“The smallest kid, a little scraggly-blonde kid named Jared, threw the ball back and forth with me. He asked me again if I would coach. I told him, again, no. They’d have to find someone else to coach the Rams. He caught the ball, stopped, and looked at me. He said, “Okay, but for today, can I please call you ‘Coach’?” When I got home, I had to tell my wife why I was carrying a big bag of footballs, pylons, and flags. I was now coaching the Rams. I was clueless. Over the first eight games, we not only didn’t win; we didn’t score any points. We were shut out, every game. I loved the kids, but I just didn’t know what I was doing. We’d all look over during our practices and see the Yellow Shirt Team Over There, the team that had six football dads, coaching positions, fancy drills, and football-y things I didn’t know about. They were amazing, a well-oiled machine. I feared playing them. We stunk. I think we hit rock bottom when we were penalized for wearing illegal shorts. (Apparently, you can’t wear shorts with pockets in flag football.) To avoid forfeiture, I sent my team into the crowd of parents to randomly ask people if they could swap shorts with them. That was a low point. And we played that team, the Yellow Shirt Team Over There, the one with the dads with visors and whistles and multiple future NCAA recruits, the very last game of the season. We were 0-11. They were 11-0. Sounds like we had no chance, right? Sounds like there’s no way in the world we could possibly beat these guys, right? They laughed at us before the game. Something incredible happened. Our best player, a little guy named Christian, returned the opening kickoff for a touchdown. We were ahead 6-0! So the team that supposedly “didn’t have a chance,” the one that was mocked, derided, considered the worst-coached team in the league, now led the game over the mighty Yellow Team! There were gasps from the crowd. Could the impossible happen? This could be like the 1980 hockey upset, the “Miracle on Ice,” all over again. Unbelievable. I patrolled the sidelines, proudly announcing our intent to go for two! And then we missed that, and then they scored 77 unanswered points, and we lost 77-6. So, yeah, it’s not really that great of a story. Except for one thing. As our dejected, winless kids left the field, the kids who went 0-12 and just got humiliated again, something wonderful happened, something you usually don’t see in football. A white stretch limousine pulled up along the field, a limo with flags. Rams flags. Everyone stopped and stared. The Rams, the playoff-bound Yellow Team, everybody. And a mom said, “Guys, it’s time for your end-of-season party!” The Rams went from dejected losers to royalty. Just like that. They were smiling and laughing and jumping up and down. They all piled into the limo, and off they went for our big pizza-and-swim party. The Yellow Team, coaches and all, were in awe. This is how the kingdom of God works. The last are first, the first are last, and in the end, as much as we want to think our performance is all that matters, the victory has exactly nothing to do with us. We’re human, so we’re going to occasionally feel threatened. It happens. Anger happens too. So do jealousy and bitterness and resentment. But if you want to be a citizen of this other kingdom, the one in which God promises things will be set right in the end, you may as well remind yourself of it all the time. The things you think matter so much? They don’t matter so much. The things you think matter so much? They don’t matter so much. If you put your trust in God, you’re already a “success” because Jesus succeeded. You needn’t be insecure in who you are—not because you’re so great, but because your security isn’t found in who you are. In the end, you’re free to fail all you want, kids, because here’s a sweet thought: The limo is coming for you anyway.”

The Plodding Preacher