Midweek Musing- 10/29/24

For many years now, six or seven times a season, my family has made the trek to Bobby Dodd Stadium at Historic Grant Field—though these days it's known as Hyundai Field—thank corporate sponsorship for that. Every fall Saturday, we’re there, cheering on the Yellow Jackets. Win or lose, we always enjoy the day together.

Knowing Atlanta traffic and the nightmare of parking downtown on game days, we plan to arrive early, either to tailgate or hit up The Varsity. These days, college football is more than a game—it’s a full-blown event. The pregame scene has everything: food trucks, vendor booths, bounce houses for kids, radio broadcasts, and concerts by increasingly popular artists (at least according to my kids—I’ll take their word for it since neither James Taylor nor Yo-Yo Ma has shown up yet). I usually wander around, gathering promotional freebies, adding to our growing collection of handheld fans, can koozies, and lanyards from all sorts of companies, from credit unions to Honey Baked Ham.

One fixture on the corner near North Avenue is a street preacher with a loud bullhorn and a few flag-waving helpers. They hand out pamphlets, urging people to repent and avoid hell. If you know me, you know this style of evangelism isn’t my thing. Frankly, I question its effectiveness. I’ve never engaged with this man. Like most people, I give him a wide berth, crossing to the other side of the street. Occasionally, I’ll see someone try to argue with him, but it never goes well.

Earlier this season, as I was heading back to our tailgate after checking out the festivities, one of the preacher's assistants approached me, pamphlet in hand. I was trying to decline politely when, across the street, the preacher himself locked eyes with me, pointed directly, and yelled into his megaphone, "Guilty!"

I felt a flash of embarrassment as a few people looked over. All I could manage to say was, "So, I wonder how he knew?" It earned a few uncomfortable chuckles, and I quickly moved away. The exchange did nothing to convey the heart of the gospel. If anything, it would push someone further from faith rather than closer.

Since then, I’ve thought about that encounter more than once, and I believe I’ve settled on what might make a difference. Imagine if, instead of shouting about guilt, repentance, and hell, this preacher stood on that same corner, pointing at people, and saying, "Forgiven. Beloved. Blessed." That’s the message our world is aching to hear.

We already know when we’ve messed up. Most of us carry mistakes around like Old Jacob Marelys ghost’s chain in A Christmas Carol.

Some of these “mess ups” are known to others, some hidden deep within us. Many of these regrets are hard to forgive, especially when we are the ones trying to forgive ourselves.

But I believe with all of my being that our faith isn’t about condemnation—it’s about forgiveness. I can’t recall a time when Jesus turned away anyone who sought forgiveness. Even from the cross, He forgave.

So, maybe that’s our calling: to continually proclaim forgiveness. The next time someone shouts at you, calling you guilty, remember to answer, "Yes, but also forgiven!"

In the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit. Alleluia Amen.