By Ben Lee ’12
As a native to the Denver area (a.k.a. Tebow-town), I was annoyed by Tebow even before he was big. It wasn’t that I followed sports; it was my good Christian neighbors quivering in their chastity rings. The girl at my summer job said, “I’m going to marry Tim Tebow!” every morning and afternoon. “Sounds good,” I said, thinking that maybe he was her boyfriend.
I don’t watch football but I do attend family-mandated brunches with men who do. One older gent, a friend of a friend of my father’s, shared his belief that Tebow didn’t just have some kind of channel to the Lord, no, Tebow and Jesus are in fact one and the same, and subsequently, Tebow literally can’t lose. I felt it impolite to remind him that at the end of Jesus’ story Jesus himself did, by many accounts, lose pretty badly.
I have to admit, though, that I rooted for the guy. I caught the tail end of one of his games, one where he was playing the people in white and red. There wasn’t much time left, two minutes — although I didn’t know it could be stretched into half an hour.
The Broncos were losing by something less than 14. “Well,” I said to my dad, “looks like the game’s over, time to watch some Netflix.” “Let’s just wait it out,” he said, wisely. Lo and Behold, not two minutes later, Tebow gave unto us a touchdown! “See,” my dad said, smiling and nodding his head.
But the red guys were still winning, and we only had 30 seconds. “Ye of Little Faith!” my father jokingly chided, and, as if on cue, another seven points flew down through Tebow, through the endzone and onto the scoreboard.
My dad cheered, danced and ran around the house. “Maybe I was wrong,” I thought. “Maybe there is something to this Tebow character. Maybe I should follow his lead, take a knee and ask God to forgive me of my cynical ways before it’s too late!”
But then this past Saturday came and, as we all know, there were no miracles and no forgiveness. The Broncos lost. They lost badly. If only some kind of Judas (a jealous teammate, an overzealous fan or a pompous ref) could have mortally tripped Tebow in the first quarter, then he could have really been somebody.
Our own sin would have stopped Tebow from saving us. His Messiah-hood would be confirmed. Tebow’s body would become consecrated bean dip. His blood would become sacramental Gatorade. Sounds tasty.
Unfortunately Tebow lost to the Patriots fully uninjured, fair and square, 45 to 10. This shameful score has many Denverites questioning the existence of God. Still others take it as a sign from above to turn to a Psalm where I believe it says, “Hearken, ye of little faith, there is always next year!”