Baseball as a Road to God

Every family has two kinds of heirlooms. The first kind lives under glass: the pristine wedding china, the polished silver, the formal portrait in the hall. They are artifacts of a life, carefully preserved and cataloged, admired for their history but rarely touched. They tell the official story. Then there is the second kind: the scuffed leather glove that still smells of neat's-foot oil, the dog-eared cookbook with tomato sauce stains on the best pages, the chipped coffee mug used every single morning. These objects aren't preserved; they are saturated with life. They don't just represent a story; they are the story, still being told every time they are held.

This second kind of heirloom, the one that holds the messy, lived-in, and surprisingly sacred reality of our lives, is where we often find the most profound connections—to each other, to our past, and sometimes, to something much larger. It’s the difference between a textbook definition of love and the feeling of a worn-in sweatshirt. This very distinction fascinated John Sexton, who noticed that for many, the most potent experiences of community, wonder, and grace happened in the noisy, imperfect, and intensely human space of a baseball stadium, not a hushed cathedral. As a law professor, university president, and lifelong fan, Sexton began to host a now-famous seminar exploring this idea, bringing together believers, skeptics, and everyone in between to ask a simple question: could the nine innings of a baseball game—with its rituals, its moments of impossible luck, its shared hopes, and its long stretches of quiet faith—be a genuine pathway to the divine?

Module 1: Sacred Space and Sacred Time

We often think of sacredness as something confined to churches, temples, or mosques. But Sexton argues that certain secular places can also become sacred. They become portals that transport us from the ordinary, or "profane," world to a dimension of deeper meaning. Baseball stadiums are perfect examples.

First, ballparks can function as modern-day cathedrals. They are designed to inspire awe. Think of the old Yankee Stadium, with its grand facade and columns, a place where standing on the grass felt like walking on hallowed ground. Or consider Wrigley Field in Chicago. Its ivy-covered walls and hand-operated scoreboard create a timeless atmosphere. They are spaces where generations have gathered, creating a palpable sense of history and community. The religious historian Mircea Eliade called such a place an axis mundi, a center that connects the earthly and the spiritual. For a fan, walking into Fenway Park is entering a sacred space charged with 100 years of memory.

Next up, baseball operates on its own clock. The game creates a cyclical, sacred sense of time that mirrors religious calendars. Unlike sports governed by a running clock, baseball is theoretically timeless. An inning could last forever. This structure lends itself to ritual. Opening Day is a rite of spring, a "new beginning" where every team is undefeated and hope is renewed. The World Series becomes the "High Holy Days," where legendary moments are forged. For example, fans of the 1960 Pittsburgh Pirates still gather at the site of Forbes Field. They play a recording of Bill Mazeroski’s World Series-winning home run. This ritual allows them to return to that sacred moment, what Eliade called in illo tempore—"in that time" of mythic origins.

Finally, specific moments within this sacred time and space can feel transcendent. A single event can stop time and unite thousands in a shared emotional experience. Take Cal Ripken Jr.'s record-breaking 2,131st consecutive game. The game stopped for a 22-minute standing ovation. Ripken circled the field, shaking hands, connecting with fans directly. Philosophers describe this as being swept up in a powerful, unifying wave of collective emotion. It was a communal celebration of perseverance and history, connecting Ripken to the legacy of Lou Gehrig and sanctifying the moment for everyone present.

Module 2: The Dance of Faith and Doubt

In our culture, faith and doubt are often seen as opposites. You either have one or the other. Sexton challenges this idea. He argues that in both baseball and spiritual life, faith and doubt are deeply intertwined. One cannot exist without the other.

To begin with, authentic faith is often born from profound doubt. Consider the 1969 "Miracle" Mets or the 1967 "Impossible Dream" Red Sox. Both teams started their seasons with decades of failure behind them. Fans had every reason to be doubtful. Yet, as these underdog teams started winning, doubt slowly gave way to hope, and then to a powerful, collective faith. Theologian Paul Tillich made a similar point. He argued that "existential doubt" is a necessary component of true faith. The struggle with uncertainty gives belief its power. The faith of a Red Sox fan in 2004 was so potent precisely because it had been forged in 86 years of doubt.

This brings us to a crucial point. Unquestioning certitude is dangerous, while healthy skepticism is valuable. Sexton tells the story of a man named Tippy, a trivia maven who was always certain but often wrong. His hubris led him to make confident claims that were easily disproven. In contrast, the play Doubt: A Parable argues that doubt can be a bond "as powerful and sustaining as certainty." It keeps us humble. It prevents rash judgments. Baseball itself institutionalizes this. For years, the game resisted instant replay, preferring the human judgment of an umpire—even when flawed—over the cold certitude of technology. It acknowledges that life isn't perfect, and embracing a little ambiguity is part of the experience.

And here's the thing: we ultimately choose how much ambiguity we are willing to tolerate. Sexton shares a personal story about a baseball glove he received as a child, said to have been used by his hero, Jackie Robinson. He never tried to verify its authenticity. He chose to live with the possibility. He preferred the faith that connected him emotionally to his hero over the sterile knowledge of certainty. This mirrors how many people approach religious stories. They focus on the moral lesson of the Good Samaritan, choosing to let faith and doubt coexist, because sometimes, the mystery is more meaningful than the answer.