Lessons From The Boys In The Boat (I of III)

Opening Remarks

I'm not a historian, but sports do not appear to have figured significantly in the day-to-day life of the Jesus-era Jew. Jesus concerned himself with misbehaving Pharisees and people who paid them too much homage, but there isn't too much mention of sporting figures in the New Testament, a few comments from Paul notwithstanding.

So what did people concern themselves with? Well, given the culture and the harder life, I'm guessing people were paying closer attention to farming, other vocations, and money.

Why do I mention that? Because pretty much all of Jesus' parables have something to do with farming, other vocations, and money.

That doesn't mean these topics deserve reverence. But it does mean that Jesus figured he could get people's attention by means of stories that involved... yeah. Farming, other vocations, and money.

Sports are now the dominant religion in America. Sporting shrines burst with money, fanfare, priestly outfits, and frenzied worshipers.

I hate that.

But I just finished The Boys In The Boat and (hopefully with no less confusion than Jesus exhibited with regards the significance of farming, other vocations, and money) I see stories to tell here.

Stories about the church.

It Begins In A Boat

Actually, thanks to a great sermon given by Skye Jethani, I'm keenly aware that the story of God on Earth begins in a garden and ends in a city. That good point having been granted, boats still figure significantly from time to time in that story, and I'm not thinking primarily of Noah when I say that.

No, actually I am thinking of Jesus and his twelve disciples in a single boat in a terrible storm. A boat on the verge of sinking. With no land in sight.

As a child, I heard of a legend surrounding the mystical, secret formula for Coca-Cola. It was said that there were only two men who knew the formula, and that they never flew together on the same airplane.

That's sounds like the stuff of urban legend, but apparently it is not. Furthermore, it's a fact (driven by the same reasoning) that Orville and Wilbur Wright never flew together on their first airplanes either. Why?

It's obvious. Precious knowledge must not be put at risk of extinction.

And yet. There they were. Not just the twelve founding fathers of the church, as if that weren't risky enough. Jesus himself was in the boat, too.

Pretty stupid. Not good business sense. Unless Jesus is God.

Yes, the church was in that boat on that stormy night, and they were a mess. (So what is new, right??)

But God was in that boat, too, and though he didn't seem to concern himself a great deal with the rowing, it was still thanks to God (and God alone) that the boat and its precious cargo did arrive at destination safe and sound.

About That Book

Having just finished The Boys In The Boat I see parallels begging to be drawn. Parables waiting to be told.

Friends, imagine for a moment that Jesus is a coxswain, that we are rowers, and that the church is a boat. Got that picture? There being 1+ billion Christians today, it's a silly image, I grant. But it was reality once... on a dark and stormy night in a Galilean sea. But I digress.

OK, so we're rowers. What does it take to be a good rower?

So glad you asked. It takes a lot. Source here, but read on:

The result of all this muscular effort, on both the larger scale and the smaller, is that your body burns calories and consumes oxygen at a rate that is unmatched in almost any other human endeavor. Physiologists, in fact, have calculated that rowing a two-thousand-meter race—the Olympic standard—takes the same physiological toll as playing two basketball games back-to-back. And it exacts that toll in about six minutes.
A well-conditioned oarsman or oarswoman competing at the highest levels must be able to take in and consume as much as eight liters of oxygen per minute; an average male is capable of taking in roughly four to five liters at most. Pound for pound, Olympic oarsmen may take in and process as much oxygen as a thoroughbred racehorse.

Not a sport, needless to say, for sissies.

As the book begins, set in 1932, our hero Joe heads to the boathouse. Joe is impoverished and uncultured, which gives him a huge advantage over the rich and cultured young men he competed with for a spot on the boat. Why?

Each evening, Joe Rantz noted with mounting satisfaction, there were fewer boys making the climb. And he noted something else. The first to drop out had been the boys with impeccably creased trousers and freshly polished oxfords. At a time when images of successful oarsmen appeared on the covers of Life and the Saturday Evening Post, varsity crew had seemed to many of them to be a way to build up their social status, to become big men on campus. But they had not reckoned on the sport’s extreme physical and psychological demands. As Joe made his way down to the shell house every afternoon, he saw more and more familiar boys—boys who had abandoned their boats—lounging on the grass in front of Suzzallo Library, casting him quick glances as he passed. The hurting was taking its toll, and that was just fine with Joe. Hurting was nothing new to him.

Two simple question for us as Christians.

First, why do we get into the boat?

Second, what will we do when life in the boat gets painful?

The answer to the second question is intimately tied to the answer to the first, and for obvious reasons. Our motivation for entering the boat had better be a really, really good one. A powerful one. Because if it isn't, we'll be hopping right out of that boat at some point.

Spend enough time in the church and you wouldn't have to be told this.

Pain will come.

To be continued...