Failing into Grace
The Error That Changed Everything
In the 1960s, the Mets were terrible. Not just bad - - lovably, inventively, heartbreakingly terrible. And in the middle of all that losing, one fan kept the faith with a marker and a message. He was known as Sign Man, Karl Ehrhardt. Always seated in the box seats on the third base line at Shea Stadium, derby on his head and a folder full of signs at his feet. He brought 60 to every game, handpicked from a collection of 1,200, each ready for a moment. Some were clever, some were brutal, all were honest.
One of his signs read:
“To err is human. To forgive is a Mets fan.”
I remember seeing him when I was a kid. He was a legend; part cheerleader, part critic, part poet of the bleachers. And that sign? That one stuck with me.
Because baseball is a game of failure. Even the greats fail more than they succeed. Babe Ruth hit 714 home runs - - and struck out 1,330 times. Cy Young won 511 games - - and lost 316. That’s the rhythm of the game: try, fail, recover, repeat.
But not every error gets that kind of turnaround.
Sometimes the error becomes the moment - - the one you carry, the one who have to learn to live with. Just ask Bill Buckner.
Game 6. 1986 World Series. Red Sox vs. Mets. Bottom of the 10th. The ball trickles through Buckner’s legs at first base, and the Mets go on to win. That single play cost him years of peace. Boston needed a villain. Buckner, a solid player with a long career, became the face of failure. He stayed away from Fenway. The city stayed mad.
Until 2004.When the Red Sox finally won the World Series, fans held up a banner that read:
“Forgive Buckner.”
It took 18 years - - but grace caught up.
That’s the thing about errors. They don’t define the whole game. They’re part of it. Part of us. Not just on the field but in the living rooms and hospital rooms and quiet conversations that never quite go the way we hoped. We all make errors.
We speak too quickly, or not at all. We say things we wish we could take back, and leave other things unsaid until it's too late. We mess up relationships, drift from people we love, miss the mark as parents, partners, friends. There are divorces, estrangements, and phone calls we still haven’t returned. And sometimes we wear our errors like a jersey - - as if that one play, that one failure, is the whole story.
Grace remembers differently - - not to condemn, but to redeem. Its voice doesn’t shout; it whispers hope.
Grace is stubborn - - holding your hand through the long nights, offering a clean slate in the morning, and whispering, “You’re still welcome here,”
even after the mess. It’s not just forgiveness, it’s so much more. It’s restoration. A reminder that we are not the sum of our failures, but the beloved bearers of a story still unfolding.
Grace is God’s way of saying, “I see all of you — and I’m not going anywhere.”
Grace shows up not to excuse what happened, but to help you stand up again. It’s the banner in the crowd after 18 long years. It’s the walk-off home run you never saw coming. It doesn’t erase the past, but it refuses to let the worst thing be the last thing.
In The Dark Knight, Alfred says to Bruce Wayne, “Why do we fall? So, we can learn to pick ourselves up.”
That’s grace. Not the absence of failure but the courage to rise again, story still unfolding.
We all miss the grounder. We all make the wild throw. We all have those plays we’d rather forget. But grace doesn’t show up after perfection - it shows up in the middle of the mess.
Sometimes, the most sacred stories begin in failure. Often, the most unlikely altars are built right there - - in the rubble of regret, in the shadow of a mistake, in the space where grace rushes in.
And sometimes, the loudest cheer comes after the biggest mistake.
Just ask a Mets fan.
Legend has it that we have President William Howard Taft to thank for the 7th-inning stretch. The story goes that on April 14, 1910, during Opening Day at Griffith Stadium in Washington, D.C., President Taft stood up to stretch his legs. It was a game between the Washington Senators and the Philadelphia Athletics. Taft wasn’t trying to make a statement or start a tradition. He was just - - uncomfortable. The wooden seat didn’t exactly accommodate his 300-pound frame. But when the President stood up, the crowd instinctively rose with him - - out of respect, maybe confusion, maybe relief. And just like that, a ritual was born. That same day, Taft also tossed out the very first ceremonial first pitch by a sitting U.S. president - - starting yet another baseball tradition that continues to this day. Now, historians will argue about whether that’s really how the 7th inning stretch started. There are earlier mentions, of course. But either way, I love the image: a moment of discomfort turned into tradition. A small pause that became sacred, not because it was planned, but because people stood together. The 7th inning stretch isn’t just a break in the game. It’s a shared breath. A reset. A moment where the music plays, fans stand up, arms go skyward, maybe someone sings off-key, maybe someone grabs a hot dog. And then… we sit back down, ready for what’s next. We don’t talk enough about the holiness of the stretch - - not the physical kind that loosens your muscles, but the emotional and spiritual kind that gives your soul room to breathe. I’m talking about the in-between kind. The pause between grief and healing. Between questions and clarity. Between what just happened and what comes next. The sacred space where you’re no longer where you were, but not quite where you’re going. And even in that uncertain middle - - something holy can begin to take shape. Life moves fast. Faster than a fastball. And when fear is driving - - fear of failure, fear of missing out, fear of slowing down - - we tend to barrel through without stopping. We push past our limits, pretend we’re fine, and fill every quiet space with noise. But sacred things happen in the pause. And let’s be honest - - sometimes we avoid the pause on purpose . Because slowing down means facing the thing we’ve been trying to outrun: grief, regret, exhaustion, or just plain emptiness. It’s easier to keep moving than to sit in what hurts. But even silence can be holy. Even stillness can hold us. I’ve had stretches in my life where I didn’t know what to pray, or even if I believed half the things I was supposed to. But I knew enough to stop. To breathe. To sit with the ache instead of shoving it away. It didn’t fix everything. But it kept me from falling apart. When I think about the most meaningful moments in my life, they weren’t always in the big innings - - the wins, the celebrations. Some of them happened in the stretch: sitting in silence with a grieving family, standing still at a graveside, pausing in the middle of a sermon because the lump in my throat wouldn’t budge. Sometimes the most honest thing we can do is stop. Maybe that’s why ballparks all over the country honor this odd little moment. It’s not about who’s winning or who’s up next. It’s about giving everyone - - players, fans, vendors - - a chance to exhale. To stand up. To stretch. To remember they’re human. In the chaos of life, we need our own sacred stretches. A quiet coffee before the house wakes up. A deep breath before returning that difficult call. A walk. A song. A few tears. A prayer whispered through clenched teeth. These aren’t delays - - they’re sacred pauses. They keep us from burning out. They remind us we’re not machines. So here’s your permission ( not that you need it ): Take the stretch. Stand up. Step away. Sing off-key. Reach toward the sky. Not because you have to, but because sometimes the sacred sneaks in when we stop long enough to let it catch up. Because some of the most unlikely altars are built in those in-between moments — where the game slows, the noise softens, and something holy sneaks in. Because the game will go on. But you? You matter more.
I still remember the first time I stood at home plate. No tee. No coach lobbing soft pitches. Just me, a bat, and a kid on the mound who looked way too confident for someone missing half his front teeth. I was nervous. More than nervous - - I was terrified. My hands were sweating, my knees wobbled, and I could hear my own heartbeat like a drumbeat in my ears. I didn’t know what I was doing, not really. But there I was, standing in the box, trying to look like I belonged. I didn’t swing. Didn’t hit. Didn’t strike out either. The pitcher couldn’t find the strike zone, and eventually, I walked. My big debut - - heroic, it was not. But I made it to first base. And weirdly enough, that moment stayed with me, not because of what I did, but because I showed up. And maybe that’s the sacred part. Not the hit. Not the highlight reel. Just the fact that I stepped in. Showing up sounds easy until it’s your turn. Until the spotlight finds you. Until fear creeps in and you’re face-to-face with the possibility of failing - - or worse, being seen. We all have moments like that. The job interview. The hospital room. The hard conversation. The creative leap, the messy prayer, the unsteady yes. And before we take that step, there’s always a voice whispering, “What if I’m not ready? What if I mess this up?” That voice isn’t new. It’s ancient. It showed up at burning bushes. In storm-tossed boats. In the questions of prophets and fishermen and ordinary people asked to do extraordinary things. The pattern shows up over and over again: Fear first. Then the call. Then the trembling yes. Sacred moments rarely arrive with fanfare. They don’t come dressed in certainty or surrounded by hallelujahs. More often, they show up disguised - - in baseball cleats and a nervous sweat. In trembling hands signing a discharge form. In the silence after a diagnosis. In the cracked voice of someone saying, “I’m sorry,” or “I’m scared,” or “I’m here.” Sometimes, the sacred looks like: • An empty page and a blinking cursor. • A church parking lot you haven’t pulled into in years. • A difficult conversation you’ve been rehearsing for days. • A move, a goodbye, a step into something that might not work out. Sacred doesn’t always feel holy in the moment. It often feels risky. Exposed. Even ordinary. But that’s how grace works — it meets us in the midst, not after we’ve figured it all out. There’s a reason the words sacred and scared are made of the same letters. They’re that close - - one breath apart. All it takes is a shift in perspective. A different arrangement of the same life. Because the line between fear and faith isn’t as wide as we think - - and sometimes, the presence of courage in the middle of fear is the holiest thing. Not loud. Not perfect. Just present. Courage, in this space, doesn’t mean you’re fearless. It means you show up anyway. You stand there, knees shaking, heart pounding, still choosing to be seen. Courage is the sacred act of staying - - staying with the moment, the truth, the hope - - even when it’s uncomfortable. It’s trusting that grace doesn’t wait for the absence of fear. It moves right through it. It might mean taking a breath and walking into a room where your grief is still fresh. Or speaking aloud a truth that feels fragile and unfinished. Sometimes, it’s just making it through the day with your heart still open. That, too, is sacred. Because sometimes the bravest thing isn’t charging ahead. It’s simply not leaving. It’s staying in the box, eyes open, hands trembling, heart wide. I didn’t hit a home run that day. I didn’t even swing the bat. But I showed up. I stood there, scared out of my wits, and waited. That counts for something. It might not make the highlight reel, but it’s still part of the game. And let’s be honest - - most of life is not the highlight reel. It’s foul balls and awkward pauses, it’s wondering if your socks match and hoping nobody notices the spinach in your teeth. It’s showing up with your whole self, even when your whole self is a bit of a mess. That’s where grace does its best work. So if today you’re standing at the plate - - heart pounding, knees knocking, unsure of the rules - - take a breath. Step in anyway. That’s where the sacred starts.
I have always been passionate about the game of baseball. Not just the big-league games on TV or those legendary October moments, but the small stuff too - - the sandlots, the cracked bats, the smell of leather gloves. Baseball has this rhythm that feels like life: long stretches of waiting, bursts of action, moments of joy, and the occasional heartbreak. I never played T-ball or coach-pitch ( neither were available for me ), but I remember vividly the first time I stood at home plate in a real Little League game. I stood in the batter's box with a bat in my hands and a pitcher staring me down. I was terrified. My hands were shaking, my knees felt like rubber, and I had no idea what I was doing-not really. I didn't strike out, but not because of anything I did. The pitcher wasn't the best, and I was too scared to swing. Eventually, I walked. My big debut was nothing heroic, but I made it to first base. And I learned something that day: showing up is half the battle, even when you're scared out of your mind. I didn't know it then, but there's something deeply sacred about those shaky-knee moments - - the ones where fear doesn't disappear, but you move forward anyway. Throughout Scripture, it's often in moments of trembling - - burning bushes, angel visitations, storm-tossed boats-that people encounter the presence of God. Holiness isn't always calm and serene; sometimes it arrives with a pounding heart and a lump in your throat. Sacred and scared share all the same letters-just arranged a little differently. And maybe that's the point. Sometimes, all that stands between fear and holiness is a shift in perspective, a reordering of what we thought we knew. In my experience, the most sacred moments often begin in fear-not because fear is divine, but because that's where grace so often meets us. That's what this series is about: the space between scared and sacred. The ordinary moments that hold more meaning than we realize. Over the next few weeks, I'll share a few reflections from the ballfield and beyond. Not sermons-just stories. About showing up, falling down, stretching out, and holding onto hope when the game goes into extra innings. Because sometimes, the most sacred ground is dusty, unpredictable, and marked by chalk lines. Now, " sacred " is a word people usually save for stained glass and holy places, not outfield grass and dugouts. But here's what I've noticed: sacred moments don't just happen in quiet chapels or mountain sunsets. They sneak up on us in ordinary spaces-sometimes right where the dust rises, the lights hum, and the scoreboard blinks. Think about it: • The first time you step up to the plate in front of a crowd- - you're scared. • The moment you stop to breathe in a world that never slows down - - it feels like you're falling behind. • The day you drop the ball, and everyone sees - - it feels like failure will get the last word. • And when life goes off-script, and you're deep into extra innings - - you're not sure how much longer you can hold on. Sacred doesn't always feel safe. It often starts with that flutter in your stomach, that quickening heartbeat, that voice that says, "What if I strike out?" But if we never show up, we never get to swing. This series is called Sacred in the Sandlot: Finding Grace Between the Sacred and the Scared because I believe those two words belong together. Every holy, ordinary moment in life comes with a little risk. A little vulnerability. A little fear. That's what makes it beautiful. Over the next few weeks, I'll be sharing four reflections inspired by baseball and life: • Stepping Up to the Plate - The Fear of Showing Up • The 7th Inning Stretch - Sacred Pauses in a Fear-Driven World • The Error That Changed Everything - Failing into Grace • Extra Innings - When Life Goes Off Script These aren't sermons. They're stories. Little snapshots of where the sacred hides out-sometimes in plain sight, sometimes in the places that make us sweat a little. So grab your glove, or at least a good seat on the bleachers. And let's see what happens when we lean into the scared places long enough to find the sacred. Because sometimes the most holy ground is covered in dirt.