The Problem with Lance Armstrong’s Religion—and how Hugh Jackman's Silver Candlesticks can help

1.

Lance Armstrong once believed that since he didn’t have any big-time character flaws, then after he died he could stand boldly before the throne of an all-righteous and almighty God, (if there indeed was a God), and all would be okay between Lance and God.

So, according to Lance, what mattered most in God’s eyes …

was that Lance was a good guy.

Hmm.

Let’s sift through that worldview a bit, and let’s do it in a format that’s longer than most of my regular blog posts, because I think a lot of people are struggling with similar aspects of this, although it’s articulated different ways, so I want to give it fair, closer treatment.

Here’s how Lance Armstrong once described his religion. At least, this is what he thought was most important 12 years ago when he wrote his memoir:

The night before brain surgery, I thought about death. 

 

 I searched out my larger values, and I asked myself, if I was going to die, did I want to do it fighting and clawing or in peaceful surrender? What sort of character did I hope to show? Was I content with myself and what I had done with my life so far?

 

I decided that I was essentially a good person, although I could have been better—but at the same time I understood that the cancer didn't care.

 

I asked myself what I believed. I had never prayed a lot. I hoped hard, I wished hard, but I didn't pray. I had developed a certain distrust of organized religion growing up, but I felt I had the capacity to be a spiritual person, and to hold some fervent beliefs. 

 

Quite simply, I believed I had a responsibility to be a good person, and that meant fair, honest, hardworking, and honorable. 

 

If I did that, if I was good to my family, true to my friends, if I gave back to my community or to some cause, if I wasn't a liar, a cheat, or a thief, then I believed that should be enough.

At the end of the day, if there was indeed some Body or presence standing there to judge me, I hoped I would be judged on whether I had lived a true life, not on whether I believed in a certain book, or whether I'd been baptized.

If there was indeed a God at the end of my days, I hoped he didn't say, “But you were never a Christian, so you're going the other way from heaven.”

If so, I was going to reply, “You know what? You're right. Fine.”

[Source: It's Not About the Bike, by Lance Armstrong, Putnam, 2000. pp. 116-117]

2.

Maybe you hold to a similar worldview.

It’s easy to do. We figure that if we’re good to our families, true to our friends, if we give back to our communities or to some cause, if we aren’t liars, cheats, or thieves, then that should be enough.

Lance Armstrong’s belief system has a name—moralism—and it’s a popular belief system the world over. But the problem with moralism emerges whenever we’re honest with ourselves. As we pull back the layers of our lives, we see we’re not as flawless as we think we are.

We all just witnessed a clear breakdown of moralism with Lance. Sure, Lance was an incredible bicyclist, steroids or not. Sure, he beat cancer, and that was inspirational. Sure, he began a foundation that’s raised millions of dollars for cancer research, and much good has been done there.

But Lance’s recent confession to Oprah—from Lance’s very own lips—could be summarized as straightforwardly as this:

Hi, I’m Lance Armstrong.

And actually I am a liar and a cheat and a thief.

What now, Lance? If it was the night before your brain surgery and you were thinking about death again, how would you categorize your belief system?

Is everything still okay between you and God?

If we’re tempted to condemn Lance for his shortcomings, hold on, because here’s a story that throws me in the same category. Pretty much, anyway. One story among many:

3.

Years ago I worked as the student manager for a university catering company. Sometimes when they were shorthanded, I got pulled over to the lunch line where I made sandwiches. It was humbling work, and I didn’t like it much, but it paid the bills.

One day, lines were long. Students waited, tapping their feet. I was running full tilt, working as fast as I could. The bread and the mayo were getting slapped around with a fury. Lettuce and processed chicken flew through the air.

That busy day I noticed one unripe, green, and ugly tomato slice lurking in the stack. It needed to go. I should have just chucked that tomato slice. I should have shoved it to the side of the tray and let it lie. But I just couldn’t. Try as I might, I couldn’t throw that ugly tomato away.

Maybe I was thinking about conservation, how it’s deeply rooted in my Scottish ancestry not to throw away food. If I were to lie to you, maybe that’s how I’d explain things. Most likely, I was just feeling downgraded and wanted to dump that feeling onto someone lower on the totem pole.

Anyway, I picked the nerdiest college sophomore I could find in the lunch line, a kid I was sure wouldn’t raise a fuss, and when he got to me I slapped that unripe tomato slice straight onto his sandwich.

Nerd.

The kid saw what I did. He sort of gulped, like he wanted to ask me to change out his tomato slice. But lines were long. Students were waiting. And I motioned to him with a cool head jerk—move along.

See, that’s every moralist’s problem.

When we take an honest moral inventory of our lives, what do we find?

4.

In retrospect, I know now that I picked the easy way out that afternoon in the lunch line.

In fact, I picked the quietly cruel way. I didn’t champion someone’s need, no matter how small that need may have been—in this case, something as simple as the need for a regular tomato slice.

No, I’m not proud of my actions. I judged someone, and my actions were wrong. No, not wrong in the big scheme of things. I didn’t kill anyone, or torture babies, or embezzle $100 billion from elderly investors. But I was wrong nevertheless.

How can I possibly compare what I did in the lunch line to the depth of public deception Lance Armstrong has just confessed to? (Please note that I neither want to trivialize Lance’s indiscretions, nor make the mistake of saying all faults are equal, which they’re not). Sure, I’ve done worse things than tomatogate, but I purposely picked an example of a small indiscretion to illustrate this important principle—when it comes to moral perfection, to one degree or another we all fall short.

The bad news is that this problem of moral imperfection extends to everyone. It’s no secret we humans tend to be selfish. We don’t like to admit when we’re wrong. All sorts of lust-filled thoughts fly through our minds, and we do little to stop them. We’re prone to be greedy. We think we’re tolerant folks, but in our hearts it’s far too easy to judge people, particularly when they’re different.

Sure, we have the capacity to do good, too. We can be great neighbors and we can be kind and create foundations and do all sort of benevolent work. But the problem is that, just like Lance, we spend years convincing ourselves we’re not liars, cheaters, or thieves, when that’s not the truth—at least to some degree.

Since we know we’re not perfect, we hope that God will be pleased with us because we’re not as bad, say, as Adolf Hitler. Equally so, we know we’re not at the other end of the scale either—we’re not as good, say, as Mother Teresa. We tend to see our lives as falling somewhere in the middle. Hopefully our bad will outweigh our good, we think, at least before we die and face the Big Man upstairs. Surely, we hope, God grades on the curve.

But what if God doesn’t?

That’s potentially one of the thoughts running through Lance Armstrong’s mind these days. His worldview has had holes shot through it. By Lance’s own admission of guilt, he has nothing left by which to judge himself virtuous. He’s just dropped way down the curve. He once thought that what was most important was not being a liar, a thief, and a cheat. Too bad. Now he knows he fits those same awful categories to a tee.

Wow, Lance, I hope there’s some other factor after death, some other criterion that God uses to determine admittance to heaven.

That’s where Hugh Jackman helps.

5.

Have you seen Les Miserables? Maybe you read the book by Victor Hugo. Lots of singing in the movie, I know, but that plucky Anne Hathaway is sure to win an Oscar.

Right at the start of the story, you’ll remember, the hardened ex-convict Jean Valjean (played by the grizzled and chiseled Hugh Jackman) steals silver candlesticks from the kindly bishop, Monsignor Bienvenu.

In the night, Jean Valjean runs away from the monastery, candlesticks in hand, but is caught by three fierce French policemen. They haul him back to the bishop, expecting a display of justice and wrath. The crime will mean the guillotine for Jean Valjean. Off with his head!

But the bishop does the unexpected. Instead of condemning Jean Valjean, the bishop gives him the candlesticks to keep and sends the policemen on their way. No arrest is made. Jean Valjean is a free man.

Jean Valjean’s mouth drops open. Stunned, he whispers how no person has ever before demonstrated to him any action of the sort.

“Jean Valjean, my brother,” the bishop says. “You belong no longer to evil, but to good. It is your soul that I am buying for you.”

That’s a picture of this other factor at work. It’s good news for Lance, me, Hugh Jackman, and every other imperfect person in the world.

St. Paul of Tarsus explains this other factor like this:

… by grace you’re saved through faith …

What grace means is that our goodness is important, sure. It’s always good to be good. But there’s a different factor besides our goodness that’s at work. Grace takes the blame, covers the shame, removes the stain, in the words of U2. With grace, it means that God is in the business of handing out undeserved favors. Grace means we are able to receive the goodness of God with no strings attached, no matter our flaws.

With grace, it’s like God says, “Look, Lance, enough is enough. You messed up, sure, but your life isn’t over. Follow me from here on out, that’s what’s most important.”

Or God says, “Look, Marcus, most days you’re a fine fellow, but no matter how good you are, you’ll always have those moments like you did in the lunch line. So you need something different. You need grace.”

Grace is what God extends to Lance Armstrong—liar, cheat, and self-professed thief that he is.

Grace is what God extends to me, flawed individual though I am.

And grace is available for you—no matter if you call yourself a Baptist, Catholic, Methodist, or Hindu. No matter if you’re an atheist, agnostic, nihilist, or spiritualist. No matter if you’re pro-choice, pro-life, democrat, republican, homophobe, or homosexual. No matter if you’re a pot smoking Washingtonian or a tee-totaling Texan. No matter if you’re searching and have no idea what truth is, no matter what you’ve done or where you’ve been, no matter what you hold as most important.

This is the good news for anyone clinging tightly to Lance Armstrong’s belief system.

 

It’s all about those silver candlesticks—God hands them out to anyone.

By faith they’re received. And they’re ours to keep.

We’re free men.

 

Question: What do you think about these ideas? Do you have a propensity toward moralism? How have you seen grace in action? How does a person receive God’s grace?

 

 

Forty Years since Roe V. Wade—what to Know, Feel, and Do

I encourage you all not to let this date pass by unnoticed—Tuesday, January 22, 2013.

It marks the 40^th anniversary of Roe Versus Wade, the landmark decision by the Supreme Court that effectually makes abortion legal in the USA.

Since the case’s decision in 1973, roughly 50 million abortions have taken place legally in America. That’s about 1.2 million abortions last year alone.

Let that number sink in—more than a million per year. Picture all the American cities you know with a population of about a million people. Portland. San Diego. Philadelphia. Dallas.

Each year, one of those cities is wiped out.

What might you do with this information?

1.    Know that this decision affects you.

These days, about 4 out of every 10 unintended pregnancies end in abortion (that's about 22 percent of pregnancies over all, excluding miscarriages). Chances are good that you know someone who has had an abortion. So one of the first—and most immediate—decisions you face is how you treat her. With condemnation? Or with support?

When I was in graduate school I was friends with a girl I’ll call Sally. She had it all—hair, smile, tan—enough to keep a squad of poets busy for weeks.

One day we went to the beach, and she said there was a secret that she needed to tell somebody. Her parents were out of the question. Her current boyfriend was away. I was her next choice.

Something had been inside her body, she said. About a month earlier, her hips began to mature. She had become queasy. She went to a playground one day just to look around and wonder—and she liked what she saw.

But not now, not then, she said. There was no money to raise a child by herself. College wasn’t finished, and she didn’t want to go live with her parents and work as a checker at night to pay the bills.

So Sally decided to terminate her pregnancy. Outside the clinic someone yelled at her: “Fornicators go to hell.” One demonstrator coached his little girl to say “Mommy?” as Sally walked inside.

“That kid is going to grow up messed up,” Sally told me.

When the abortion was over she joined other women eating crackers and drinking Gatorade in the clinic. Then she got really sick and threw up a lot.

That was all.

At the beach Sally watched the ocean with a long, faraway look in her eyes. I hugged her and meant it in the best possible way. Because she smoked I shared a cigarette with her, simply to let her know she was a friend and not alone in the world. 

And when I drove back to my apartment I ached an unfathomable pain.

2.    You should feel somber—whatever camp you fall in.

Fast forward two decades and meet my newest daughter. As I mentioned in this blog a few weeks back, my wife is pregnant again. The child’s due date is at the end of April.

At 26 weeks past conception, our daughter won’t meet my wife and me face to face for another three months. But there are some unmistakable facts about her already.

She weighs about two pounds and is viewed well through ultrasounds. She can hiccup and sleep and stretch and bat her fists around. Books tell us she can hear and feel.

My niece was born prematurely at about the same stage my daughter is now, just before the start of the 3^rd trimester. Today my niece is a perfectly functioning 13-year-old.

Also at 26 weeks, if we wanted to, my wife and I could legally end our daughter’s life. It would be deemed a “later-term” abortion, and it would be controversial. Some States ban it, but others don’t. Some countries like China, Vietnam, and our neighbor to the north, Canada, have no legal limit on when an abortion can be performed.

Bottom line: we could get it done. We could legally end our daughter’s life.

I hope that reality never gets too old to discuss.

And I hope—whatever camp we fall into—that reality makes us somber.

3.    Know that no matter what camp you fall in, the issue is more complex than a one-line slogan.

Truly, much of the pro-life/pro-choice debate is a false dichotomy—meaning that if people fall into the “pro-life” camp, they’re not actually “against choice.” And if people are “pro-choice,” they’re not actually “for abortion.”

So, what would happen if a new camp were created, one that didn’t accuse the other side of being for abortion or against choice? Maybe if we stopped yelling at each other all the time, we could come together and press for real solutions.

A few years back when I worked as a reporter, I interviewed a chief official from our State’s branch of NARAL—a predominant pro-choice organization. I asked her, a gracious and well-educated woman, if being pro-choice was the same thing as being in favor of abortion.

“Heavens no,” she said. “Abortion is a horrible thing. We simply want to keep it safe and legal.”

Did you catch that? And did you catch who said it?

No one’s actually for abortion. No one, not even the head of NARAL, goes around saying, “You know, abortions are great, and every woman should get one.”

So let’s agree on this.

Abortion—even safe and legal abortion—is a horrible thing.

 And let’s continue the discussion from there.

 4.    You should take a stand.

There’s a ton of room for debate surrounding this issue, and I welcome all your thoughts in the comments section below.

Yet I, for one, don’t want to just end this article by saying that more debate is the only answer. Sure, abortion is complicated. But, yes, there are solutions. The solutions affect more than how we vote. They affect how we treat people. They affect the decisions we make ourselves.

Here’s one solution.

Fewer abortions. More adoptions.

Here’s another solution.

Better use of birth control in the first place.

Here’s a third.

If you’ve read my blog for awhile, you know I’m a man of faith. I talk about it openly, and I also welcome anybody from any perspective to read this blog, because plenty of people with other belief systems frequent here, and I’m fine with that.

Here’s what I do. I pray a big-time prayer that abortions in America would diminish.

The prayer is that bold. It’s that blatant.

And I invite you to do the same.

 

Question: Talk about solutions. What can be done?

The Biggest Thing You've Ever Done

(A previously unpublished letter from George Potter)

 

What’s the biggest thing you’ve ever done?

George Potter

Below is a never-before-published letter from the late George Potter (one of the original Band of Brothers) to his parents in 1943--almost 70 years ago to the date.

It describes in detail the first time George ever parachuted out of a plane during training during Ft. Benning, Georgia.

The war was just getting started for these young men, and there would be much difficulty ahead. But at this moment, note the joy in George’s voice, the optimism, and excitement.

The immediate lesson is that when times grow hard during the pursuit of a goal, remember the joy you first experienced as you began the journey.

Letter comes courtesy of Dan Potter, George’s son.

Enjoy …

 

George L. Potter Jr.
15 February 1943,
Co. D 1st P.T.R.
Class #56
Ft. Benning, Georgia
 

I have won my wings in the U.S. Army Paratroops…. I have made two jumps, and by the time you get this letter will have made three more, or five all told.

I will tell you what it was like.

Monday morning, the 15th, I got up and went to ‘chow.’ When I got back we fell out and stood roll call. When we got down to the field, the instructors took us in the hangers and we drew our parachutes. I was then walked into the waiting shed with the rest of my buddies. Planes came; men loaded into them, and the planes took off and disappeared into the sky.

The next plane came and my bunch got orders to get in them. I was the last ‘stick,’ third man (An 8 or 12-man group is called a ‘stick.’)

George Potter's draft card (courtesy Dan Potter)

Well, we got into our position in the plane and fastened our safety belts. As you know this was my first airplane ride, and that in itself was quite an adventure.

All at once the motors roared and the plane started to roll down the field. At the end of the runway the big plane turned round and stopped. I was talking to my Bunkie and I didn’t realize that we had stopped.

All at once the motors roared and the plane quivered and shook. I said to myself: ‘Here we go.’ About a minute later I took a chance and looked out of the window. Nothing had happened. We were still on the ground. The pilot was just testing everything. Boy, was I surprised!”

About a minute later the plane began to move down the field: faster and faster until the plane gave a little jump and we were off the ground. I looked out of the window and saw the hangers go streaking past. We were now going very fast and doing a climbing turn. We went around the field and we were at 1200 feet. I looked down at the ground. I could see the Fort like the back of my hand.

We were now coming into the jumping field. Orders came for the first ‘stick’ to ‘stand up and hook up.’ The men stood up and hooked the end of the static line on to a cable in the plane. Then came the order to stand in the door and hook up. The man in the No. 1 slot moved up into the door and the rest closed up. Then came the order ‘Go!’ The first man jumped out and went out of sight. The rest followed just as fast as they could.

The plane then turned and we could see our pals floating down to the ground. We went around again and the next ‘stick’ stood up, and out they went. Around the field again and then it was my turn. We got the same orders and did the same as the rest had done.

The first man jumped: we closed up.

The second man jumped and then it was my turn.

I got into the door looking straight ahead. The jumpmaster touched my leg, and I jumped out into space.

The prop blast hit me, and down and under the tail of the plane I went. My back was toward the front of the plane, because I had done a half left body turn. I ducked my head so I would not get hit in the head by the risers. I saw the ground way down below me. Next I felt a big jerk and a pop.

My chute had opened.

I looked up at it and saw everything was O.K. I looked down at the ground and saw it way down below me. I was swinging back and forth, so I stopped my swinging and looked around.

Everybody was looking around. Then we all started talking. But before we started, everything was quiet. The only thing we could hear was the wind in our helmets and around the chutes.

I started talking to the guy about 50-feet below me and to one side. He was my Bunkie. Nobody could tell who the other was until we started talking.

I looked down and saw the ground was getting closer and closer. I guess I was about 250 feet up. I didn’t feel any sense of falling. The ground just kept coming up and up. I checked my feet again so I couldn’t get hurt, and grasped my risers.

 I saw where I was going to land. I looked down at about a 45-degree angle. And tried to judge when I would land. The ground was coming up faster now, and then all at once it jumped at me and I landed and rolled.

I lay on the ground for a minute and thought: ‘Boy if the folks could only see me now!’

I got up and rolled up my chute. We were all laughing and swapping stories, and throwing the bull around quite a bit. That’s all there was to it. It was the biggest thing I have ever done!

Later—I made my last jump this afternoon. It was at 800-feet. I made four at 1200-feet. I put the pictures of you all in my helmet today. So you will have a jump of 800 feet to your credit!

Your son – George

 

Question: What’s the biggest thing you’ve ever done--or the biggest thing you hope to do?

This New Year, Boldly Take Your Journey

The future of all journeys is always unknown.

That needn’t stop us from taking them.

Here’s a story—Many years ago, on day one of my first day of elementary school, I pose for a snapshot next to my two-wheeler. Can you see it?

The handlebars of my bike are turned upside down like a cool 10-speed. My clothes are jaunty and set for playground adventure. My hair is wet and clean.

I am six, and my future is unknown. Yet my chest is swelled with expectancy at the journey before me. I pedal to school by myself and ride home for lunch. Mom serves soup, cheese slices, and apples. She lets me play until it’s time to ride back to school, and then I do.

This coming home for lunch on my bike becomes a grand ritual. Every day I see fences and weeds, hills and cats. I smell the nearby ocean. I wave to neighbors. It’s 1974, a different era for children, and my bike ride to and from school is jocose and independent, largely untouched by concern or fear.

Once that year, Mom needs to be gone at lunchtime, meaning that I need to eat at school that day. This is new to me. So I am set with instructions, assured with kisses, and packaged with lunch box and note. But when noontime comes I firmly decide I cannot stay at school. It’s too new for me. Too unknown. I want to be at home like I usually am, so I steal away from school and pedal home, furious with longing, determined for familiarity.

Dad has previously shown me a hidden key behind a post in our shed. I know I can get into the house, even shut tight as it is. I stand on a trashcan and retrieve the key, but the front door lock is old and taut. It will not budge. How many minutes go by while I keep trying? I cannot tell time yet; my only thought is to get the door open, eat, and hurry back for the bell.

Help me God, I whisper, a small boy of faith. My hands are cramped from cold. The deadbolt circles and stays tense. What if it will not open?

But it does.

Within the walls of our kitchen my peanut butter tastes better than steak. I leave my lunchbox empty on the table, lock the door with fewer struggles, and ride back to school for the rest of the afternoon.

Somewhere that day a foundation stone is set for future journeys. This foundation will position the constructions of adulthood. It will hold floors of courage, brace walls of liberty, and support roofs of hope.

Years later my foundation holds true. I continue journeying away from home, only this time international travel fills my young adulthood years. I see hot air balloons over Kenyan plains. I ride a double-decker bus in London. I barter for wooly sweaters near the Acropolis in Athens.

But my journeys are not all trouble-free. I throw up for three days straight in Haiti. I catch my finger in a van door in Tijuana. I miss a connector in San Francisco and attempt to fly standby during Thanksgiving weekend, the craziest time of year to fly.

Journeys bring bad and good, hurt and joy. That’s a life lesson that never changes. Still, at six, on a cold, fall lunchtime, hands triumphant over an old lock, my foundation was set to journey forward, regardless of outcome.

It’s a resolve that gets tested, year after year after year.

These days, you may have heard already, my wife and I face a different sort of trip.

A few months back two lines showed positive. Two tests corroborated Mary’s hunch. In less than four months, we will become a family of five.

In our deepest hearts, we know little except excitement. But we are slower to grin now as the seriousness of having a third child sinks in. I’m old for this, I think. By the time this new one graduates from high school, I’ll be buying Geritol.

So much potential for both good and bad exists in this voyage. It takes money. Time. Energy. Missed sleep. White knuckles. Pregnancy, birth, raising a child—it can all go a lot of ways. It’s no small journey to undertake.

Last night I stepped barefoot on our back porch and acknowledged my fears to God. This is not a journey to anywhere geographic. This is a journey of development. I’m no new father this time. I’m an experienced dad. Yet I confess moments where I’m still overwhelmed.

I don’t pretend to speak for God. It may have been a six-year-old’s voice deep within me that said: “The future is definitely unknown. And yet, still, we journey.”

That’s the takeaway: No matter what lays in front of you this new year, boldly take your journey.

Take it with your handlebars turned upside down like a cool 10-speed.

Your clothes jaunty and set for adventure.

Your chest swelled with expectancy at the wild ride ahead.

 

Question: what journey lies ahead of you this year?