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No team lost more games in the
1990s. Just three years ago, they lost 119 games, the second
most of any team in major league history. And so when the
Detroit Tigers took the lead in their division on May 15 of
this year, few were believers. Was it just a flash in the
pan? Was this just a prelude to the inevitable?
By the All Star break, not only
were the Tigers at the top of their division, they had the
best record in all of baseball. More people began to wake up
to the special thing going on in the City of the Car. By
mid-August, Motown was once again alive with Tiger fever,
but then something started to happen. They began to lose.
Not too bad at first, but as September rolled around, the
Tigers’ once-twelve-game lead over the Twins was down to
just a handful. And by the last week of the season, the
Tigers and Twins were tied—dead even. So as they entered
this last week of the season, all the Tigers had to do was
win one game and they would clinch their first division
title since 1987. One game. Surely they could do it. Just
one game. But we know what happened. They lost five
straight, and on the last day of the season, the Minnesota
Twins sat atop the American League for the first time all
year—and on the only day that really mattered.
Sure, the Tigers got into the
playoffs as the wild card team, but that meant they would
have to play the New York Yankees, who seemed poised to
crush the slumping Tigers. It seemed as if Motown was
gearing up for disappointment once again. And it sure
appeared to be the case after the first game. The Yankees
got out to a huge lead and never looked back. They were just
too powerful for this team of overachievers. Only a couple
of hundred fans showed up for the pep rally. The city seemed
to have lost its hope.
Then it happened—three of the
most inspired games in my baseball-loving life. Joel Zumaya,
the young gunslinger, and his 103 mph fastball struck out
Giambi, Sheffield and A-Rod and their 63 million dollars’
worth of salaries. Then, of course, it was Kenny Rogers, the
41-year-old veteran who just seemed to know this was his
moment. And then Jeremy Bonderman, the kid who never seemed
to live up to his potential, on the biggest stage of all
threw six innings of perfect baseball and propelled his team
into the American League Championship Series.
That’s the thing about
baseball—anything can happen. Teams that are supposed to win
can lose to teams who just seem to put it all together when
it counts. Baseball is never over until it’s over.
Turn the clock back 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 in
October of 2004, 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 story was that two of baseball’s more
storied franchises would go face to face in the American
League Championship Series. The New York Yankees would once
again go up against their archrivals, the Boston Red Sox.
When it comes to baseball, it
does not get any better than this (except, of course, when
the Motor City Kitties make it to the playoffs for the first
time in nineteen seasons). 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 were 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 a
hundred 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 (with apologies to my good buddy, Mark Adams). 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 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 that 2004
would 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 back to 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 three 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 ninth
inning to tie it up, and in the bottom of the twelfth
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 a
hundred 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 in front of larger
and larger audiences.
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 God’s Kingdom
ended on that Friday, on the cross, in death.
But something happened while the
television was turned off. 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 too 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 said that God wasn’t finished, yet.
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 adoring crowds had missed it because they thought
the game was over. The greatest moment in all of history,
and they had just missed it. They 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 here’s the thing—they would have
believed it was over until somebody finally told them what
had happened. They would have gone on living as if death had
won the final victory 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 the cross is the end of the 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. They believe that God is finished.
For a world mired in suffering,
the best news is that something happened on that 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. To make it plain: God isn’t
finished yet.
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. Because God isn’t
finished yet.
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? Game on, my friends.
Game on.
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