When I was a little boy, I loved my grandpa George with all my heart. He was a short, wide man who wore overalls and made every moment I spent with him a good memory, until his death in 1980 when I was ten years old. Many of my fondest memories about Grandpa George revolve around wrestling. Grandpa George loved wrestling, but my grandmother hated wrestling. When I would spend the night at their house, he would tuck me in to bed and then go to bed with Grandma. But we had a secret signal-if he winked at me, that told me to wait in bed until grandma fell asleep so that he and I could sneak up and watch wrestling on television. So I grew up watching wrestling silently in the dark with Grandpa George and became a big fan of Jesse "The Body" Ventura, the Sheik, "Rowdy" Roddy Piper, Andrê the Giant, and my personal favorite, Jimmy "Superfly" Snuka, who would come flying off the top turnbuckle to knock a guy into what Paul called the third heaven.
Then one day my grandpa actually took me to my first live wrestling match. I remember getting to stay up past my bedtime, eat junk food, and scream my lungs out. Best of all, I got to lean over a rail and touch the sweaty back of Andrê the Giant as he entered the arena and passed by our seats. For a ten-year-old boy, this was the equivalent of a Muslim going to Mecca.
Over the years I have not really watched wrestling because I learned the awful secret that it is fake. But I have been curiously intrigued by the intersection of Christianity and wrestling. There are actually professional Christian wrestlers who love Jesus and apparently love sending people to see Him, such as Sting.
The latest attempt at missional cultural engagement is Christian wrestling. Of course, you knew this would originate in the south (think Georgia) as it is perhaps the most likely place to find both Christians and white guys who think that wrestling is real and that Christian wrestling is real cool. The Wrestling for Jesus ministry includes a pastor and wrestlers named Zion, Darkness, and of course Satan, who regularly gets a Revelation-type beat down.
Ultimate Christian Wrestling was founded by a guy who was called of God to pile drive pagans in the name of Jesus. His ministry has now garnered financial support from a lawn company, an auto parts store, and a tattoo parlor.
Apparently these Christian missionaries are going after the latest version of uncircumcised Philistines: young, white, male rednecks with mullets, El Caminos, white tank tops from Wal-Mart, and a desperate need of salvation and dental insurance. The only problem with this nation of unreached peoples and their at-home perm girlfriends is that they won't go to church because it doesn't have violence, light beer, an aluminum pole, or a NASCAR track.
So the Christian wrestling groups are taking the good news of Jesus to the rednecks. Wrestling matches are held at which the gospel is preached and the wrestlers stop to share their testimony of what Jesus has done in their life that has enabled them to execute a "full nelson" on earth and go to heaven.
With WWE and Vince McMahon's televised wrestling averaging between ten and fifteen million viewers for their flagship shows RAW and Smackdown, it seems that the need is real. We may end up with a whole new denomination of preachers in spandex pants with mullets doing a lot of Old Testament exegesis followed by heavy metal worship and Wonder bread for communion. But as long as they love Jesus, it's all good.
When I was a little boy, I loved my grandpa George with all my heart. He was a short, wide man who wore overalls and made every moment I spent with him a good memory, until his death in 1980 when I was ten years old. Many of my fondest memories about Grandpa George revolve around wrestling. Grandpa George loved wrestling, but my grandmother hated wrestling. When I would spend the night at their house, he would tuck me in to bed and then go to bed with Grandma. But we had a secret signal-if he winked at me, that told me to wait in bed until grandma fell asleep so that he and I could sneak up and watch wrestling on television. So I grew up watching wrestling silently in the dark with Grandpa George and became a big fan of Jesse "The Body" Ventura, the Sheik, "Rowdy" Roddy Piper, Andrê the Giant, and my personal favorite, Jimmy "Superfly" Snuka, who would come flying off the top turnbuckle to knock a guy into what Paul called the third heaven.
Apparently these Christian missionaries are going after the latest version of uncircumcised Philistines: young, white, male rednecks with mullets, El Caminos, white tank tops from Wal-Mart, and a desperate need of salvation and dental insurance. The only problem with this nation of unreached peoples and their at-home perm girlfriends is that they won't go to church because it doesn't have violence, light beer, an aluminum pole, or a NASCAR track.