We Detroit Lions fans who scoff at the idea of supernatural miracles gather around the altar of television each Sunday to find redemption in a god who hates us, tortures us, and steals the minutes of our lives, giving nothing in return. Our god has scorned us, sent us out into the desert to wander for all eternity. Our god despises and mocks us. His booming voice declares, “The moment ye look away, success will come and ye shalt be thrown outside with the other fair-weather fans, where there is weeping and gnashing of teeth.”

Little babies are born, wrapped in Lions blankets. Grown men will die having never seen the promised land of the postseason with their own eyes. Young children ask the elders, “What does it all mean?”

We cry out, “How long oh Lord!? How long?” For our sufferings have gone on unendingly, this franchise has turned their back on us. They lead us astray with family pack ticket deals and free bobble heads for the first ten thousand fans. Our communion wine is Mountain Dew, our manna from heaven is Cooler Ranch Doritos. Our priestly vestments the jerseys of those great martyrs of the organization – St. Matthew, St. Calvin, St. Barry.

god sends his prophets from on high, to give hope to the fans. They offer us up false messiahs – future hall of famers, defensive geniuses, top draft picks – and one by one we have witnessed their crucifixion. Our god’s commandments are etched in stone “Thou shalt not have a second team that you also root for! Do not turn aside to the Colts or the 49ers or even the Cardinals because you lived in Arizona for 6 months a couple years back. Love the Detroit Lions with all thy heart, with all thy soul, with all thy mind and with all thy strength!”

The forces of evil encircle our beloved Lions. The blasphemous referees refuse to call pass interference penalties, they reverse our first downs after further booth review. The football gods send Aaron Rodgers to punish us, his hail Mary’s and walk off field goals shatter the dreams of the gathered faithful.

But behold Lion’s fans, your king Matthew Stafford is coming to you, humble and saying “ummm” a lot.

He was sacked for our transgressions, he was bruised for our inequities, the punishment that brought us peace was upon him, and by his stripes we are healed.

Behold, Detroit, the Body of Stafford broken for you.

He was hung upon the cross of this garbage organization, they pierced his side, and when it was clear that a rebuild was underway he cried out in a loud voice, “It is finished!”

He was laid upon the trading block, while all who wept around him proclaimed, “Surely this man was an elite quarterback!” He didn’t have enough weapons, he was playing through injuries, those pick sixes weren’t his fault!

But he rose again, to a Bright Future on the Sean McVay run Ram’s offense. He dwelleth upon high in the gold paved streets of Los Angeles, and a mighty chorus around him declares noon and night, “Halleluiah! Halleluiah! The Haters were wrong! Alleluia, his career is alive!”

Meanwhile back in Detroit the whole stadium is full of the Lions’ glory. The train of their Honolulu Blue robes fill the stands, touching the painted faces of those wearing foam engine blocks on their heads. The faithful face the field and utter the ancient liturgy passed down through the generations:

Same Old Lions

A crazy zealot stands outside Ford Field with a megaphone and a sign, warning us that we’re going to burn in hell. Maybe not a fiery lava filled lake, but an endless purgatory of meaningless moments, broken promises, and false excitement.

How Long oh Lord? How long? By your mighty hand fix our broken secondary, fill our roster with guys who can play. In your merciful grace lead us to a franchise altering draft pick. Give us this day our quarterback of the future and lead us not into drafting a corner with the number three pick.

For thine is the endzone, the glory, and the power to make all things new again through a deep postseason run. Forever and ever.

Amen.

The Body of Stafford Broken for You