Unless you're in Notting Hill, of course, when Europe's greatest street carnival, celebrating it's big 4-0th birthday this year, is reaching its grand climax tonight. It's the very officially named "Late Summer Bank Holiday", and true to form the weather and assorted traffic problems on rail, road and air have made that very clear this weekend. Only the water seems immune.
Mind you, this Bank Holiday in some ways has been no different to any other day for me. It's the first time in six years a public holiday has occurred when I am not actually working full time, so it's significance is a little lost. Bit like me, really, as today I long to be out there being part of "the crowd" and taking part in an event or visiting an attraction somewhere- it's the extrovert in me. One of these years, maybe I will be courageous enough to catch the tube up to town and enjoy all the colour and spectacle of the Notting Hill event, but not today I think. Despite the early promise of a sunny start, it has been rather overcast most of the day and there's a chill win tormenting the net curtains and banging the bedroom door.
I'm still minded to go and visit a garden or something somewhere, but as it is today has been very much a bit of a sad anti-climax now tha THE carnival, the Olympics, is over for another four years. The 28th Olypiad has closed :-( This reflective period will be when all the hyperbole mongers ply their trade, and why should I be reluctant to buy from them- words are free, thankfully. Without a doubt, it has been the Games I have most enjoyed of any I've seen in my 45 years but perhaps more importantly the most inspiring. After last night's amazing closing ceremony from Athens, my first thought was "roll on Beijing 2008!".
But of course, to say that is to wish life away for the sake of one event, or series of events really. That may be the athlete's way, to live for the games-but experience has shown that to put all your hope and trust in one happening is folly. Or is it...?
Who knows what the next four years will bring, who could know what a megashock the most horrifying event of the last four years- and surely the only one attracting as much international attention as the Olympic Games- could have brought. The world of Sydney 2000, the Millennial games, seemed a safer and perhaps more hopeful one than that a quartet of years later. September 11th 2001 changed all that.
Yet what the Olympic games has proven once more, it seems to me, is that the human being and the human spirit is the most wonderful, supreme example of God's creation and that's the way it's meant to be. We are made in His image. Every gold medal won on a Grecian podium, every plaudit "urned" is of nought compared to the wonder and the rapture all humanity will witness at the end of time when He comes again. All human life was indeed there in Athens these last sixteen days, and every emotion of humanity was there too. Every great thing that he or she can achieve, as well as the most miserable and diabolical things we can do- though thank the Lord, genuinely, that there were no terrorist attacks or bloodshed, except in the course of sport maybe a graze or two.
And now, the return to reality, though with hopes of back to the future, God Willing. I had my own Olympian effort at the weekend, when I went rowing on the Thames at Twickenham with Messrs Greenway, Kenny and Pennington, four of my oldest friends. The last time I had been in a rowing boat was an absolute farce, almost a Whitehall one really as it happened on the Serpentine in Hyde Park. I therefore entered this boat with some trepidation- enjoying the free ride upstream courtesy of Chris and Dave for the first half hour, reasonable rowers both, but expecting the inevitable impasse when it came to my turn at the oars.
Fortunately for me however, we did not need to summon the RNLI lifeboat from nearby Chiswick, thanks to some patient "coaching" from Chris as I gradually learnt my technique with the rowing implement, albeit with only one oar rather than two. Not much changes with my co-ordination being as useless as ever! But Chris taught me a valuable lesson as he showed great patience and help without patronising me, such that I got to the end of the half hour yearning for more. It's hardly an original tag line, especially in the last ten days or so, but for Four Men in a Boat, there was absolutely nothing quite so splendid as messing about on the river (or was that Mr Toad...?)
For another thing I think these games have highlighted for me is that behind every great athlete, there's a great coach. They were everywhere, either seen or like an eminence superb, not far away in the background. We don't have the ability or the humility to judge ourselves and what we can achieve without someone "out there" to coax us and to guide us, to cheer us on to be the best that we can possibly be and to help us and encourage us in our weakness.
I was thinking last week about the two meanings of this word coach, which seem so very different. But are they? Apparently, the older word, referring to the means of transport, comes originally from Hungarian- in fact from a place name, according to the huge volume of the shorter OED which I almost need to refer to the muscle section of my Gray's Anatomy to life. The latter one is suprisingly recent, only dating from about 1846. But it occurs to me that an athletic, vocal or even these days a "life" coach, is someone who helps to get you from where you are now, to where you want to be. And isn't that just what the founders of Stagecoach, Christians apparently, also seek to do? It's an interesting metaphor, I think- one which maybe I'll get the chance to use in preaching again when the NEXT games come round. Meanwhile, I'm really grateful that the greatest coach of all time, Our Lord,was gracious enough to invite me into team JC!
Monday, 30 August 2004
Thursday, 26 August 2004
Body Building
Wednesday 25th August 2004
Day 12 of the Olympics already, we've just been informed by Craig Doyle on the BBC's Olympic Grandstand- which this time yesterday was adjusting to life in an earthquake zone! Fortunately, no damage done, but the studio was shaken, not stirred.
The TV coverage does have a certain addictive quality about it, the vicarious pleasure of "being" in Athens and enjoying all the atmosphere, without all the discomfort of temperatures in the high thirties celsius (hard to remember that's what we endured here last year!) though it was good to see a return to old money with Fahrenheit temperatures given during the Women's Triathlon event this morning. That started my day at 8.00 and it was worth seeing through to its shock conclusion two hours later when an Aussie turned Austrian came from nowhere to win against the Antipodean favourite in a sprint finish.
I must say I am full of admiration for the distaff side at these games, who seem to have achieved so much already. Apart from male chauvinism, how and why could they ever have been excluded from the ancient games, let alone from some of the events in the modern ones. Dare we hope for a time where the women can compete on equal terms WITH the men in the athletics, gymnastics and many other sports? Apart from biology, what differentiates them in such tests of endurance? I think it would be very interesting to watch mixed sex races, but dare I suggest it would wound our male ego and pride terminally?
Mind you, sex certainly seems to be the motivation behind the beach volleyball, with the women apparently restricted as to what they can wear by a MAXIMUM clothing provision! It cannot be denied these curvaceous beauties are a sight which makes the sell-out unsurprising, but I'm afraid I find it almost impossible to take the "sport" seriously. Far more appealing to watch, for me, and far more admirable in their athletic achievement, were these tri-athletes who swam first 1500 metres in the sea- beautiful surroundings and a joy to watch during our summerless summer here in the UK, though there were sunny intervals today. Immediately after this, they had to cycle 40 K's round a course which included 1 in 6 hills which for once the camera was able to pick up in pictures.- but it did pick up the cheering site of swimsuited rears! Being serious rather than sexist though, punishing or what: just as well it started early in the day. Finally, 10 000 metres to run to that big finish taken so dramatically by the Alpine wonder.
I must say, I have taken a greater interest in the workings of the human body during these games, and have marvelled more at just what extremes it can be pushed to and what it can endure. This time yesterday, I was looking at a fascinating website which I had heard of before, but never looked at, called "How Stuff Works". In the health section, it had this amazing and informative explanation of how muscles do their stuff- check it out at http://health.howstuffworks.com/muscle.htm
The human body really is an absolute marvel, though of course as a Christian I should not really ever think or expect anything else of such an awesome creator. Was reading this morning my mailing from Bob Snyder from his book "Lessons Learned on the Journey", LLJ for short. He's allowing himself a holiday this month, so these have become monthly mailings. The latest one's at http://www.pursuantgroup.com/ihs/0804_2.htm
and as I read it I thought "how true", remembering how in my own degree course we were told that Theology was once queen of the sciences. What a sad reflection of our times that it is so often now not even a princess, more a lowly pauperess. And yet people's thirst for knowledge of The Almighty must be as strong as ever, especially among today's sixth formers, judging by the inspiring increase in the number of A Level students taking Religious Studies revealed in last week's otherwise controversial results. Maybe the desire to push the body to it's limits is the same desire that drives so many to want to fill that God-shaped hole- we are made to do it. What a pity then that so many instead just drive straight over the pothole and suffer the consequences. Where's the place for "the unknown God" in these Athenian games?
Well, judging from the interview given by one female athlete last night- can't remember which- where she gave due credit to God, he's not unknown at all to some of the competitors, and is making his presence felt very clearly there if you but look, thank you very much, How appropriate that it should be happening at the very place St Paul gave his address to the Areopagean wiseacres, or so they thought, so many centuries ago. God gave us our bodies to use for his glory, not for vainglory, so how refreshing to see true humility at these games, as well as genuine empathy and the best of human potential and fellow feeling. I calculated that though they gather the high-profile headlines, the drug abusers "outed" at the games are in reality but 0.01 per cent of the ten thousand or so taking part.
But it was such a marvellous body, too, that shed blood and died on a cross. I wonder how many others of those who so casually wear their crucifixes round their neck, whether or not accompanied by a medal, will ever stop to ponder this. My prayer today and throughout these games has been for the Christians attending, that the glorious nature of the God Paul preached to Athens can in some way be revealed to those that have ears to hear twenty centuries later.
Day 12 of the Olympics already, we've just been informed by Craig Doyle on the BBC's Olympic Grandstand- which this time yesterday was adjusting to life in an earthquake zone! Fortunately, no damage done, but the studio was shaken, not stirred.
The TV coverage does have a certain addictive quality about it, the vicarious pleasure of "being" in Athens and enjoying all the atmosphere, without all the discomfort of temperatures in the high thirties celsius (hard to remember that's what we endured here last year!) though it was good to see a return to old money with Fahrenheit temperatures given during the Women's Triathlon event this morning. That started my day at 8.00 and it was worth seeing through to its shock conclusion two hours later when an Aussie turned Austrian came from nowhere to win against the Antipodean favourite in a sprint finish.
I must say I am full of admiration for the distaff side at these games, who seem to have achieved so much already. Apart from male chauvinism, how and why could they ever have been excluded from the ancient games, let alone from some of the events in the modern ones. Dare we hope for a time where the women can compete on equal terms WITH the men in the athletics, gymnastics and many other sports? Apart from biology, what differentiates them in such tests of endurance? I think it would be very interesting to watch mixed sex races, but dare I suggest it would wound our male ego and pride terminally?
Mind you, sex certainly seems to be the motivation behind the beach volleyball, with the women apparently restricted as to what they can wear by a MAXIMUM clothing provision! It cannot be denied these curvaceous beauties are a sight which makes the sell-out unsurprising, but I'm afraid I find it almost impossible to take the "sport" seriously. Far more appealing to watch, for me, and far more admirable in their athletic achievement, were these tri-athletes who swam first 1500 metres in the sea- beautiful surroundings and a joy to watch during our summerless summer here in the UK, though there were sunny intervals today. Immediately after this, they had to cycle 40 K's round a course which included 1 in 6 hills which for once the camera was able to pick up in pictures.- but it did pick up the cheering site of swimsuited rears! Being serious rather than sexist though, punishing or what: just as well it started early in the day. Finally, 10 000 metres to run to that big finish taken so dramatically by the Alpine wonder.
I must say, I have taken a greater interest in the workings of the human body during these games, and have marvelled more at just what extremes it can be pushed to and what it can endure. This time yesterday, I was looking at a fascinating website which I had heard of before, but never looked at, called "How Stuff Works". In the health section, it had this amazing and informative explanation of how muscles do their stuff- check it out at http://health.howstuffworks.com/muscle.htm
The human body really is an absolute marvel, though of course as a Christian I should not really ever think or expect anything else of such an awesome creator. Was reading this morning my mailing from Bob Snyder from his book "Lessons Learned on the Journey", LLJ for short. He's allowing himself a holiday this month, so these have become monthly mailings. The latest one's at http://www.pursuantgroup.com/ihs/0804_2.htm
and as I read it I thought "how true", remembering how in my own degree course we were told that Theology was once queen of the sciences. What a sad reflection of our times that it is so often now not even a princess, more a lowly pauperess. And yet people's thirst for knowledge of The Almighty must be as strong as ever, especially among today's sixth formers, judging by the inspiring increase in the number of A Level students taking Religious Studies revealed in last week's otherwise controversial results. Maybe the desire to push the body to it's limits is the same desire that drives so many to want to fill that God-shaped hole- we are made to do it. What a pity then that so many instead just drive straight over the pothole and suffer the consequences. Where's the place for "the unknown God" in these Athenian games?
Well, judging from the interview given by one female athlete last night- can't remember which- where she gave due credit to God, he's not unknown at all to some of the competitors, and is making his presence felt very clearly there if you but look, thank you very much, How appropriate that it should be happening at the very place St Paul gave his address to the Areopagean wiseacres, or so they thought, so many centuries ago. God gave us our bodies to use for his glory, not for vainglory, so how refreshing to see true humility at these games, as well as genuine empathy and the best of human potential and fellow feeling. I calculated that though they gather the high-profile headlines, the drug abusers "outed" at the games are in reality but 0.01 per cent of the ten thousand or so taking part.
But it was such a marvellous body, too, that shed blood and died on a cross. I wonder how many others of those who so casually wear their crucifixes round their neck, whether or not accompanied by a medal, will ever stop to ponder this. My prayer today and throughout these games has been for the Christians attending, that the glorious nature of the God Paul preached to Athens can in some way be revealed to those that have ears to hear twenty centuries later.
Sunday, 22 August 2004
Nocturnal Nattering
Awoken from my slumbers with Classic FM at 4.50 this morning by a bizarre dream, one of those occasions when you are glad to return to "reality". And yet...the idea occurred to me, hardly original I guess: what if life itself were only a dream from which you could not awake? Frightening!
The dream started off with it apparently being midnight on Christmas Eve, or soon after. Despite this, it was bright daylight outside in my home street where I appeared to be. Something about me knew this was not right, yet it was still Christmas! I had gone into the entrance porch of my good friend "AFT's" home, and was apparently waiting to see him while playing with bits and pieces, child's toys maybe, which I found in the porch. Eventually he arrived, and seemed pleased to see me, but did not invite me into the house. He was eating a piece of meat and said he had two girls from Germany with him- Becky and (?) had to get back to them. Nevertheless, I remained in the vestibule for some time and discovered new things which fascinated me. After a while though, I decided to go back to my own family home as it was Christmas, though as has often happened in my dreams I seemed unprepared for it- I had bought no presents, for instance and it had crept up on me.
Home was actually just next door, but it seemed to be a very different home from the one I know and love now. My brother had now appeared, as had AFT. We went to look in what looked like my father's garage, but it was almost unrecognisable- it had no doors at all, and looked more like an open cowshed with bits and pieces of wood in. I was shocked and puzzled by this, and then AFT told me that they had taken the doors off and my father was dead.
Of course, in real life dear Dad left us five years ago now, nearly, but in the dream this came as a shock to me- as though nobody had told me and all the mourning and grieving was going on without me. I was becoming increasingly aware though that something was not right about this situation- I guess it was a lucid dream, where you are trying to prove to yourself this is not "reality" (whatever that is) and get back in control. The final piece of information which enabled me to do that- and wake up- was when I saw Mum, and many other family members, in our kitchen. It could have been a "normal" family gathering, except for one prominent detail. Mum was trying to cook on an ancient blue kitchen stove which bore no resemblance to any we have ever had, apart from maybe the New World stove we had until the mid-seventies.
It was almost as though I was trying to prove to some malefactor that I had the upper hand and was in control of reality-he could not fool me! This one detail woke me up, and I felt it was time for a cup of tea and a return to the normality of another workless Monday in Eastbourne.
However, before putting the kettle on I had to see if anything had arrived in my inbox overnight, natch! Needless to say, perhaps, most of it was useless unsolicited trash again, but there was an interesting posting to the BDXC list about the demolition of the Lopik transmitter in the Netherlands over the weekend. There was a link to a short video which Jonathan Marks had made of this occasion, intended to be part of a longer documentary.
The Lopik transmitter was demolished with explosives, a very sudden end to what was after all only a rather large piece of metal and yet which for me was full of "life". I felt the same sorrow at seeing it topple as when the remaining Shoreham B power station chimney was demolished some years ago, and a landmark was lost-but that of course was to find new life with the taller, more slender, metal chimney of the new gas-fired station. After watching the video footage, I posted the following to the Media Network blog:
"It's fanciful, I know, but it seems to me a radio transmitter tower is like a sentient being. A gentle giant, an elephant of the airwaves. All those words uttered over the years through Lopik, all the music that has brought cheer and expressed the zeitgeist, have now lost their body. The giant is dead, euthanased in a moment. Can the digital baby ever take its place? Maybe, one day. But we're a long way from that yet. The petulant wailings of digital chirps as I tried to listen to the output from another giant, the Heathfield transmitter, shows we're a long way from perfecting digital. Come on analogue, you can do it like the marathon runners- keep on in there til the end!"
That last comment was a reference to the big Olympic event of Sunday, where everyone had been building up the hype and convinced Paula Radcliffe would get gold for Britain. In fact, she dropped out at the 36Kilometre mark, unable to go on and totally exhausted. In contrast to the shots of tears of victory that winged their way electronically to the world's presses after the coxless four final, the shot everyone will see today will be of an inconsolable Ms Radcliffe sitting on an anonymous Athens street, not even with her husband or loved ones around her for support. I can't help thinking of Kipling as I compare in my mind these two images: "If...". How long will she be saying that to herself, but what good does it do? It may seem trite and trivial to utter it, but by contrast I can't help thinking "Pick yourself up, dust yourself down, and start all over again". Easier said than done for all of us, of course.
Well, the dark emptiness and loneliness of night gets pushed aside to other shores for another night. It's not a promising weather prospect outside as I type: there has been overnight rain and though it's approaching dawn, I see no sign of any sun. All the golden glow of Saturday seems but a distant memory already, after Paula's and many other disappointments on the track and field last night. But hey, that's life! Yet how hard real life can be, particularly at the moment of most disappointment. There's an almost sick irony that at the very moment we were watching our "golden girl" give up in agony, news came from Norway of the theft of a version of Edvard Munch's "The Scream", surely the most graphic and memorable image one can see of despair and insurmountable anxiety. I would not be at all surprised if some broadsheet journo makes the connection somewhere today.
Maybe that is the great draw of the Olympics- we feel both the triumph and the tragedy, the agony and the ecstasy, of those taking part. Vicariously they perform what we can only "dream" of doing ourselves and all of us are somehow at least for a moment led to yearn to be the best that we can possibly be ourselves, to give that extra bit more, to achieve, to triumph. Of course, the memory of great Olympians- like Justin Gatlin, the 100 metre champion who was the underdog but proved himself the world's fastest man last night- will outlive them, but others will replace them. But we have a need for immortal heroes- and yet even their reality can be very different to our dreams and the tales handed down from childhood.
Radio 4's "Prayer for the Day" a few moments ago was delivered by Tony Burnham, a Jewish preacher I believe, who spoke about the well-loved legend of David and Goliath. He went through all the oh so familiar details of the story, only to reveal that in reality, David was probably a grown man by himself by this time and hardly the "littlun" we love to imagine-but this doesn't make the story any less powerful, I think. It is the universal story we all love and long to hear, the archetypal "rags to riches" story of victory over adversity, of right over might. Burnham concluded that the real heroes of our society are those who care for those unable to care for themselves, and many like them. Its not for one moment to denigrate the achievement of any of the Olympians, but it kind of puts things in perspective, doesn't it.
But then, the perspective which brings both the promise of immortality and restores reality is this: God so loved the world, that he gave his only begotten son. Gave a son of David's line up to the Goliaths of the world- the megacorps who maybe keep the Olympics going, perhaps- like a lamb to the slaughter. Everyone thought he was dead, that was it- what a miserable end to a promising career and the dreams and hopes his people held that he was their Messiah. The reality of course is, he was, and is- because he overcame even death and did not disintegrate to dust. He is seated at the right hand of the father, crowned champion not with a wreath of laurel but with thorns! Because of him, or as that lively Paul Oakley chorus says "because of you, because of your love...all our sins are washed away, and we shall live forever, now we have this hope, because of you" The 100 metre champion, Justin Gatlin, appeared to kneel down on the track, raise his hands heavenward in thanks, and cross himself after his win. Could it be that he is not just another American athlete, but is on the Lord's side? Time to check that out, and then back to bed I think- even though the street light has just gone out and there seems to be some brightness trying to break through the cloud. But if young Gatlin is a believer,alleluia (again!)- what a witness!
The dream started off with it apparently being midnight on Christmas Eve, or soon after. Despite this, it was bright daylight outside in my home street where I appeared to be. Something about me knew this was not right, yet it was still Christmas! I had gone into the entrance porch of my good friend "AFT's" home, and was apparently waiting to see him while playing with bits and pieces, child's toys maybe, which I found in the porch. Eventually he arrived, and seemed pleased to see me, but did not invite me into the house. He was eating a piece of meat and said he had two girls from Germany with him- Becky and (?) had to get back to them. Nevertheless, I remained in the vestibule for some time and discovered new things which fascinated me. After a while though, I decided to go back to my own family home as it was Christmas, though as has often happened in my dreams I seemed unprepared for it- I had bought no presents, for instance and it had crept up on me.
Home was actually just next door, but it seemed to be a very different home from the one I know and love now. My brother had now appeared, as had AFT. We went to look in what looked like my father's garage, but it was almost unrecognisable- it had no doors at all, and looked more like an open cowshed with bits and pieces of wood in. I was shocked and puzzled by this, and then AFT told me that they had taken the doors off and my father was dead.
Of course, in real life dear Dad left us five years ago now, nearly, but in the dream this came as a shock to me- as though nobody had told me and all the mourning and grieving was going on without me. I was becoming increasingly aware though that something was not right about this situation- I guess it was a lucid dream, where you are trying to prove to yourself this is not "reality" (whatever that is) and get back in control. The final piece of information which enabled me to do that- and wake up- was when I saw Mum, and many other family members, in our kitchen. It could have been a "normal" family gathering, except for one prominent detail. Mum was trying to cook on an ancient blue kitchen stove which bore no resemblance to any we have ever had, apart from maybe the New World stove we had until the mid-seventies.
It was almost as though I was trying to prove to some malefactor that I had the upper hand and was in control of reality-he could not fool me! This one detail woke me up, and I felt it was time for a cup of tea and a return to the normality of another workless Monday in Eastbourne.
However, before putting the kettle on I had to see if anything had arrived in my inbox overnight, natch! Needless to say, perhaps, most of it was useless unsolicited trash again, but there was an interesting posting to the BDXC list about the demolition of the Lopik transmitter in the Netherlands over the weekend. There was a link to a short video which Jonathan Marks had made of this occasion, intended to be part of a longer documentary.
The Lopik transmitter was demolished with explosives, a very sudden end to what was after all only a rather large piece of metal and yet which for me was full of "life". I felt the same sorrow at seeing it topple as when the remaining Shoreham B power station chimney was demolished some years ago, and a landmark was lost-but that of course was to find new life with the taller, more slender, metal chimney of the new gas-fired station. After watching the video footage, I posted the following to the Media Network blog:
"It's fanciful, I know, but it seems to me a radio transmitter tower is like a sentient being. A gentle giant, an elephant of the airwaves. All those words uttered over the years through Lopik, all the music that has brought cheer and expressed the zeitgeist, have now lost their body. The giant is dead, euthanased in a moment. Can the digital baby ever take its place? Maybe, one day. But we're a long way from that yet. The petulant wailings of digital chirps as I tried to listen to the output from another giant, the Heathfield transmitter, shows we're a long way from perfecting digital. Come on analogue, you can do it like the marathon runners- keep on in there til the end!"
That last comment was a reference to the big Olympic event of Sunday, where everyone had been building up the hype and convinced Paula Radcliffe would get gold for Britain. In fact, she dropped out at the 36Kilometre mark, unable to go on and totally exhausted. In contrast to the shots of tears of victory that winged their way electronically to the world's presses after the coxless four final, the shot everyone will see today will be of an inconsolable Ms Radcliffe sitting on an anonymous Athens street, not even with her husband or loved ones around her for support. I can't help thinking of Kipling as I compare in my mind these two images: "If...". How long will she be saying that to herself, but what good does it do? It may seem trite and trivial to utter it, but by contrast I can't help thinking "Pick yourself up, dust yourself down, and start all over again". Easier said than done for all of us, of course.
Well, the dark emptiness and loneliness of night gets pushed aside to other shores for another night. It's not a promising weather prospect outside as I type: there has been overnight rain and though it's approaching dawn, I see no sign of any sun. All the golden glow of Saturday seems but a distant memory already, after Paula's and many other disappointments on the track and field last night. But hey, that's life! Yet how hard real life can be, particularly at the moment of most disappointment. There's an almost sick irony that at the very moment we were watching our "golden girl" give up in agony, news came from Norway of the theft of a version of Edvard Munch's "The Scream", surely the most graphic and memorable image one can see of despair and insurmountable anxiety. I would not be at all surprised if some broadsheet journo makes the connection somewhere today.
Maybe that is the great draw of the Olympics- we feel both the triumph and the tragedy, the agony and the ecstasy, of those taking part. Vicariously they perform what we can only "dream" of doing ourselves and all of us are somehow at least for a moment led to yearn to be the best that we can possibly be ourselves, to give that extra bit more, to achieve, to triumph. Of course, the memory of great Olympians- like Justin Gatlin, the 100 metre champion who was the underdog but proved himself the world's fastest man last night- will outlive them, but others will replace them. But we have a need for immortal heroes- and yet even their reality can be very different to our dreams and the tales handed down from childhood.
Radio 4's "Prayer for the Day" a few moments ago was delivered by Tony Burnham, a Jewish preacher I believe, who spoke about the well-loved legend of David and Goliath. He went through all the oh so familiar details of the story, only to reveal that in reality, David was probably a grown man by himself by this time and hardly the "littlun" we love to imagine-but this doesn't make the story any less powerful, I think. It is the universal story we all love and long to hear, the archetypal "rags to riches" story of victory over adversity, of right over might. Burnham concluded that the real heroes of our society are those who care for those unable to care for themselves, and many like them. Its not for one moment to denigrate the achievement of any of the Olympians, but it kind of puts things in perspective, doesn't it.
But then, the perspective which brings both the promise of immortality and restores reality is this: God so loved the world, that he gave his only begotten son. Gave a son of David's line up to the Goliaths of the world- the megacorps who maybe keep the Olympics going, perhaps- like a lamb to the slaughter. Everyone thought he was dead, that was it- what a miserable end to a promising career and the dreams and hopes his people held that he was their Messiah. The reality of course is, he was, and is- because he overcame even death and did not disintegrate to dust. He is seated at the right hand of the father, crowned champion not with a wreath of laurel but with thorns! Because of him, or as that lively Paul Oakley chorus says "because of you, because of your love...all our sins are washed away, and we shall live forever, now we have this hope, because of you" The 100 metre champion, Justin Gatlin, appeared to kneel down on the track, raise his hands heavenward in thanks, and cross himself after his win. Could it be that he is not just another American athlete, but is on the Lord's side? Time to check that out, and then back to bed I think- even though the street light has just gone out and there seems to be some brightness trying to break through the cloud. But if young Gatlin is a believer,alleluia (again!)- what a witness!
Saturday, 21 August 2004
Matthew row the boat ashore
Alleluia! Worth sacrificing a lie-in today, not that I needed one, to witness the heart-stopping finish to the Coxless fours final in the Athens Olympics.
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