The lot is cast into the lap, but its every decision is from the Lord. – Proverbs 16:33

In trolling the Internet this morning, I came across a couple of different discussions about the “celebrations” of athletes who point to the sky or make notable gestures of faith when they play games, and especially when they score.

You might be surprised at the consensus of comments.

In essence, it sounds like this: “These fools think that God doesn’t have something better to do than orchestrate a victory for one team or another.”

Oh, the great debate has arisen again.

When I was a teen, I wrote a number of quotes in the back of my Bible—ideas from better thinkers than I about the way God’s world works. One of those quotes was this: “God doesn’t choose sides in sports events; God is for God.” Of course, I was young then.

Now I might ask whether God wouldn’t then choose one side, because He could anticipate the praise that would come His way when that particular side won. Praise through words and gestures.

Now I have read Michael O’Conner’s curious Sermon on the Mound, where the author makes a strong personal case for the outcome of Game Six of the 1986 World Series being the catalyst God used to bring him to Jesus. And I believe it that God would order seemingly random events in the world to capture the hearts of certain ones and twos and tens. He is God, right? He can build His kingdom however He wants, right?

You see, there’s the rub. When we construct our theologies based on what we think God should look like, we find ourselves saying things like, “God couldn’t care less about a ballgame. God has bigger things on His platter.”

To which I might ask in beautiful fourth-grader’s fashion, “How do you know?”

The alternative, remember, is to base our theology on a bedrock piece of inspiration called Holy Scripture. We may not know how to interpret every page of it, or whether God holds certain books to be more important than others, or just how all the disparate pieces of this giant revelation of His weave themselves together. But we have a starting point, a place from which to derive the thoughts we think of Him.

Those who balk at a celebratory response to something excellent happening in one’s life (on or off a field or court or course somewhere) are making a grave mistake. They are suggesting that theology derives chiefly from experience, and laughing off post-victory praises as opportunistic matters of course.

But I grew up with Davey Concepcion, the brilliant Cincinnati Reds shortstop, who crossed himself before every at-bat. I never regarded this as a gesturer’s talisman. Rather, it was a nod to the God of heaven and earth, a symbol of surrender to the will of the Lord. Consider Concepcion’s possible mind: God does care about baseball, for I am His and I am playing, and He cares for me. Hit or out, win or lose, He is here, in me.

This is a theology born not out of touchdowns alone, or million-dollar contracts, or trophy-awarding championships. It is a theology built out of that Scripture—and for Concepcion, that catechism—that taught God’s lordship over all. It is a theology that comes to the game. And one that leaves it—no matter who gets to celebrate.