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Lessons from the Church of Baseballby the Rev. Kerry MuellerService at UUCSS on October 3, 1999
Opening WordsLife is a gift for which we are grateful Opening Hymn #52 "In Sweet Fields of Autumn"The Lighting of the Chalice and a Uniting StatementAs we gather here for worship, Song of ExaltationAs saffron trees now capture fire Welcome and AnnouncementsStory for All Ages presented by Natalie FenimoreParting Song for Children #413OffertoryLet there be an offering to strengthen and sustain this place which is sacred to so many of us, a community of memory and hope, for we are now the keepers of the dream. At this time in our service we take a few moments to share what is in our hearts and on our minds. If there is an event in your life, or the life of the world, which moves you this morning to joy or sorrow hope or gratitude, I invite you to come forward and share a few words with us and move a stone into the water, letting the ripples remind us that everything that touches one of us touches all of us. If it is better for you, we will bring the microphone to you. [Sharing] Let us remember to hold in our hearts the joys and sorrows of the whole company of humanity, whether they are spoken and shared or silent and solitary. Meditation with Silence and With MusicLet us share now a few moments of silence. And in the silence may we listen for the deepest, stillest voice of holiness within. [1 full minute] Amen Reading #444 "This House"SermonLessons from the Church of Baseballby the Rev. Kerry Mueller Right off the bat, so to speak, I have to make a confession. You'd figure it out pretty quickly anyway. I'm not really a baseball fan. I grew up thinking baseball was totally boring. I didn't listen to it on the radio late at night, or even watch it on television. When our fifth grade teacher allowed us to have a World Series game on in class, I pulled out the science fiction novel I was reading. I never saw a baseball game until I became a Little League mom around 1981. But then my disdain of baseball began to fade. Of course, this is the doting mother speaking. David -- who is now 26 -- was a very good player for the first few years. He didn't have special skills or speed or strength, but he always knew exactly what to do with the ball. He played a good mental game, and that kept him going until high school. At our church's Services Auction one year David offered a baseball lesson. His student was Danny Finkelstein, then the six year old son of my colleague Roberta Finkelstein. Danny is now a star high school player. He has the strength and the skills, as well as the understanding. Despite David's limitations, baseball was good for our family. When the children were growing up, I made a point of having family dinners almost every night -- except during baseball season. Then I would feed David early and take him to the game, with a picnic basket for the rest of the family. My husband, Dave Hunter, joined us from work by bus and got into his umpire uniform. Amanda kept the official team score. I always had my novel or my knitting, but I learned to follow the game, and enjoyed talking with the other parents. You should have seen me that one evening in 1987, when my cousin Manfred was visiting from Germany. Somehow it fell to me to explain the game to him. His English is far better than my Deutsche, but it wasn't a language difficulty that held me back. I could almost hear the other parents rolling their eyes at my explanations. Nevertheless somehow, I managed. Later, after the kids went to join their father for the summer, it fell to me to report to them on the end-of-season games. I'm sure my reports made amusing reading, until I learned proper baseball terminology -- I had to learn the hard way that it doesn't do to speak of points, only of runs, and of extra innings, not overtime. It always amazes me how a deep understanding of the game affects how you see and hear what is going on. When Dave and I turned on the car radio recently, he knew within seconds who was ahead, what the score was, who was up, what strategic decisions the manager would have to make. I was still barely registering that this was a baseball game. I heard a former player talk about a baseball situation, with all the nuances of strategy and tactics. He evoked the posture of the pitcher, how he glanced around, where the outfielders placed themselves. He even knew what was going on in the pitcher's mind. It was as if he were seeing a whole band of spectrum invisible to me. No doubt it requires expertise to fully appreciate the liturgy of baseball, but the outlines are available even to a novice like me. Entering Camden Yards last year for the first time, with Dave and Barry and Roberta Finkelstein (they are real fans, with season tickets) I felt almost the same thrill of awe and anticipation that I feel at our UU General Assembly. I even experienced that evocative thrill of seeing old friends -- there with her friends was a parishioner, and I ran over to greet her. The music might as well have been "Rank by Rank Again We Stand." I loved it -- the crowd, the pageantry, the multimedia scoreboard and screen, even the constant noise of the crowd-pumping announcer and organ. Baseball has its own hymns -- think of the late Harry Cary leading his congregation game after game in that good old bit of Americana, "Take me out to the Ball Game." Each player seemed to have a special popular song associated with him. The flashing lights and tension-raising organ created an instant Pavlovian response -- it was easy to fall into a near trance, momentarily becoming one with that huge crowd, just putting all our psychic energy into getting a hit. And it worked. "I have a feeling," said Barry, that this is the inning. We'll get a hit now." And we did. Another inning, I experienced baseball's version of liturgical dance -- Roberto Allomar made a difficult catch, adding the flourish of a hopping little dance. Liturgy is literally "the work of the people," in a stylized expression of feeling. From the dancing players, to the seventh inning stretch, to the enthusiasm of the Oriole mascot, the quick precise moves of the batgirl, and the prize winning dancing fan, there are as many roles in this baseball liturgy as the most elaborate religious ritual. What they are all about is presence, that quintessentially religious concept. Be where you are. Be fully present to this moment. Be here. See everything, notice everything. "Pay attention," said Barry. This may be an historic game. The season is almost over. This may be the end of Ripken's streak." Little did we know. He announced the end, two days later. Those who know, can see more deeply than the rest of us. A couple of months before this game, as I drove to Virginia one day, I heard a radio interview between conservative commentator George Will and liberal journalist Steve Roberts, sitting in for Diane Rehm. Automatically, I reached for the dial to pop in a tape, but something held me back. These two sophisticated men sounded as excited as boys. I stayed to hear the fun. Before long I was frantically trying to take notes in the midst of beltway traffic. It seemed to me that the baseball they were discussing was full of lessons for UU congregations. I managed to memorize a half dozen points, and then hastily scrawl them down when I got to my destination. Here's some of what I learned. Baseball, like Unitarian Universalism, thrives on a kind of democracy. As a sport, it is less star-driven than, say, basketball or football. The players are big and strong, but they are regular sized people, not giraffe tall or mastodon huge. With nine men on the field at any one time, it takes all of them to help a team succeed. It's not that there aren't stars or that some players aren't much more skilled or dedicated than others. But baseball always requires a team effort. The most brilliant pitcher can't win for his team unless someone brings in some runs. And no hitting star can guarantee a win without fielders who will keep down the other side's score. So it is in congregations as well. Religion is not a game of stars. No one, not the minister, not the president, not a brilliant musician or the most knowledgeable expert or the most dedicated volunteer can make a church succeed alone. It always requires a team effort. When I took Extension Training several years ago, Larry Peers reminded us again and again. A congregation can grow only if both the minister and the people want it to grow, and are willing to do the things necessary to growth. He was speaking primarily of numerical growth, but also growth in depth of commitment and caring. If growth becomes too uncomfortable, if living our faith becomes to challenging, it is easy to stop. As a disillusioned nation learned from Shoeless Joe Jackson, anyone can bring a team down. In a congregation, there is room for everyone, and everyone's contribution is essential. Beyond the actual paying of the game, there is democracy in analysis and judgment. Just as every Unitarian Universalist is expected to undertake a free and responsible search for truth and meaning, so baseball, according to George Will, offers every fan an equal opportunity of opinion. Somewhere in that deep sediment of numbers produced by every team, every year, you can find just the statistic to underscore your point of view. But your point of view, whether in baseball or religion, needs to be more than a navel-gazing assertion of certainty. It must connect with reality. Don't make assumptions. Dave came back from a business last summer, and told me about the player he had seen on TV. He hit a pop up, and casually assumed it would land in foul territory. There he stood, watching the ball come down -- fair. Then he got moving, and eventually made it safely to first base. But he could have been on second. And this failure turned out to be crucial -- the next play was a double play, and the inning was over. Had he been alert enough to reach second base, that double play would have been impossible. Baseball, like liberal religion, has plenty of room for failure and redemption. After all, a player batting .333, an outstanding hitter, fails two thirds of the time. You don't always get your way in baseball, or in church -- often you have to settle for half a loaf. Indeed, a team that wins just over half its games is in a good position to take a pennant. It's a long season, there's always the next game, the next week. Players can have long careers. They rarely ruin their knees in a season or two; they don't usually face catastrophic injuries. The players with character learn to deal with failure and imperfection. They also always have the hope of redemption. I know that Unitarian Universalists do not ordinarily use words like "redemption" but what else can you call the perennial rise of hope in the catchphrase, "Wait until next year!" How many seasons did the Cubs wait to enjoy, if not a winning season, at least a glorious time in the limelight of Sammy Sosa's home run season? Think of those extremely patient Cubs or Red Sox fans, waiting for a World Series success they haven't seen since before World War I. But glory comes to those who wait. Which brings us to grace, another of those religious words. St. Thomas Aquinas says that "Grace is noting else but a certain beginning of glory in us." Or perhaps you prefer Unitarian Henry Nelson Wieman: "The grace of God is the good which God puts into each concrete situation over and above all that man can do or plan or even imagine." [Religious Quotations, 413f] Grace, the conviction that somehow, the universe is a friendly place. Grace, unearned favor. Grace, being in the right time at the right place. Grace, that little boost to hard work and talent. The little factor of luck that can make a career, even one that seems at first to be lackluster. Mark MacGuire is not a perfect man, nor a perfect baseball player. Nor is Sammy Sosa. Yet between them, they offered the nation a moment of human glory last summer. With talent, hard work, steadiness of purpose they created a home run derby, just when we thought we needed it most. Baseball needed a final push to get past the disillusionment of the strike-shortened season a few years back. And the nation needed relief from the ongoing disgust born of scandal -- though that seems a little silly in light of Kosovo and Littleton and Wedgewood Baptist Church, and how many other real tragedies and travesties. But last summer we needed to be reminded that heroes exist who will not shame us with tawdry personal misconduct. Even Vaclav Havel, president of Czechoslovakia, visiting Washington parried a harsh question about the President by saying that "There are many faces of the US I do not understand, and some I do. What I understand is Mark MacGuire and Sammy Sosa." Sosa and MacGuire gave us the derby, the excitement of baseballs sailing over the fence. And this year they are racing againg, with Sosa in the lead, the first player ever to break 60 home runs twice! But more than breaking records, they shared their own grace with each other and with us. Their joint news conference, their humor and their appreciation of each other, all helped us to feel more hopeful about ourselves. And when big Mac took a decisive final lead last year, he seemed as stunned by his achievement as any of us. He hugged his son in unrehearsed joy, and even thanked his ex-wife for getting the boy there. He honored Roger Maris who came before him, and he prepared to offer admiration to the unknown player who may someday exceed his own record. Grace. This was a special achievement, mysterious even to those who did it, and magical in its timing. And what of Baltimore's own Cal Ripken, who graciously ended his Ironman Streak, stepping back after Sammy and Mark had their days of glory, finally yielding his own special status to the good of the whole team. And once again this year, he was piling up career statistics for Baltimore -- 400 home runs, and closing in on 3000 hits, when his back surgery makes likely another season of that astonishing career. In baseball and in our religious life, we can be glad of grace, whether we see it as human or divine, or just built into the universe. Finally, baseball and religion both offer opportunities for human generosity. It may be the generosity of the big donor. Multi-millionaire John Grisham, author of all those legal thrillers, has a son who plays youth baseball. Singlehandedly, Grisham donated a really nice Little League Stadium, with several playing fields and shaded pavilions. Hundreds of kids and their parents enjoy that gift. And Grisham was a thoughtful and responsible donor. The stadium is near the University of Virginia's optical telescope. And so, there are no lights in this stadium. The kids may feel disappointed not to have the glamour of night baseball, but the astronomers are grateful that their seeing is not limited. Churches could learn from this careful kind of generosity. I have a friend who was once part of a church that received a $5,000 legacy -- to be used for a thirty foot, revolving purple neon cross. Even for this devoutly Christian church, this was too much. They had a dreadful time turning away the gift. The donor could have learned from Grisham, and the church should have been prepared with a policy that restricted gifts must be approved by the board. Giving to the church, after all, is a means of trusting to the democratic process, trusting that the wealth you are able and willing to share will be well used by the elected representatives of the whole team. And then there is the less grand but deeply commited personal generosity, available to each of us every day. We have so many opportunities to make today a little bit better for this small corner of the world. Years ago, long before I went to seminary or even dreamed of writing sermons, I cut out a little story from the New York Times' Metropolitan Diary. I no longer have any idea where the clipping is, but the story is still in my heart. There at the ball park -- Shea Stadium, perhaps -- sits a boy with a glove, hoping to catch a home run. Inning after inning he waits, but never a ball comes his way. Then, in the eighth inning the miracle happens. It comes right to him, over the fence and past the rows in front of him. Just as he jumps up to make the catch, a large middle aged man with a cigar reaches over him, and grabs the ball, looking very pleased with himself. He sits down. The boy is near tears. But all around them, the crowd begins to chant. "Give the kid the ball, give the kid the ball." The mantra is irresistible. The cigar chomping grinch gives the kid the ball. We can be inspired by this kind of generosity, even if it was reluctant. We too, can make a child's day. We can join that impressive group of fans who generously returned ball after ball to Mark MacGuire last summer. We can perhaps even follow the example of the IRS head who ruled that these balls were not to be subject to gift taxes. Such generosity is the lifeblood of community, the heart of our congregations. There is much to learn from baseball. Ultimately, though, the parallels break down. Time may begin on opening day, but it does not end with the last out of the World Series. In the end, the enchanting ritual of baseball goes on inside its own bubble. The participants may work for compassion and justice in their private lives, but the game itself has no concern for anything but baseball. Cuban players may use their skills to escape tyranny and find a new life in the US. Many players give their time and energy to charitable causes or to help young people lead better lives. Just after the end of his season, Sammy Sosa headed to the Dominican Republic with hurricane aid, perhaps in homage to Roberto Clemente, who ultimately give his life in such a quest of helping others. The wealth and fame provided by professional baseball fuels these efforts, but they are peripheral to the sport. Only a religious community exists in order make a difference for good in the world. And that is our most important lesson. As congregations we exist to foster a real ongoing sense of community, to care for each other and to bless the world beyond our walls. Here's how your current goal statement -- according to your website -- puts it: To empower the diverse voices in our congregation in ways that . . . . enhance our service to others and strengthen the ties that bind us as a community. Imperfect as we are, with a hodgepodge collection of gifts and talents, we can bring real hope to the world. May it be so. Amen. Shalom. Blessed Be. Hymn "#6 Just As Long As I Have Breath"Closing WordsBe ours a religion which, like sunshine goes everywhere; Extinguishing the ChaliceWe extinguish this flame, but not the light of truth, |