The Oakland A’s host the New York Mets at the Oakland Coliseum in 2022.

Photograph by Caleb Woods via Unsplash

In the annals of baseball, names like Vida Blue, Reggie Jackson, Mark McGwire, and Dennis Eckersley stand among the greatest ever to play the game. These players, alongside others like Rickey Henderson and José Canseco, carved their place in history not only as legends of the sport but as pillars of the Oakland Athletics, a franchise synonymous with cycles of excellence, decline, rebuilding, and Moneyball. The Athletics, a team steeped in tradition, delivered countless memorable moments — from stolen bases and clutch home runs to no-hitters and World Series triumphs. Yet these same players, like the game they represent, also embody the complexities of life: triumph, controversy, and everything in between.

For many, baseball is more than just a game — it’s a thread that connects generations. My love for the sport was passed down from my father, a native of Oakland, California, who grew up in the “East Bay,” where loyalty to the Athletics runs deep. Much like the Southern tradition of grits, Oakland fandom is ingrained, almost as if it’s infused in the water. My father played various sports, but his affinity for baseball was unique. He even had a brief brush with the Athletics’ farm system as a summer league catcher. While he eventually moved on, seeing the game as just one chapter of his life, his love of the sport was passed to me, even though I never quite reached his level of athleticism.

Baseball, for me, has always been more than just a pastime. It’s a symbol of nostalgia, drama, and simplicity. The rules are clear…until they aren’t. There are clearly defined boundaries mixed in with human error. Every stadium is unique to the point that they must create “ground rules” for each field. Yet, there are universal rules that apply to every field. 90 feet. 60 feet 6 inches. 18 inches. Nine innings. Nine players per side. Uniforms with caps are mandatory. A player or coach can be ejected from a game for saying the magic word “you” to an umpire, while fans can use vile, profane, and insulting language toward umpires and players while keeping their seats.

I attended my first professional game at the Oakland Coliseum in 1988, at just six years old. The grandeur of the stadium, the pristine grass, and the iconic kelly-green jerseys made an indelible impression. I watched future Hall of Famers like McGwire, Canseco, and Eckersley without fully appreciating their greatness. Yet, even as a child, I sensed the deep connection between the team and its city — a relationship rooted in tradition and loyalty.

That loyalty, however, is not without its heartbreaks. My greatest love is for the church, the Church, with its highs and lows, triumphs and struggles. While my father gifted me the love of baseball, it was my mother who nurtured my love for the Church. Her dedication to ministry, service, and the nurturing of our family’s faith left a lasting impact. Much like the legends of baseball, the Church is filled with heroes, living and within the cloud of saints — Peter, Paul, Augustine, Thomas Helwys, Roger Williams, Martin Luther King Jr., Helen Barrett Montgomery, George Truett, Susan Gillies, Tom Wiles, Robin Stoops, and the current staff of ABC Nebraska are some of my faith heroes — each contributing to a rich tapestry of faith, service, and, yes, human imperfection.

Both baseball and the Church are steeped in tradition. They are institutions built on community, ritual, and a deep sense of belonging. But both are also messy and complicated. The Church, much like a baseball team, faces challenges — aging buildings, dwindling attendance, leadership changes — yet it remains a place where life’s milestones are celebrated and where, amid the chaos, we come together in search of something greater.

Church remains one of the few places where all of life is embraced, nurtured, and celebrated. We celebrate birth, we baptize members into the beloved community, share meals and fellowship, honor anniversaries, graduations, and promotions. The church feeds the hungry, challenges oppression, calls for peace in seasons of war, and engages uniquely in local matters. The church walks with our loved ones into the transition of death, grieves with the living, and supports one another through any number of crises. The church is where we learn to live side by side with people to build up the beloved community. This is all done while being shaped by the story of Jesus every time we gather. 

The church is messy because it is real life smashed together with real people following a resurrected Jesus. It is not as simple as listening to good preaching once a week or participating in a video-driven small group. It is not all candle-lit Christmas carols, Easter dresses, and picnic potlucks. It includes seasons of being nervous about finances, leadership gaps, and storm debris in the parking lot. It is the emotionally exhausted, mentally strained, physically limited, and socially lonely living side by side as image bearers of God filled with the hope of resurrection.

The final home game at the Oakland Coliseum on September 26, 2024, marked the end of an era. As fans chanted “Oak-land-A’s!” and Max Schuemann carried the team flag around the field, I wept in my living room. For over half a century, the Coliseum had been the Athletics’ home, a symbol of the city’s blue-collar roots and the unwavering support of its fans. But now, like so many chapters in life, it had come to an end.

The parallels between the Athletics’ departure and the struggles of the modern Church are striking. Just as a baseball team may relocate, churches, too, face transitions. Congregations move, buildings close, and communities change. In Nebraska, where I live, most counties see measurable church attendance declines. Yet, despite these challenges, the mission of the Church endures. It continues to be a place where people gather to pray, eat, learn, and grow together — a tradition that stretches back millennia.

When a church closes, it’s a profound loss for its members. I, too, weep deeply every time I am called to help a church close. I grieve with the members who must vote to say goodbye, and I mourn with pastors who wonder what they could have done differently. It’s a moment of grief and reflection as we remember how God has been present throughout its history. When these seasons of transition occur, we need liturgies, laments, and celebrations to help us remember what is lost when this church closes. We also need good practices to help the people move into new congregations because the more significant call to gather, pray, eat, and learn does not stop when a specific congregation closes. Much like the Athletics’ fans, we must find a way to move forward, to remember the good, and to continue the mission in new and sometimes unexpected ways.

As the Athletics leave Oakland and as churches across the country face their own uncertainties, one thing remains true: both baseball and the Church are more extensive than any one moment, season, or location. They are about people, tradition, and a shared sense of purpose. They call us into their stories of hope, heartbreak, resilience, and renewal.

The game will go on, and so will the Church. As we navigate today’s challenges, we can take comfort in the knowledge that both are, at their core, about bringing people together in a shared pursuit of something greater than ourselves.

The most common phrase uttered after a losing baseball season is “There is always next year.” That sounds like the church’s deep hope in the resurrection of Jesus, when we proclaim, “He has died, he has risen, he will come again.”