A Matter Of Inches
Sermon
Daniel J. Weitner
And Other Reflections On Christmas
Object:
This is a story about Christmas -- and baseball.
Right about now you may be thinking that the only possible common ground between the national pastime and the Incarnation is the fact that on the calendar, Christmas day happens to lie midway between the last game of the World Series and the opening of pre-season club meetings. But if you are curious about the connection, you might want to read on.
The 1994 major league season will long be remembered by many baseball lovers as the year owners and players nearly killed the game. Although it was in April that the big-leaguers hinted it was coming, it came as a shock to most fans when a strike actually began the second week of August.
Many wondered why they did it. Far and wide, it was known as a banner year, for several reasons:
After several seasons of steady decline, attendance figures had made a turnaround, and were up significantly around the country.
A number of records were likely to fall that year: Ken Griffey, Jr., was on track to hit over 61 home runs; Yankee outfielder Paul O'Neill was getting hits so often that some sportswriters suggested he might be the man to equal or surpass Ted Williams' long-standing feat of batting at a .406 average.
Revenues from cable, broadcast, and licensing rights were more than healthy.
But the job action was called nevertheless. So the season came to an abrupt halt. The plug had been pulled. The lights went off.
At the beginning of negotiations, devotees were certain the opposing sides would settle their differences quickly. Games, they thought, would resume in a matter of days. However, as days turned into weeks, and one month into the next, even the most ardent of optimists had to admit that there was little hope for regular play to resume. In fact, it was in mid-September when they threw in the towel and declared there would not even be a World Series.
I am admittedly one among many major league fans who suffered something on the order of withdrawal symptoms when the strike began. (After all, we argue, what's summer without baseball?)
That's when the New Jersey Cardinals, a team brand-new to the ranks of minor league baseball, entered the picture.
For those not familiar with the sport, the minors are the proving ground of major league franchises. It's where the high school graduates and the college degree-holders get to test their abilities. It is a time for separating those who have enduring big league qualities from those whose meteoric rise turns out to be just that: a momentary flare in the heavens.
Skylands Park, where the Cardinals play, looks like something straight out of the movie Field of Dreams. The stadium's access road is a thin line of asphalt carved into the middle of a square mile of corn fields. Viewed from the outside, the stadium has the appearance of a round, red barn. From the inside, spectators have a spectacular view of giant maples and oaks, part of a wooded land lying just beyond the outfield wall. Bats -- the flying variety -- dart this way and that, high above the crowd, munching on insects, as wooden bats smack into horsehide below. By the time the plate umpire calls "Play ball!" the smell of new-mown hay has begun wafting over the ballpark. By the end of the game, the night mist has settled over center field.
Most importantly, a bunch of boys and girls -- including the kids who are in their forties, fifties, sixties, and seventies -- got to see great ball games in a year that the Big Boys of Astrodome, Fenway, and Chavez Ravine fame denied them the opportunity.
Unless you happen to live in the northern New Jersey area, you probably aren't familiar with names such as Brian Silva, Ossie Garcia, Aaron Gerteisen, and Steve Santucci. They were part of the young, upstart Cardinal team that won the New York-Penn League championship the first year they played, 1994.
But they very nearly missed the title. Interestingly, the same player who might have been the goat was credited with having lit the fire for their victory.
Rafael Robles was an up-and-coming third baseman. A good defensive player. An excellent batter. The only problem he had was after the regular season ended, when his team entered the playoffs. Robles couldn't get a hit. He couldn't even get the ball past the pitcher's mound. Eleven trips to the plate. Eleven outs.
In the final game, a crucial point arrived when everyone on the team needed to be especially sharp. On one play, the ball was hit sharply to the left side of the infield. Right at Robles. It took one hop, then another. He bent down, opened his glove, and got ready. The ball should have gone into the trap. The third baseman should have reached into his glove, grabbed the the ball, and made a quick throw to first. There should have been an out. The inning should have been over.
But it is said that baseball is a game of inches. And in that moment, when the play was over, no one knew it better than Rafael Robles. Because that's exactly what he missed by: a couple of inches. He positioned his glove just a little off target. The ball bounced off the heel of his glove instead of being trapped in its pocket. Instead of being the final out of the inning, a run was scored, and all hands were safe.
It so happened that in the Cardinals' half of the same inning, Robles' turn at bat came with two outs and the bases loaded. Everyone knew that he hadn't gotten a hit in the playoff games. Everyone knew the error he'd made was probably on his mind. Everyone knew he would likely make the third out.
So when Rafael Robles swung at a strike two pitch and hit a line drive straight at the shortstop, everyone in the stands assumed it would be caught. But it wasn't. The reason? Robles had smacked the ball so hard that it went sailing over the fielder's glove. Not by much. Just a couple of inches. But it was all that was needed.
His hit tied the game. And his team responded with so much enthusiasm that before the inning was over, they were ahead by four runs. They went on to win the game -- and the championship.
Games are won and lost by inches:
* Errant throws that are tantalizingly close.
* Hits that just miss going out of the park.
* A tag that's made a split second too late.
* A diving attempt to catch the ball that drops just shy of the outstretched glove.
It reminds me of two words that someone once described as the saddest in our language: "almost persuaded."
Paul, the influential and persistent evangelist and missionary teacher of the gospel, not only told his own people, the Jews, about the Christ whom God had sent to save them from sin. He also convinced a reluctant Peter and James that Christ ought to be preached to the Gentiles -- a people once considered to be forever beyond the pale of God's loving concern.
The apostle couldn't be stopped. He wouldn't shut up. In fact, he was arrested when he openly defied the law which stated that he could no longer promote his strange new faith. But detention only served to make him bolder.
While handcuffed to his jailor, Paul shared the message of the cross.
After he was shipwrecked with other prisoners, while waiting on the beach for another ship to pick them up, he testified about the compelling love of Christ to fellow inmates and to the Roman guards.
Years before, between one jail term and the next arrest, Paul had made his point about redemption in Christ, and the power of the cross, before the Judean king, Agrippa.
It was at that time, speaking with the high government official, that Paul pulled out all the stops and used his most convincing argument.
"First to those in Damascus, then to those in Jerusalem and in all Judea, and to the Gentiles also, I preached that they should repent and turn to God and prove their repentance by their deeds ... I have had God's help to this very day, and so I stand here and testify to small and great alike. I am saying nothing beyond what the prophets and Moses said would happen -- that the Christ would suffer and, as the first to rise from the dead, would proclaim light to his own people and to the Gentiles" (Acts 26:20-23).
Now to his credit, King Agrippa did listen to what Paul said. He paid attention. He considered what was put before him.
Small wonder. For there in his presence was no prisoner begging for his freedom in abject contrition, but a man, already released from an everlasting destiny far worse than any earthly dungeon, proclaiming Christ Jesus as Savior and Lord without apology or hesitation.
However, in the end, Agrippa blew it. A brilliant argument from one of the best legal minds of the age, a detailed account of conversion from the mouth of one who had had a reputation as a persecutor of Christians but then had turned completely around in order to embrace the faith he once had hated, should have been enough to compel the king to kneel in awe before the risen Nazarene.
Agrippa came so near. He reached to within inches of the kingdom. But he fell so short of the mark. Ironically, he did comprehend (understand) the message, yet he did not apprehend (embrace or take to himself) it. You could say Agrippa failed because there was too much at stake --
* too much power,
* too much prestige,
* too much position,
* too much ego -- in short, too much of the king standing in the way of the Christ. So he concluded his discussions with the apostle by saying these sad words: "Almost thou persuadest me to be a Christian" (Acts 26:28, KJV).
Almost persuaded.
The human tendency of missing out by inches, the historic litany of "almost," later became a theme in Paul's letters. His apt description of sinners attempting to push, poke, prod, or otherwise shoehorn themselves into heaven by flaunting their own merit is probably drawn from observing archers. A group of them may have been having some fun one day at practice. They walked a considerable distance from the target. Then they drew back their bows and let the arrows fly.
The archers' aim was good. Their intent to hit the objective was evident. A graceful arc took each arrow toward the mark. And every single arrow landed nose-down in the ground, yards away from the goal.
The men almost did it. Their arrows almost reached the target. They almost got a prize for their skill.
But not quite.
In the same way, wrote Paul, "... [A]ll have sinned and fall short of the glory of God" (Romans 3:23). That little phrase, "have come up short," describes where all our own efforts will get us. It ought to give us a clear picture of humanity's status without a Redeemer.
It also ought to serve as a wake-up call for those who believe their affiliation with churches, parachurch groups, and religious organizations are equal to hitting the divine "bullseye." Because after all our years of service to the church, after all our volunteer hours spent as officers in the congregation or denomination, after all our time spent in the pew, God will not say certain things.
* He won't inquire as to how many minutes per week we have logged in patiently creating three-point sermons for the congregation.
* He won't ask how many minutes per week we have logged in patiently putting up with the preacher's overlong sermons.
* He won't ask on how many church-related relief agencies we served as local chairpersons.
* He won't ask us to give details of the anguish we experienced when elders who should have known better mispronounced Zerubbabel's name during the Bible study.
There are many things, we assure ourselves, that will impress God. Being a member of the right denomination has got to count for something, right? Being an officer will probably help the cause. Singing in the choir? That's a sure-fire way of getting into the heavenly chorus.
But then the Spirit of God breaks upon our neat and tidy speculations and says, "There is a way that seems right ... but its end is the way to death" (Proverbs 14:12).
A long time ago, it seemed right to a certain Judean king that he should hold onto his base of power, whether or not it meant running afoul of God's plan. It is one of the saddest stories in the Bible.
Word had reached the court that a certain child had been born within the Judean jurisdiction, in Bethlehem. This boy- child, according to a prophetic word, was to grow to be no ordinary man.
He was to be Light -- "... [T]hose who lived in a land of deep darkness -- on them light has shined" (Isaiah 9:2).
He was to be Redemption -- "... [Y]ou are to name him Jesus, for he will save his people from their sins" (Matthew 1:21).
He was to be Ruler -- "For the Lord your God is God of gods and Lord of lords..." (Deuteronomy 10:17).
But Herod, though a puppet monarch, was still a tyrant. As a result, the religious council, not wanting to risk the king's displeasure, thought it prudent to be "yes men" rather than give even the slightest impression that they were disloyal.
We get a glimpse of his volatile personality when Matthew tells us that "King Herod...was frightened, and all Jerusalem with him ..." (Matthew 2:3).
It seemed to the king's advisors that, given his unpredictable predisposition toward violent rages, it might not be the best time to remind him that the young child, which some visiting potentates inquired about, was prophesied in Holy Scriptures from the Torah to Micah as a King to rule over all kings, the Lord before whom all lords would bow.
So even though Bethlehem lies in the shadows of Jerusalem, they did not go. And though going there may have changed their minds about whom to serve, they did not try. And though making the attempt would have proven their everlasting joy, they did not risk the venture.
They missed the mark. By the shortest of distances. By the slimmest of errors. By the most simple of decisions. But in spiritual matters, as in baseball, missing by inches is the same as missing by eternity.
By what you've done, have you hit God's mark? Only if "what you've done" includes faith.
* Not faith in general.
* Not faith in some kind of nebulous "Christmas ideal."
* Not faith in one or more of the causes that Christmas has come to represent -- such as harmony, peace, and kindness.
* Not faith in yourself.
* Not faith for faith's sake alone.
Then faith in what? Or in whom? John the apostle gave the best Christmas sermon of all time when he wrote, "For God so loved the world that he gave his only Son, so that everyone who who believes in him may not perish but may have eternal life" (John 3:16).
In the end, God will ask each of us only one question. God will ask the writer of Christmas books and the readers. He will ask the rich and the poor, with no special preference given to either group. He will ask those who have conducted themselves like saints and those who have behaved like sinners.
God absolutely will not ask you about your ecclesiastical loyalties, whether you are a Baptist or Roman Catholic or Pentecostalist. God will not ask you about your political correctness. God will not ask you about your good deeds.
God will ask one question only. The answer you give will reveal whether or not in your lifetime you ever recognized and acknowledged that there is a way you could keep your life on target. "I am the way [said Jesus], and the truth, and the life. No one comes to the Father except through me" (John 14:6).
If you are off the mark, even in the slightest, you will get a one-way ticket out of the kingdom, a front row seat right outside the gates of heaven. You'll be forever looking in with longing, loneliness, and despair.
If you are on target, you'll be home. God be praised, your hitting the mark squarely has nothing to do with your ability -- only his.
Here is that question: Did you put your whole trust in Christ Jesus, who died and rose again that you might live?
The apostle knew the Redeemer well. He knew Who had reached down, shaken him to the core, and set him straight. Paul knew Who had taken the arrow of his faltering faith and had winged it right to the center of the target. "[F]or I know the one in whom I have put my trust, and I am sure that he is able to guard until that day what I have entrusted to him" (2 Timothy 1:12).
In baseball you know what is going to happen: the crowd moans, the manager cringes, and the player kicks himself every time there is an "almost" experience. Almost in the glove. Almost a steal. Almost a tag. Almost out of the park. Almost a strikeout. Almost a win. And each miss is as good as a mile.
In life, it's not so easy to notice the reactions to what you think of Christmas, and the One born then. There's no one who can actually see you stepping up to the plate of faith, or taking care of the defense against sin. No one can see if you let Jesus take care of the aim and power departments. Or if you refuse to let him help. There's no coach shouting instructions. There's no gathering of fans to urge you on. There's no umpire to tell you when you're safe or out.
But life is just as much a series of "almosts" as baseball. And life is far more important than the game of baseball. Almost convinced. Almost won. Almost home.
Maybe you have played the game of life spectacularly up to this point. Singles and doubles based on neighborliness and helpful -- even godly -- deeds. But now you're in the field. The ball is headed your way. An inch one way or the other off dead center, and they'll be flashing the big E for "error." And you will lose it all.
Do you want to run the risk of missing out on the biggest win of your whole life? (Herod did. His advisors, too. Those who preferred an easy religion missed. Men and women who don't want God to challenge their way of life? They miss it. So do those who insist on celebrating Christmas without inviting Christ to the party.) Or would you prefer to have by your side the One who has already risked everything that you can have the whole ballgame? Because missing by inches is the same as missing by a mile.
Right about now you may be thinking that the only possible common ground between the national pastime and the Incarnation is the fact that on the calendar, Christmas day happens to lie midway between the last game of the World Series and the opening of pre-season club meetings. But if you are curious about the connection, you might want to read on.
The 1994 major league season will long be remembered by many baseball lovers as the year owners and players nearly killed the game. Although it was in April that the big-leaguers hinted it was coming, it came as a shock to most fans when a strike actually began the second week of August.
Many wondered why they did it. Far and wide, it was known as a banner year, for several reasons:
After several seasons of steady decline, attendance figures had made a turnaround, and were up significantly around the country.
A number of records were likely to fall that year: Ken Griffey, Jr., was on track to hit over 61 home runs; Yankee outfielder Paul O'Neill was getting hits so often that some sportswriters suggested he might be the man to equal or surpass Ted Williams' long-standing feat of batting at a .406 average.
Revenues from cable, broadcast, and licensing rights were more than healthy.
But the job action was called nevertheless. So the season came to an abrupt halt. The plug had been pulled. The lights went off.
At the beginning of negotiations, devotees were certain the opposing sides would settle their differences quickly. Games, they thought, would resume in a matter of days. However, as days turned into weeks, and one month into the next, even the most ardent of optimists had to admit that there was little hope for regular play to resume. In fact, it was in mid-September when they threw in the towel and declared there would not even be a World Series.
I am admittedly one among many major league fans who suffered something on the order of withdrawal symptoms when the strike began. (After all, we argue, what's summer without baseball?)
That's when the New Jersey Cardinals, a team brand-new to the ranks of minor league baseball, entered the picture.
For those not familiar with the sport, the minors are the proving ground of major league franchises. It's where the high school graduates and the college degree-holders get to test their abilities. It is a time for separating those who have enduring big league qualities from those whose meteoric rise turns out to be just that: a momentary flare in the heavens.
Skylands Park, where the Cardinals play, looks like something straight out of the movie Field of Dreams. The stadium's access road is a thin line of asphalt carved into the middle of a square mile of corn fields. Viewed from the outside, the stadium has the appearance of a round, red barn. From the inside, spectators have a spectacular view of giant maples and oaks, part of a wooded land lying just beyond the outfield wall. Bats -- the flying variety -- dart this way and that, high above the crowd, munching on insects, as wooden bats smack into horsehide below. By the time the plate umpire calls "Play ball!" the smell of new-mown hay has begun wafting over the ballpark. By the end of the game, the night mist has settled over center field.
Most importantly, a bunch of boys and girls -- including the kids who are in their forties, fifties, sixties, and seventies -- got to see great ball games in a year that the Big Boys of Astrodome, Fenway, and Chavez Ravine fame denied them the opportunity.
Unless you happen to live in the northern New Jersey area, you probably aren't familiar with names such as Brian Silva, Ossie Garcia, Aaron Gerteisen, and Steve Santucci. They were part of the young, upstart Cardinal team that won the New York-Penn League championship the first year they played, 1994.
But they very nearly missed the title. Interestingly, the same player who might have been the goat was credited with having lit the fire for their victory.
Rafael Robles was an up-and-coming third baseman. A good defensive player. An excellent batter. The only problem he had was after the regular season ended, when his team entered the playoffs. Robles couldn't get a hit. He couldn't even get the ball past the pitcher's mound. Eleven trips to the plate. Eleven outs.
In the final game, a crucial point arrived when everyone on the team needed to be especially sharp. On one play, the ball was hit sharply to the left side of the infield. Right at Robles. It took one hop, then another. He bent down, opened his glove, and got ready. The ball should have gone into the trap. The third baseman should have reached into his glove, grabbed the the ball, and made a quick throw to first. There should have been an out. The inning should have been over.
But it is said that baseball is a game of inches. And in that moment, when the play was over, no one knew it better than Rafael Robles. Because that's exactly what he missed by: a couple of inches. He positioned his glove just a little off target. The ball bounced off the heel of his glove instead of being trapped in its pocket. Instead of being the final out of the inning, a run was scored, and all hands were safe.
It so happened that in the Cardinals' half of the same inning, Robles' turn at bat came with two outs and the bases loaded. Everyone knew that he hadn't gotten a hit in the playoff games. Everyone knew the error he'd made was probably on his mind. Everyone knew he would likely make the third out.
So when Rafael Robles swung at a strike two pitch and hit a line drive straight at the shortstop, everyone in the stands assumed it would be caught. But it wasn't. The reason? Robles had smacked the ball so hard that it went sailing over the fielder's glove. Not by much. Just a couple of inches. But it was all that was needed.
His hit tied the game. And his team responded with so much enthusiasm that before the inning was over, they were ahead by four runs. They went on to win the game -- and the championship.
Games are won and lost by inches:
* Errant throws that are tantalizingly close.
* Hits that just miss going out of the park.
* A tag that's made a split second too late.
* A diving attempt to catch the ball that drops just shy of the outstretched glove.
It reminds me of two words that someone once described as the saddest in our language: "almost persuaded."
Paul, the influential and persistent evangelist and missionary teacher of the gospel, not only told his own people, the Jews, about the Christ whom God had sent to save them from sin. He also convinced a reluctant Peter and James that Christ ought to be preached to the Gentiles -- a people once considered to be forever beyond the pale of God's loving concern.
The apostle couldn't be stopped. He wouldn't shut up. In fact, he was arrested when he openly defied the law which stated that he could no longer promote his strange new faith. But detention only served to make him bolder.
While handcuffed to his jailor, Paul shared the message of the cross.
After he was shipwrecked with other prisoners, while waiting on the beach for another ship to pick them up, he testified about the compelling love of Christ to fellow inmates and to the Roman guards.
Years before, between one jail term and the next arrest, Paul had made his point about redemption in Christ, and the power of the cross, before the Judean king, Agrippa.
It was at that time, speaking with the high government official, that Paul pulled out all the stops and used his most convincing argument.
"First to those in Damascus, then to those in Jerusalem and in all Judea, and to the Gentiles also, I preached that they should repent and turn to God and prove their repentance by their deeds ... I have had God's help to this very day, and so I stand here and testify to small and great alike. I am saying nothing beyond what the prophets and Moses said would happen -- that the Christ would suffer and, as the first to rise from the dead, would proclaim light to his own people and to the Gentiles" (Acts 26:20-23).
Now to his credit, King Agrippa did listen to what Paul said. He paid attention. He considered what was put before him.
Small wonder. For there in his presence was no prisoner begging for his freedom in abject contrition, but a man, already released from an everlasting destiny far worse than any earthly dungeon, proclaiming Christ Jesus as Savior and Lord without apology or hesitation.
However, in the end, Agrippa blew it. A brilliant argument from one of the best legal minds of the age, a detailed account of conversion from the mouth of one who had had a reputation as a persecutor of Christians but then had turned completely around in order to embrace the faith he once had hated, should have been enough to compel the king to kneel in awe before the risen Nazarene.
Agrippa came so near. He reached to within inches of the kingdom. But he fell so short of the mark. Ironically, he did comprehend (understand) the message, yet he did not apprehend (embrace or take to himself) it. You could say Agrippa failed because there was too much at stake --
* too much power,
* too much prestige,
* too much position,
* too much ego -- in short, too much of the king standing in the way of the Christ. So he concluded his discussions with the apostle by saying these sad words: "Almost thou persuadest me to be a Christian" (Acts 26:28, KJV).
Almost persuaded.
The human tendency of missing out by inches, the historic litany of "almost," later became a theme in Paul's letters. His apt description of sinners attempting to push, poke, prod, or otherwise shoehorn themselves into heaven by flaunting their own merit is probably drawn from observing archers. A group of them may have been having some fun one day at practice. They walked a considerable distance from the target. Then they drew back their bows and let the arrows fly.
The archers' aim was good. Their intent to hit the objective was evident. A graceful arc took each arrow toward the mark. And every single arrow landed nose-down in the ground, yards away from the goal.
The men almost did it. Their arrows almost reached the target. They almost got a prize for their skill.
But not quite.
In the same way, wrote Paul, "... [A]ll have sinned and fall short of the glory of God" (Romans 3:23). That little phrase, "have come up short," describes where all our own efforts will get us. It ought to give us a clear picture of humanity's status without a Redeemer.
It also ought to serve as a wake-up call for those who believe their affiliation with churches, parachurch groups, and religious organizations are equal to hitting the divine "bullseye." Because after all our years of service to the church, after all our volunteer hours spent as officers in the congregation or denomination, after all our time spent in the pew, God will not say certain things.
* He won't inquire as to how many minutes per week we have logged in patiently creating three-point sermons for the congregation.
* He won't ask how many minutes per week we have logged in patiently putting up with the preacher's overlong sermons.
* He won't ask on how many church-related relief agencies we served as local chairpersons.
* He won't ask us to give details of the anguish we experienced when elders who should have known better mispronounced Zerubbabel's name during the Bible study.
There are many things, we assure ourselves, that will impress God. Being a member of the right denomination has got to count for something, right? Being an officer will probably help the cause. Singing in the choir? That's a sure-fire way of getting into the heavenly chorus.
But then the Spirit of God breaks upon our neat and tidy speculations and says, "There is a way that seems right ... but its end is the way to death" (Proverbs 14:12).
A long time ago, it seemed right to a certain Judean king that he should hold onto his base of power, whether or not it meant running afoul of God's plan. It is one of the saddest stories in the Bible.
Word had reached the court that a certain child had been born within the Judean jurisdiction, in Bethlehem. This boy- child, according to a prophetic word, was to grow to be no ordinary man.
He was to be Light -- "... [T]hose who lived in a land of deep darkness -- on them light has shined" (Isaiah 9:2).
He was to be Redemption -- "... [Y]ou are to name him Jesus, for he will save his people from their sins" (Matthew 1:21).
He was to be Ruler -- "For the Lord your God is God of gods and Lord of lords..." (Deuteronomy 10:17).
But Herod, though a puppet monarch, was still a tyrant. As a result, the religious council, not wanting to risk the king's displeasure, thought it prudent to be "yes men" rather than give even the slightest impression that they were disloyal.
We get a glimpse of his volatile personality when Matthew tells us that "King Herod...was frightened, and all Jerusalem with him ..." (Matthew 2:3).
It seemed to the king's advisors that, given his unpredictable predisposition toward violent rages, it might not be the best time to remind him that the young child, which some visiting potentates inquired about, was prophesied in Holy Scriptures from the Torah to Micah as a King to rule over all kings, the Lord before whom all lords would bow.
So even though Bethlehem lies in the shadows of Jerusalem, they did not go. And though going there may have changed their minds about whom to serve, they did not try. And though making the attempt would have proven their everlasting joy, they did not risk the venture.
They missed the mark. By the shortest of distances. By the slimmest of errors. By the most simple of decisions. But in spiritual matters, as in baseball, missing by inches is the same as missing by eternity.
By what you've done, have you hit God's mark? Only if "what you've done" includes faith.
* Not faith in general.
* Not faith in some kind of nebulous "Christmas ideal."
* Not faith in one or more of the causes that Christmas has come to represent -- such as harmony, peace, and kindness.
* Not faith in yourself.
* Not faith for faith's sake alone.
Then faith in what? Or in whom? John the apostle gave the best Christmas sermon of all time when he wrote, "For God so loved the world that he gave his only Son, so that everyone who who believes in him may not perish but may have eternal life" (John 3:16).
In the end, God will ask each of us only one question. God will ask the writer of Christmas books and the readers. He will ask the rich and the poor, with no special preference given to either group. He will ask those who have conducted themselves like saints and those who have behaved like sinners.
God absolutely will not ask you about your ecclesiastical loyalties, whether you are a Baptist or Roman Catholic or Pentecostalist. God will not ask you about your political correctness. God will not ask you about your good deeds.
God will ask one question only. The answer you give will reveal whether or not in your lifetime you ever recognized and acknowledged that there is a way you could keep your life on target. "I am the way [said Jesus], and the truth, and the life. No one comes to the Father except through me" (John 14:6).
If you are off the mark, even in the slightest, you will get a one-way ticket out of the kingdom, a front row seat right outside the gates of heaven. You'll be forever looking in with longing, loneliness, and despair.
If you are on target, you'll be home. God be praised, your hitting the mark squarely has nothing to do with your ability -- only his.
Here is that question: Did you put your whole trust in Christ Jesus, who died and rose again that you might live?
The apostle knew the Redeemer well. He knew Who had reached down, shaken him to the core, and set him straight. Paul knew Who had taken the arrow of his faltering faith and had winged it right to the center of the target. "[F]or I know the one in whom I have put my trust, and I am sure that he is able to guard until that day what I have entrusted to him" (2 Timothy 1:12).
In baseball you know what is going to happen: the crowd moans, the manager cringes, and the player kicks himself every time there is an "almost" experience. Almost in the glove. Almost a steal. Almost a tag. Almost out of the park. Almost a strikeout. Almost a win. And each miss is as good as a mile.
In life, it's not so easy to notice the reactions to what you think of Christmas, and the One born then. There's no one who can actually see you stepping up to the plate of faith, or taking care of the defense against sin. No one can see if you let Jesus take care of the aim and power departments. Or if you refuse to let him help. There's no coach shouting instructions. There's no gathering of fans to urge you on. There's no umpire to tell you when you're safe or out.
But life is just as much a series of "almosts" as baseball. And life is far more important than the game of baseball. Almost convinced. Almost won. Almost home.
Maybe you have played the game of life spectacularly up to this point. Singles and doubles based on neighborliness and helpful -- even godly -- deeds. But now you're in the field. The ball is headed your way. An inch one way or the other off dead center, and they'll be flashing the big E for "error." And you will lose it all.
Do you want to run the risk of missing out on the biggest win of your whole life? (Herod did. His advisors, too. Those who preferred an easy religion missed. Men and women who don't want God to challenge their way of life? They miss it. So do those who insist on celebrating Christmas without inviting Christ to the party.) Or would you prefer to have by your side the One who has already risked everything that you can have the whole ballgame? Because missing by inches is the same as missing by a mile.
