3:16

He couldn’t believe his luck when he actually got a great seat for the season at Fenway. Usually all the seats were gone in an instant, and here he was calling a full fifteen minutes past the box office opening, due to the fact that a client just wouldn’t get off the phone with him. But wonder of wonders! They had a seat available right on the first base line, a mere seven rows up off the field! No telling why such desirable real estate was left unsold—but, no matter, it was his now! He imagined himself in the ballpark, cheering on the Sox from his very own seat. He could hardly wait!!

The next few months went by so agonizingly slowly. Spring training came and went, but the exhibition season just dragged on, and it was all he could do to keep his sanity while he waited for Opening Day. But it finally came.

He went down to the stadium early, to check out his seat. It was even better than expected—right even with first base, just up off the field enough to see better, and there was a concession stand and restroom a mere 50 yards away. He thanked his lucky stars for giving him this gift. He settled in to watch batting practice, then popped out to the concession stand for a Fenway Frank and a tall, cold one.

And it was when he returned to his seat, that he found out why it had been for sale even fifteen minutes after the opening bell. There, sitting in the seat right next to him, bedecked in his trademark rainbow wig and holding the sign which gave him his nickname, was the “3:16 Guy.” John 3:16, that is, he gathered that much. Although not being religious, he hadn’t a clue what that meant. All he knew was that this guy was a nuisance—he’d seen him before on televised games, waving his sign and shouting out things like, “Jesus loves you!” when a Red Sox player struck out. It was going to be a royal pain sitting next to him.

And that proved to be true. Every game the 3:16 guy was there holding up his sign whenever a play was made to first and the camera was on him. Every game he was there in that stupid rainbow wig that shook when he danced the watermelon—which he did whenever that “Charge!” thing played on the loudspeakers. You know the one “Dah dah dha……CHARGE!” Only 3:16 guy would substitute GOD for “charge.” Annoying.

And that’s not to mention the collateral damage—the misguided missiles meant for 3:16 that hit him instead. Diet cokes, wrappers of all kinds, a whole walk-away sundae once, and, the worst, the slushie—they all rained down on him and the 3:16 guy. Though it didn’t seem to bother him—he just kept smiling away and saying things like, “God forgives all who seek forgiveness,” and “Jesus came to save us all.”

He did get a respite along about the seventh inning stretch when 3:16 guy evidently went to the restroom, or to get a snack. Sometimes he didn’t return until the last out—just in time to wave his sign and dance the watermelon, win or lose. (he even danced when the Sox lost to the Yankees!) He looked forward to these pleasant interludes, but all the same, he began to wonder what 3:16 did during that time—where he went—did he talk with anyone? It became an obsession—he just had to know.

So one day when the Sox were deep in hole with no rescue in sight, he followed 3:16 when he left during the seventh. He scooted down to a back hallway where a drug deal was going wrong, and before you knew it, he had switched places with the druggie, who walked away with a new light burning in his eyes. 3:16 just shrugged his shoulders at the dealer, whose best customer was now headed for the front gate. He swore and threatened 3:16, but he just held up his sign as he ambled off.

Following him around the corner, he saw a homeless man being shooed away by a security guard. But before the man could be ejected, 3:16 was there with him, talking with him and taking the jacket off his back and giving it to him. He couldn’t believe his eyes—he never knew this about the guy!

On the way back to the seats 3:16 stopped to help three other people, a young black man in an argument with some white men, a teenager who was sick on stolen beer, and a concession stand employee being abused by a customer. All three he replaced, and they walked off while he smiled that goofy grin and danced the watermelon!

Well, he was amazed! And ashamed. And a little ticked off as well. He followed the 3:16 guy every game now, always during the seventh inning, missing a good amount of good baseball. And each time the guy would take on the problems and situations of those in trouble, then go back to the game to be pelted with peanuts. Finally he could stand it no longer—he had to know who this guy was working for. And how he did the things he did.

Now granted, he could have just asked him while they were sitting together in their seats. But he had a rep to keep up—he didn’t want his friends to know he was flirting with religion—even from some kook in a rainbow wig.

So he went to him under the cover of a night game. Met him in the hallway where he was talking to an old man about redemption and reconciliation. When they were finished, (the old man walking away spryly), he cornered 3:16.

“Hey,” he said, not knowing how to start. “Hey, who are you? Are you some kind of angel or something? I mean…I’ve seen some of the stuff you’ve done. No one could do that apart from God.” He felt the word “god” roll off his tongue. He had rarely used it before and he decided it felt good to finally be saying it.

Old 3:16 just smiled and pointed up. “From above, baby,” he said, “From above!” He looked up, his eyes following the guy’s finger. He had a feeling he wasn’t talking about the upper mezzanine. Could this guy really be from God? Somehow he doubted it. God to him was this angry, vengeful deity, when he thought of God at all. He was only interested in punishment and rules. He didn’t have the sense of humor needed to send a rainbow wigged, placard carrying, do-gooder and evangelist, who danced the watermelon while singing Jesus Loves Me. Did he?

H thought about it for a while as he stood looking at 3:16. The sign caught his eye. “Well, the least you can do is tell me what 3:16 is!” Suddenly a puff of wind blew down the hallway from the field entrance—it ruffled the rainbow wig, making it seem alive. The guy’s eyes locked onto his own and he spoke.

For God so loved the world that he gave his only Son, that whoever believes in him may not perish, but have eternal life.

Then he smiled, turned and walked down towards the seats. Later, at home, he looked up the passage. It surprised him that God loved the world—why was beyond him. The next verse took him aback as well:

Indeed, God did not send the Son into the world to condemn the world, but in order that the world might be saved through him.

“That must be what they mean by grace,” he thought.

Well, things were a little different in the seats after that. He didn’t get upset so much, and he even glared at some of the rowdies who tossed trash at 3:16. He fell into a routine acceptance of the guy, and the season breezed along. Until one Friday afternoon game.

He followed 3:16 as usual. The guy stood in for a shoplifter and a lost kid before he turned a corner and ran smack into a crowd of angry people – the security guard, the drug dealer, and those skinheads—all the ones he had thwarted with his substitutions. They grabbed 3:16. They punched him and knocked him to the floor, where they kicked him. Suddenly they turned and looked behind themselves and noticed him watching, in horror. “You with this guy,” they asked? He quickly considered his plight and denied it. Denied it up and down, back and forth. Even went so far as to give a little kick to 3:16 before walking stiffly away. He had no doubt they would have killed him if he had tried to defend 3:16. No doubt they were killing him. He walked around the corner. Then he ran–right out of Fenway and all the way home, crying as he went. At home he sat on the couch, shivering, though it was a summer’s night. Anguish bled from his soul.

The next game was Sunday. As the stadium filled up, the sun shone down on the section behind first base, and the batters had a good workout. The first pitch was thrown, and was hit – popped foul. It came down right in that section. As the cameras panned over the crowd they caught a triumphant teen, her glove held open to reveal her newest Sox souvenir.

And there behind her, two rows up, wig sparkling in the new day’s sun, was the 3:16 guy, waving his sign and doing the watermelon dance for all he was worth. The camera zoomed in on him as he smiled. No more than a few people watching that morning noticed that he had moved over a seat…

What you have heard in the dark, now say out loud in the light!

For God so loved the world, he gave his only Son, that whoever believes in him should not perish, but have eternal life. AMEN