The Gospel According to Baseball

Lessons about life, failure, and providence from the dugout

I didn’t go pro. No MLB scouts called my name. The best I ever did was making my university’s JV team.

And yet, baseball changed my life.

Last week, I made a trip to Baseball Heaven—Busch Stadium in St. Louis—to watch the Cardinals with my wife and mom. I practically grew up with a bat in my hands, so loving baseball has always been second nature. Some of you might think sitting through nine innings sounds like a punishment, not a pastime—and that’s fair. You’re still welcome here.

That game got me thinking about my own playing days and what the sport really meant to me. In ways I never expected, baseball (and more importantly, the people I played with) shaped my life and drew me closer to God. Here are some lessons I learned.

What Baseball Taught Me About Being a Man

Spring 2015. I was a junior at Forsyth High School, playing for a team that felt like something out of a sports movie. We were ranked among the best in the state, breaking records, and hungry for a championship. But the story didn’t end the way we thought it would.

In the district championship, we were upset. The dream season was over. In the blink of an eye, the seniors I looked up to had played their last game. We cleaned up the dugout in silence, trying to hold back frustration and tears.

In our final post-game huddle, our coaches didn’t give the usual “keep working hard” speech. Instead, they talked about life. They reminded us that baseball wasn’t just about winning games—it was about becoming men.

They spoke about how one day, we’d be husbands, fathers, leaders in our communities. And moments like this—the gut-wrenching losses—were what would shape us. They told us to walk away not just as disappointed athletes but as men who had grown.

I don’t remember their exact words, but the heart of their message stayed with me. Baseball wasn’t just a game. It was training for life.

And for that, I’ll always be grateful to men like Jim Julian, Jeff Walls, B.J. Curry, and Jeff White—coaches who showed me that baseball was about more than just a scoreboard. It was about character.

What Baseball Taught Me About Failure

Baseball is a sport built on failure.

One of the greatest hitters in history, Ty Cobb, had a career batting average of .366. That means he failed at the plate about six out of every ten times. In any other job, failing 60% of the time would likely get you fired. In baseball, it makes you a legend.

I learned this lesson firsthand during a brutal practice in college. My arm was dead, and every throw felt impossible. At one point, I muffed a routine throw from left field to third base. It should have been an easy out. Instead, the runner—who was moving at an embarrassingly average speed—made it safely to the base.

My coach wasn’t thrilled. He stopped practice for a brief word in front of everyone.

“Aumiller! What kind of throw was that?”

I muttered something about getting it right next time, but I felt the frustration burning. Even though it was during practice, I had let my team down.

But here’s the thing—some days, you just don’t have it. Your body isn’t cooperating. Your mind is off. What should be easy feels impossible.

Baseball taught me that failure isn’t just inevitable—it’s part of the process. The question isn’t whether you’ll mess up. You will. The question is what you do next.

Do you sulk? Or do you shake it off, adjust, and step up for the next play?

God isn’t surprised by our failures. He knows our limits better than we do. And He offers us grace—not just when we hit home runs, but when we strike out swinging.

What Baseball Taught Me About God’s Providence

If you’ve stuck with me this long, let’s go a little deeper.

I didn’t understand the concept of God’s providence until after college. Even today, I can't say I understand it completely, but John Piper's appropriately named book Providence has been a fascinating read on the subject. He defines providence as “the act of purposefully providing for, or sustaining and governing, the world.” It’s the idea that nothing is random—God is actively working in all things, even when we don’t see it.

Baseball is full of these little moments. You can crush a ball, only to have it land perfectly in a fielder’s glove. Or you can barely make contact and somehow drop it into the perfect spot for a hit. There’s a mystery to it. You show up, give your best, and sometimes things go your way. And sometimes they don’t.

In a similar fashion, my college baseball career certainly didn’t end the way I had expected.

During my freshman season, I suffered a leg injury that required surgery. I rehabbed, came back, and quickly realized I wasn’t the same player. By the end of the season, I was wrestling with whether to walk away from the game I loved. And when I stepped up for my final at-bat, I knew deep down it was my last. (For the record, I got a hit—so at least I went out on a high note.)

Walking away felt like an identity crisis. I had spent my whole life as an athlete. Now what?

Looking back, I see God’s providence all over that time of my life.

The next school year, I met my wife—at an event I probably would’ve missed if I were still playing baseball. I got involved in a campus ministry that changed my life and showed me how to be the hands and feet of Jesus in community. I shifted my academic focus to business and marketing, setting me up for a career I love today.

At the time, losing baseball felt like a door slamming shut. Now, I see it was God leading me somewhere better.

That’s the hope of the gospel. We don’t always understand what God is doing in the moment, but He is always working for our good. What feels like a loss today could be the beginning of something greater tomorrow. The same God who orchestrated redemption through the cross is at work in the smallest details of our lives, turning even our disappointments into something beautiful.

Baseball shaped me. It taught me about resilience, failure, and trust. It led me to friendships, mentors, and lessons I carry with me every day.

And today, I get to love the game not as a player, but as a fan—watching my Cardinals, no matter the score.

So here’s to the game. And here’s to the God who uses even the smallest things—like a bat and a ball—to shape who we become. 

“Let the favor of the Lord our God be upon us,

and establish the work of our hands upon us;

yes, establish the work of our hands!”

Psalm 90:17 ESV

Peace be with you, friends.