Church at the Soccer Field

Today I had church at the soccer field. Not to be glib, but as I yelled, kicked and jumped around for my son’s team; I met another side of me. The contemptuous soccer mom needs the grace of Jesus. Let me explain...

Our team started the game with a record 1:1 on Sunday at 8:00 a.m. Yes. I said 8:00 a.m. How we are on a team that has a game at 8:00 a.m. on Sunday is yet another post for another day. The tournament began on Saturday with a game at 8:00 a.m. Yes. All this is to say that we were tired. Fried may be another word to describe it. 

Joshua scored the first goal with a slider that buzzed past the goalie. Later Luke booted one in. Number 15 on the other team, Mr. Happy Feet, got around John and let one fly past Jake, our goalie. Not long after that our Blake scored in a break-away. We entered the half 3-1. A mom from the other team took the field and did a few dribbling drills her short blonde hair bouncing like David Bowie’s. In a pair of black yoga pants and a bright pink sports shirt, she led the cheering section in some chants. I’m not kidding. I turned away and walked down to the other end of the field. My chair sat right next to the other team since I parked on the 50 yard line.(What is that called in soccer?) I had noticed the mom when she went down the sideline and gave each mother a high five after they had scored their ONLY goal of the first half. She stopped at my chair. Graciously

Second half: In a series of unfortunate events, the other team scored two goals on our Jake who had the sun directly in his eyes. This factor along with the conspicuous slope of the field toward the goal aided their team to tie us 3:3. We went into double over time. No score. As the parents postured and pontificated on the sidelines, the refs called an end to the game through penalty kicks aka PKs.

With every bit of drama as the World Cup, several (I am still learning the rules of soccer and don’t remember exactly how many) team members stepped up and went one to one with the goalie. One from our team, then one from the other team. It all came down to the final kick by the other team.  He kept the ball low on the ground and whizzed it into the left corner past Gannon, our brave and very able goalie. A bitter end to a bitter battle on the field. 

David Bowie-hair lead the roar from the other sideline. I watched with shock and the alchemy of adrenaline and caffeine with no food churned my stomach. The other team lined up for a high-five parade past Mrs. David Bowie. Our brave warriors deflated slowly left the field not without a few tears. 

Coach Graham came over and said our players fought hard. We all agreed it could have gone either way. Hard way to lose, we murmured the comfort of exhausted, frazzled soccer parents. We gathered up our children and chairs and exited the field with dignity.

As I waited in line for the ladies' bathroom, Mrs. Pink Shirt David Bowie bounces in and assumes the place right behind me. “I just love watching penalty kicks,” she beams. “Our team just played an overtime...” 

“We played you,” I interrupted her unable to endure more of her glee. 

“OH!” she shot back. “You have a great team... that number 1 has an amazing foot.” Thankfully by this time I entered the stall. She was safe from my dagger-eyes. I did not have to interact with her again.

As I reflected on this morning, after we had the long ride home and engaged Joshua on the “what if’s” and the “if only’s” of the game; I realized that I had met a side of myself I did not so much like. A disdainful soccer mom. No hiding it. 

I’m aware that soccer games make me question whether I even LIKE people or not. Yelling parents coaching their kids from the sidelines make me cringe. Yet I turn into some version of that as soon as we fall behind after leading 3:1 at the half. 

So what does this have to do with CHURCH?

At least one paradigm of church could be to worship God and in so doing meet the empty, orphaned parts of ourselves. 

Granted one missing element in this story, so far, is meeting God; yet on the way we beheld the sunrise. We marveled at the fire bouncing off the Batman Building in the downtown skyline. At least part of our souls had turned toward Our Creator - the One who wakes up the Sun. And so when the contemptuous part of me rose up, I knew where to take her. Worship looks like acknowledging the fallen, broken parts of me and depending on my Father to provide the grace.

Sue Monk Kidd writes, “The life of the spirit is never static. We’re born on one level, only to find some new struggle toward wholeness gestating within. That’s the sacred intent of life, of God – to move us continuously toward growth, toward recovering all that is lost and orphaned within us and restoring the divine image imprinted on our soul.”

Meanwhile, back at my REAL CHURCH, Lloyd preached on dying to live and what it looks like to be a disciple. Technology makes it easy for me to hear the message. So later I dialed it up. What does it look like to die in order that I may live, really live? Lloyd said, “In any and every circumstance recognizing: It’s not about me. I don’t have to be right. I don’t have to get my way. When we live that way, the gospel expresses itself.”

This week I am left to ponder the contempt residing in my heart. Confess it. Repent of it. Ask Jesus to blow a fresh wind through this stale heart and wait to see what He does.