Jesus and His followers have survived a week of conflict; a week which built the antagonism of His enemies to the brink of boiling over into the anger and violence of His arrest. Now come brief moments of strengthening calm before the raging eruption of an evil that will end with Jesus’ death by crucifixion.

Those disciples have traveled every day, listened to His passionate teachings but without any realization they, too, will face that boiling over—and face it soon. They’re tired, they’re dirty, they’re befuddled and cranky and clueless.

But the Christ knows the full impact of what they face; the Messiah knows what must be done; Jesus knows what these men will need for them to survive the coming onslaught. So, as the Father’s Chief Servant, He fills a basin with water, straps a towel round his waist, and fills the role of a house slave. Jesus washes the dirt from their tired feet, massaging them dry with a towel, and restoring a measure of relaxation, of calm, probably praying for each man as He worked, knowing what each one—including Judas—would face in the coming days, how he would respond, what Satan wanted in his life, the decisions he would make, who he would turn to for comfort, how quickly he would believe Jesus was alive again, and what his influence would be after he realized Jesus truly was Master of all, including death and life. So Jesus prayed. Their Messiah mediated with the Father on their behalf, then He challenged them to do the same for each other.

Restoring the weary, challenging the complacent, bringing peace to the befuddled, interceding for those in the midst of the battle and for those facing antagonism, oppression, fear, and decision. By His actions, the Chief Servant instructed those in the house [of the body] what it means to serve each other, to be a true slave of their divine Master.

Simeon saw the young couple among the jostling crowd. They entered the temple’s outer courtyard—no different than hundreds of other young families who ascended the temple mount every day. Yet something about them compelled him to notice.

They thread their way toward the priests. The young father carried a pair of turtledoves in a well-crafted wooden cage. The young mother carried their infant son; he would be almost six weeks old.

The Voice whispered to Simeon’s heart, ‘This is what you have waited for! This is the One who was promised!’

Simeon’s own steps faltered in his excitement. His heart beat with the words of the prophet Joel, Spare Your people, O LORD, and do not make Your inheritance a reproach, a byword among the nations. Why should the peoples say, ‘Where is their God? He changed directions, angled his route to meet them between the porch and the altar. Isaiah’s words resounded in his ears. ‘Comfort, O comfort My people,’ says your God.

A cacophony of sound added to the tumult. The lowings and bleatings from the herds of calves and lambs and the fluttering of hundreds of wings contended with the chanting Levites and the hawking of the moneychangers.

Return, O Israel, to the LORD your God, for you have stumbled because of your iniquity. Hosea’s words rang clearly to Simeon as he waited on the course the young couple’s steps would take.

The Almighty had promised him that he would not see death before he had seen the Lord’s Christ—the King who would make the way of salvation. Now the time had come. The promise was fulfilled.

The couple stood before him. Simeon opened his arms wide to them. “May I hold your child?”

They stopped. Father and mother glanced up to meet Simeon’s gaze then they turned to each other. The woman smiled at her husband and nodded then lifted the bundle into Simeon’s arms.

Simeon cradled the child to his chest. He felt his warmth, the pulse of life as the boy stirred. He spoke aloud. “Now Lord, You are releasing Your bond-servant to depart in peace, according to Your word…”

Simeon moved the bundle and studied the child’s face. His voice rose clear and strong among the dissonances of the Gentile Courtyard, “…for my eyes have seen Your salvation, which You have prepared in the presence of all peoples, a light of revelation to the Gentiles and the glory of Your people Israel.”

Father and mother glanced to each other, their eyes wide open. Turtledoves fluttered and cooed in their wooden cage.

Simeon heard the Voice.

It spoke clearly, spoke a word which Simeon knew he must give to the young, gentle mother who stood before him. A message that, in his heart, echoed like the words of Isaiah spoken hundreds of years before. Isaiah’s words throbbed through Simeon’s mind:
For He grew up before Him like a tender shoot, and like a root out of parched ground. He has no stately form or majesty that we should look upon Him, nor appearance that we should be attracted to Him. He was despised and forsaken of men, a man of sorrows and acquainted with grief; and like one from whom men hide their face He was despised, and we did not esteem Him.

Surely our griefs He Himself bore, and our sorrows He carried; yet we ourselves esteemed Him stricken, smitten of God, and afflicted. But He was pierced through for our transgressions, He was crushed for our iniquities. The chastening for our well-being fell upon Him, and by His scourging we are healed.

How alike the words of Isaiah were to the words the Voice now gave him to speak.

Simeon’s heart ached for the child in his arms—distressed that eternal joy could only come through stark suffering, grieved that the crowds in the temple courtyard were oblivious to the presence of the One who would fulfilled their sacrifices.

He fixed his gaze on the mother’s wide eyes. She must have read the change of emotions on his face, for her eyes filled with solemn determination.

Simeon lifted the bundle to return the child to her arms and spoke the words the Voice had given him. “You are highly favored of the Lord. Behold, this Child is outstretched for the fall and rise of many in Israel,” he released the infant to her arms, “and appointed for a sign that will be opposed, refused, denied—”

She lifted her eyes to look at Simeon. He spoke quietly, but the words gripped her heart even as Simeon’s glance now included the young father. “A sword will pierce even your own soul. Opposition to Him will reveal the inmost thoughts of many hearts.”

“Simeon, have you found him?” Anna limped forward, breathless. “Have you found the Redeemer of Jerusalem?” She stopped in front of them and leaned heavily on her walking stick.

Simeon nodded.

Anna’s gaze moved to the young mother. “May I look at him?”

The mother turned the bundle toward the old widow. Gnarled fingers gently lifted the swaddling cloth that covered the infant’s face.

Anna inhaled deeply then lifted her voice. “Blessed be the LORD God of Israel, Maker and Provider of all things, for He has remembered His promises and brought to us His salvation.”

Replay will Ruin Baseball

Thursday, June 3, 2010, 2:35 PM

Elizabeth Scalia

Last night, Umpire James Joyce made a horrifically bad call and robbed Detroit Tigers pitcher Armando Galarraga of a perfect game:

Yeah, a horrible call. Yes, Galarraga was robbed, and Joyce will live with his mistake. That’s the nature of the game.

Now comes the debate: What should Baseball do? Should MLB Commissioner Bud Selig reverse the call? and award the perfect game to Galarraga? That question is being debated, right now.

Michigan Governor Jennifer Granholm has issued a proclamation that Galarraga threw a perfect game.

Last night, on twitter, a passionate debate raged. A seeming majority demanded that replay be introduced to regular-season Baseball. “Limit it to three challenges a game,” someone wrote. There was a lot of talk about “justice” and “fairness.” People wanted to feel better about what had just happened. They wanted those in authority to “fix it,” so that no one would feel badly; not Galarraga, not Joyce, not the fans.

I and a few other hardy voices were raised in disagreement, arguing that introducing replay to Baseball will ruin the game; it will steal its soul.

I think the demand to submit the human mistakes (and the opportunity to rise above them) that make baseball so magnificent to the cut-and-dry legalism of replay is a misguided notion; it demonstrates how comfortable our society has become with recourse to the courts, with the idea that life–which is not fair–can somehow be made fair, by dint of authority.

After last night’s game, Joyce admitted his mistake. He sought out Galarraga and his manager, Jim Leyland, and owned it.

That’s manly, and graceful.

Galarraga, in turn, showed enormous class and grace in return, forgiving the umpire.

Character on display. You don’t get to see it when replays are enforced. Ruling by replay sends everyone to the tape and there is no human interplay between the wrong, who admit it, and the wronged, who accept the admission and then let it go.

Just moments ago, as today’s game began, Leyland had Galarraga bring the line-up card to the umpires, at home plate.

The ump behind the plate? Jim Joyce, who accepted the card with tears streaming from his eyes. Galarraga stood there, beautifully attuned to the moment and the man, while most of the crowd–understanding what baseball is, and that they now had the opportunity to be part of something bigger than a mere game–stood in the stands, and heartened both men with their applause.

The picture above may become iconic, for the moment it portrays.

On ESPN, a commentator watched and said, in an awestruck voice; “a terrible story just keeps getting better and better.”

Yeah. That’s baseball.

The home-plate encounter between Galarraga and Joyce was one of those transcendent moments which happen more often in baseball than in any other sport, because baseball is much more than a game.

Baseball is the teacher of lessons in courage, perseverance and grace. It pits one man, batter or pitcher, against an entire team and says “show us your heart.” Then, as Bart Giamatti wrote, “it breaks your heart,” because it is designed to do so.

But baseball then mends the heart it has broken, and in the most magnificent ways, in ways that uplift players and fans, alike.

Because baseball has no replay, the “bad calls” are part of the game, and because they are, so is the paradoxical transcendent lightness that comes from a heavy moment being shrugged off and allowed to pass.

Watching the game with your kids, you can point to a player who has been robbed of a hit, or a homerun, or an out, or a stolen base, or a perfect game, and you can say to them, “that was tough. Life is not fair, but see how this player is handling it. He’s not letting it take him down or own him; he is going forward with the rest of the game, because he knows that this is just one moment. He’s not getting stuck in it, because he knows that maybe another time, another game, a bad call will actually go his way. Things even out, in the end.”

Such moments are good for baseball, and it is good for the nation. Humility in error (or in the face of unfairness) and manly good-will are things we no longer see in a world full of puffed-up egos. They are examples we need to see lived out before our eyes, more often.

Imagine last night’s game, with replay. The “moment” is lost and cannot be manufactured. Galaragga gets a historic perfect game and walks off the mound, vindicated, but it’s an anti-climatic thing. Joyce gets corrected and overturned. It’s all “fair” but cold. There is no need for human interface; no need for apologies, or for forgiveness, because “it’s just a game.” Humanity is taken out of the equation. Athletes who no longer have to consider sportsmanlike behavior will be free to puff up the chest, and despise the umpire. Umpires, feeling emasculated and underappreciated, will begin to despise the players and grow more bitter with each overturn.

And none of that is anything like baseball. The lesson our kids learn? You don’t have to work anything out with someone who has wronged you, or own up to anything you’ve done wrong. Just take it to court.

What an unhelpfully bleak lesson.

If we have lost sight of how important it is to have visible examples of perseverance and forgiveness, of “letting go” and even surrender (the players, after all, go into the game understanding that all of their dreams will not come true, but willing to take the chances offered), then we are on a very unhealthy path, one that says only, “fix it, make life fair.”

Falling prey to the illusion that life can be “made” fair, when it demonstrably is not, we will lose our fortitude, and our ability to go on in difficult times.

Are we ready to give up the magnificent humanity in this game, and its insistent, optimistic lessons that life is a bit of a crap-shoot, but that you play it faithfully, rolling with the bad, giving thanks for the good, and looking forward to the next inning? I am not. And I bet most of the players are not, either.

Perhaps it is only wishful thinking on my part, but I believe it will be the players, themselves, who stop replay from becoming the arbiter of regular-season baseball. They’re the ones who sign on to play a game so fraught with humanity and drama. They understand all that will be lost, by going to the videotape.

See the eyes of a dog as he looks to a beloved master.
There is joyful expectation and undying optimism
The picture of what our hearts should brim full of
As we look to our heavenly father.

What stepped in to destroy such limitless faith and hope?
We did — with our pride and stubborn self-reliance.
But hope awaits rekindling
and faith longs to be expressed
In the heart of the one undeserving but ever-loved
Who chooses to stay at the Father’s breast.

The meal over, the storytelling started. Men and women, alike, were scattered here and there around the room, wherever they could find a seat. We listened to James and John or John and Peter argue over the telling of one story then another, always ending with laughs.

I felt it at first—a chill in the air that made the chatter fade. Simone straightened. Mary glanced toward the door. Andrew’s laughter receded and, as I glanced toward him, a presence stood in front of me—brighter than a flash of lightning. My heart lurched. My pulse raced. Boom! I was on my knees and on my face.

“Peace be with you.” The words caused that familiar stirring in my gut. It was Him, but it couldn’t be.

I looked up into the face I could never forget. He was solemn but gentle.

“Reach here with your finger, Thomas, and see my hands.”

His hands? There they were, right in front of me. Powerful, tender fingers and a gaping wound beginning to scar—and then I heard the echo of my own hasty words. ‘Unless I see in His hands the imprint of the nails—put my finger into the place of the nails….’

He had heard me. He had known.

He pulled aside His tunic. “Reach here your hand and put it into my side.”

‘…fantasies. If you can’t see it, touch it, inspect it … try to produce … try to conjure….’ Those words jumped back at me. Is there something real you can’t touch or see? Andrew’s laughter. Mary’s joy. The kindness of everyone to receive me, to forgive me.

“Be not unbelieving,” Jesus said, “but believing.”

The door in my mind opened and light poured in. I knew. “My Lord, and my God!”

He reached down a hand with a hole in it and lifted me to my feet. “Because you have seen Me, Thomas, have you believed? Happiest are they who did not see, and yet believe.”

.

.

The family business had prospered while I was gone. It was good to sit again at my mother’s table, to see my niece ready for her bridegroom and my brother read Torah in the synagogue.

But, well, yeah, after a few days I began to miss Andrew’s laughter. Those at home hadn’t seen the storm immediately stop or those fish and barley loaves just keep dividing and dividing. They hadn’t felt the stirring in their gut at the sound of Jesus’ voice as He boasted about how deep His Father’s love is—for each of us! Amazing. It still, ya know, causes my breathing to get a little shakey.

Yeah, those people at home are dear to me, ya know, but they couldn’t remind me of what Jesus meant when He talked about sowing seeds, or couldn’t repeat the stories of how the lost were found. So now I find myself back in Jerusalem, evading pistachio baskets carried atop the heads of slave girls and dodging children running through the dust.

I wonder how many of the guys are still holed up. Ha! If they ran like they had the night He was arrested, they’ll all be clear to—but, you’re right. I ran, too. Ran fast, ran hard. Didn’t have a clue where I was headed. Guess I still don’t.

I heard the singing and Andrew’s laughter even before I entered the dark, narrow passageway. Lamp light spilled from the window slits and poured out the wide-open entry. I had almost reached the pool of light when Mary appeared in the doorway.

“Thomas!” Mary called as I stepped up to her. “Look everyone! Thomas has returned.”

I helped bar the door—gave me seconds to control the surge of joy that threatened to choke me.

“Thomas,” Andrew called. “We’ve kept your place for you. Come, the fish is ready to serve. Get yours before Peter does.” He ended with that laugh.

.

.

And how could someone come back from the grave? It’s crazy. Good solid earth, wood for a fire, and heavy coinage. That’s what you can depend on.

Oh, sure, we’d seen Lazarus raised. He was different afterwards, that’s for sure. Couldn’t quite wrap his words around what death had been like—was almost disappointed to be back up, walking around.

But he’d had Jesus there to do the life-giving. Jesus could do that kind of thing. We saw it more than once. Now Jesus was dead. What was He going to do? Raise Himself?!

No. He’s gone. Had to face it. It’s over. It’d been a wild ride for three years, but it was over. I had learned a lot, seen a lot during those years—things, to be honest, I still can’t explain: a Roman centurion bowing to Him, the walking on water. Everything He said, happened. Boom! But there ya go. Ya see, that was Jesus. Things were just different with Him.

They said, the other guys—Phillip, James, and the rest. All of them. They said He’d somehow appeared out of nowhere and stood in that room with them. Talked to them. They insisted the door was shut tight, even barred.

And there was no talking those guys out of it. No reasoning with them, and I had work to do. I’m not going to hole up in some dark room. Besides, I haven’t seen a Roman all day. Come to think of it, no priests or Levites, either. Guess everyone’s running scared.

“But Thomas, we’ve seen the Lord!” Bah! Don’t you believe it. Peter exaggerates; though, hmm, Matthew usually keeps his facts straight. Oh, forget it. Let them have it.

No way I’ll buy into their fantasies. If you can’t see something, touch it, inspect it, well, how do you know it’s real? And I told them so. Let them try to produce the nail holes, to conjure up the torn, gaping wound of a spear thrust through—thrust through—through His flesh. That can rip at your stomach, but at least it’s hard proof. Without that, what have you got? Nothing.

Nothing. That’s what we had left of those three years. So may as well get on with life, pick up the strings we’d left dangling when we jumped on board Peter’s boat and decided to follow.

.

.

On the first Sunday morning of the New Year we sat in a church partly burned in the latest Crisis. From our pew we could see a charred hole in the ceiling and remnants of the fire on scrubbed walls behind the pulpit.

During the service we heard the sounds of ironworkers in the Muslim neighborhood and saw the peddlers’ wheelbarrows going by the open doors.

We listened to a sermon about the Apostle Paul who had persecuted the church before his conversion to Christ, and we sat in a church that had suffered a similar persecution nearly 2,000 years later and a continent away.

The church was reopened only recently, and after the service some spoke about repainting the burnt walls. That will cheer things up!  But I hope they leave the scars of persecution in the ceiling. It’s easy to forget that today’s persecutor can become tomorrow’s apostle.

“But I hope they leave the scars of persecution….”

Can you wrap your mind around that?

“It’s easy to forget that today’s persecutor can become tomorrow’s apostle.”

Only because God offers reasonable hope.

Okay, sure, in this weekend’s playoff game I hope he plays fabulously well and comes in a strong second to Brett Favre and my Vikings, but in all other aspects Drew Brees is already a winner in my book. Why?

From being injured and traded to being named NFL Player of the Year,
Saints quarterback Drew Brees has come to see God’s hand in everything.[1]

In everything?

• In being passed over in the first round of the NFL draft because he wasn’t tall enough, strong enough, or knew enough about complex offensive schemes?
• In being replaced in 2003 after a strong 2002 season?
• In working his butt off to take his team from 4-12 in 2003 to 1^st place in the AFC West in 2004—only to be replaced again before the next season even started?

And what about when the shoulder of his throwing arm was seriously injured? In the last game of the 2005 season? When he received a late and very questionable hit? Would it be career ending? His response?

But I very quickly snapped out of it and realized this is happening for a reason, and I’m going to turn this into a positive. [God] wouldn’t let me face it if I couldn’t handle it.

I don’t know that I would have “seen God’s hand” in that, especially when team management goes on to show they really have no confidence in you or your abilities. Okay, Brees admits he was “devastated,” but he also says,

A year later I looked back and said, “That was probably the best thing that happened to me.”

Huh?

When he signed with the Saints, he moved his wife to a New Orleans still rankling and devastated from Hurricane Katrina and its aftermath. He bought and rebuilt a house, then raised millions of dollars to help the area recover.

And he finally announced publicly that he had suffered an estrangement from his mother during the previous years, but he was hopeful their relationship was improving. Hopeful.

Why was he hopeful?

You know what? I want to be one of those, ‘few good men.’ I really accepted Jesus Christ into my heart.

He admits that during 2004 training camp he tearfully and prayerfully asked God for strength.

Drew relied on Proverbs 3:6: “In all your ways acknowledge him, and HE will make your paths straight.”

That’s the perfect foundation for reasonable hope.