Upon the death of Nelson Mandela earlier this week it was almost impossible to get a word in edgewise in social media, amidst the tweets and Facebook statuses of quotation or tribute. This is all well and good and appropriate.
My mind, not surprisingly, went to one of the ways in which Mandela demonstrated an unusually cagey and creative understanding of how to bring people together. There are two different movies -- a documentary, The 16th Man, and a more Hollywood effort, Invictus (with Morgan Freeman as Mandela, also starring Matt Damon), which recount the story of how Mandela, relatively new leader of a still-fractious and uneven South Africa post-apartheid, made a concerted and emphatic display of public support for South Africa's white rugby team as a means of bridging the gap between himself and white South Africans, who ranged from fearful to suspicious to angry, and of nudging black South Africans away from their own suspicions. One can quibble about the long-term effectiveness of the maneuver, but in the moment it was an inspired and savvy move.
To me it seems that Mandela (who was apparently a boxer in his younger days) grasped something about the effect of sports and sports fandom that has, at times, the power to be good. By no means does it always work out that way, but there are times that a sporting event has (at least in the short term) transformative and unifying powers that the church only wishes it could experience.
Whatever else may be true about a sporting event, it's unpredictable. You might think that just because the Yankees are perennial powers and, say, the Royals are not, the Yankees should always beat the Royals; still, on any given day, the Royals might just beat the Yankees. This glimmer of hope, no matter how unlikely the upset or how little it might matter in the grand scheme of life (or even in the grand scheme of a sporting season), makes a game an opportunity for a particular kind of bonding in hopes of that unexpected outcome, that small shining moment.
That bonding can cut across lines that would prove uncrossable outside the stadium (including, quite often, in the church). The flaming lib and the Tea Partier unite over that unbelievable double play or no-look pass and thunderous dunk, without worrying about political affiliations. It's temporary, to be sure, but it's not any less striking for that. If it happens enough times, maybe it turns out to be less temporary after all.
No, it doesn't always turn out well. Fans can turn ugly, seemingly at the drop of a hat. Maybe the ultimate manifestation of this (aside from online flaming done under the cowardly cover of anonymity) is the post-championship riot. Bizarrely, this is often the work of the winning team's fans. I don't understand where this comes from; is it a consequence of forgetting that you didn't do a damn thing to help your team win? Or something like that cowardice of anonymity, giving the weak-minded permission to behave like an ass because they're part of a crowd?
Still, I have to acknowledge that I've felt that strange passion, that sweep of hopefulness and despair and then unexpected hope again, even if it was a meaningless late-season game for a last-place team. The unexpected connection has power, no matter how small it may be. It has that momentary effect of exaltation, of something like joy; and if it urges the fan on towards the experience of real joy, so much the better. Even today, as the only person in the whole sports bar watching and trying to will Sporting Kansas City to the MLS Cup win (and they did win), I could see the sellout crowd at Sporting Park (some of whom would probably terrify me in real life) and take on some form of shared passion.
Mandela picked up on something, from who knows where, and found a way to break down a little bit of mistrust in a deeply divided and mistrustful nation. Of course, it helps that the rugby team did cooperate by winning the championship. One has to suspect, though, that Mandela might have felt he didn't have a whole lot else to work with at the time, and made a play with what he had available.
What, then, is the church's excuse?
Too often, it seems, the church teeters towards resembling the more hopeless or even destructive effects associated with fandom. We get tribal, sometimes destructively so. We look at declining attendance numbers and disappearing societal status and plunge ourselves (active verb) into despair. Despite being the faith tradition that sings "my hope is built on nothing less than Jesus's blood and righteousness," we tend to act as if our hope is built on something less, something far, far less.
This leads, circling back around to sports, to some odd intersections between faith groups and games. One Christian tradition will, in a bizarre way, somehow cling to the hope that because our quarterback is better, our church style must be better. Or we transfer our religion-like passions onto the playing field (remember where this blog gets its title: "football isn't a religion, it's way more important than that"). Feats of physical strength take the place of spiritual humility and wisdom (does anybody else remember the "Power Team"?). More effort is put into displays of religious zeal than in practice of that zeal. Writing as the second week of Advent approaches, I can't help but see some parallel in the impatience of many churches or Christians with the waiting and anticipation implicit in that liturgical season and the horribly impatient stance of so many fans for their team (Cubs fans excluded, I guess). Win. Now. Or Else.
I have to suspect that Mandela was not so naive as to think a rugby championship was going to "heal" South Africa, that there was much hard and painful work left to do (and still is even at his passing). The church isn't going to be reformed (in the manner of Calvin's reformata et semper reformanda) by quick fixes or feats of strength, any more than the Seattle Mariners are going to win the World Series just because they signed away the Yankees' second baseman. The work is hard, but we have a hope that is so much more than any earthly hope. If a mere rugby team could work for Nelson Mandela, why in the world are we in the church so poor at acting like we have an even greater hope?
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