In the strange, wild and wonderful times of the 90s, my brother and I had the ritual that defined our week. Watching wrestling on Monday night.
I was the oldest, but Sean followed me three years later, and Andrew followed for another four years. The age gap was big enough for an argument, but close enough to create a kind of tag team loyalty.
Every Monday night, we inhale dinner like a pack of raccoons, then confronted the living room floor for the most important thing. Monday Night War On a console TV. This was in front of HD and 4K. I was grateful that there was a satellite.
At the time there wasn’t just one wrestling show. There were two cultural juggernauts: WWE Monday night life and WCW’s Monday’s Nitro. It was like Marvel and DC were heading straight ahead in front of you as your little brother lay down with his head held down from shoulder to shoulder.
After all, God does not always appear in the feet or prayers of the church. Sometimes he shows up in consistency in the habit of embracing you when your faith feels quiet.
Forget the DVR. If you have to pee, it’s a better sprint. Snack break? Only during commercials. And if you changed channels without voting, you were a home heel.
We lived for it. Stone Cold Steve Austin, Kane, Rock, Goldberg, Stab, NWO – This was a golden age and was ringside on a carpet wrestling mat.
But then life hit us with its own twist.
Somewhere between the heel turn and the pay-per-view special, real life banged us. Our parents divorced in the late 90s and the house felt quiet, suddenly echoing through the hype of a Monday night. heavy.
But wrestling didn’t change. And we were still brothers.
So we clung to it.
Every Monday has become sacred. A kind of reset button. The storyline was wild, often ridiculous, but reliable. Predictable in the best way. Who was planning to win? Who will interfere? Who’s jumping into the competition? The mind to ask questions wanted to know, but we were there for it.
For a few hours, we had three children navigating their grief and not growing too fast. We were just us again. Three boys spread out on the carpet, debating whether Sting would ultimately speak, or if the rocks were talking. (Spoiler: He wasn’t.)
And that routine gave us something solid when everything else felt broken, with the stupid thing that might sound. It gave us a rhythm. A story to follow. Why lean in exchange for drifting.
Looking back, I think God has given us that. Not because wrestling is spiritual in itself, but because there were acts that appeared to each other every week (after a week. It was the bounty of spandex. It was a healing hidden in habit.
After all, God does not always appear in the feet or prayers of the church. Sometimes he shows up in consistency in the habit of embracing you when your faith feels quiet. Although Monday night was not a Bible study, they It was Service of unity. The carpet was never sacred, but the space between us was.
There was one story that attracted more attention than anything else.
It’s not the loud, colorful stab wounds from the early 90s, but a blonde buzz cut, rather, not the back version with dark hair. Crow Face paint and a quiet aura of justice. Sting didn’t talk. He saw from the shadows that Hollywood’s Hulk Hogan and NWO were fooled, groaned, dominated for not checking WCW. We’ll watch the entire episode and watch the Sting in the Rafter for a few minutes. wonderful!
Sting was a hero in the background and something we kept tuned to see. He reminded us of justice that we wanted in real life. That the bad guys don’t always win. Someone would stand up and make things right.
It was electric when he finally got his title shot and beat Hogan. The good guys didn’t just get the belt. They have regained their dignity. And somehow we did.
Over time, life has moved forward. I got an older job and ended up buying my first home. My youngest brother Andrew moved while he was in college, and so, Monday night wrestling was revived, with the exception of the gong sound from the Undertaker style.
Instead of lying on the floor, we camped on the sofa. Each one has its own medium domino pizza and two liters of pepper or sun fallen between us like our tag team partners. I was dating my wife Karen at the time, and she would just stop by and shake her head.
“It’s all ridiculous,” she said with a laugh.
We shrugged, bite, and replied, “It’s Monday.”
Eventually, the marriage and children rearranged the rhythm, but there was no heart for it. Monday has been changed to Friday, but wrestling is still involved. Only now, I am surrounded by a new generation of super fans, kids.
They now have their own favorites: LA Knight (my, TO), Reign of Rome, CM Punk. They stack on the sofa like a royal rumble. They cut out the living room promotion. They bet on who wins.
We talk about why scammers and champions, and “faces” (good people) aren’t simply fooling back. It opens the door to talk about characters, self-control and why not repay evil and evil.
Sometimes they ask how my day was. Sometimes I ask about school. And like that, our guards are down while watching the match between the folding chairs and fireworks. There is room for real connection.
That’s something I’ve never seen before come. This goofy, over-the-top ritual is to create a sacred space in my parenting. I don’t develop wrestlers. I raise children who know that I belong. Having something shared. rhythm. Built-in time when I show up not only as their father but as a teammate in their corner. I’m still talking about the time I spent with my siblings. I hope they will tell their children about the Friday night they spent with their father.
People love to laugh at wrestling. “It’s a fake.” “It’s scripted.” “It’s a sweaty melodrama of spandex.”
And certainly some of it is true. But so are all the films that made us weep and all the books that changed our lives. The truth is not in Punch. It’s connected.
Wrestling was never about the ring. It was about the floor. Then the sofa. Well, the place between my kids is leaning a little closer to the big moments for us all. It was about the inner jokes, routines, and the chance to sit from shoulder to shoulder when the eyes and stunning felt so intense.
It wasn’t a treatment. But that It was Healing.
And maybe that’s how Grace sometimes looks: loud, chaotic, excessive…and exactly what we needed. Not because it was profound, but because it was consistent. Because in the middle of all the noise, it created the space for us to show up. We knew that our three brothers were going to spend time together.
The stab wound may have fought from the shadows. But we learned something from him. What the Gospel echoes more than Championship Pop: a good victory in the end. Justice is important. And red is always worth seeing.
Even if it comes with entrance music and pyro.
Source: Christ and Pop Culture – christandpopculture.com
