swimming

What I Learned from Olympic Swimming (and other Olympics), Part Two

They call him Superman.

They also call him Tiger Woods in a Speedo, but I’m not sure what to do with that one.

He did amazing things. He did the impossible. (How did he win that 100 meter butterfly anyway?)

They call them the Golden Girls.

(And I don’t think they mean four old ladies.)

They haven’t lost a game in over a year. That makes 108 straight sets. In a row. 14 consecutive Olympic matches. Two consecutive gold medals in volleyball. No one’s done that before.

Kerri said, "We felt like warriors out there."

We laughed with these heroes. We cried with them. We scared the dog cheering for them (or was that just me?). We reach higher because they reach higher.

There’s something immortal about the Olympics. Or perhaps there’s something truely mortal. Perhaps it’s where immortal and mortal cross. It’s what makes us taste what it means to be truly human, to be victorious, untainted by death, larger than life.

It brings to mind the days when their stories would’ve been written in the stars. (Except now they’re written all over NBC and ESPN, which disappears faster than constellations. Perhaps we should bring back the heroic aspect of constellation story telling.) It reminds us that there’s something great about humanity, something that images God.

It makes us long for something greater. It makes us realize that this–this corruptness and evilness and deathness–is not how it’s supposed to be.

And I wonder, will there be Olympics in the new earth?

What the Olympic Swimming Taught Me, Part One

With every 50 meters, I inch closer to the TV. By the time they swim the final lap, I have my nose about a foot away from the screen. My hands clasped together, I pray. "Is it bad theology to pray for them?" I ask Chris. He shrugs. At least it’s live–I’m not praying retroactively (yes, I’ve done that too–God’s above time, right?).

I imagine a whole nation of people gripping their couches, popcorn, drinks as they watch Michael’s final race. (Of course that’s not how it is, but that’s how I imagine it.) A whole nation of people watching Jason Lezak’s final strokes.

And here’s what I can’t help but wonder–am I willing to be Jason Lezak? He’s an amazing swimmer, and that final lap (both on the 400m Melody and the 400m Freestyle) is worth bragging rights.

But who will remember Jason Lezak? In the flood of Michael Phelps recognition and gold medal counts and history-making moments, Jason Lezak gets the leftover drizzle (not to mention Aaron Piersol and Brendon Hanson). It strikes me that if Michael Phelps is the Paul of swimming, than Jason Lezak is the Barnabas. Where would Paul be without Barnabas? Where would the gospel be? And yet, who gets more attention?

This is where I am today. In art, in ministry, in marriage, in friendship, in Church, in family, am I willing to be Barnabas? Will I work as hard as Jason Lezak worked knowing that while God will also reward me, the recognition of the crowds will go elsewhere?

And this brings me back to that prayer of insignificance (why, oh, why did I have to make that my year’s prayer!). God won’t let me alone.

(Side note: notice how we all become experts at the Olympics? At least I do. The first couple of dives, I think they all look great. But then I begin to notice things like pinkie toes. "Oh, her beginning was great, but her legs went into the water at a slight angle. The judges will deduct for that," I say. Or "It was such a beautiful uneven bars routine except for that one time when she bent her elbows–I hope that doesn’t knock her out of the gold." Or I talk about the athletes like I’ve known them for years. "Don’t you love how relaxed and easy-going Aaron Piersol is?" It’s pitiful really, but I can’t help myself.)