In the fall, we play football.
But between feeling a little put off every time I turn on the NFL (seeing as grown men who make millions still pound each other into the ground every weekend but millions of kids in America cannot go to school and learn in person)…and the small issue of my son being a tall, thin reed of a boy…complicated by the fact I have seen and worked with many brain injuries–well, I decided this fall to make it a point to practice our basketball skills. Maybe it is time to branch out and love other sports, the kind that don’t require helmets and full body armor.
We walked past the park to the court. I am woefully behind in the teaching-my-kids-sports arena. Their parents are mediocre, mostly-fans, and we’ve been putting off organized teams (except for a random t-ball and flag football season) since they were born. Saturdays were always easier that way.
Near the hoop, I give him a few pointers. I direct him to post up, lay up, and all those other coachable things you say to a young boy who is bound to be 6 and a half feet someday.
We are several years behind, let’s be honest. He tosses around a football. We play for fun. We’ve moved too much to invest whole seasons in team sports, and defense isn’t a thing when you’ve got parents who prefer amiable games where everyone gets to play. He has no real feel for opponents, grabbing a basketball, pivoting, squaring up, and banking the money shot. On this windy, cold, sunshine day, I lob the ball in his direction and he runs long, ball tucked under his elbow, tapping his feet just in bounds like he’s caught a touchdown pass.
No, I tell him, basketball is different. Stand strong down low, keep near the basket. I remind him his opponents on defense will only come up to his chin, so if he can catch it and keep it above his head, there isn’t even a chance they could get it from him, even if they tried.
It isn’t natural, keeping your elbows out and catching a ball eye level. I remember my dad practicing the same moves, passing me a ball, again and again. It was annoying how he aimed for my head, threw it as hard as he could, expecting me to catch it without flinching, pivot, and score.
I should’ve been better, for all we practiced.
Good thing basketball mattered very little in the long run. It was nothing more than an allegory in my life–one that has served well to remind me of what could be called a calling:
Contend for the faith.
Jude didn’t get very far in his little book, didn’t mince words. Fight as though you are going to win.
The apostle wanted our elbows out, hands out and ready to catch the ball thrown our way. We’ve been warned to hold it high–keep truth eye level–handle it with care, and get the dang ball to the basket.
It’s the broken record in me, I guess, or my dad’s persistence to keep throwing balls at a person’s head–we have got to handle the truth. We’ve got to make it to the basket, opposition be damned.
Look around, take in the scene. Out there are masters at manipulating our thoughts, our feelings, our ideology, and we are catching the ball way too low. In fact, I’m not sure we’ve got a very good handle on catching the ball at all, or even realizing we are all playing the game. Perhaps we’ve fallen so out of practice, we don’t even know why it’s important to be a part of anything at all, much less uphold truth.
I, too, take the bait often. If I’m tired or in need of distraction, I usually stumble upon news articles or feel good reports and let it sink in too deep. I let my elbows drop. I listen to the sob stories, I genuinely try to understand where a person is coming from when they use their human reasoning to justify all sorts of contrary matter. I get sucked into the uplifting, fluffy nonsense. I indulge far too often in temporary, this-world-is-my-home, humanistic, nihilistic, and perilous self-centered thinking.
I get it, because I’ve been the person with a bad marriage, secret thoughts, depression, self-issued borderline personality disorder, low self-esteem, narcissism, a quick hand at blaming, and overall complainer supreme.
It’s very easy to wallow in it, let it handle me. It comes from a very tender soul, the commiserating on weakness, the abhorrence of stigma, the recoiling at every sense of shaming. It almost-almost–makes me feel like I belong somewhere when we are all throwing the human pity party, waxing on about our problems and struggles.
But it isn’t truth.
Truth doesn’t begin and end with self. Justice cannot be just if I’m the one always banging the gavel.
Truth is chained to authority, and God is the one in charge.
The truth is–I am the one responsible for my sin. Guilty.
Jesus pulled me out of myself and those lowly, worthless groanings. It was the Father who put the ball in my hands and told me to hold it up a little higher. It was the Spirit who made me sturdy enough to weather the practice. They won’t be able to knock it out of your hands–when you stand up, you’re taller than everyone else on the court.
And here is the God honest truth: you aren’t much to look at, when it comes right down to it. You and I have nothing to offer, not one speck of anything special, lovely, or wonderful. But God put Jesus to death to buy you. When I was worthless and wretched, He said, I want her–and it cost Him his Son to make you His most priceless treasure. There was only one Truth who could reconcile me back to the Father and blot out those endless, worthless pity parties.
I will not go willingly back to the pig pen.
The world will not tell you this. It will swipe the ball right out of your hands. You will watch it bounce down the court and you’ll wonder why it feels like your life is slipping away. You’ll maybe think there isn’t a God big enough to rescue you from your hopeless situation. You’ll continually depend on other people to fix your problems, mend your fences, make you feel a certain way. You’ll be a blamer and a whiner. A hater and a gossip. Forever dissatisfied and addicted to self. Ungrateful. Filled with loathing. Despair.
All because truth is gone and the ball is completely out of your hands.
More than anything, I cannot stand to watch Truth being knocked around, when we’ve been charged with protecting it. I cannot tolerate souls in torment when God reached down to ransom them back by the blood of His Son. I cannot fathom a life of just dabbing ointment on the pain, waiting for death as some sort of rescue. And truly, I hate it when people wave off the Gospel as some sort of fairy tale, because it is the only thing that, at my lowest and loneliest, pried me out of the miry pit.
I am throwing the ball in your direction; I charge you to contend for the faith.
Arms up! Elbows out!
They won’t be able to knock it out of your hands.
