Meat Squad Christianity
I was a little nervous when Chris came to our youth group. He and I were friends from the football team in high school.
Both of us had moved from end-of-the bench roles our junior year to starting positions our senior year. I was fast, and played cornerback. He was strong, and played linebacker.
As juniors, we were both on the meat squad. Our assignment was to play the opposing team’s offense and defense during each week of practice. Our team finished second in our state that year. Let’s just say this: playing meat squad was not fun. Chris and I commiserated together a lot.
During that time, Chris discovered that I went to church, and more than that, liked it. He thought it was a little strange, since he had mostly given it up since his first communion. The idea that a friend of his actually enjoyed church seemed foreign to him.
That was our junior year. A lot had changed since then. Now we were seniors: it was our turn to beat up on the meat squad. (I liked that much better, by the way.) In addition, Chris developed a fascination with spiritual things. We’d enjoy lively conversations about God during school and after practice.
Attending high school in Lake Havasu required mammoth road trips to Phoenix for athletic events. Unlike today’s students, we used an everyday, bumpy, uncomfortable, hot school bus for these four hour drives. (It was uphill both ways, of course.)
Following one of these games, Chris peppered me with questions. We spent the whole trip talking about Jesus. I remember collapsing into bed at three o’clock in the morning, sore from the game, exhausted from the trip, and exhilarated from the conversation.
On Monday Chris sought me out at lunch. I could tell from the smirk on his face that something was up. “Guess what?” he said. “I decided to become a Jesus Freak just like you!”
I smiled at his sarcasm, but was thrilled by his decision to follow Christ. It would be nice to have a friend on the team who shared my faith. However, his next comment rather unnerved me. “I’m going to go with you to youth group this week.”
I loved my youth group, but I wasn’t sure Chris would. For one thing, we weren’t exactly “cool.” There were about three dozen of us from every facet of our high school’s social strata. What would he think about such an eclectic collection of students?
Besides, our meetings were a little amateurish. We didn’t have a slick program. Sitting in a large circle, we’d sing a few songs. Students led the lessons. At the end, we’d stand, hold hands, and say conversational prayers. I was afraid Chris might think it was rather boring and strange.
I need not have worried. After the meeting, Chris said, “That was fantastic!”
That evening I learned there is something magnetic about sincere people gathering in a simple setting to express their love for God and their love for one another. Chris felt it. He sensed a connection between our love for God and his newly found faith, and it was attractive to him. He wasn’t looking for slick and polished; he was looking for simple and sincere.
It is a lesson I’ve never forgotten. As a creative person, I appreciate excellence. Others have said, and I agree: excellence honors God and inspires people. But programmatic excellence is never a substitute for sincerity and authenticity.
In fact, forced to choose between the two, give me sincerity every time. For without it, excellence feels like playing on the meat squad all over again.
Both of us had moved from end-of-the bench roles our junior year to starting positions our senior year. I was fast, and played cornerback. He was strong, and played linebacker.
As juniors, we were both on the meat squad. Our assignment was to play the opposing team’s offense and defense during each week of practice. Our team finished second in our state that year. Let’s just say this: playing meat squad was not fun. Chris and I commiserated together a lot.
During that time, Chris discovered that I went to church, and more than that, liked it. He thought it was a little strange, since he had mostly given it up since his first communion. The idea that a friend of his actually enjoyed church seemed foreign to him.
That was our junior year. A lot had changed since then. Now we were seniors: it was our turn to beat up on the meat squad. (I liked that much better, by the way.) In addition, Chris developed a fascination with spiritual things. We’d enjoy lively conversations about God during school and after practice.
Attending high school in Lake Havasu required mammoth road trips to Phoenix for athletic events. Unlike today’s students, we used an everyday, bumpy, uncomfortable, hot school bus for these four hour drives. (It was uphill both ways, of course.)
Following one of these games, Chris peppered me with questions. We spent the whole trip talking about Jesus. I remember collapsing into bed at three o’clock in the morning, sore from the game, exhausted from the trip, and exhilarated from the conversation.
On Monday Chris sought me out at lunch. I could tell from the smirk on his face that something was up. “Guess what?” he said. “I decided to become a Jesus Freak just like you!”
I smiled at his sarcasm, but was thrilled by his decision to follow Christ. It would be nice to have a friend on the team who shared my faith. However, his next comment rather unnerved me. “I’m going to go with you to youth group this week.”
I loved my youth group, but I wasn’t sure Chris would. For one thing, we weren’t exactly “cool.” There were about three dozen of us from every facet of our high school’s social strata. What would he think about such an eclectic collection of students?
Besides, our meetings were a little amateurish. We didn’t have a slick program. Sitting in a large circle, we’d sing a few songs. Students led the lessons. At the end, we’d stand, hold hands, and say conversational prayers. I was afraid Chris might think it was rather boring and strange.
I need not have worried. After the meeting, Chris said, “That was fantastic!”
That evening I learned there is something magnetic about sincere people gathering in a simple setting to express their love for God and their love for one another. Chris felt it. He sensed a connection between our love for God and his newly found faith, and it was attractive to him. He wasn’t looking for slick and polished; he was looking for simple and sincere.
It is a lesson I’ve never forgotten. As a creative person, I appreciate excellence. Others have said, and I agree: excellence honors God and inspires people. But programmatic excellence is never a substitute for sincerity and authenticity.
In fact, forced to choose between the two, give me sincerity every time. For without it, excellence feels like playing on the meat squad all over again.