even though I was disappointed that Michigan had won, he said:
“Michigan won! I thought you said you watched the game.”
“I did! I did!” “The whole game?” he asked. “Yes,
the whole game. I mean, I shut it off with just a few seconds
left, but the game was over, wasn’t it?” “You’ve got
to be kidding me! You missed it. It was amazing! I have never
seen anything like it!” My friend proceeded to describe, in
vivid detail, what has now become known as the Miracle in
Michigan.
On
the game’s final play, trailing by five and having the ball
on its own 36-yard line, Colorado QB Kordell Stewart scrambled
out of the pocket and let fly a desperation Hail Mary pass.
The ball traveled 73 yards towards the Michigan goal
line. Back-up wide receiver Blake Anderson leaped and tipped
the ball away from a Michigan defender back into the end zone,
and just as the ball was about to hit the ground, Colorado
wide receiver Michael Westbrook dove for the ball, cradling it
for the touchdown and giving Colorado an improbable 27-26
victory over Michigan.
And I
missed it! I missed it because I thought the game was over.
One of the greatest moments in college football history, and I
had missed it. I had a chance to see it. I mean, I was right
there. I turned it off literally seconds before the
unbelievable happened, and it was not until somebody finally
told me about what had happened that I realized the outcome
had changed. I was living as if Michigan had won the game, and
I would have gone on living that way unless somebody told me
different.
Did my not
knowing that Colorado pulled off the upset in the last seconds
mean that it did not happen? Of course not. Colorado had won
the game. But until somebody informed me that it was not over
when I thought it was over—until somebody told me
that—well, I would have kept on living as if the game had
ended with Michigan holding on to win. I would have lived as
if that was the case—even though it wasn’t—until
somebody told me differently, until somebody told me what had
actually happened.
Now fast
forward with me from September 1994 to October 2004. Once
again I am caught up in what I am always caught up in when the
calendar turns to October—baseball. And not just any old
kind of baseball. We’re talking playoff baseball. We’re
talking World Series baseball. And last October, the stage was
once again set for America’s pastime to be full of great
stories and great drama. In the fall of 2004, the greatest of
these stories would be that two of baseball’s more storied
franchises would go face to face in the American League
Championship Series. The New York Yankees would go up against
their archrivals, the Boston Red Sox.
When it
comes to baseball, it does not get any better than this. The
Yankees are baseball’s most decorated franchise. Thirty-nine
times they have won the American League pennant. Twenty-six
times they have taken home the World Series crown. They are up
against the Red Sox, the “always a bridesmaid, never the
bride” of baseball. The Red Sox were baseball’s proverbial
underachiever. Not since 1918 had they won the title. In fact,
many thought they were cursed. Had they been close? Yes. Had
they been really close? Yes. But they always came up just
short, leaving the Beantown faithful heartbroken. Not in
almost-100 years had the Red Sox stood at the top of the
baseball world come the end of October. Would this be the
year? It might be. It could be. They had the hitters. They had
the pitchers. But once again, the team standing in their way
was the mighty Yankees.
Let
me make another sports confession. I hate the Yankees. I
always have and I always will. To me, the Yankees represent
everything that is wrong in baseball. They represent
everything that is wrong with professional sports. They
represent everything that is wrong with the culture we live
in. I like to call the Yankees the “evil empire.”
They are greedy; they out-spend everyone. They are arrogant;
they strut around like they own the world. They win at all
costs, even if it damages the rest of the league. So, needless
to say, my favorite baseball teams are the Milwaukee Brewers,
the Detroit Tigers and anybody who is playing the
Yankees.
Something
told me this would be the year. This would finally be the
year. This would be the year when justice and goodness would
prevail and the cursed Red Sox would finally topple the “evil
empire.” And I was sure that when the Red Sox finally
overcame the Yankees, a season of peace and goodwill would
descend upon the whole world. When the Red Sox finally beat
the Yankees, all would be made right with the world—the lion
would lay down with the lamb, the Israelis and Palestinians
would finally make peace, and gasoline would suddenly plummet
to under a dollar a gallon. I sat down to watch the first game
of the American League Championship series with hopes high and
a trust that, indeed, all that was good in the world would
propel the Red Sox to victory.
Game 1: New
York 10, Boston 7. A minor setback, but nothing to worry
about.
Game 2: New
York 3, Boston 1. All right, that didn’t help, but game 3
belongs to the Red Sox.
Game 3: New
York 19, Boston 8. Well, now their backs were against the
wall. No team had ever
come back
after being down three games to zero. But I was going to hold
out hope. I was going to hang in there. This would be the
year. This had to be the year.
Game 4:
Boston scored three runs in the bottom of the fifth inning to
put them ahead 3-2. The tide was turning. All they needed was
this break, and surely this would be the year. But in the
sixth inning, the Yankees came back and scored two to regain
the lead, 4-3. Not to worry,
there was still time. Bottom of the sixth—nothing.
Seventh—nothing. Eighth—nothing. The Yankees were three
outs away from another trip to the World Series.
That was
it! I couldn’t take it any longer. I gave up. I lost faith.
No more hope. It was time to grow up and face the facts—nice
guys finish last. There was no hope for the underdog. Evil was
stronger than faith, hope and love combined. I stood up and
shut off the television. I was not going to watch any longer.
I went to bed with my faith in goodness a bit shaken and my
trust that the arc of the moral universe was bent towards
justice no longer intact. I woke up the next morning believing
that the Yankees had claimed the American League pennant in
convincing fashion.
I
came to church that morning and met fellow baseball nut (and
Yankee fan) Rod Quainton. He asked, “Did you see that
game last night?” “I don’t want to talk about it.”
“What do you mean? It was amazing. Incredible. The Red Sox
have another chance, a new lease on life!”
It
became clear that I had missed something. Once again, the game
was not over when I thought it was. I shut it off too soon. I
lost faith too quickly. Something must have happened. Rod went
on to tell me that the Red Sox rallied in the bottom of the 9th
to tie it up, and in the bottom of the 12th
inning—in a “win or go home” moment—David Ortiz belted
a two-run homer to give the Red Sox the win. There was a new
spark to keep hope alive. And sure enough, over the next week
I would watch the Red Sox win an unprecedented three in a row
and go on to win their first World Series in almost 100 years.
All of which I would have missed if Rod had not told me that
the game was not over, that the outcome was different than I
had thought and there was a reason to stay tuned and watch the
rest of the drama unfold. Once again I learned that it was not
over until it was over.
Now rewind
with me two thousand years to a time when folks were watching
a real-life game full of drama being played out. People were
tuning in to watch a poor itinerant preacher from a backwoods
town called Nazareth begin to make a name for himself. If
there was ever an underdog story, this surely was it. He had
no credentials. He had no official titles, no money, no
connections. He was saying amazing things. This preacher
claimed that, one day, all the underdogs of the world would
share the victory stand. He claimed that, someday, love would
be the standard through which all would be judged. This
champion of the underdogs and lost causes claimed that, one
day, the blind would see and the lame would walk, the
brokenhearted of the world would be mended, and the prisoners
would be released. “One day,” he said, “the poor in
spirit will be ushered into the very Kingdom of God.” In
fact, he promised, they would have the seats of honor.
Few paid
any attention to this preacher and his pie-in-the-sky dreams.
His chances were slim, his support was small, and his
notoriety was almost nonexistent. But slowly that began to
change, as a series of small victories throughout the
countryside began to take place. There were reports of
healings and transformations in the small towns and villages.
Everywhere this preacher went, the underdogs seemed to come
out on top. His support increased. His name became more widely
known than anyone could have imagined. And people finally
began to think that maybe, just maybe, what this guy was
talking about might actually come to pass. Maybe he was right. Maybe good news really belongs to the poor. Maybe God was
more interested in love than in rules. Maybe faith alone could
bring healing to both lives and communities. Maybe, just
maybe, the Kingdom of God would come on earth just as it was
in heaven. Suddenly this drama was being played out to a
larger and larger audience.
Finally
this preacher from Nazareth decided it was time he invited
himself to the big dance. It was time to take his message and
his ministry to the place where the real drama of life played
out, where the rules for the game of life were determined and
enforced. He took his message, ministry and minions from the
sticks of Galilee right to the heart of the capital city. At
first it seemed like a great idea. Folks cheered him as he
entered Jerusalem. There was a lot of hype and momentum. It
looked like the forces of peace and justice would have the
final say—that the day would belong to them, that the day
would truly belong to God!
But
that all came crashing to a halt one Friday afternoon on a
hill called Calvary. On that day, the religious and political
powers decided they would put an end to this movement once and
for all. To kill this movement—this underdog uprising—they
would kill its leader, and with him, they would kill all the
momentum that he had created. Death—the final stop. End of
story. Everybody
knew it would be over because death always has the last word,
always has the last laugh. So on that Friday afternoon, this
preacher hung from the cross and did just that. He died.
And on that Friday afternoon, the crowds that had been
watching this drama unfold walked away. The game was over.
Nothing more to see. No need to hang around and watch the
final seconds. There was simply no coming back from a defeat
like that. People walked away that Friday afternoon believing
they had seen the end of the story. And many would live the
rest of their lives believing that Holy Week ended on Friday,
on the cross, in death.
But
something happened. Two days later, a couple of women went to
the place where this preacher had been buried. They went to
the place where the tragedy of that Friday afternoon had been
entombed. They believed that the game was over and there would
be nothing left there to see. They went to say goodbye.
But when
they got there, they quickly realized that something
miraculous had happened. When they arrived, the stone at the
entrance to the tomb had been rolled away. And there was an
angel. The
angel said to the women, “Do not be afraid, for I know that
you are looking for Jesus, who was crucified. He is not here;
he has risen, just as he said. Come and see the place where he
lay. Then go
quickly and tell his disciples: ‘He has risen from the dead
and is going ahead of you into Galilee. There you will see
him.’” It was the angel who told them the game was not
over.
The angel
told them that this Jesus they were looking for had been
raised. Death did not have the final say! It was not over!
Jesus had been raised from the dead. Jesus was alive. The
movement he had started was alive, and the hope of the Kingdom
he had promised was alive. The disciples and the others missed
it because they thought the game was over. The greatest moment
in all of history, and they had just missed it. They all had a
chance to see it. They were right there, but they walked away
because they were sure the game was over. They had no idea
that the outcome was different, and it would stay that way
until somebody finally told them what happened. They would go
on living as if death had won until somebody told them
different.
Did
the fact that the disciples did not know that Jesus had risen
mean that it did not happen? Of course not. The tomb was
empty, but until somebody told them, they would have kept on
living as if Jesus was dead. Until somebody told them, they
would have kept on living as if God had abandoned Jesus. They
would have kept on living as if God had abandoned them. They
would have kept on living as if death would always have the
final say. They would have lived as if that was the
case—even though it wasn’t—until somebody told them
differently, until somebody told them what had happened, until
somebody told them that Jesus had been raised from the dead!
I am afraid
that much of the world still lives as if Good Friday is the
end of the end of story. For too many, the story ends at the
cross, and they walk away and never make it to Easter. Too
many think the cross is the end of story. Much of the world
thinks that all of the crosses they carry are the end of their
stories. They think that the cross called divorce is the end
of the story. Or the cross called cancer is the end of the
story. Or the heavy crosses with names like addiction,
poverty, depression, job loss, hunger, hatred and war are the
end of the story. And far too many in the world believe that
when they leave the cemetery, death once again has had the
final word. Most of the people in the world are Good Friday
people. They have walked away. For them, the game is over. For
them, all they can believe is that suffering, pain, hurt and
loss are the final victors. For them, the cross is the end of
the story. Game over. No need to watch the final seconds. They
believe they already know the outcome.
For a world
mired in Good Friday suffering, the best news is that
something happened on this morning two thousand years ago that
changed the outcome of the game forever. Jesus was raised from
the dead. He is still with us. His healing and transforming
presence is still active in the world. The story is not over.
It is still being written. The game is still being played. But
how will the world know if nobody tells them?
Paul puts
it this way: “How can they call on the one they have not
believed in? And how can they believe in the one of whom they
have not heard? And how can they hear if somebody does not
tell them? And how can they tell them if they have not been
sent? As it is written, ‘How beautiful are the feet of those
who bring good news.’”
That
first Easter morning, the angel sent the women to tell the
others that Jesus was raised from the dead. And they must have
told somebody, because two thousand years later, people are
still gathering to tell that story and to make sure the world
knows that God has not forsaken us. That God has not abandoned
us. That God has made good on his promise of “surely I am
with you always, even to the end of the age.” To the end of
the age. That is when the game is over. So every day that we
wake up and sun has come up, the game is still on and every
one of our stories has yet to be completed. Jesus Christ has
risen! None of us can leave here and say that nobody ever told
us. So won’t you be an angel and tell somebody else?
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