In my sermon prep this week I have been struck by the number of commentators who make so much of Paul’s use of athletic metaphor. Apparently the hearts of Christian sports enthusiasts are supposed to go all atwitter at the thought of Paul being a fan of the sweet science. Or, even better, the idea that Paul might’ve considered himself a cornerman for the Corinthians. Can’t you see Burgess Meredith, cast in the role of Paul, standing in the pulpit, shouting: “You’re gonna eat lightnin’ and you’re gonna crap thunder!” to inspire the congregation?
No, I can’t either. (Although, come to think of it, this raises the pressing question of whether “Rocky” might’ve been an allegory about the struggle of the early church to survive in its confrontation with pagan Roman culture, i.e. Apollo Creed.)
-pause for reflection-
I would guess that Paul’s references to running and boxing have more to do with his desire to be “all things to all people” by speaking their language. The footrace was a big event in the Athenian Games, while boxing contests were featured in the Isthmian Games at Corinth. So this may simply be an attempt to appeal to the interests of his audience and thereby gain their attention, in the same way that many preachers (who, me?) slip shameless football metaphors into their sermons on Super Bowl Sunday in the hopes that men of a certain age will stay awake through the whole worship service.
In my sermon on this text, therefore, I will most decidedly not be suggesting that “the journey of faith is like a marathon” or “life is like pugilism.” I have seen Boston marathoners lifelessly limping their way up Heartbreak Hill. Also, I have seen the end of Rocky 1. And frankly, if Paul is suggesting that these are healthy models for a spiritually centered life, then I’m going to make like Barnabas.
Despite all this, I find myself unaccountably fascinated with one of the more obscure aspects of Paul’s metaphor, the bit about the wreaths. He says that the Greek athlete competes for a perishable wreath, an interesting choice of words, and it got me thinking: What kind of wreath, exactly? A garland of grapes? A ring of radishes?
Would you believe celery? Here’s Pindar, the lyric poet, on one of the chariot racers winning at the Isthmian Games:
I sing the Isthmian victory with horses, not unrecognized, which Poseidon granted to Xenocrates, and sent him a garland of Dorian wild celery for his hair, to have himself crowned, thus honoring the man of the fine chariot, the light of the people of Acragas. (Isthmean, 2)
Of course Paul knows that the the Greek athletes do not compete for love of vegetables. More likely he is making a dig at the concept of glory typified by warriors like Achilles and Ajax and Hector. In one of the legends about the Battle of Thermoplyae, Herodotus relates the tale of a small group of Acadians who are brought before the Persian king, who asked them why there were so few Greek men defending the borders.
When the Arcadians told them that the Greeks were holding the Olympic festival and viewing sports and horseraces, the Persian asked what was the prize offered, for which they contended. They told him of the crown of olive that was given to the victor. Then Tigranes son of Artabanus uttered a most noble saying (but the king deemed him a coward for it); when he heard that the prize was not money but a crown, he could not hold his peace, but cried, “Good heavens, Mardonius, what kind of men are these that you have pitted us against? It is not for money they contend but for glory of achievement!” (Herodotus 8.26)
Look again at that bit about the wreaths, and consider how Paul’s use of the athletic metaphor rather elegantly undermines the heroic ideals of Greco-Roman culture. This is the apostle at his rhetorical best, as he suggests (I think) that a “glorious” life of self-striving is to be compared with a yellowing, limp stalk of leafy greens that has been lurking at the bottom of the crisper drawer beside half of a desiccated pepper that may or may not have been green when it was purchased.
What of our imperishable wreath? It’s safe to say that Paul is not talking about canned goods. Nor, I think, is he necessarily talking about heaven, if by heaven one means to refer to the hereafter. Paul does not offer us an advertisement of a new life deferred to another time and place, but directs his energies to the sharing of the gospel in which the present world and our lives within it are re-shaped by the coming of Christ from God. Those who belong to the body of Christ are called to share in a new life together. This life finds its center in serving, in the giving rather than the seeking of honor. It is directed not toward the self, but toward the whole body whose health and joy depend on the well-being of the weakest members, the ones who might not finish any races or win any contests on their own. Here the metaphor breaks down, just as it should, as we come to see that the Christian life is not about tearing down your opponents, but about building up the one body. To direct our lives toward this end is to unite ourselves with the lasting things of God, the creating, healing, reconciling word of God that endures forever.
And anyway, celery is put to much better use in a Waldorf salad.
—Jonathan Hauze
