A Ray Lewis Redemption

I find Ray Lewis' persona, both on and off the field, to be oppressively distasteful. He seems boastful, showy, and hugely self-absorbed. Exhibit A is his presence on the field for the final snap of the Ravens victory against the Broncos (his final home game) to facilitate his signature "look at me" dance. The final snap was a Ravens offensive kneel-down; Lewis is a defensive player. Despite all of this, I'm almost disappointed that he's retiring after this season, because the consensus is that he'll be a "great" television announcer, which means I'll just be subjected to more of him after his retirement than I was before it.

Also, there's the fact that he lied to police in an attempt to impede a murder investigation, and investigation in which Lewis himself was implicated.

For many years, I used this information to justify my hatred of Lewis. Sure, some of that hatred comes from the fact that I'm a Steelers fan, and Lewis is one of our nemeses. Some of it comes from his self-aggrandizement. But a lot of it comes from my belief that he's a criminal, who got away with a plea-bargain. These feelings came to the surface again several years ago during the national discussion about whether or not Michael Vick (convicted of running a dog fighting operation) should be allowed to play in the NFL again. It angered me that Lewis, present and potentially complicit in the death of a human being, was never so much as suspended, while there was sentiment that Vick shouldn't ever be allowed to play again.

The truth about Ray Lewis is this: he made a bad mistake. Very, very bad. He's not unlike me. But I need him to be unlike me.

My ability to feel good about myself requires people to exist in the world who are worse than I am. Ray Lewis fills that role. In Nick Hornby's book How to be Good, his heroine (a doctor) is a better person than her husband. One day, though, her husband experiences a spiritual conversion, and becomes (for the purposes of the book) "good." All of a sudden, the wife's world and identity are thrown upside down. She has defined herself as being "better" than her husband...now that she isn't that, who is she?

If I can't say that I'm better than Ray Lewis, who am I? What value do I have?

Ray Lewis, by all accounts, has completely reformed his life since the incident in 2000. He is a devout Christian, a pillar of his community, and a mentor to many young men. His is a story of redemption, and such stories are what we, the redeemed, should be cheering. I may not be better than Ray Lewis, but that's not a bad thing. We share an incapacitating compulsion to selfishness and sin, and we share in a regenerating love of a Savior infinitely better than both of us.

Oh, and one more thing: I hope Ray Lewis and his Ravens get crushed on Sunday.

Why I Like that RGIII is called "Black Jesus"

I could have called this post "I Literally Couldn't Think of One Original Thing to Say About Manti Te'o," but that seemed a little wordy...and, you know, uninformative. Seriously, though, I just flew in from Chicago and boy are my arms tired! One word, though, about Te'o before we move on. It seems to me that this whole story (a story about which, amazingly, we still don't have all the facts) shines a light on one universal human truth: we will do (or believe) absolutely anything if we feel that we are beloved. I mean, Te'o allegedly flew to Hawaii just to see his (non-existent) girlfriend, and even though she proceeded to only communicated with him via text on that whole trip, he still "wasn't sure" whether or not she existed until a week ago! "She" even, at one point, asked him for his checking account number! However, she also said that she loved him. Who among us wouldn't do anything for such a woman?

Now, on to Black Jesus. Robert Griffin III is not the first athlete to be dubbed "______ Jesus." Most receive the moniker for their on-field exploits (Larry Bird, the "Basketball Jesus"), although Charlie Whitehurst is called "Clipboard Jesus" more for the look (and for the fact that he never plays). My question is, do we have to wait for Andy Dalton to win a Super Bowl before he's dubbed "Ginger Jesus?" In any event, the appellation rubbed me the wrong way at first, as you might expect. But did you catch Fred Davis' explanation for the nickname (in the above linked article)? "I mean, like I said, he's Black Jesus right now. He saved us today."

Whatever hesitation I have about the name of the Christ being invoked so flippantly is mitigated by the fact that the people who are using it are at least thinking in terms of Jesus as a savior. This is rare enough to be remarkable (and important). Normally, for people both Christian and non-, Jesus is nothing more than exemplar of love, care, and charity. He is the classic "great moral teacher" to whom C.S. Lewis refers. Fred Davis, though, is thinking of salvation. Robert Griffin III saved the Redskins, and Jesus saves us. The defense rests: Black Jesus.

It's helpful to look at this from the other side. As I've said, most people see Jesus primarily as an example to be followed, in the same way that all of the New England Patriots have adopted coach Bill Belichick's "mum's the word" press conference style. No one, however, has ever been (nor will ever be) moved to refer to Belichick as "Podium Jesus."

So let's call Robert Griffin III "Black Jesus." Anything to keep All-of-Creation Jesus' saving work in the front of our minds.

Lance Armstrong Redeems...Lance Armstrong?

As I write this (Wednesday, January 16), Oprah Winfrey has confirmed that, in an exclusive interview taped on Monday to air on Thursday, Lance Armstrong has admitted to the use of performance enhancing drugs. At this point, this is a total snore. With the baseball writers' recent decision to not vote a single player into the Hall of Fame (some simply for the possession of bacne), PED accusations and confessions are like Beanie Babies: when everyone's got one, no one cares.

The Wall Street Journal (online) has a piece in the January 15 issue called "Behind Lance Armstrong's Decision to Talk" which attributes a quote to the athlete, and a response by a bureaucrat, that is decidedly not a snore. In a meeting with Travis Tygart, the head of the United States Anti-Doping Agency (USADA), Armstrong pointed to himself and said,"You don't hold the keys to my redemption. There's one person who holds the keys to my redemption, and that's me." We've covered this human desire before (most specifically HERE), but the fascinating thing about this quote isn't the brazenness; it's the common nature of the refrain.

Everyone thinks that their redemption is up to them. Except, maybe, for Travis Tygart. Upon hearing Armstrong's claim, Tygart allegedly responded, "That's b-[expletive]." Now Tygart seems to have simply been calling bull-waste on Armstrong's allusion to redemption in any form, claiming that the cyclist would do and say anything to be allowed to race again. But his initial reaction is accurate. The idea that we hold the keys to our own redemption is total b-[expletive].

That Armstrong might believe that baring his soul (or, at least, the contents of his medicine cabinet) to Oprah would lead to his redemption is, at worst, cynical in the extreme and at best, evidence of a woefully weak definition of redemption.

When Christians talk about redemption, we don't refer to a return to a prior state of good standing.  Some do, actually, but such thinking, as Gerhard Forde points out in his seminal On Being a Theologian of the Cross, hinges on the un-Biblical notion of a "Fall."   We imagine that we were once at a certain place in our relationship with God, we messed that up, and Jesus gives us the ability to get back. That is, according to Forde, "a tightly woven theology of glory [a theology that "uses" Jesus and the cross to "get" us something, rather than one that sees Jesus and the cross as the end of us, and our resurrection]." The truth is so much better. In our redemption (in real redemption) we are saved to a state higher than we ever had before: we are regarded as one with Christ, as God's own son.

If that is the gift, then we cannot hold the keys.  And thank goodness, too, because when another (a saving Christ) holds them, our gift is immeasurably more valuable.

The Problem with Perfection

On April 12, 2012, Philip Humber (who had never pitched through a full eight innings of a major league outing) pitched a perfect game. That is, he retired 27 batters in a row, three up and three down, every inning for nine innings. No walks, no hits. Only eighteen other men in the 108-year history of Major League Baseball have accomplished the feat. In November of that same year, the White Sox cut him, making him available to any team in the league. What happened?

In an interview with Sports Illustrated's Albert Chen (December 31, 2012), Humber tried to explain it. Check out how the article is subtitled: "For one magical April afternoon, Philip Humber was flawless. But that random smile from the pitching gods came with a heavy burden: the pressure to live up to a standard no one can meet." Unfortunately, though whichever editor wrote that subtitle is ultimately correct, we use examples like Humber's to delude ourselves. "But he did throw a perfect game," we say. "Perfection is possible." Our desire to be perfect is so strong that we willfully ignore the headline's larger point: that true perfection in only achieved by throwing a perfect game again. And again. And again.

The ladder of perfection has no top rung. There is no platform upon which we can finally rest. Whether our goal is to be a good father, a good Christian, or a good pitcher, each exemplary act carries with it the expectation (the requirement) of another. And another. "Being like Christ" is not like throwing a perfect game. Living up to the Sermon on the Mount is not like throwing a perfect game. Being a caring husband is not like throwing a perfect game. They are like throwing perfect games every day of your life...while never being proud of the fact that you're throwing perfect games! Remember, don't let your left hand know what your right hand is doing (Matt 6:3). A perfect game in the game of life is impossible, but is required nonetheless (Matt 5:48). So we buckle down.

Every time Humber took the mound, he tried to be the pitcher he was in Seattle-but competence seemed unattainable, much less perfection. In his next start, he allowed nine runs in five innings. Two outings later he was bombed for eight runs in 2 1/3 innings. Every time he fell short of the new standard he set for himself, he pushed himself harder. He began spending more time than ever in the video room. He played with every imaginable grip for his pitches. He threw extra bullpen sessions. He ran more, lifted more. He asked teammates how they dealt with their struggles. He couldn't understand why he couldn't recapture the magic. "I just feel lost," Humber said to [pitching coach Don] Cooper at one point. "I don't know what I'm doing out there."

The quest for glory, the chasing of perfection, killed Humber's season. He never regained the form that mowed down all those Seattle Mariners, and the White Sox eventually gave up on him. In order to move on, Humber had to give up:

Is this the end? The beginning? Philip Humber doesn't know what will come next in his baseball story. This he knows: He's done chasing perfection. He's done trying to be the pitcher with the magical fastball and the unhittable slider. He knows he's a 30-year-old pitcher with a fading heater and a curveball that doesn't bite like it once did, and he accepts that. He also thinks that he's a wiser pitcher who can still win games for a major league team. "Next time I throw a perfect game," he likes to joke, "I'll know how to handle it better."

Philip Humber came to grips with his limitations...the truth about himself. He's been signed by his hometown Houston Astros for next season and seems to know that, in order to be a good pitcher, he has to let perfection go. Let's remind ourselves daily, hourly, and by the minute, that we can let perfection go, because it is a mantle that Christ has taken up for us.

Go Big This New Year

So it’s time for resolutions again. Each year, we make commitments to ourselves (and others, and even, perhaps, to God) to be better than we were last year. Perhaps we want to finally lose that pesky fifteen pounds. Or fifty. Or we want to be more faithful in our Bible-reading and in our prayer lives. We want to finally put aside that besetting sin that’s been plaguing us. A new year seems a good time for a fresh start.

I’ve never made resolutions, but for years, it was only because I knew I had no hope of actually keeping them. In fact, hasn’t joking about breaking your resolutions become more of a habit than the resolution-making itself? Recently, my problem with resolutions has become more theological in nature. I envision St. Paul waking up on January 1, noticing all his Facebook friends’ resolutions, and posting something along the lines of Galatians 3:

“O foolish [people]! Who has bewitched you, before whose eyes Jesus Christ was publicly portrayed as crucified?  Let me ask you only this: Did you receive the Spirit by works of the law, or by hearing with faith?  Are you so foolish? Having begun with the Spirit, are you now ending with the flesh? Did you experience so many things in vain? Does he who supplies the Spirit to you and works miracles among you do so by works of the law, or by hearing with faith?”

We Christians have been given an eternal answer for the gulf that exists between the “us” that we are and the “us” that we ought to be: “All sinned…and are justified freely as a gift by the redemption that is in Christ Jesus” (Rom 3:23-24). But the way we talk about resolutions often sounds like an attempt to, as Paul put it in Galatians 3, “finish in the flesh.” “The righteousness of God has been revealed apart from the law,” says Romans 3:21, and yet we take New Years as our chance to make a new law, the law of the resolution.

So my answer used to be: Don’t make resolutions. You’d be foolish to live under a law, knowing how the law works, and knowing that it necessarily results in death (cf. Rom 7:11). This year, though, I’ve got a new idea: make your resolutions harder.

The problem with your resolutions isn’t that they’re too hard for you to keep (though they usually are). The problem is that you think you’ve got a chance. So you rely on yourself, work up your will, exert all your effort, and give it your best shot. We think, perhaps, that we can shrink, by our striving, that gulf between the “us” we are and the “us” we ought to be and, just maybe, one day get across.

When John the Baptist is continually questioned about his standing with regard to Jesus, he finally says that Jesus “must become greater, and I must become less” (John 3:30). In other words, we should increase our need for Christ, rather than work to decrease it. Our resolutions should look less like a register of achievable goals and more like the demands of Matthew 5:17-48: a terrifying list of requirements that force us to our knees. We should know, looking at that gulf between our selves, that, should we attempt to jump it, we would surely be dashed to pieces on the rocks below.

We attempt to tell ourselves that a happy new year is one in which we get closer to other side of that divide, if not finally reach it. A truly happy New Year, though, is one in which we come face to face with our need for a savior and hear the Good News proclaimed: not only has our savior come, but he has done his work, and brought us out of error into truth, out of sin into righteousness, and out of death into life.