I watched the end of the World Series last night. I live in the San Francisco Bay area, and it has been transformed for a few short days by nine men running around a field. People are nice to each other. Strangers aren't strangers. "Did you see the game? How about those Giants?"
Fathers and sons have something to talk about. Attitudes are brighter. There are more smiles per square foot.
But all that is nothing to what happened on the field when the last out was recorded. Grown men with dyed beards jumped around like they were nine years old, looking for someone—anyone—to hug.
And I thought about worship.
The thing is, when the Giants won, nobody scripted the celebration. They didn't plan out who would jump where. Nobody worried about what chants they would chant or what music they would play in the clubhouse.
If they had not celebrated, the rocks would have cried out.
I think our problem is that we are not really sure that Jesus won.
We are not really confident what a good God God ...1