In 1981, the Academy Award for Best Picture went to an unusual British film that had no sex, no violence, and no car chases.
It was called Chariots of Fire.
The movie tells the true story of two world class athletes, Harold Abrahams and Eric Liddell. Both compete as sprinters for the British track and field team exactly 100 years ago in Paris – the same site as the present Olympiad. Both dramatically win gold medals in their feature events.
But underneath it all they are spurred by startlingly different motivations.
Abrahams, a Jew of Lithuanian background, feels snubbed by the power structures of the day.
At every turn he has to prove himself. The rage inside him compels him to train harder and run faster. “Running is an addiction, a compulsion,” he says. “It is a weapon.” He admits that he needs to triumph in the Olympics to justify his own existence.
Even after winning the 100 meters, making him the so-called Fastest Man Alive (the feat that American sprinter Noah Lyles accomplished just this week), he feels strangely alone and unfulfilled.
Liddell was supposed to have been his primary competition. But the qualifying trials for the 100 meters had been scheduled for Sunday. Because of his spiritual convictions, Liddell had refused to run on the Sabbath, thus surrendering his chance to compete.
To observers around the world, this seemed like madness. Why throw away your best chance for glory?
Liddell is unfazed by public opinion. He decides to run in the 400 meters, even though he has competed at that distance only four times in his life.
The experts give him no chance to win. He isn’t trained. He’s used to short bursts, not middle length grinds. His American competitors dismiss him out of hand. “After 300 meters, rigor mortis sets in.”
His running style, to put it gently, is absurd. He breaks every aerodynamic rule. His arms flail. He even sometimes throws back his head and looks upward while running.
But for Eric Liddell, running is an act of joy.
It is an explosive release of gratitude that is deep inside him. Liddell doesn’t need a gold medal to justify his existence. He already knows who he is.
The son of Scottish missionary parents, he is on his way to China where he himself will be a mission worker, and where he will ultimately become a prisoner in a detention camp during Japan’s occupation of the country. There he will die while pouring out his life for others.
His sister Jenny doesn’t even know why he bothers with athletic competition.
“Jenny,” he explains, “I believe God made me for a purpose – for China. But he also made me fast. And when I run, I feel his pleasure.”
Competing against the best 400-meter runners in the world, Liddell throws back his head and wins the gold. Here’s how Chariots of Fire depicts the climactic race. Notice that he runs the entire race while holding in his hand the crumpled note of encouragement he’s given just before the starter’s gun.
Abrahams and Liddell embody two classic motivations.
We either achieve in order to become somebody, or we achieve as a way to express our gratitude that we already are somebody.
If we belong to Christ, our status as God’s “somebody” was settled before the creation of the world (Ephesians 1:3-5).
The first strategy is fueled by fear. It springs from emptiness.
The second strategy is fueled by gratitude. It expresses fullness.
When we willingly align our relationships, our work, and our deepest dreams with God’s character and call, our need to justify our existence is no longer a fear-based scramble.
Which means that as we head toward life’s finish line, it can instead be an expression of joy.
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