The five-year-old soccer goalie of Team One was an outstanding athlete, but he was no match for three or four on Team Two who were also very good and they began to score on him. The goalie gave it everything he had, recklessly throwing his body in front of incoming balls, trying valiantly to stop them.
After the third goal was scored against him, he could see it was no use, he couldn’t stop them. He didn’t quit, but he became quietly desperate. Futility was written all over him.
After the fourth goal, the little boy needed help so badly, and there was no help to be had. He retrieved the ball from the net and handed it to the referee. Then he fell to his knees and cried the tears of the helpless and brokenhearted.
His father ran onto the field and said, “Scotty, I’m so proud of you. You were great out there. I want everybody to know that you are my son.”
“Daddy,” the boy sobbed, “I couldn’t stop them. I tried, Daddy, I tried and tried, and they scored on me.”
“Scotty, it doesn’t matter how many times they scored on you. You’re my son, and I’m proud of you. I want you to go back out there and finish the game. I know you want to quit, but you can’t. And, son, you’re going to get scored on again, but it doesn’t matter. Go on, now.” The little guy ran back on to the field and they scored two more times. But it was okay.
I get scored on every day. I try so hard. I recklessly throw my body in every direction. I fume with rage. I struggle with temptation and sin with every ounce of my being – and Satan laughs. And he scores again, and the tears come, and I go to my knees – sinful, convicted, helpless. And my Father rushes right out on the field—right in front of the whole jeering, laughing world—and he picks me up, and he hugs me and he says:
“Son, I’m so proud of you. You were great out there. I want everybody to know that you are my son. And because I control the outcome of this game, I declare you – The Winner!”