At the start of the 2024 summer Olympics, Pope Francis called upon the world to honor the “spirit of fraternity” that the games were founded upon and for warring nations to follow antiquity’s tradition of adopting a truce. If only “culture wars” were included in this truce as well.
Was it the festival of Dionysus being portrayed in the opening ceremony, as its artistic director would explain, or was it a mockery of the Last Supper? I don’t know. What’s the story behind Algerian boxer Imane Khelif and her disqualification from last year’s world championships because she allegedly failed “gender eligibility testing”?
I don’t know. But the International Olympic Committee criticized the Russian-dominated International Boxing Committee’s decision to ban Khelif, born a biological female, as “impossibly flawed.”
Those three words—“I don’t know”—are precisely the point. Both situations proved to be nuanced, complex, yet were attacked with such moral certainty by an online mob that the Vatican itself felt the need to respond days later with a vague statement that they were “saddened” by “certain scenes” during the opening ceremony. Elon Musk and J.K. Rowling were listed in a cyberbullying lawsuit by Khelif. Good for Khelif. She returned home with a gold medal. Musk and Rowling got retweets.
The whole world came together at the Olympics, united by the virtues of sport, but we just couldn’t help ourselves.
A Humble God
It would be wise in our age to return to the wisdom that arose from Vatican II around the notion of inculturation—the idea that diversity within differing cultures contributes to a “deeper humanity” and a “better plan for the universe.” In other words, before projecting our own opinion or certainty upon a situation, there is a curiosity for culture and story. Art and athletics are cauldrons for culture. And culture is where God is found.
Another way to think about culture and story is the notion of embodiment. Whether a person is spiritual or not, there are profound relational implications for matter—especially the human heart—being a container for beauty and mystery that should evoke wonder and curiosity. In my recent interview with Sister Ilia Delio, OSF, for Franciscan Media’s Off the Page podcast, she talked about how St. Francis of Assisi became more embodied, more whole, by experiencing God’s indwelling—God’s embodiment—in matter, in people, and in places he least expected. Francis’ heart was transformed by the Incarnation—that God humbly became a baby (in the cradle), a suffering servant (on the cross), and even an unassuming piece of bread (through Communion). Overcome with wonder that God would take on the form of a humble piece of bread, Francis once wrote, “O sublime humility! O humble sublimity!”
So, what does the humility of God mean for us today?
“Really simple,” Delio said. “Stop judging. Stop having your big ideas about what people should be. Really meet the concrete person in a concrete way. . . . Their smile, their face, all of this is where God is being radiated as the humility of God.”
Even while on the other side of a screen, might we dare to see people as the embodiment of stories, journeys, and dreams, rather than our next talking point? It is time to, as Francis did, elevate the depth and beauty of the concrete person rather than turn them into political abstractions. In this sometimes uncomfortable journey, as Francis learned, we become more whole and more embodied as well.
“The humility of God and embodiment are like a double helix; you can’t separate them,” Delio continued. “That’s why it’s incarnational.”
