Pope Leo and the Miracle Mets
Where faith, baseball, and memory still meet
They’ve elected a new pope. Leo the Fourteenth.
Now, to some, this might sound like just another line in a history book, another white cassock on a Vatican balcony. But for me—raised Catholic, now a United Methodist elder—it cracked open something sacred. Something nostalgic. Something hopeful.
Leo XIV. Now, if you know your papal history, you know this isn’t just a name. It’s a theological breadcrumb leading straight to Leo XIII, one of the great minds and souls of modern Catholicism.
Leo XIII saw a world changing rapidly with industrialization, worker exploitation, and poverty. Instead of staying quiet, he said, “The Church must speak.” In his 1891 document Rerum Novarum, he emphasized that faith isn’t just belief—it’s about how we live. He argued that work has dignity, the economy should serve people, and justice isn’t optional for Christians.
So, what does it mean that this new pope, this first-ever American pope, has taken on Leo’s name? It means he’s sending a message. One that says: This Church won’t hide from the real world.
It’s a signal that the Church may be ready to speak again about justice, economics, power, and compassion. About the Gospel being not just good news but good news for the poor, the outcast and those pushed to the margins. It’s a name that doesn’t stay hidden in abstract theology but reaches into the real lives of people on the ground.
And speaking of choices that speak volumes, let’s get to the real burning question: Cubs or White Sox? For half of Chicago, this isn’t just about baseball loyalty—it’s a matter of worldview.
If he’s a Cubs guy, we’re talking resurrection hope. Decades of waiting. Suffering that somehow strengthens the soul. A theology of patience, joy, and Ivy-covered walls.
If he’s with the White Sox, we’re looking at gritty reformers. South Side energy. Ecclesiology with a chip on its shoulder. Either way, Chicagoans now have something deeply personal to debate, and I love that for them.
As for me? I'm a Mets fan. Yes, that kind of Mets fan. I still remember the summer of ’69—the day Neil Armstrong walked on the moon and the Mets were 9.5 games out of first place. And then… the Miracle. By October, we were world champions. Don’t tell me God doesn’t move in mysterious ways.
And maybe that’s what makes this papal moment so moving for me.
Even though I chose to serve the Church under the cross and flame of Methodism, even though my theology has taken on new hues, the white smoke from St. Peter’s still finds its way into my soul. I watched Pope Leo XIV emerge and felt something ancient and holy stir. A memory of incense. Of kneelers. Of prayers whispered in Latin. Of saints, I still talk to in the quiet.
This new pope may lead a Church I no longer belong to institutionally, but he still leads a part of me. And if his name is any clue, that part of me might get to hope again.
Hope that the Church universal will speak clearly for the vulnerable. Hope that courage and compassion can hold hands. Hope that we are not done seeing miracles—not in baseball, not in the Church, not in our aching world.
So welcome, Leo XIV—Robert Francis Prevost of Chicago. May your voice be prophetic, your heart be open, and your baseball allegiance be declared soon—because half of your hometown is holding its breath. And if, in a moment of divine whimsy, you want to say a word about the 1969 Mets, I’ll know the Spirit is really on the move.
*Since the writing of this article, the Holy Father has declared he's a White Sox fan. So, gritty reformers it is. South Side theology confirmed. Cubs fans may need to invoke the intercession of St. Jude—patron of lost causes.
One of the things I love about baseball is that you can’t run the clock out. There’s no dribbling the ball to kill the last seconds or taking a knee until the whistle blows. Nine innings. No ties. If the score’s even after 9 innings, the game isn’t over - - it just keeps going. Nine innings can feel like a lifetime when you’re losing and like a blink when you’re ahead in the ninth and the other team is down to their last strike. But then there are those special games - - the ones that refuse to end. You know the kind: both teams have had their 27 outs, the score is still tied, and the air is thick with tension. Welcome to extra innings. Every pitch, every swing, every foul ball becomes part of a slow-burn drama. The script is gone. The game starts writing itself in real time, and you’re never sure if the next swing will be the last. Just ask Carlton Fisk. It was Game 6 of the 1975 World Series - - Boston Red Sox vs. Cincinnati Reds. The game had already gone past midnight, deep into extra innings. Fisk came up to bat in the bottom of the 12th, the crowd on edge. He swung, connected, and sent the ball soaring toward the foul pole in left field. As he ran down the first base line, Fisk famously waved his arms, willing the ball to stay fair. It did. The crowd erupted. The game was over, and that single swing became one of the most iconic moments in baseball history. Extra innings carry both the weariness of the battle and the thrill of possibility. And life is a lot like that. Grief can be an extra innings game. You think you’ve made it to the end; the funeral is over, the casseroles are eaten, the thank-you cards are mailed. And then, months later, a song plays, or an empty chair catches your eye and the ache rushes back like it’s brand new. But sometimes, even in the later innings, there’s a flicker of beauty a memory that makes you smile through tears, a reminder you’re not as alone as you feel. Relationships have extra innings too. Sometimes you’re still in it, but it feels like the bottom of the ninth with two outs. Conversations that once flowed now work against the count. Every word matters. Every silence feels louder. And yet… you’re still on the field together. Still showing up. I’ve seen it in families keeping vigil in a hospital room - - hours blurring, fluorescent lights humming, burnt coffee lingering. Then, in between the beeping of machines, someone cracks a joke. Soft laughter rises in the middle of exhaustion. It’s not denial - - it’s survival. I’ve seen it in people whose “Plan B” career became the thing they were made for all along. What started as a detour became the road they were meant to walk - - a calling they wouldn’t have found without the curveball that sent them there. Extra innings can be exhausting. They can feel like a test you never signed up for. But they can also be holy ground - - Unlikely Altars - - those sacred places where grace meets us long after we thought the story was finished. Grace doesn’t play by our timing. It stays when we’re ready to pack it in. It keeps showing up in the dugout, ready to step to the plate one more time. When we whisper, “I can’t do this anymore,” grace says, “Just one more pitch.” Sometimes the win we’ve been hoping for doesn’t look the way we pictured it. It’s not always a walk-off home run. Sometimes it’s just enough light to see through another inning. Sometimes it’s the hand on your shoulder reminding you you’re not alone. The breakthrough doesn’t always come in regulation. Sometimes you have to hang in for a few more pitches, a few more sleepless nights, a few more honest conversations. Extra innings aren’t just about winning — they’re about discovering what you’re made of. And about the grace that keeps showing up, even when you’re ready to quit. If you’re in extra innings right now - - in your health, your work, your relationships, your faith - - remember Yogi Berra’s words: “It ain’t over till it’s over.” The story’s not over. Not yet. Because sometimes, the most sacred stories are the ones that go into extra innings. And sometimes, the most Unlikely Altars are built right there - - in the long wait, in the stubborn hope, in the space where grace refuses to leave.
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: t ry, 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.