If you were like me growing up in church, analogies for the Christian life taken from the world of sport (and somehow these seemed ubiquitous in the pulpits of my youth) always came off as a little contrived. The ones that didn't leave you flat felt forced. I recognize, of course, that sporting analogies have a long and deep biblical tradition. Paul himself likened the Christian disciple at various times to a boxer in training, a runner in a footrace, an Olympic athlete striving for the laurels. But comparing an Ephesians 1:17 Christian to a basketball player putting up a hail Mary against the final buzzer in the championship game (true story, true sermon) leaves one feeling like the preacher cared more about his sport of choice than the text he was wrestling with that week.
My sport of choice is squash. And the above paragraph is my disclaimer for the squash-court epiphany I'd like to share today. I was playing with my regular partner the other day, and, though I started off strong, somewhere around the third game in the match, I noticed things starting to slip away from me. I was running ragged, wearing down, chasing shots from pillar to post. Between gasps for oxygen, I could smell skunk on the wind.
Now for those who haven't played, or maybe forget, there's a T roughly in the centre of the squash court (and a little to the back), where the two serving lines converge. It's the prime piece of real-estate in squash, because as long as you're hovering roughly over the T, you can see most of the court laid out in front of you. From the T, you can anticipate drop-shots before they happen; from the T you can reach the back corners with ease; from the T you're in control of your game, and usually his as well. But as my game slowly unraveled, I suddenly realized that I'd not been keeping on the T. Instead I'd been chasing balls all over the place-- into the front pocket, digging deep cross-court, down into the opposite corner, now kitty-corner to where I was before. No wonder I was running down and running out of steam.
As I gasped for breath again between serves, I made a determined decision to stay on the T. After my serve, hover on the T; after my return, get on the T; after that long lunge to recover a drop shot, back to the T. And my game came back. It was actually quite amazing how quickly peace descended on me, as long as I stayed on the T.
Now for the epiphany: because in that moment, as I realized the difference staying on the T made to my game, I suddenly saw an analogy for the Christian life-- for my Christian life. When we "get off the T," and start chasing balls - our personal ambitions, fears, goals, agendas - into the corners and along the edges of life, the game unravels really quickly. When won't hover on the T, we risk burning up our spiritual stamina and burning out our hearts. When we fail to "get back on the T" after every shot, we wind up playing more and more desperately and out of control.
And the T is Christ.
And almost like the sting of a squash ball between the shoulder blades, it walloped me: "You've not been staying on the T." Blogs are probably not the best forums for true confessions, but let me at least say that right there on the court, in one of those rare flashes of clarity, I saw how sloppy I'd become in my discipleship of late, and next to that I saw how much burn-out and chaos I'd been feeling in my spiritual life as a result. And I realized the two were intimately connected: I'd not been staying on the T, and my heart knew it, and my soul had lost its wind because of it. The welt stung, of course, but it also woke me up: as long as you're staying as close to Christ as you possibly can, and keep your eyes open for where he is in any given moment, and move there, you'll be playing (as Paul might have said) "in such a way as to win the prize."
I won't tell you the final score that day, but I will tell you that I left the court with new resolve and eagerness to play (if I haven't yet pushed the sporting analogy too far)-- to play with my heart hovering "on the T."
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