|
It was the tenth inning of game
six of the 1986 World Series. Three outs were all that
separated the Boston Red Sox from their first World Series
victory in 68 years. The Sox held a 5-3 lead over the New
York Mets, and with fingers crossed, they sent young Calvin
Schiraldi to the mound to close out the game. Wally Backman
led off the inning with a routine fly ball to left, and
Keith Hernandez followed suit with a fly ball to center. One
out away from being World Series Champions and breaking the
long-suffering “Curse of the Bambino,” and all that
separated the Sox from their moment in the sun was future
Hall of Fame catcher Gary Carter. Carter coaxed a single to
left, postponing the champagne celebration for at least one
more batter.
The Mets sent young upstart
Kevin Mitchell in to pinch hit and, sure enough, he slapped
the second single of the inning. The Mets now had the tying
run on first base. With two outs and two runners on,
Schiraldi worked the next batter, Ray Knight, to an 0-2
count. The Red Sox were literally one pitch away from the
pinnacle of the baseball world. That is, until Knight
connected on a lazy fly ball that eluded Red Sox second
baseman Marty Barrett, bringing Carter in to score and
cutting the lead to 5-4. Red Sox manager John McNamara made
the call to the bullpen, and veteran reliever Bob Stanley
was called on to get the last out.
Stanley finished his warm ups,
and into the batter’s box stepped the speedy New York
center-fielder, Mookie Wilson. Stanley had a two balls, two
strikes count on Wilson. The veteran reliever leaned back,
reared up and fired a bullet that missed its target and
skipped all the way back to the screen. A wild pitch!
Mitchell raced home, tying the game. Knight scampered to
second base, now representing the improbable winning run.
Mookie Wilson hung in there.
After the wild pitch, he fouled the next one off, and then
the next one. Seven pitches total. Then the infamous pitch
number eight.
There are questions that define
a generation. For my parents, it was, “Where were you when
JFK was shot?” For my generation, it was, “Where were you
when the space shuttle Challenger exploded?” And for a
generation of baseball fans, it was, “Where were you when
Mookie Wilson hit the ground ball to first?”
Routine is the only label you
could give the hit. There was nothing spectacular or
particularly difficult about the ground ball that was
heading towards veteran infielder Bill Buckner. Ray Knight
was rounding third and heading for home, but his heart was
probably not in it. Buckner was either going take the ball
to first himself or flip it over to Stanley covering the
bag, sending the tied game into the eleventh inning.
But a funny thing happened on
the way to the eleventh. The routine grounder to first had
turned into a routine roller to left, and the ball scooted
ever so gently between the legs of Buckner and into the
outfield. If Mookie Wilson had been playing croquette, he
couldn’t have split the wickets of Buckner’s legs with any
more precision.
Ray Knight galloped home like a
modern-day Paul Revere delivering the news of a New York
miracle more powerful than the one that happened on 34th
Street. The Mets celebrated jubilantly to live another day.
And the rest, as they say, is history. The Mets went on to
win game seven, the “Curse of the Bambino” would haunt the
Red Sox faithful for two more decades, and Bill Buckner has
ever since been considered one of baseball’s biggest goats.
Bill Buckner committed an
error—an error that would go on to define his entire career.
When the name Bill Buckner is mentioned, every baseball fan
has the image of that ground ball that got away. Seldom does
anyone mention Buckner’s 22 seasons of major league service:
his 2,715 hits (only 52 players in history hit more), his
2,517 games played (only 39 players in history played more),
or his 498 doubles (only 43 players have smacked more.) Bill
Buckner’s name has become synonymous with error. Forgotten
are his five seasons of batting over .300, his league
leading .332 average in 1980, and the locker room leadership
he was always credited with. When it comes to Buckner’s
legacy, nothing he did prior to the error is remembered, and
nothing he did after the error could erase its memory. Bill
Buckner’s entire major league career is defined by one
moment. It is defined by an error.
I imagine that some of us suffer
from what I like to call the “Bill Buckner Syndrome,” the
defining of a person by their errors or even by just one
error—one moment of weakness or failure that they can’t
change, that they can’t go back and undo. And we won’t let
them forget. Do you have a person like that in your life?
The very mention of their name conjures up the time they
really messed up, or the time they did something to upset or
disappoint you? When we see these people, we see their
brokenness, their flaws and their mistakes. Are there people
in our lives about whom we can’t remember anything they did
before they messed up, and who we don’t much care what they
did after? Are there people who, like Bill Buckner, we
define by their errors?
But the Bill Buckner Syndrome
doesn’t stop there. I wonder if there are times when we look
in the mirror and all we see is Bill Buckner—all we see are
our errors, our shortcomings, our weaknesses, our mistakes?
Is there a mistake in our past we haven’t forgiven ourselves
for, a moment of weakness that still traps us or stomps our
self esteem? Have there been times when one negative comment
literally ruined the rest of the day, maybe even the rest of
week, month or season? Have we been so devastated by one bad
moment that we have let it erase a career of good, solid
play?
Former
baseball commissioner Faye Vincent has said:
Baseball teaches us, or has
taught most of us, how to deal with failure. We learn at a
very young age that failure is the norm in baseball and,
precisely because we have failed, we hold in high regard
those who fail less often—those who hit safely in one out of
three chances and become star players. I also find it
fascinating that baseball, alone in sports, considers errors
to be part of the game, part of its rigorous truth.
“Baseball considers errors to be
part of the game, part of its rigorous truth.” Errors are
part of the game. So much a part of it that they list
errors—they don’t try to hide them or cover them up—in every
line score…runs, hits, errors.
Failure is the norm in baseball.
In baseball, the best players hit the ball three times out
of ten. To be an all star in baseball, you must be
comfortable failing seven times out of ten. In baseball, you
will miss a lot more than you hit. It is just part of the
game. In baseball, errors are part of the game, part of its
rigorous truth.
The apostle Paul seems to
suggest the same thing about spirituality. Spirituality
teaches us, or has taught most of us, how to deal with
failure. We learn at a very young age that failure is a fact
of life. Errors are just a part of life, part of its
rigorous truth. But is it easy to come to grips with this
truth? Hardly.
In our scripture reading this
evening, we can literally hear Paul’s anguish as he comes to
grips with his own shortcomings, what he cleverly calls his
“thorn in the flesh.” Thorn in the flesh. Isn’t that what
our imperfections feel like? That little something that
keeps creeping in there and reminding us that we don’t have
it all together. Some of the thorns are little things, like
never being able to find the cars keys. Literally, every day
I have to scour the house looking for them. Like Paul, I
have cried out, “Lord if you are going to change anything
about me, change that!!! Help me keep track of all the
little stuff!!” Some of our thorns are bigger and more
frustrating— addiction, low self image, anger problems,
honesty problems, physical or emotional challenges, holding
a grudge, not trusting people…those things that just keep
showing up, and no matter how hard you work on them and no
matter how many times you cry out to God to take them from
you, they are still there.
Imperfections, failures,
mistakes, errors—they are just part of the game, part of its
rigorous truth. Don’t believe me; ask Bill Buckner. Don’t
believe him; ask Paul. And don’t believe him; ask around.
One thing that makes us all the same is that not one of us
is perfect.
To Paul’s pained request to have
his thorn, his imperfections, his errors taken away, God
replies, “My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is
made perfect in weakness.” Take note. God does not take away
Paul’s thorn in the flesh. Paul is left with his defects.
What Paul has to come to grips with is what every good ball
player must come to grips with, and eventually what everyone
must also come to grips with. It is what I like to call a
spirituality of imperfection. The spirituality of
imperfection is to admit that errors are part of the game.
God says to Paul, and to us as well, that errors are part of
our truth as human beings. To deny our errors is to deny
ourselves, for to be human is to be imperfect, somehow
error prone. God wants Paul to embrace this spirituality
of imperfection, to accept that his fractured being, his
imperfection, simply is. We should accept that errors are
just part of life. They are just part of its rigorous
truth.
Friends, there is perhaps no
more freeing realization than to simply accept that we are
error prone—that no matter how hard we try, no matter how
many times we ask, we will never be perfect. Embracing this
spirituality of imperfection lets us off the hook, gets us
off the ever-spinning treadmill of trying to become
something we simply can never be—perfect, blameless, without
blemish or spot. Then the truly amazing thing happens when
we accept our own imperfection—we become more understanding
of others’ brokenness, less judgmental about others’
mistakes, more forgiving of others’ errors.
Again, there is a great lesson
to learn from the game of baseball. If a baseball player
wants to stick it out at any level, he must embrace this
spirituality of imperfection. He must learn that failure
isn’t fatal and errors aren’t eternal. The best hitters miss
more than they hit, and if past failures at the plate
paralyzed them, they would never step into the batter’s box
again. Every ballplayer must come to grips with the fact
that they will strike out, they will pop up with runners in
scoring position, they will hit a grounder into an
inning-ending double play, and in the tenth inning of the
World Series with the game on the line, a routine grounder
might just skip between their legs. To play the game of
baseball, to play the game of life, is to accept that
failure and mistakes are simply part of the game. It is true
that in baseball, “three strikes and you’re out,” but only
for that “at bat.” There will be another chance, and then
another, and then another, and then another to step up to
the plate. This is true, especially for those who are
following the One who, when asked by his disciples, “How
many strikes do we get before we are out? Is it three? Is
it seven?” responds, “No, I tell you it is seventy times
seven; that’s how many strikes you get.” One thing we
Christians should never forget is that three strikes and
guess what? We’re still in!!
So how do we truly live into
this spirituality of imperfection? Our scripture tonight
seems to give some insight. It seems to suggest that it is
all about focus. Listen to Paul. He is so focused on his
failings. Three times he begs God to remove his failings, to
take his thorn away. Again God tells Paul to change his
focus. “Stop worrying about your imperfection. Change your
focus. My grace is sufficient.” God says to Paul, and God
says to us, that if all we ever see when we look in the
mirror is thorns, then we will always miss the ways in which
the Holy Spirit, the very presence of God’s grace, is
already active in our lives. “Stop it!” God says to Paul.
“Stop worrying about what is incomplete and not perfect and
let me show you how I will work in you and through you,
despite your weaknesses, despite your brokenness, despite
your tendency to let the opportunities slip right between
your legs. My grace is sufficient.”
Therein lies one of the most
profound spiritual truths. When we finally come to accept
our brokenness, we can truly see just how amazing God’s
grace really is. Despite our weaknesses, our failings, and
our ability to screw things up, God still chooses to work in
us and through us and around us to bring about the most
amazing things. That is grace. We are broken people, error
prone through and through, and yet God does not give up on
us. And if we can change our focus and not get so stuck in
all the things that are messed up in our lives, then we will
see how God is able to do truly amazing things with us.
Have you ever had one of those
moments when you just stood back and said, “Wow! I can’t
believe that I got to be a part of that. I didn’t expect it.
I didn’t deserve it. But I am so thankful for it.” That is
what the whole Katrina relief effort was about for me. I
could not believe the way God worked through us to pull that
off. God’s grace was truly sufficient.
When it comes to living into
this spirituality of imperfection, it is all about focus.
What we focus on will determine how we live. If we focus on
only our weakness and imperfection, then we will never be
good enough, nobody else will be good enough, life will
never be good enough, and God will never be God enough. But
when we focus on grace, we begin to see, despite our
failings, all of the miracles that truly unfold around us
each and every day. It is all about focus.
Baseball has something to teach
about focus. Every diehard baseball fan knows the
significance of the number 755. It is the number of home
runs hit by Hank Aaron. Does anybody know the significance
of the number 1,383? That is the number of times Hank Aaron
struck out. It’s all about focus. 4256: the number of hits
Pete Rose had in his career. 9297: the number of times Pete
Rose didn’t get a hit. It is all about focus. Who has the
most wins in major league history? Cy Young. Who has the
most losses? Same guy: Cy Young. What does this mean? It
means that to be the all-time leader in home runs, you have
to be willing to strike out almost twice as much as you get
a hit. It means that to be the all-time leader in hits, you
have to be comfortable with not getting a hit almost three
times as often. And it means that if you want to be the
winningest pitcher in major league history, you have to know
that you might end up with the most losses, as well. Every
one of these people is known more for their accomplishments,
even though they often failed more than they succeeded. It
is all about focus.
So when we think about Bill
Buckner, what will we see? The man whose error lost one game
for the Red Sox or the man with more hits than all but 52
other players? When we look in the mirror, what will we see?
A person full of thorns and blemishes and imperfections, or
a person who, despite their failings, is a person in whom
God’s grace is active and alive? When we see others, what we
will see? Broken, screwed-up people defined by their errors,
or people who are a lot like us, broken but not broke? And
when we look out at the world, what will we see? Will we see
only war, hatred, hunger, poverty, suffering and
indifference, or will we be able to see that despite all of
its failings, this is the place where God is bringing forth
a Kingdom on earth as it is in heaven?
The spirituality of imperfection
calls us to be honest about our failings, accept others’
failings, and see that despite these failings, God’s grace
is still present and alive and at work in us and through us.
It is only by embracing such a spirituality—a spirituality
of imperfection—that we are able to say, “Put me in,
Coach…because despite my errors, I am ready to play!”
Note: This sermon was preached
on the third occasion of the Sermon on the Mound, an annual
event where I look for the theological truth embedded in
America’s favorite pastime. For help in retelling the events
of the sixth game of the 1986 World Series, I was grateful
for a book by Michael O’Connor which shares the title with
our annual event, Sermon on the Mound. I am also
thankful for the insight in Ernest Kurtz and Katherine
Ketcham’s book, The Spirituality of Imperfection.
|
