He’s all-knowing. He’s all-loving, and He’s all powerful.
He’s also undefeated.
This weekend, as millions of Americans subject themselves to the never-ending Greg Gumbel rumble that is March Madness, there will be miracles (Dan Werner’s UF career is mercifully over), heartbreaks (getting beaten on a last-second shot by a 13-seeded team named the Racers) and circus-like shots that make Chinese gymnasts look like sorority girls stumbling over their heels and birthday signs in a drunken midtown excursion.
But the credit for the victories? Leave that to the the Almighty.
What else would you expect from the Divine Hand that has caught every Super Bowl-winning touchdown, used His all-seeing eye to pick up that 2-2 slider in the dirt and put it in the seats or “inspired” TapouT-wearing, testosterone-fueled champions to pound their opponent’s face into chuck roast? Heaven help the Vegas bookie who gives God 3-1 odds.
Could you imagine if He got credited for some of sports’ less-than holy moments?
Jim Nantz: “Hey Tiger, how did you end up buried underneath a pile of teenage girls?”
Manwhore — I mean Tiger: ”You know Jim, that’s the place God put me.”
John Madden: “Coach Mora, what about the playoffs?”
Jim Mora: “Plaayoffs?! Thoust don’t talk about the playoffs in the presence of the Lord. Playoffs?! Thoust kidding me?! Playoffs?!”
Bob Costas: “Mr. Tyson, how have you managed to squander all your earnings on half a face tattoo?”
Iron Mike: ”The Lawd wurks in mysteewious ways, Bob.”
OK, so that last one doesn’t sound that unfathomable.
On top of that, there’s a whole roster full of supreme beings waiting to get off the bench. Why not put them in, coach? Buddha hasn’t won a slam-dunk contest since the Coolidge administration. Lord Xenu is still waiting to take the ball in the ninth inning at Yankee Stadium. Heck, even Joseph Smith is just hoping to work a housewives bingo tournament.
On second thought, scratch that — nobody wins in that scenario.
Furthermore, since when does God get cut so much slack? Middle-aged husbands get an estrogen beatdown from their wives for trying to check score updates on their phones for the Browns-Raiders game (still nothing!) while shopping at Bed Bath & Beyond. Meanwhile, The Big Guy gets to watch every game from the 50-yard line while countries get torn apart by earthquakes, diseases, ravaging innocent people. And Nicolas Cage is still allowed to be in movies. That’s not playing to win the game.
Before a mob carrying torches and pitchforks comes knocking on my door offering salvation and a slew of slaughter, understand that I’m not calling anyone’s religious convictions into question. I have not come to spread pinko commie atheistic drivel. Rather, by sending God to the showers, we are doing millions of believers a favor by not cheapening His name. He should be someone a person looks toward to get through the rough patches, should he or she choose, not to serve as an ESPN ticker update.
But He’s still allowed to hate NASCAR.
