A Few Circle Points and a Whole Lot of Worship

It was fall of the year, and a competition squirrel hunt had been organized to raise money for a little boy with medical needs. A local pastor agreed to host it at the church he pastored, and they had a great turnout.

Mix hunting with a good cause, and folks will show up. Some of them might even arrive early, which proves they have the ability.

The plan was pretty standard: draw out the casts, hunt for a few hours, and return to the church for lunch.

A day with hunting, food, and helping a child—that ought to be hard to mess up.

But never underestimate what a grown man can accomplish when he thinks somebody has shorted his dog a few points.

Everything went well until check-in time. Then a disturbance broke out. Two men were going at it, and it looked like the argument might turn into a fistfight.

My buddy looked over and recognized them.

One was a man he knew.

The other was the preacher hosting the hunt.

And they were fired up over some circle points.

Now, if you don’t know what circle points are, don’t worry. You already know enough to understand this story: they weren’t worth what was happening over them.

Voices were raised. A scene was made. The men had to be separated.

Let me say that again so we don’t miss the picture.

They were at a church, at a fundraiser for a little boy with medical needs, nearly fighting over points in a hunting competition.

They had come to help a child, but somewhere along the way, something had become more important than why they were there.

Later, my buddy went to the man he knew and gave him some plain advice:

“If hunting makes you act this way, you need to quit hunting.”

That wasn’t a complicated sermon, but it had a mighty clear application.

I enjoy hunting. I enjoy dogs. I enjoy a little competition. But when something I enjoy starts controlling me, I need to take a serious look at what place I’ve given it in my heart.

The same thing can happen with any sport.

And before we point at those two men and say, “I can’t believe somebody would act like that,” let’s pull our own chair a little closer to the fire.

Imagine someone from another country arrives on a Saturday night at our house and stays with our family for a week. They want to learn what our lives are like and what matters to us.

We tell them, “We’re Christians. Jesus comes first in this house.”

Then Sunday morning rolls around.

We get to church a little late and slide into our seats like we’re trying to steal second base without getting caught.

The music starts. We stand, but we don’t sing much.

One of us is thinking, Did I turn the curling iron off?

Another is wondering, Who would win a fight between Godzilla and Sonic the Hedgehog?

That question has absolutely nothing to do with “How Great Thou Art,” but our mind has gone there, and apparently it intends to stay awhile.

Then the offering plate comes around.

We forgot to stop by the ATM, so we start digging. We find two wadded-up dollars and a Food City receipt. We smooth out the dollars like we’re closing on a piece of property and drop them in.

The preacher starts preaching.

At twelve o’clock, we check our watch.

At twelve-oh-three, we check again.

Now we’re counting points.

How many does he have left? He said “finally” a minute ago. Was that his first finally or his actual finally?

We’ve arranged lunch with friends at 12:45, and this is getting serious.

The service ends, and we head for the door. We hardly speak to anybody. We don’t stop to encourage someone or ask how they’re doing.

We have somewhere to be.

Our visitor watches.

After lunch, we go home and change into our professional sports team clothes.

Turns out we do believe in wearing something that identifies who we belong to.

We settle in front of an eighty-inch television with a sports package expensive enough that it ought to include somebody coming over to cook the wings.

We order pizza, get comfortable, and turn on the game.

We holler. We clap. We jump off the couch.

“COME ON! LET’S GO!”

Our visitor is probably wondering whether this is a celebration or a medical emergency.

Then the game goes into overtime.

And we’re thrilled.

Nobody checks a watch.

Nobody says, “They really ought to wrap this up.”

Our visitor keeps watching.

Monday comes, and the kids have practice. Every evening that week, we’re running to a practice or a game.

And we cannot be late. “If you’re late, you might not get to play!”

We understand commitment. We understand accountability. We understand that being part of a team means showing up.

At the game, we pay admission, buy concessions, and get settled.

Then the referee or umpire makes a questionable call.

And suddenly we develop a deep burden for justice.

We have a message for this referee, and we don’t even need an outline.

Somewhere between the second quarter and the concession stand, we nearly lose our testimony over a man with a whistle.

We’re defending our child, hollering across the stadium, and acting like the future of civilization depends on whether that call.

Remember those circle points?

They don’t seem quite so far away now.

Our visitor watches.

Then Saturday comes.

College football day.

We see stadiums holding nearly a hundred thousand people. Folks have traveled, paid, planned, and arrived early to tailgate and spend time with people they don’t know. We walk by large statues for former players.

They wear the colors. They know the songs. They raise their arms and chant together.

Whole sections jump in rhythm.

That’s something most Baptist churches have never accomplished. We can’t get twelve people to clap on the same beat, but a stadium full of strangers moves like they are the Backstreet Boys and they’ve practiced together all summer.

They stand in the weather. They cheer until they’re hoarse. They walk a mile back to their cars.

Then we get home and say, “I’m worn out. I don’t know if we’ll make church in the morning.”

At the end of the week, somebody asks our visitor:

“Who would you say this family worships?”

Would they answer from what we told them?

Or from what we showed them?

They saw what received our preparation, our money, our attention, and our enthusiasm.

They saw which commitments we protected.

They saw where we gladly stayed longer and where we couldn’t wait to leave.

Would they know Jesus comes first without us having to explain it?

Enjoying a game or a hunt does not make it an idol. Neither does cheering loudly. But when it consistently receives our best while God receives our leftovers, we need to be honest about what is happening.

1 Corinthians 10:31 says: “So, whether you eat or drink, or whatever you do, do all to the glory of God.”

“Whatever you do” reaches all the way into the woods, the bleachers, and the living room.

It includes how we handle a disputed score, a bad call, a losing season, and a schedule that competes with worship.

And in 1 Corinthians 6:12, Paul says: “I will not be dominated by anything.”

That makes my buddy’s advice worth considering.

If hunting makes me ready to fight somebody at a fundraiser for a sick child, something needs to change.

If sports make me cruel to other people, hateful toward an official, careless with my money, or consistently absent from the life of the church, something needs to change there too.

Sometimes we need to establish a boundary. Sometimes we need to step away. And sometimes we need to repent of giving a good thing a place that belongs to God.

We cannot keep excusing sinful behavior.

That day at the church, a few circle points exposed something much bigger than a disagreement about a hunt. It showed a heart condition.

Our own choices can do the same.

So before we shake our heads at those two men, we ought to ask:

What does it take for me to forget who I belong to?

And if somebody spent a week watching my life, what would they say I worship?

That’s a question worth sitting with awhile. Even if it means missing the pregame show.