When I use the word 'cricket' in the United States, an image of a fiddle-playing black insect springs to mind. It brings back memories of summer evenings, windows open, a warm breeze filtering in through the screen and the crickets singing for company, a symphony of summer love.
But when I use the word 'cricket' in Australia, it has to do with a pitch (the field on which a game is played), a wicket, (not the one that lives on Endor) and bowling, (but there are not ten pins and the ball is much lighter). It is not a game I grew up with, and one with which I only have a passing interest in. For those who have mastered the art of Test Cricket (a true test of endurance and patience - FIVE DAYS of bunting and foul balls, I think) I can appreciate the skill involved.
The other day, as I was walking home from work wandering across a path I don't normally take, I stumbled across a pickup cricket game on a pitch in an isolated park. The late afternoon was bright and gloriously sunny; laughter could be heard - some heckling and a few players idling behind the wickets (a set of thin posts behind the batter with a piece of wood on top). As it is not my game, I wouldn't normally have stopped, but I walked close enough to one of the players and thought I'd have a chat.
He looked like Jesus, maybe that's why.
"Hey, you want to play?" I looked around to see if he was actually speaking to me, but his smile was wide.
"Uh, sure, I'd love to." That might have been a slight overstatement, but what I'm finding lately is, that if I've been invited to do something, I will think twice before rejecting the invitation.
There was a crack of the bat and he took off running. "Maybe next time, okay?" He laughed and inwardly I was thankful that my skills for cricket wouldn't be put on display. Although similar to baseball, cricket certainly has its own quirks that confound me. Especially hitting the ball off a bounce.
I moved down the line of fielders and stopped next to one whose arms were folded. He looked like more of a bystander than an outfielder. "Hello," his voice was soft, but welcoming. He had glasses on and his accent was open and rich. He was from India, he told me eventually. All of the guys playing were.
"Are you good at this game?" I asked.
"Not particularly," he chuckled, "but I like being with my friends."
"What do you talk about?"
"Home."
At that moment, we felt like brothers. I think about home a lot nowadays. When there is no possible way to travel, connect and to feel the warm embrace of people you haven't seen for a while, there is an ache and an itch that cannot be soothed or scratched.
"What do you miss about it?"
His eyes stared to the west, the golden sun reflecting in his brown eyes. "Everything: sights, sounds, smells, but mostly people. But," he came back to the present, "I have these guys, my friends. It will be okay."
I nodded. It was all I could think of to do. We stood side by side, strangers on a similar journey, watching the game. For a moment we stood like that, then I turned and bid him goodbye. Suddenly, though, I remembered my manners. "I should have introduced myself. I'm Reid." He smiled and told me his name, then, almost as an illicit afterthought in our pandemic world, he reached out his hand. "Nice to meet you. I hope I see you again."
As I walked the last kilometer home, I thought about the experience and its implications for a Cricket Church. I noticed that the first instinct of the players was to invite me into the game. Even though I didn't know the rules, even though I might be seen as a hindrance to the team, even though I didn't look or sound like them, invitation without expectation is the first thought.
You see, for them, this game was about remembering - an echo of home. The Church, its worship, the way it works and lives and moves, is about remembering the echo from Home. Even as the writer of Hebrews reminds us that all the people of faith, foreigners in a land of promise, "saw (the promises) from a great distance, greeted them and confessed they were foreigners and temporary residents on the earth. Now those who say such things make it clear that they are seeking a homeland. If they were thinking about where they came from, they would have had an opportunity to return. But they now desire a better place - a heavenly one. Therefore, God is not ashamed to be called their God, for he has prepared a city for them." (Hebrews 11:13-16 CSB).
There is an echo of heaven inside all of us, resounding quietly in the corners of our souls, reminding us that even though this life is good (and hard), there is something better.
What if the Church was like this? Instead of worrying about better sermons, or upbeat music, or making sure that Sunday morning worship was 'perfect', or even inviting people to come along to a building, what if we simply did what we were made to do and walk alongside fellow sojourners who are all seeking a common homeland - heaven. Along that journey, we tell the stories of the path that brought us together; along the journey, we admit that we don't know all the rules and, frankly, that the game confuses us sometimes; along the journey, we recognize that although the game will have fun moments, eventually there will be a time to put the bat down and we will be called home. What if we didn't see the Church's mission as programs, resources or 'targeting' groups, but simply a matter of connection through story?
Doesn't that sound like Church to you?
When we turn to leave from the game, the Church extends a hand of blessing, an exchange of names and the opportunity for a 'see you later.' Because in the end, that's what it all adds up to. 'I'll see you when we're all called home.'
I hope that wherever you are, you can find your own 'Cricket Church.'
