Advent, Outrage, and Our Idolatry of Football

I wonder what the fans are doing now.

Not the coaches. Not the athletic directors. Not the boosters.
The fans.

Because as soon as Lane Kiffin floated his “I need to go home and pray about it” line at the Egg Bowl podium, a curious spiritual phenomenon swept across Mississippi: tens of thousands of Christians instantly shifted into a prayer life more intense than anything observed since their last SEC Championship bid.

And now that he’s leaving for LSU—well—let’s just say “revival” is not the word for it.

While Advent candles are being lit in sanctuaries, Advent bonfires are being lit on message boards.
While priests and pastors proclaim, “Prepare the way of the Lord,” fans proclaim, “Prepare the buyout!”
While Christians are invited to kneel in hope, fans kneel only to pick up their phones and refresh Twitter.

I wonder what the fans are doing now.
Actually, I don’t have to wonder. We all know.

Stage 1: Denial — “He wouldn’t leave us.”

This was the first liturgy of the post-Egg Bowl era:
“He wouldn’t leave. Not after what we’ve built.”
“He loves Oxford.”
“He said he’d pray about it, and the Lord wouldn’t lead him away from here.”

It is remarkable how confidently we recruit God into our fandom, as though the Almighty is wearing a powder-blue hoodie and monitoring the transfer portal with the angels.

Stage 2: Bargaining — “Lord, if he stays…”

Some fans engaged in what theologians call conditional petitionary prayer:
“Lord, if you make Lane stay, I promise to go to church more this year.”
“Lord, if he stays, I will tithe. I will tithe more than the NIL collective, even.”

Funny how college football can bring people to their knees faster than Lent ever does.

Stage 3: Rage — “Traitor! Judas! He took the silver!”

Once the rumors of LSU became undeniable, the spiritual fruit shifted sharply from prayer to profanity.

Suddenly Lane Kiffin was no longer the prophet, priest, and king of Oxford.
He was now Judas Kiffin, taking his thirty pieces of Baton Rouge silver.

And in the purest expression of secular Advent outrage, fans resurrected their favorite seasonal hymn:
“Fire him now!”

It is striking: we are more outraged by a coach leaving a football program than we are by our own lack of fidelity to Christ.

Stage 4: The Theological Crisis — “But… but… what does this mean?”

Here’s the irony: Lane’s departure has created an existential crisis not because of what he did, but because of what it reveals.

We say Christ is Lord,
but we live like football is.

We say we are waiting for the King of Kings,
but we are actually waiting for the next coach to save our season.

We say we long for Emmanuel—God with us—
but we panic when the one who called the offensive plays leaves us.

We say our hope is in the One who reigns forever,
yet our emotional stability depends on the whims of a man with a headset and a good agent.

This is not an Ole Miss problem.
This is not a Mississippi problem.
This is not even an SEC problem.

This is a human problem:
We worship what we think will save us.

And we are remarkably efficient at anointing false messiahs.

Stage 5: Searching for the Next Savior — “Who can deliver us now?”

The irony of the coaching carousel is that it is a perfect parody of Advent:

• A people in waiting
• Searching the horizon
• Hoping for salvation
• Looking for someone—anyone—who can deliver

The difference, of course, is that the fans are not looking for a suffering servant.
They’re looking for a savior with a clipboard.

They want power, not humility.
Flash, not faithfulness.
Wins, not wisdom.
Recruiting rankings, not righteousness.

And they’ll proclaim the next coach with more passion than the angels proclaimed Christ to the shepherds.

The Advent Question: What Are We Actually Waiting For?

What makes all this both humorous and tragic is how easily Christians slide from Advent longing to athletic idolatry without even noticing the shift.

During Advent, Christ invites us into stillness, humility, repentance, and hope.

Meanwhile, college football invites us into anxiety, outrage, speculation, and emotional volatility.

One kingdom says, “The King has come, and He will never leave you.”
The other says, “The coach has left, and he was never yours.”

One kingdom proclaims, “Peace on earth.”
The other proclaims, “Panic in the SEC.”

One kingdom brings grace.
The other brings gossip.

Yet the fans—God bless them—struggle to tell which kingdom deserves their emotional energy.

A Final Thought: The Only One Who Doesn’t Bolt

At the end of it all, perhaps Advent comes precisely when football fans need it most:

When we lose a coach – not just Lane Kiffin – but any coach,
when our identity quakes,
when we realize how fragile our loyalties are,
when our fanaticism reveals itself for what it is…

Advent whispers back:

“The true Shepherd does not abandon His flock.”
“The true King does not negotiate a better deal.”
“The true Savior does not bolt.”

Christ stays.
Christ remains.
Christ is faithful when coaches, players, fanbases, and even believers are not.

So yes, I wonder what the fans are doing now.
I hope—just maybe—they’re lifting their eyes from the coaching carousel long enough to notice another arrival, another announcement, another kingdom breaking in:

“Unto you is born this day in the city of David a Savior, who is Christ the Lord.”

And He, unlike every coach in America, is not going anywhere.

Be blessed today, my friends! And remember, God loves you and so do I — Opa