The Thirteenth Rugger

I was standing before the registrar’s desk at Trinity Western College in British Columbia minding my own business when I was suddenly surrounded by very large guys who start shaking my hand, pounding me on the back, and encouraging me to sign up for a sport I had never even heard of. I suppose they picked me out of the lineup because I am fairly large plus they found out that I had just gotten out of the military. They assured me that, although this sport is a little like football, it is “a lot more fun.” They looked normal enough at the time, so feeling a bit special about having been selected, I said “Okay.” After all, I thought, what harm could come from playing a game called “rugby”? 

The first day of practice I kept wondering when we would get our protective gear—shoulder pads, knee pads, helmets and such. We had our rugby shorts and shirts, but where was our equipment? None ever arrived. We lined up for tackle practice and it dawned on me—there was none. It suddenly felt as though I was preparing to play football in the nude. I remember facing this guy named Wayne at about ten meters distant. We were supposed to run at each other as fast as we could and see who tackled whom. I was familiar with being in high school and running with football pads, being in the military running with body armor, but rugby is played by scantily clad lunatics and now I was one. Even with our little shorts and shirts on, I still remember the uncomfortable feeling of racing across the rugby field as naked as the day I was born. By the time the dust settled, I probably would have fared better trying to tackle a Brahma bull than Wayne. A Brahma bull doesn’t want to tackle you a second time—Wayne does.

About halfway through practice I was told that, thanks to my height, I was going to play a position where I actually did get to wear some special protective gear. Praise God, I thought. I hope it looks like a Brinks truck. They hand me this little thing that looks like two Krispy Kreme donuts with straps. “It’s for your ears,” they said. “My ears? What about the rest of me?” They showed me how to strap this little contraption onto my head so that my earlobes didn’t get chaffed in an upcoming event called “the scrum.” The scrum is an unforgettable rugby experience which, suffice it to say, involves a lot of close-quarter kicking. I recall thinking “Here I am walking into a scene from Gladiator and you are worried about chaffed earlobes?”   

            This memory resurfaced while I was preparing a message to illustrate the perplexity of Matthew 19:30 where it states: “But many who are first will be last, and the last, first.” How paradoxical; how absolutely backwards to our human perception. What a concise look into the eternal notion of God’s ways not being our ways. His ways are beyond ours and quite frankly, they often confuse us. But isn’t that a great comfort blanket to snuggle up with. Trusting His unseen ways in the midst of confusion brings a peace that truly does transcend earthly comprehension. We devise ambitious plans to ensure our security, but, instead, we find ourselves running down life’s rugby field wearing a couple of donuts with straps protecting our earlobes. What about the rest of me? I will trust Him. And then, when I am last, I am first.