One pastor’s toughest call.
He’s never really asked for much. He’s not the kind of boy who thinks about what you should get him for his next birthday or how much you owe him. He is happy with a hug and an occasional wrestling match with Dad.
That’s what made the whole thing so ugly. If he were the type of kid who nagged or complained all the time, it wouldn’t have been so traumatic.
In the spring of ’89, he asked for one thing: he wanted to play little league baseball.
His request surprised me; he wasn’t particularly overpowering at the plate or nimble in the field. Surely, I thought, he’ll change his mind after he realizes his brother wasn’t interested in playing this year. But no, he still wanted to play.
“No problem,” I told him. “You can play ball this year.”
I smiled along with his mom as he ran down the hall clapping and laughing. He was surprised and excited when I took him to Costco to try out the aluminum bats and leather gloves (he hadn’t thought to ask me to buy him a bat and glove). My heart felt boyish as he described in detail his strategy for improving his batting average and his preference for being assigned to a team that wore his beloved Dodger Blue.
His requests were so easy and his attitude so pure-even on that day a few weeks later when I sat across from him in the living room. Facing him was more difficult than I anticipated.
“What’s up. Dad?” he asked as he bounced and flopped sideways into the blue chair. Normally I’d have reminded him not to do that and to sit straight forward in the chair, but not today.
“I’ve made a mistake that directly affects you,” I told him. He stared at me with those trusting, curious hazel eyes. “I didn’t get you signed up for baseball in time, and now the teams are full. You won’t be able to play ball this year.”
I wish he had lashed out at me or done something to show that, if only for that moment, he was worthy of my neglect. But the simple-hearted, 10-year-old boy who never has asked for much just sat there and stared at me. It was, I’m sure, the same look Jesus gave Peter after he had heard his disciple deny him on the night of his betrayal.
“How do you feel about this?”
“I really wanted to play. Dad,” he answered in a half-whisper, daring not to blink his eyes for fear of tears.
“I blew it. I’m sorry, Scudder.”
“I know, Dad,” he said softly. And, looking down, he got up from the blue chair, walked to his room, and quietly closed the door behind him.
Hate is a strong emotion. It’s an ugly word with dark ramifications. But if I ever hated myself and my “call to ministry,” it was that evening. I had been so busy “pastoring” and “succeeding” I had forgotten to care for my own son.
I failed that day. I broke his heart. I gave him a reason to despise the church and resent the Lord. He never really has asked for much, and little is exactly what he got from his dad that day.
May God have mercy on me-and him!
* * *
Contrition can come easy. The “acts befitting repentance” can be something else. Even when guilt has left its unmistakable impression, doing the right thing the next time isn’t automatic. Consider the sequel to the episode above.
I could be working on my sermon, I said to myself, or calling on that new couple that has been visiting the church. Either of those would have been acceptable options for the use of a Sunday afternoon, easily affirmed by both my superintendent and the church council. But instead I felt cornered by the competing demands of what I needed to do and what I should do.
“Wanna play a game of catch. Dad?” the boy asked. “I’ll pretend I’m a major league pitcher and you can pretend you’re my all-star catcher. You can call balls and strikes for me.”
In this dungeon of conflicting priorities, the Holy Spirit paused to listen and see whether or not anything at all had been learned from the last challenge this son and his love for baseball had afforded.
Sensing the hesitation and his impending failure to lure his father outside, the boy tried to sweeten the pot.
“Tell you what, Dad. You can pitch to me. You can throw as hard as you want to ’cause I can catch just about anything.” He paused a moment before trying to close the sale. “It’ll be fun, Dad.”
More out of paternal obligation than honest desire, the tired pastor took his mitt from the outstretched hand. The youngster exploded out the back door to set up a makeshift infield with the house as a backstop.
The reluctant all-star took his preferred position behind home plate.
“Play ball,” he mumbled with little emotion. Then he loosened his necktie, flipped it over his shoulder, gathered his slacks at the thigh, squatted down, and asked for the first pitch from a grinning, wide-eyed young rookie pitcher.
“Ball one, low!” barked the umpire/catcher as he tossed the ball back in the direction of the old shoe that served as a pitching rubber. And the game was on.
The two went on, pitching, catching, shaking off signs, and visiting at the mound only to be chastised by the umpire-the boy in his dirty socks and the man in his shirt and tie. The rookie pitcher and the old all-star catcher were enjoying each other as never before. But then, in the bottom of the ninth . . .
“The bases are loaded, Scudder. You can’t afford to walk this guy or you’ll walk in the tying run. You have to pitch to him.” And then, after throwing five good pitches but only seeing two called for strikes, the pitcher called “time.” As the catcher trotted out to the mound, the boy couldn’t help but grin.
“Let’s throw this bum the best fastball he’s ever seen,” said the catcher. “Keep it low and away and throw it as hard as you can. Okay?”
The answer came back through a smile as wide as the infield. “No problemo. This guy is history.”
Neither of them really knew what went wrong. The stretch looked good and the delivery seemed smooth. But somehow the ball decided to sail wildly toward the backstop. The catcher employed every muscle trying to reach the errant pitch, evidenced by the fresh grass stains on his shirt and slacks. But this fast ball eluded even an all-star. The ball bounced once and then crashed through two panes of glass and into the basement.
A happy, carefree catcher dove for the ball, but the tumble must have reminded him that he never really wanted to play in the first place. He looked back to see his son fall to his knees and cover his head in grief. So far as the man was concerned, the boy had assumed the proper position.
Repairing the window would cost both money and time. The man had an abundance of neither. He could already feel the passion working its way from his stomach to his mouth. And this wild young pitcher would receive its full effect. He would be yelled at, sent to his room, and told to put away his glove for a week!
But as he turned and opened his mouth, something caused him to pause. Maybe it was compassion, maybe guilt. Maybe the earlier contrition was being applied.
Whatever it was, the pastor suddenly realized his son, who could have been riding his bike, watching television, or playing with other kids, had asked for time with his dad.
As the man viewed his son, still in a fetal position, another image came to mind. It was the distant memory of a ball game on Los Palmas Street where Mike Dipietro was trying to stretch a single into a double. In his haste to get the ball to second, a younger version of the man threw it straight through the middle of Mr. and Mrs. Shields’ new station wagon. He expected a good whipping from his own dad. After all, he had been warned about playing ball in the street. He received, instead, a recommendation that he be sure he was properly set before he threw the ball the next time.
Only a second had passed since the ball had crashed through the basement window.
With his son still folded and quivering on the grass, the angry, busy, pastor/father picked himself up off the ground, pondering what he should say.
He grabbed a spare ball, walked back to the dog dish that functioned as home plate, gathered his grass-stained slacks at the thigh, and resumed the catcher’s position.
The boy looked up and saw the ball lobbed back to him.
“Ball four,” said the catcher/umpire. “Next batter.”
The game continued, but the pastor wasn’t aware of just how long. He was lost in the enjoyment of the sound of the hardball being sucked into his mitt and his son’s laughter after a perfect pitch over the middle of the dog dish was called a ball.
And each time he watched his son, with dirty socks and wrinkled cap, come to a stretch to check a ghost runner’s lead, the catcher/umpire/pastor/dad could hear the clang of another chain as it fell to the infield.
When the game finally ended, in extra innings, he realized that the request he’d seen as another chain of his enslavement had actually become his catapult into freedom.
-Art Greco
Tigard Covenant Church
Tigard, Oregon
116 SUMMER/93
Copyright © 1993 by the author or Christianity Today/Leadership Journal. Click here for reprint information on Leadership Journal.
