Salvation at the Ballpark

Growing up I loved watching Atlanta Braves baseball.  During the early 80s the Turner Broadcasting System brought the boys of summer into my parents’ living room on a regular basis.  My mother thought Dale Murphy hung the moon and actually sent him fan mail addressed to “Atlanta Fulton-County Stadium; Atlanta, GA.”  I wonder if he ever got it.

My parents and I watched hundreds of Braves games summer after summer back in the days when they took the field in baby blue, pajama-looking attire, well before they became a franchise powerhouse in the late 90’s and graduated to adult uniforms. 

At a young age I noticed that there was someone in the seats behind home plate at many games holding up a sign that read “John 3:16.”  At first, I thought it was some sort of stat.  Did a pitcher named John have a 3.16 ERA?  My mom explained that it was a Bible verse and had me look it up:  “For God so loved the world that he gave his only Son, so that everyone who believes in him might not perish but might have eternal life.”  There it was – the crux of the Christian faith in one sentence held up by a guy with a foam finger and a ballpark hot dog. 

Of course, that Braves fan wasn’t the only one to preach the gospel via placard at sporting events.  Many others raised their own signs at football stadiums, on basketball courts, and in soccer arenas.  John 3:16 signs became as ubiquitous as the overpriced nachos and beer flowing from the concession stands at any number of athletic events. When I was young, I thought it was cool to see a sign of religious faith alongside the French fries and peanuts as thousands of sports fans enjoyed a Saturday afternoon. 

Striking Out

But that all changed as I got older.  In college, I thought more about the verse itself and what it truly meant.  So, a “loving” God sent his only Son so that he could be mocked, rejected, and brutally tortured until death?  This all-knowing, all-powerful deity couldn’t solve the problem of sin without shedding the blood of his beloved child?  And what was the problem with sin in the first place?  Why would all humanity be damned because Adam and Eve couldn’t keep their hands to themselves around the forbidden fruit tree?  This loving God chose to punish their disobedience by condemning all people to eternal suffering?  Really?

I started reading up on theology and asking questions of those a lot smarter than me.  But what I usually got were stiff rationalizations from the catechism, trite recitations of the party line.  To me, the God of “atonement theory” seemed cruel, petty, and woefully lacking in problem-solving skills.  I wanted no part of any such God.

I struggled with a real “crisis of faith” in college and eventually confided my doubts in my school’s campus minister, a person I’ve written about before.  I told him I simply could not believe that God would send his Son to suffer and die, no matter what super-awesome outcome might have been the intended result.  I said that the choices of Adam and Eve and anyone else from the dawn of time forward had no hold on me because I was in charge of my own decisions . . . and that I didn’t believe the biblical first humans existed as literal, historical figures anyway.  I said that even if they were real, Jesus got a raw deal where they were concerned and that “salvation,” as I understood it then, was a crock. 

To my surprise, he didn’t bat an eye.  I don’t remember his exact words, but I’ll never forget how I felt when I left his office.  He gave me a whole new way to look at “salvation.” 

I’d give an arm or a leg to remember the exact words he used to draw me out of the cocky cynicism I was using to cover the heartbreak I felt as I questioned the faith of my childhood.  He did not speak of water and buckets, but I will.  It’s my own metaphorical spin on the life-altering truth he suggested in words I’d move heaven and earth to be able to recapture today.

A Different Way to Cross the Plate

Let’s say we need a bucket of water.  One way to get it is to start with an empty bucket, stick it in the sink, then turn on the tap until it’s full.  Ta da!  We get a full bucket of water. 

But there’s another way to arrive at the same outcome.  We could have someone hand us a bucket full of water covered over by a piece of cloth to keep it hidden.  All we’d need to do is remove the cloth, and ta da!  We end up with the exact same thing – a full bucket of water. 

In theology, the “atonement theory” is the “fill-‘er-up in the sink” explanation for a full bucket of redemption.  It explains that God sent Jesus to die as the “sacrificial lamb” needed for our sins to be forgiven.  God turns on the divine tap, so to speak, through the death of Jesus and heals the broken places in each of us until all the gaps are filled.   In this interpretation, God directly applies the tourniquet and stops the bleeding.  Full bucket salvation.

But there’s another way to understand the significance of Jesus’ death. Perhaps we could call it “the recovered sight theory.”  What if we have all had the capacity for the fullness of life God originally intended for us? From the moment life began, we were completely whole in every possible way. But through our selfishness or cruelty, we just lost sight of the wholeness – and holiness – that was our birthright?  What if our poor choices, not those of a mythical Adam and Eve, led us to see what really is an overflowing deluge as an dried up, empty wasteland?   

What if we just didn’t have the eyes to see the tidal waves of love present all along, but the life and death of Jesus helps us “lift the veil” clearly see that we had been swimming in divine wholeness all along?  This is the “hand me the full bucket” version of redemption.  In this interpretation, God merely reminds us that despite the pain and brokenness, we were never actually bleeding to begin with. Full bucket salvation, just understood a little differently.

Yeah, it’s probably a bridge too far for many folks. And that’s fine.  But if the water is what you need, does it really matter how the bucket gets full?

I need a faith that makes sense.  I simply can’t believe in a God who is vindictive and small-minded.  I cannot believe that the Jesus of the gospels was a divine pawn in some supernatural sleight of hand, a substitutionary gambit designed to placate an angry God.

But I’m not a non-believer.  I am a person of faith, just not one that holds up John 3:16 signs at the ballpark.  If it works for the Braves fan behind the plate or anyone else, more power to ’em  I’ll just stick with my souvenir ball and Cracker Jacks instead.  I’m a full-bucket believer who is learning to see differently.