Hope springs eternal

Tim loves to say that the two most glorious phrases in all of human language are "He is Risen!" and "Play ball!" He is particularly happy when Opening Day and Easter occur on the same day, as sometimes happens, and he gets to hear both. Coming from a lifelong fan of the Cleveland Indians, this is pretty remarkable. Except for the great years of 1994-1997, there hasn't been much to cheer about in his lifetime, and even in those years in which the Tribe went to the World Series twice, losing to the stinkin' Braves in '95 and the stinkin' Marlins in '97 (when they were actually 1 out and 1 strike away from winning), there was an insidious undercurrent in the blood of a Clevelander that was convinced that it wouldn't actually come to pass, the championship would continue to be elusive. And so it has been.

Many writers have gotten all theological about the ties between faith and baseball, the Trinitarian nature of 3 strikes and you're out, 3 outs to an inning, 3 bases to home plate, and always aiming to go "home." For me, though, it's more about the time of year in which the season begins, the long season of 162 games, ending in the Fall Classic, now more often ending in November than October, but such is the nature of sports these days. Who'd ever have thought that hockey would end in June, the NBA season almost to July, and the Super Bowl would be played in February? Good grief. But I digress...

Opening Day of the baseball season is a springtime ritual. It happens when the crocuses and daffodils are just hitting their stride, the fruit trees are about to blossom, and the grass is suddenly green again instead of white with snow (unless you're actually in Cleveland, where it has snowed on many an Opening Day). The air is ripe with hope and new life, for which there is no greater metaphor than Easter morning. On Good Friday, when it seemed that all was lost, everyone went home and locked their doors and stewed in whatever misery most beset them, whether grief or guilt or shame. The women ventured out to perform their duties to cleanse and anoint the body, but even they were shrouded in tears and sorrow. In Mark's version of the story, a young man dressed in white tells them that Jesus has been raised, he's not there, and to go and tell Peter and the rest of the disciples that Jesus has gone ahead to Galilee to meet him there. The original ending of Mark in verse 8 of chapter 16 says:

So they went out and fled from the tomb,

for terror and amazement had seized them;

and they said nothing to anyone, for they were afraid.

Can you imagine if that really had been the end? What if they had told no one and that had been the end of it? Well, we won't know in this case, because some later editor tacked on a neat ending to Mark's gospel, having Jesus appear to Mary Magdalene and a couple of disciples and then to the rest of the eleven before his ascension. The divine will always find a way to be revealed, even if we in our fear and disbelieving do nothing to help it along.

Forty days later by liturgical accounting comes the ascension of Jesus, and in fifty days the Holy Spirit blew through the people on the day of Pentecost, unleashing its power in the creation of what we call "church." And we, as we begin our march through the season following Pentecost and its stories of how the church spread and grew, are accompanied by the steady and assuring cracks of bats on balls and thwunks of fastballs into catchers' mitts. There's a rhythm to these joined seasons that brings up memories of hot summer days in the South sipping tea so sweet your spoon could stand up in it and lying on the cool grass listening to the frogs chirping by the creek and swatting away the mosquitoes in search of a meal. With each Opening Day comes the hope that this could be the year that your team will still be playing in October, even if the last season ended in yet another disappointment.

Faith is like that, too. Falling and getting up and falling again, learning to rely on a grace we cannot deserve but that is always there, lifting us up when we fall, comforting us when discouraged or sorrowful, as the birthday prayer says. We're still in Lent as this year's baseball season gets underway, and spring is a little late in arriving in my neck of the woods. But I know it's there, because I'm hearing the chatter of baseball players and cheers of crowds, and even Indians fans are excited again, hoping that maybe there won't be 100 losses, maybe this team will surprise us after all.

Baseball and resurrection, life and death, falling down and getting up again. Hope does spring eternal.