And while you're at it, name the place where there are greeters who take your “offering stub,” then ushers (without a mixed agenda) meekly show you to your seat; and where everyone has access to those rites of all rites—food, fun, and fellowship.
If you said your grandmother's First Church of the Holy Spirit, you'd be close.
It's not a church, it's a rink; it's not a pulpit, it's an ice surface; and it's not a hymn, it's the national anthem.
Speaking of taking hats off: It's anathema to not doff your derby. No taking off your toque, and you would likely be sent to hockey purgatory—Calgary Flames game day practice.
I was at recent Lethbridge Hurricanes game with a couple of friends, and I was struck by how churchy the whole event had become. In fact, sometimes I think there might be more reverence at hockey games than in many churches. There are certain acts of courtesy that some of our Bapentecostarian friends would do well do emulate.
Just as an example, fans cannot be seated while the game is in play. In a church context, that would be akin to walking up the aisle to one's pew during public prayer. That would be rude and inconsiderate, no matter where the venue.
Another intriguing part of the recent game was that one of my companions knew little if anything about hockey. You might say he was a like sinner coming to his first church service. I had to explain all the rites and rituals, the trends and traditions, of the spectacle before us. I don't know if he got converted that night, but I think he came close.
I had to work at hiding my own ignorance about the game (I believe it's called “bluffing”), as I tried to explain the who-when-where-why-and-when of our national winter sport. By the time we went out for coffee that evening, I think he had a pretty good idea about the blue line and red line, penalty kill and power play—even the “sin bin” (which works really well into my church metaphor).
He will have to re-work his (sports) vocabulary, if he ever gets saved...from basketball: The hoop is now a net; the basket is now goal; the ball is now a puck; and runners have been replaced by skates. Even the shorts are bigger, broader, and badder.
Like the right church, there is really nothing that brings our nation together more than ice hockey. To be sure, the professional guys make more money in a year than most of us will make in a lifetime. That's why I watch junior hockey, cheering young men who hope to be drafted in June to the “bigs.”
I may quickly add that I am quite content to watch these guys, courtesy of my Gas King-sponsored $14.50, than some cluster of heady professionals at $100 a pop. If I am going to drop my offering into the collection plate—whatever mode it comes in—I want to get my money's worth.
The church has been written off for so many reasons—too many superstitions being one of them. Really? I can hardly think of more superstitious place than a hockey rink, a more superstitious group of people than hockey players. Never having been in a locker room personally, I am aware of the which-sock-to-put-on-last routine, the precise-order-out-the-corridor routine, and the who-sits-where-on-the-bench routine.
Habits, traditions, and routines (even superstitions) are all a part of all of our lives, whether we're athletes, churchgoers, or ordinary working stiffs.
Now if I could just give some long-winded preacher a delay of the game penalty...
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