On Saturday my friend, Tanner, was in town with his triathlon teammates from the United States Naval Academy (USNA). The Kinetic Cup hosts scores of elite college-level triathletes like Tanner.
Tanner captains the USNA team and brought all of his teammate’s bikes down in a trailer behind his pickup. At the end of the event, his team had placed second amongst all of the colleges in the competition—a really good showing with strong individual performances. After the medals ceremony, Tanner led his teammates out onto a pier in the lake. He told them that he didn’t compete for individual accolades or even personal accomplishment. They won and lost as a team, and as a team they had accomplished a lot that morning.
Then, he threw his personal medal into the lake. One by one, his teammates followed his example, chucking their hardware into the water.
Tanner’s mom has showed me boxes of his ribbons and medals from roughly a decade of competitive swimming and running. I was impressed but not surprised. You don’t get into the United States Naval Academy without some significant accomplishments. But even if he didn’t have medals to spare, I know Tanner’s heart would’ve led him to this same demonstration of camaraderie.
Jesus couldn’t have trusted me with those medals.
I like my accomplishments too much. I work them into conversations ten times more often than appropriate. Sadly, that doesn’t apply just to the temporary achievements like continents visited or advertising awards won. I work hard on my spiritual brand, too. (That sentence rightfully makes me feel gross.)
For too much of my Christian life, I’ve tried to earn gold stars for a fictional chart in heaven. I’ve made sacrificial gifts of time, talent, or treasure in hopes of impressing other humans or stockpiling trophies for the big reveal in the hereafter. Or both. I did that, knowing that anything done for the wrong reason will shrivel in the evaluative fire of eternal holiness. I did this even though the Bible’s scribes said whatever crowns and rewards we might earn in this life will be placed at Jesus’ feet in the next.
No matter what our times are in the triathlon of our faith, we will one day throw our medals into the lake.
The Christian life isn’t an individual sport. It’d be ridiculous to award individuals for kingdom advancement, since anything and everything we accomplish for the kingdom is only through Christ’s strength, guidance, and other gifts. Our names aren’t on our jerseys. We compete under the banner of Jesus, and he called us to lay down our lives. In other holy texts, we learn that God resists the proud. He wants team players. To drive that home, Sovereignty filled the New Testament with 59 “one another” assignments. The author of Hebrews explained that “a great cloud of witnesses” cheers for us in our race, but they cheer for all of us.
I needed to write that paragraph because I need to read those truths. My life isn’t about me or even my legacy. As I lean into the race or “press toward the mark,” my goal will be hollow if I envision a personal laurel, a shiny crown, or some brag-worthy bling.
The next time I’m tempted to bask in the glow of something I’ve done, I hope I remember Tanner on that dock. And I hope I throw the equivalent of my medal into the lake.
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Stock image purchased from iStockPhoto.com
