At last count, the Los Angeles Dodgers employed fourteen coaches. Fourteen. That's just about one coach for every three players. Fourteen. That's just a handful more than the number of games by which they lost the pennant last year. Fourteen. That's about half as many years since they last appeared in the World Series. Fourteen. That's a lot of coaches.

As a coach in the fields of life and ministry and business, I feel a particular affinity toward the third base coach.

The third base coach has one primary responsibility: get the base runner safely home. Toward this end, he is in constant communication with the base runner. Most of it is non-verbal communication; in fact, to the casual observer, the third base coach appears to be doing something akin to the chicken dance in his box on the field. The third base coach often has to decide in a moment whether to hold the runner at third or to wave him home. The third base coach--in that singular moment--must respect the base runner's athletic prowess and his competitive desire to get home, but, when necessary, have the temerity to give him the stop sign.

The third base coach can see what the runner can't see as he blindly runs the bases toward home. The third base coach sees the right fielder play the carom off the wall. He watches as the fielder digs the ball out of his glove. Did he handle it cleanly? He looks to see where the fielder is throwing the ball: will he throw to third; will he try to throw directly to the plate; will he throw to a "cut-off man," who will in turn fire the ball to third or home; or will the fielder concede the base and merely toss the ball back to the pitcher. Is the ball thrown with precision? I've seen games won and lost on the decision of the third base coach.

I've witnessed third base coaches and players, though on the same team, go after each other following a "busted play." Sometimes they square off toe-to-toe on the field; sometimes they wait until they return to the dugout. Sometimes the coach is calming the competitive passion of the player; sometimes he's calling him forth--challenging his potential, so that next time the player won't be called out at home.

I often evaluate my work using the third base coach as a metaphor. I point my charges in the direction of home. I do my best to see what they cannot see. And sometimes, I have to call  them forth. In my work, home is not on a diamond. Typically, home is either a space where their goals are fulfilled or where they might live in alignment with their values. A coach is more than a cheerleader. The best coaches will occasionally risk themselves or the relationship itself on behalf of their clients, calling them forth so they won't be called out.

At the risk of sounding clich�d, I like to think of Jesus as a third base coach, pointing people home. Toward that end, he calls his people out. In fact, that's the very meaning of the Greek word translated "church." The church is comprised of those who have been "called out." But mightn't it be possible we've missed the import of that word? A Christ follower is not simply "called out" to isolation and inactivity. He is called out in order to be called forth. Called forth to priesthood. Called forth to mission. And often, Jesus finds it necessary to call forth his people to the fullest extension of their abilities.

Called forth so as not to be called out, at home.

Where in life might you benefit from being "called forth"?

If you are a Christ follower, what would it look like if the church were to be "called forth" as well as to be "called out"?