But even in the off-season, Stan runs-every day, every week, every month of the whole year. Stan is a professional athlete. He knows that there is no magic; that wishing is not a substitute for discipline and that whining does not change anything. Stan is in his early thirties but he has been in training since he was fifteen. He has learned the secret. In order to be in the big games you have to get prepared first, in order to stay in the game you have to keep at it. It is not a one-time effort.

Stan played all the sports in school. Whatever was in season was what Stan played. He was big for his age but the real marker that separated him from others was that he really threw himself into the game, or out of it, as the situation demanded.

They still tell the story of the high school basketball game in which Stan flew into a burst of acceleration, sailed through the air and swiped his hand in a grizzly bear roundhouse at a missed pass that was heading out of bounds.

It was like Wild Kingdom crossed with Swan Lake. Stan and the ball soared over the line marking the end of the court. Stan's big hand arced and made contact even as he fell towards earth. The ball flew back in bounds and into play. Stan's team made the winning basket in the last seconds of the game. As the crowd leapt to their feet and cheered, Stan's swan dive over the hardwood court ended abruptly with a thud. It hurt like the dickens, he said later, but Stan came up smiling as he ran toward the bench to join in the celebration.

Fifteen years later Stan is still running. In the fall he moves through the fog, threading his way among the grey and black vertical line of the naked trees. The trees seem to shiver with second thoughts even as the wind whisks away their recently cast-off leaves. But the air is refreshingly crisp. Twigs snap underfoot-signaling Stan's progress even when the fog hides his form.

In the winter the sun is farther away in distance and in time but Stan has his own internal clock that does not waver. He still rises at 5:30 am. He runs because it makes him strong not because it is convenient. Snow falls, but it does not rest on Stan. His warm breath melts the flakes in front of his face and the heat of his body tackles the rest.

At championship games, the fans in the seats see only the glory and power displayed on the field. They do not know in any detail what Stan has done for the past fifteen years to prepare for those few highly publicized moments. They certainly have not done any such preparation themselves.

When regular games are aired, the fans at home sit in their armchairs and shout out how they would have handled this play or that pass.

The seats are full of experts. But Stan is the one in the game.
Everyone has an opinion about how the game should best be played.
But Stan is the one who is maintaining, and exercising an actual ability.

Stan has been bruised and broken. He has trained day in and day out for years. He has the authority that comes from living the life and not just walking the walk, but running hard and long whether the season was favorable or unfavorable.

If you want a valid insight into how the game should be played, who would you ask- the guy in the stands, or the man on the field?

There are many people who profess to know how to live the game of life. They talk about the best plays to make, but Jesus is the one suited up today, and on the field, in Jerusalem. Armchair quarterbacks and hot dog vendors surround him. Everyone has an opinion but few are actually in good enough shape to play the game for which he has been training for years.

"Who will get to pass through the goal posts?" the crowd asks Jesus, while each questioner imagines himself spiking the ball and doing the dance. They love to watch the game. They know the stats. They've watched the players move up, and down, the field many times. Surely they are qualified, because they are ardent fans. They are dedicated. They are willing to wear the big foam hats and stand in the rain. Surely in the end they will get to spike the ball. "Jesus," they say, "we'll even paint our faces blue."

Jesus shakes his head. "You can't really actually be on the team without coming onto the field- not that there is anything magic about it- but a person has to actually show up and do the work. There is the monotony of daily training. All those miles to cover, all those drills. And team mates to support in good times and bad. You can't just focus on the convenient or on what you think is best. You have to listen to the coach, practice hard, and play the game, every day, like it means something to you."

"But we cheered really loudly from the sidelines," the crowd shot back, "we wore the team colors while we drank beer from cups with your logo on them."

"I don't know," Jesus says, "when the talent scout comes I think he'll be looking for a little more than that."

"Heck, "They said. "We're descended from great players. The real stars come from our hometowns, so I guess that makes us winners, too. Hey, look at the faces on the billboards above the bleachers and count the stars if you are able. The blood of those stars runs in our veins and their trading cards are in our wallets."

"Yes, you come from good stock," Jesus said "and you remember some great players and great plays. But are you willing to play the game yourself? I'd like you to try out. I'd like you to do it today. I'll even train with you. But nobody else can catch the ball for you. You gotta move off the sidelines and get onto the field, catch the ball that's thrown to you and keep on running if you wants to pass under those narrow goal posts. If you do all that, then you'll get to spike the ball. And we'll do that victory dance together!"

"That sounds like an awful lot of work," they said as they sat back down in their armchairs. Then they turned away from Jesus, looked to the vendors and said, "Pass me another one of those dogs."

Jesus looked at them sadly and said, "How often have I longed to see you running toward the goal posts rather than sitting back. I can see you crossing into the end zone in my mind's eye- but you are not willing. Maybe it's time for plan B." Then he walked across the field toward the bleachers on the far side.

Suddenly the loud speakers crackled into life, and an announcer's voice boomed across the stadium:

"This is Marcus Oratio, welcome to the second Sunday in Lent. There just a few games left until the big championship game at Golgotha. You know the power that the Romans always field- they're big, they're mean and they mean to win. But this Jesus fellow is doing a new thing he tells us he intends to fill out his team with volunteers from the stands. Can you believe it? He has already asked the guys from Jerusalem and most of them have turned him down. So now he is turning to the out-of-town visitors. Is there anybody here from Monkton who'd like to get in the game?"

Stavius the Galilean, Marcus' co-anchor grabs the mike and speaks up, "Well Marcus, now Jesus is standing on the fifty yard line and motioning as if to gather all comers. There's a rustling in the stands on the Monkton side. It looks like some of them might be getting up. I'm not sure, Marcus, are some of them moving toward the field?

"Marcus, here again- Stavius, we need to cut to the final commercial…
Well, fans, don't forget to go to the St. James Coffee Hour after the game, it's the' feast where folks are well fed and everyone knows your name.' This game has also been brought to you by Bishops' Blend- 'Good works start with Good Coffee.'"

"Tune in next week to see where we stand in our move toward the championship game. Tune in and see if Jesus will be able to field a full team. This is Marcus Oratio signing off, and remember 'It's not whether you win or lose, it's how you play the game.'"