.webp?width=80&height=80&name=Russ%20(head%20shot).webp)
Jesus never promised me a World Series championship. He never promised that my children would always succeed or that life would go according to plan. He promised something better.
It’s happened again. The Padres have been eliminated from the playoffs. There is a particular kind of suffering that comes with being a San Diego Padres fan. It is not the sort of suffering that earns much sympathy. Nobody is organizing a prayer vigil for us; no one sends us casseroles to ease our pain. But for those of us who have spent a lifetime following the Padres, we know the ache of getting our hopes up, only to have them crushed once again. Every year we look at the roster and convince ourselves that this might finally be the year. And every October, I realize I should have known better.
Being a Padres fan requires a selective memory. We had Dave Winfield and watched him leave for the Yankees. We had Ozzie Smith and watched him become a legend in St. Louis. We had Tony Gwynn. And thank God he stayed. But even Tony couldn’t deliver a championship to San Diego.
We’ve been to the World Series twice. In 1984, the Detroit Tigers beat us in five games. In 1998, the Yankees swept us in four. In more than half a century of baseball, the Padres have managed only a single win in nine World Series games. One! I have socks that have experienced more success.
Of course, there are worse things than being a Padres fan. I am also a San Diego Chargers fan. There is nothing quite like enduring years of disappointing football, only to have your team move to Los Angeles. As if San Diego needed another reason to resent the city to the north.
Which brings me to the Dodgers. I must confess something: I don’t like the Dodgers. I don’t particularly like their fans, either. I married into a family of Dodgers fans. I may love these people, but I often don’t like them because when it comes to baseball, they are the worst.
What makes the rivalry especially painful is that the Dodgers don’t hate us nearly as much as we hate them. We regard them as our enemies. They regard us as an occasional inconvenience on their way to another championship. We are David standing before Goliath, except in this version, Goliath keeps winning. And my family sends memes mocking me for it. This is enough to make me question the goodness of creation.
Of course, I am a Lutheran pastor, which means that when life is disappointing, people expect me to have something to say. I got nothing. Sure, I can speak about perseverance, patience, and running the race. I could also say, “There’s always next year.” But I have heard that sermon before. In fact, I have heard it every October of my life. And by now, I know that word is complete rubbish.
That’s what I appreciate about the gospel. Jesus never promised me a World Series championship. He never promised that my children would always succeed or that life would go according to plan. He promised something better. He gave me himself. And because of that, I am free to love things that cannot save me. Including baseball.
Christian freedom also means you do not have to explain away everything that goes wrong. Do we have the right manager? Is there something more we should have done? Did we pray enough? Are there baseball gods up there who are angry with people from San Diego because we have such wonderful weather?
Of course, knowing this doesn’t prevent me from replaying every terrible moment of the series. The Padres were one strike away from winning Game 2. One strike! I’m convinced we would have won the whole series if we’d gotten that final out. Yes, I am still bitter.
Fortunately, the gospel has nothing to do with my winning record. Christ died for sinners. And unlike the Padres, he actually defeated the last enemy: death itself (1 Cor. 15:55-57).
God is not a disappointed manager sitting in the dugout with a clipboard, wondering why we can’t get our act together. He knows our failures better than we do and still claims us as his own. That is what he declared in our baptism. Before we ever accomplished anything, Christ has already claimed us. He didn’t wait for us to become winners. He died for losers.
So I can be disappointed, complain about the bullpen, and wonder why a team with so much talent keeps finding ways to lose. And when spring rolls around again, I can get my hopes up all over again. I can spend an afternoon at Petco Park, enjoying baseball even when my team loses. These are gifts from God, even when the scoreboard doesn’t cooperate.
In fact, I had a chance to attend a last-place Angels’ game a month ago with my mom and dad. The Angels’ season was so bad that they made the Padres look like world champions. But it was a glorious evening. I was sitting in a ballpark with my parents, watching a game they introduced me to as a child. I didn’t care who won. But for a few hours, baseball was simply baseball. And that was enough.
As for my Padres, I am still waiting for that championship. And I will keep waiting. I will put on my brown-and-gold cap, cheer for my team, and hope that one day we will finally have a parade. And thanks to the freedom I have in Christ, I can also cheer for other teams. In fact, I have two favorite teams in baseball: the Padres and whoever is playing the Dodgers.
I am, after all, both saint and sinner. Especially when the Dodgers are playing.
.webp?width=36&height=36&name=Russ%20(head%20shot).webp){kind=small}
%20(1).jpg?width=36&height=36&name=untitled%20(16%20of%2039)%20(1).jpg){kind=small}
