Spring is beautiful in Grenoble. Gray gives way to green and the surrounding mountains cut a fantastically sharp horizon against brilliant blue skies. Enjoying this panoramic view today, I was mowing the pitiful piece of greenery in front of our door I generously refer to as our lawn. The smell triggered a very powerful springtime childhood memory of being on the baseball field and taking in the intoxicating, refreshing aroma of newly cut grass. As I was reminiscing about my early years when a love for baseball was instilled in me, a few images from America's national pastime ran through my mind. One was rather horrifying, considering I am a diehard San Francisco Giants fan. Like a painful memory dredged from the depths of my subconscious, this dark secret I have kept in lonely silence all these years surfaced suddenly and sent shudders of shame through my soul. When I played little league baseball in my small hometown of Quincy California, my team for three of those years was, and it pains me to say it, the Dodgers. That's right, I actually wore a blue Dodgers uniform each summer, one identical to my Giants' most bitterly hated Los Angeles rival. The realization almost made me sick to my stomach, but a few chants of "Beat L.A." uttered under my breath restored my resolve to push past the pain and finish my yard work.
A more pleasant memory was of my favorite player growing up - Johnny Bench. He was a catcher, and so was I. He wore number five, and I did the same. I wanted to play just like him. He played for the Cincinnati Reds, whose dominance of the league from 1970-1976 won them numerous world series and league championships, as well as the name "the Big Red Machine". Bench is a member of the Hall of Fame now, and is widely considered one of the best catchers of all time. His equally famous teammate was third baseman Pete Rose, who today is banned for life for having bet on baseball while a player and manager. Despite having the most hits, games played, and at bats of any player in history, and being voted an all-star 17 times, he is still not part of the Hall of Fame nor allowed to participate in any league activities. Despite many appeals, Major League Baseball has never once seriously considered forgiving him and lifting the ban. To the commissioner of baseball charged with upholding the image and sanctity of the game, Pete Rose is enemy number one. But imagine if one day, Bud Selig or the commissioner that will soon follow him, decides that even though he is guilty, they will no longer hold this punishment over him. Imagine if Pete Rose is forgiven and reinstated. Do you know what that would be like? Like us experiencing peace with God. We were guilty and enemies of God. Even though we deserve punishment, He doesn't want us to remain separated by a ban or an old mandate of justice. He wants to reconcile with us and let us back in the game, like former enemies who forget the past, are forgiven, and become reconciled. I hope it happens one day for old Pete. And I hope it has already happened for you, too.
Another vivid baseball image for me is of the home plate umpire There is no worse feeling than watching a ball whiz past you, hearing the thud in the mitt of the catcher, followed a "Stee-rike" thundered by a much older and less athletic masked man behind you. With almost a feeling of poetic justice, I recently saw an umpire get hit with a ball that had deflected off of a bat. As he was leaning in close enough to smell the catcher's brand of shampoo, he took a fastball to the shoulder and came away wincing. But that is a hazard of the job of carefully considering every decision on every action of a game where balls are thrown at you in excess of 90 miles-per-hour, with fairness and an eye for precision. The umpire hovers just behind the catcher, making a call whether the ball just thrown is on target (a strike) or out of the strike zone (a ball). He also makes the call at the plate to decide if a runner sliding into home plate is safe or out. Either way, his call must be clear and loud enough to be heard by all. And just in case one is hard of hearing, his ruling is accompanied by one of a variety of demonstrative gestures indicating the call. His decision is definitive and binding. Well, that is, until this season when they decided to introduce instant replay, but that is another subject entirely for this baseball purist. When Colossians 3:15 says "Let the peace of God rule in your hearts", it is this image of an umpire that is being used. The peace of God hovers close and gives a definitive ruling on the small and big decisions of our life, helping us to know whether a job, a marriage, a move, or any of a million possible actions and activities, are "safe" or "out", on target, or outside of the approved zone. We can argue or dispute the call, but God's ruling needs no instant replay. He gets it right every time.
So the next time you are either watching baseball or catch a whiff of freshly cut grass, let it remind of you of God's peace. Peace with God and the peace of God. That's a pastime we can all not get enough of.
