|
|
||||
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Thursday's
Fare . . . December 4, 2003 Already Won Sometimes good theological
reflection comes from the strangest places . . . Being a dyed in the orange
and blue Wahoo fan, and the father of a ten-year-old son who has "somehow"
become of like mind, we were obviously just a wee bit giddy this past Sunday
as we went to retrieve the newspaper. We had watched our beloved Cavaliers
dismantle their in-state rival Virginia Tech in Charlottesville the day
before and now looked forward to reveling in the victory once more. Son
George took the paper from my hand and had it spread out on the kitchen
counter before I could begin to pour my cup of coffee. "Oh, for Pete's
sake," he exclaimed. "Look at this." I wandered over to check
out the headlines. At the top of the front page
was the headline, "Cavaliers top Hokies for first time in four
years." "Well, that takes about
as much shine off the big win as possible," I said. The top of the sports page
read, "Cup Caps UVA Victory." Even at 10 years of age, son George
has long since discerned the pro-Tech slant of the Roanoke Times sports
stories and headlines. He shook his head in disgust. "What exactly does that
mean?" he asked. "I'm not sure son,"
I replied. "What did you expect? 'Wahoos Trounce Hapless and Overrated
Hokies?'" "That's what it would
have been if the roles were reversed," he responded. "Maybe so," I said.
"I have to agree that the relatively short streak of four wins doesn't
exactly strike me as being the story - seems like we'd be seeing something
that had more to do with the game itself." George continued to read,
highlighting several additional biases that seemed to completely miss the
fact that Virginia had actually won the game. In one article the writer had
even gone on to stretch the "big streak" to five by counting the
years between games in lieu of the games themselves. "It's OK." I told
George. "They're reaching - maybe that's the best we can hope for . .
." "That's bogus." He
responded. "That's life," I
replied. I then felt a bit of
inspiration. "But you know what, George . . ." I added, pausing for
emphasis and waiting until he looked up from the newsprint. "What Dad?" He
asked. "They can't change the
score." George smiled.
"Nope," he said grinning. "They can't change that can
they." I poured my second cup of
coffee, feeling quite on top of my game. "See ya after Church
pal." I was off to teach a class that morning to some young adults, many
of whom were ardent Tech fans. I'd have to hold my tongue or I might pay for
it next year. On the way, I couldn't help
considering the conversation we'd just had and the unavoidable fact that in a
town a bit closer to one school than the other, that we would likely always
receive reporting that overstated and understated outcomes and realities
depending on the results of the day. I was happy with my pithy one-liner to
George, however and I allowed it play over in my head a few times: "they
can't change the score . . . they can't change the score . . ." It was then that the revelation
hit me. I must have already entered "theological mode." The voice spoke. "Don't you see the
necessity of it? In a world that explains me away with the ease of a morning
headline - in a world of people who forget before they get to the door - in a
world that will buy into almost any reality and where circumstances are
constantly twisted to suit the moment, I had to make it final - an
unchangeable, unconditional and complete offering . . . The game had to be
won for good - forever - for you." "What? Where was my
subconscious going with this subtle bit of background conversation? What was
the point of . . ." "The Christ Child,"
came the response. "You and every other seeking Christian under the sun
have always asked the question - why? Why such an event was necessary at any
particular point in history . . . Well - there it is . . ." And for a moment thought came
as clarity itself. I could see "the story" as the promise given by
God and the truth therein - the gift of himself. The newspaper became
"the world" and the influence it has had upon "the story"
- explaining the truth away or at the very least intentionally distracting
and hiding it within the nuances and innuendoes used to suit the tastes and
circumstances (and in many ways the 'reality') of the people in this
particular time and place. The early Hebrews did it
repeatedly. And so do we. It wasn't so long ago that the Nativity was the
predominant display at Christmas in both homes and the community. Now in lieu
of the shepherds we have plasticine reindeer - in lieu of God, a "jolly
old elf." We have relegated "the story" to the back page and
when and if it is told at all, our children hear it in terms of a quaint
little folk tale. Those without a real and present church family have little
hope for grasping its greater meaning. The reality of the gift amidst the
"slant" of the times has perhaps never been more difficult to
grasp. "So you see," came
the voice, "the 'score'- the outcome established, the gift given in that
child born into that one starlit night - was necessary. Necessary, so that my
perfect love and purpose would not be continually corrupted by humanity's
capacity for pleasing itself. The having been-ness of that moment can never
be changed. It is not only part of the truth. It IS the truth. It can be
danced around - it can be danced on - but it can never be changed." "Established and
irrevocable." I whispered as I made a right onto Grandin. "Eternal," came the
response. So write whatever you want,
cold, hard, calculating world. You can't change the score. |
|||
|
|
|
|
||
|
|
|
|
||
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
