Last night, I was watching the Olympics when the super-heavyweight women’s powerlifting event came on — the “clean and jerk” where women struggle to hold 370-plus lb. barbells over their heads. Every one of the women was huge, not with the musculature we generally attribute to athletes, but huge in a way we tend to find unattractive — thick thighs, big bellies, broad necks and shoulders and arms that look like solid, well-wrapped hams. They were sweaty, grunting, and not likely, any of them, to have spent their training reflecting on the good ol’ days of being Homecoming Queen.
And it was wonderful.
These women were given certain body types by a God who loves them — and who desires to be glorified in their every endeavor, including the physical. I’m not a real sports-oriented kind of gal, and I loathe the idea that a boxer can pummel the snot out of his opponent, with, like Evander Holyfield, a verse from Philippians embroidered on his trunks, and then take to the mike to proclaim his devotion to Jesus. I hate boxing, especially church-sponsored boxing, because it consists of the kind of violence people are rightly arrested for in bars. And, even though it involves lifting weights, I dislike bodybuilding, an exercise in narcissistic and excessive erotica that I find entirely off-putting. My point here is that I’m wary when athletic endeavors that involve primping, posing, and punching, not to mention steroids, are seen as a means to glorifying God. But these women took their healthy, God-given bodies, found a sport in which their body structures would be advantageous, and worked hard to master it.
It occurred to me that with skewed definitions of health and femininity submerging our culture in floodwaters of confusion and contempt, I was witnessing the beauty of bodies working, bodies being made ever-stronger, in the ways they were intended and for works that glorify God. It was a beautiful thing. These women, unattractive by most of our standards, took the physiques God gave them and achieved something great. They didn’t let society decide for them that they were fat and ugly, destined for failure and open to mockery with true femininity a dream destined only for the slim, pretty girls. No, they set their eyes on a goal, worked hard to achieve it, and are deserving of my admiration.
When I was a girl, one of the best ways to earn my dad’s applause was to not “throw like a girl” in softball, or “dribble like a girl” in basketball. And, in my athletic days, I threw as well as my brother and dribbled and shot and passed better than most of my teammates. It was a wonderful day when I was able to re-define “throwing like a girl” as something that meant that I, a genuine girl, had mastered some sports technique, and I was good on my own terms, not because I threw a breaking curve better than my brother.