"Globalization," the leading buzzword of the nineteen-nineties, was used to refer to the remarkable and rapid conversion of socialist countries to market economics, and to the increasing commercial and financial interconnectedness of nations that came about as a result. But globalization in a broader sense has been going on for a long time: arguably since Columbus, but much accelerated in the nineteenth and twentieth centuries by the conscious organizing of international expositions, conferences, and competitions of various kinds. Actually, one of the best early examples of globalization was the Olympic movement, whose first international games took place in Athens in 1896. They have since become perhaps the glitziest form of globalization, a world-riveting stage for the host country, and a lavish spectacle of processions, music, lights, flags, and the ritualized celebration of humanity's oneness, paradoxically juxtaposed with fierce nationalistic and interpersonal rivalries.

Given its mediagenic nature, it's surprising that the history of the Olympiad hasn't attracted more attention from filmmakers, as a source of stories on the perennially popular theme of struggle and triumph. In 1993 Disney released Cool Runnings, forgettable fluff about the Jamaican bobsled team that made it to the 1988 Winter Olympics. In 2004 there was Miracle, a feel-good movie about the upset victory of the US hockey team at Lake Placid.

But the most outstanding film for its portrayal of the visceral intensity of Olympic competition and the personalities of the athletes is Chariots of Fire. Among the athletes portrayed was a paragon of Christian commitment, Eric Liddell, a Scot who took the gold medal for Britain in the 400 meters at the nineteen twenty-four Olympics in Paris, then went off to China, where he served as a missionary until his death in a civilian internment camp in 1945.

Chariots of Fire is an unusual film in many respects, having no sex or violence, no mysterious murders or passionate liaisons. There are three rather modest kisses in the entire movie. (I first saw the movie in a cinema in Cairo in 1982, and the kissing was the only thing that elicited a reaction — whooping and clapping — from the audience.) As pointed out by my wife, who has been more or less compelled to view the movie dozens of times and endure the repetition of its more memorable lines at hundreds of dinners, there is almost no excitement or action in the film apart from the races. I'm a runner, and the suspense of the races was enough to sustain my initial interest in the film, but it would not be enough to make me want to watch it again and again. What amazes me about Chariots of Fire, besides its aesthetic excellence, which was recognized by the Motion Picture Academy, is that a company of secular filmmakers and actors produced a work which conveys compelling messages about the deeper meanings of (1) sports, (2) personal integrity, and (3) spiritual conflict.

First, sports. The movie begins at a funeral service in a church. The funeral is not Eric Liddell's, but that of another famous sprinter, a contemporary of Liddell's by the name of Harold Abrahams, who took first in the 100 meters in 1924. Abrahams went on to become the "elder statesman of British athletics." The eulogies for him in a Christian church were testimony to the esteem in which he came to be held by his countrymen, since Abrahams was from a Jewish family and had to fight for acceptance at a time when anti-Semitic prejudice was still widespread. As he describes it, running was for him "a weapon," a chance for him to demonstrate his individual worth and national loyalty. However, Abrahams' victory comes at a price: in order to win the 100 meters, he goes beyond the bounds of the amateur code then in force by employing a professional coach, to whose advice concerning technique he later attributed his success. This departure from tradition causes controversy: before the Olympics, he has a tense confrontation with the college president where he denies allegations that his use of a coach is an infringement of the rules. In a prophetic statement, he ridicules the antiquated values of the president and the old Cambridge elite, asserting "I'll carry the future with me" — as he in fact did, since nearly all sports and even the Olympic Games, that last great preserve of amateur athletics, has moved irresistibly toward professionalization.

Professionalism in sports is a big subject, but just two observations here. First, it is worth pondering our society's unquestioning acceptance of professional athletics. I admit to enjoying watching professional athletes perform as much as anyone else, and the Olympic Committee itself, in the nineteen-nineties, accepting that the line between amateur and professional had become impossible to define, gave up the principle and permitted professional athletes to compete. But the cost of professionalism, and of the overachieving and hypocritical amateurism that preceded it, has been very high. The excessive pressure to achieve that is put on children and youth, the unbridled competitive ethos leading many to the use of performance-enhancing drugs, the corrupting rivers of cash flowing into the coffers of sports organizations, coaches, celebrities, and agents — these and other evils are the result of a view of sports which begins with Harold Abrahams and ends with Tonya Harding (the U.S. figure skater implicated in a convoluted plot to injure her chief rival in the 1994 Winter Games).

Taking the long view, the old gentlemen of Cambridge were not so far off when they saw, or foresaw, Abrahams' philosophy of sport as representing "the headlong pursuit of individual glory." Tragically, the making of sport into a religion and its heroes into gods leaves both the worshipers and the deities unfulfilled. The fans (short for "fanatics") spend inordinate amounts of time and money on sporting events and paraphernalia, and the athletes turn into egomaniacs who find that their fame and success are short-lived. Abrahams epitomizes the winning-is-everything philosophy when, shortly before he goes out to run the 100-meter finals, he says to a friend that he has "ten lonely seconds to justify my existence." He wins, but the victory gives him no pleasure — the pathetic indifference on his face as he breaks the tape says it all.

Contrast Abrahams with Liddell, also a keenly competitive athlete. It's not that Liddell runs only for the fun of it. He also has an ulterior motive, but the quality of that motive makes all the difference. He runs simply to glorify God. And he is able to keep his sport in perspective because he knows who gave him his abilities. In one of the priceless lines from the film, he says, "I believe God made me for a purpose, but he also made me fast. And when I run, I feel his pleasure." As Liddell knew, the Bible never suggests that the body is evil or that its capacities for pleasure and performance are things to be despised. Thus, St Paul can use the image of a race to portray the dynamics of the Christian life. But there is a difference in the fulfillment offered by the goal:

"Do you not know that in a race all the runners compete, but only one receives the prize? So run that you may obtain it. Every athlete exercises self-control in all things. They do it to receive a perishable wreath, but we an imperishable." (I Corinthians 9:24-25)

And contrast too Liddell's distinctive running style, which was just the opposite of Abrahams': from a technical point of view it was ludicrous — wild, wobbly, flailing. Worst of all, he ran with his head thrown so far back he looked skyward rather than forward. The actor Ian Charleson, who portrayed Liddell in the film, complained that when he tried to run like Liddell he couldn't see where he was going. But then it dawned on him that this strange style expressed the man's life perfectly. As he reports to Sally Magnusson, author of The Flying Scotsman: A Biography: "I suddenly realized — Liddell must have run like that. He must have run with his head up and literally trusted to get there. He ran with faith. He didn't even look where he was going." True to history, the film shows Liddell as he finishes the 400-meter final with a supernatural burst of speed, his head back and laughing hilariously, exuberant as he feels God's pleasure.

Liddell's faith takes us to the second point, the question of integrity. Because it was not Liddell's crazy running style, nor was it the difference between himself and Abrahams, nor even his stunning and unexpected victory in the 400 meters which made him famous. It was his decision not to run on Sunday.

Eric Liddell was a strict Sabbatarian, so when he found that he had been slated to run in a 100-meter heat on a Sunday (he was not even considered for the 400 meters at the time) he announced that he would not run. He refused to compete on Sunday even though he was under pressure to compete, since he was thought to be Britain's best chance for a gold medal in what is still the Olympics' premier event. Now most of us contemporary Christians, let alone our non-Christian friends, find this decision strange. I recall telling a friend how much I loved the message of Chariots of Fire and being asked, "What message? Don't run on Sunday?" Of course, if that were the message of the film it would be pretty thin gruel for the Christian soul, and totally irrelevant to non-Christians. I think of that especially living in Cairo, where nearly everyone, including me, puts in full day of work every Sunday. There are still some strict Sabbatarians around, and I don't wish to disparage their beliefs — after all, they have Eric Liddell on their side — but there was a depth of purpose in his refusal to run on Sunday, which shows that the essence of his faith was in no way negative; it was never a sanctimonious obedience to the "thou shalt nots" of the Bible. So why didn't he run on Sunday?

First, there was the simple matter of consistency. Liddell had lived his whole life "remembering the Sabbath, to keep it holy" and encouraging others to follow the same principle. In the film, as he is shown reflecting on his decision not to run, his mind flits back an incident in which he had rebuked a young boy for playing football on the Sabbath when he ought to have been worshiping at church. Now the temptation was strong to break with his principle — after all, these were the Olympic Games — but his answer was No: no compromise.

Still, to many of us, that type of Sabbath-keeping smacks of legalism, the idea that our relationship with God is defined by our exterior obedience or disobedience to a set of arbitrary rules. But legalism was emphatically not Eric Liddell's faith. His keeping of the Sabbath was never a means of appeasing God but of honoring him by refusing to seek his own glory, or even that of his nation, on the day that is consecrated to the worship of God. In one of the film's most brilliant scenes (though a creation of the script writer, it represents well the debate in Britain over Liddell's decision), Liddell is called before the Prince of Wales and a coterie of British dignitaries — an "inquisition," as Liddell calls it — who press him to reverse himself and run the 100-meter heat for which he has been scheduled. They appeal to his love of country and to his nation's honor, to which Liddell replies defiantly that God made kings and countries, and they remain under his Word: "God says that the Sabbath is his: and I for one intend to keep it that way." There is one aristocrat in attendance who seems to understand, commenting to a colleague that his running "is an extension of his life, its force. We sought to sever his running from himself" — a severing which Liddell would not permit.

For me, Eric Liddell is the embodiment of integrity. Not so much in his stern refusal to compromise on a principle, important as that is, but even more by virtue of the goodness and wholeness of his life, a life that was not segmented or compartmentalized but controlled in every part by divine purpose.

Later, his sense of integrity would mandate that Liddell do exactly what he had refused to do for the sake of an Olympic medal. It was during the period of his internment, when the Japanese occupied China in 1943. Conditions in the camp were difficult, and the differences between the various types of families and individuals which made up the camp generated a lot of friction. In the midst of these interpersonal tensions, some of the missionary internees remained almost exclusively preoccupied with private moral issues, unable to see the larger communal problems which, left to fester, would threaten the peace and viability of the camp. Among these were the needs of the youth, whose physical, educational, and social development had been severely disrupted. Liddell stepped into the breach, as teacher, tutor, counselor, spiritual advisor — and sports director. This last job confronted him with an issue. As Sally Magnusson tells the story:

One of the hardest decisions he had to make in the camp was what to do about Sunday games. No, he said, there were to be no games on Sunday; it was a principle from which he had never deviated. But many of the teenagers protested against this and decided to organize a hockey game by themselves despite him — boys against girls. It ended in a free fight, because there was no referee. On the following Sunday, Eric turned out on that field to act as a referee. It is a most illuminating detail of his life: he would not run on a Sunday for an Olympic gold medal in the 100 metres and all the glory in the world; but he refereed a game on a Sunday, he broke his unbreakable principle, just to keep a handful of imprisoned youngsters at peace with each other. It speaks volumes about the man.

Sunday observance was not, for Eric Liddell, an inviolable law which stood on its own. He kept the Sabbath "as unto the Lord," which meant that his primary loyalty was to the Lord and his love, not to an abstract principle.

Liddell's personal relationship to God brings us to the last point, concerning spiritual conflict. When the term is used today it generally denotes our conflict with supernatural forces which seek to destroy us. Thus Paul spoke of our struggle "against the spiritual hosts of wickedness in the heavenly places." (Ephesians 6:12) Simply put, the term "spiritual conflict" evokes the Christian's battle against Satan. While I would not want to diminish the gravity of this conflict or the importance of recognizing the reality of spiritual evil, it seems to me that there is another kind of battle in the life of the believer which is actually harder to bear. It is the spiritual struggle in which God himself appears as the adversary — if you doubt this can happen, read Job — and we feel it most agonizingly when we find ourselves torn between the call of God and the command of God.

In telling the story of Eric Liddell, the filmmaker goes to the bedrock depths of biblical faith, seen especially in Liddell's inner struggle on his way to France, as he must decide whether or not to run. He reaches his decision, but then he must explain it: and the explanation gives us the most profound spiritual message in Chariots of Fire. Recall that Liddell's spiritual mentors on the board of the missionary society had urged him to show the world a muscular kind of Christianity, to use his athletic prowess ad majorem Dei gloriam. He says to the head coach of the British team, "For the past three years I've devoted myself to my running... because I said to myself, if I win, I win for God." This was Liddell's experience of God's call — and he responded with energy, enthusiasm, discipline, and perseverance, winning victory upon victory. Now his obedience to God — who had endowed him with his abilities and given him the vision to use them in his service — was compelling him to forfeit his greatest opportunity to glorify God. Why? He could not see it at the time, but God had another direction for him. In a dramatic turn of events, he was rescheduled for the 400 meters and, against everyone's expectation (he is shown, accurately, in the outside lane, the worst possible position on the track), ran away with the gold.

At critical points in my own life, I have experienced the unhappy tension between God's call and God's command. The form it takes varies: it may come in a job, a love relationship, a ministry, a project, a sporting event, or some other kind of special, irretrievable opportunity. If we try to fulfill God's call in defiance of his command, we are forgetting who is the Creator and who the creature. Our only course is to walk in obedience and entrust ourselves to his sovereignty.

Do you remember this story?

After these things God tested Abraham... saying, 'Take your son, your only son Isaac, whom you love, and go to the land of Moriah, and offer him there as a burnt offering upon one of the mountains of which I shall tell you'.... When they came to the place of which God had told him, Abraham built an altar there, and laid the wood in order, and bound Isaac his son, and laid him on the altar, upon the wood. Then Abraham put forth his hand, and took the knife to slay his son. (Genesis 22)

Here the contradiction is made plain: the call of God was to make of Abraham a great nation through his son Isaac, born to him by a miracle in his old age; and now the equally clear command of God was to put Isaac to death. Had God become an enemy to his own purposes? Does he entice us with his promises only to torture us with his commands?

No. But like Father Abraham, Eric Liddell, and all the saints, we can know him truly only in our obedience. The call is his to fulfill; the command is ours to obey.

Michael Reimer is married to Marty Reimer and they have 3 great kids, Luke, Rachel, and Marie. He teaches Middle East history at the American University in Cairo.

Reference: Sally Magnusson, The Flying Scotsman: A Biography (New York: Quartet, 1981).