Get Out of the Car

I watched a really good film the other day. But here’s the big shocker: IT WASN’T THE LION KING. I know. Sometimes the truth hurts.

Anyway, despite not being the Lion King, I really liked this film. It was called Rush and it was a true story about two Formula One drivers (it was better than it sounds…). It’s about this intense rivalry between a British guy James Hunt, who’s basically just an absolute lad in the worst possible sense – womanizer, alcoholic – but also an incredibly talented/gutsy driver, and this German called Nicci Lauda. Lauda is much quieter, not that good with the ladies or whatever, but he’s incredibly driven (if you’ll excuse the semi-intentional pun). He’s defied his parents and staked everything on becoming the best race-driver in the world, and he works insanely hard, and is ridiculously smart. He makes tiny alterations to the car set-up, getting his mechanics to work all night, just to eke out another couple of tenths of a second.

Anyway, the big shadow that looms over the whole thing is that at this point F1 was insanely dangerous. 20 drivers started the championship each year, and almost every year, somebody died. Hunt vomits before every race with fear, but he lives off the adrenalin – the thrill of dancing with death. Lauda knows the risk, and he’s willing to take it in order to be the best. And then he gets married. And you see his new wife and him running around and laughing on their honeymoon, and it’s really beautiful because you’ve literally never seen this guy happy before. And then later that night you see he’s got out of bed and he’s just staring out of the window, and she comes and asks if he’s OK. He looks at her, and says, “I’m happy. Happiness is the enemy. If you’re happy, you have something to live for.”

When the honeymoon is over, he gets back to racing, and there comes a race in Germany, and it’s tipping it down with rain. The visibility is awful, the grip is non-existant, and Lauda calls a meeting to try and call the race off – he says it’s too dangerous. Hunt says he wants to race; and the others agree with him. Lauda knows he can’t let his lead slip, so he races. Half way through, Lauda makes contact with another car, crashes, and ends up knocked out as his car burns around him – it takes them a whole minute to get him out. He’s flown to hospital and eventually wakes up, with horrific burns on his head and face, and in his lungs. He lies in bed, watching Hunt win race after race, eating up his championship lead, as the doctors vacuum his lungs to clear burnt tissue. After a few weeks you see Lauda getting out of bed, and trying to force his race-helmet on over the bandages. His wife comes in, and sees him in absolute agony, but he looks at her and says – “If you love me, you won’t say anything.” He has to get back in the car, he has to win.

And he does: against all advice, he gets back in the car with a few races to go, and he’s doing well. Then it’s the final race in Japan, and he’s got a 3 point lead over Hunt. It’s 10 points for 1^st place and 6 points for 2^nd, so if Hunt wins the race, he’ll take the championship. The day comes; and it’s raining again. Hard. But this is the biggest television event F1 has ever seen, there’s no way they will cancel the race. So Hunt and Lauda suit up, put their helmets on, and line up on the grid: Hunt in first position, Lauda in second.

Lauda gets a quick start, and pushes through on the inside past Hunt into the first corner – taking the lead – all the way round the first lap Hunt pushes to try and regain the position but Lauda is quick enough to stay ahead, and it’s almost impossible for Hunt to see anything in the thick spray flying up from Lauda’s tyres. And then suddenly Lauda pulls off the track and into the pits. His mechanics rush over to his car as it comes to a stop and shout to him, asking what’s wrong with the car, what they need to fix. But Lauda just undoes his seat belt, and steps out the car. He takes his helmet off, walks back to the garage, and goes straight to his wife. “It was too dangerous,” he says.

They sit in their trailer and watch on the TV as Hunt wins the championship. And I – soppy as always – am weeping with joy. Because of this simple act of him just saying, ‘My life is more than my achievement.’ Saying, ‘I want to be a champion, but that’s not all that I am; I am loved. And my life is worth far more than this race because I am loved, and I love.’

As I was chatting with Rachael about how much I loved this film I started thinking, why did that get to me so much? And I realised something that to be honest is pretty obvious: at some level, my heart lives for achievements. Without really being aware of it, I make that the thing that I live for, that gets me up in the morning and keeps me up at night, that makes me feel valuable, and the thing I most value: achievement. There’s a certain buzz to having done something good. Thing is it’s pretty obvious when it’s something like getting good marks or parts in plays or whatever – what’s subtler and more dangerous is that I can get that buzz from lots of people coming to an event that I organize, or someone telling me that they like this blog, or even just having a ‘good conversation’ with someone. Obviously these things are all good things, it’s not wrong to be happy about them at all, the thing is that I casually let them slip into prime position, at the very centre of my heart, as the thing that I live for. I end up, subconsciously, living out of the assumption that I am worth something because I achieve things.

But that’s not true. My joy shouldn’t come from the fact of my achievements. It should come from the fact that I am God’s achievement. I am his masterpiece. I realised the other day: that joy I get – that buzz when I do something and I think, ‘That is good, I am pleased with that’ – well, God gets that feeling when he looks at me. He thinks, ‘Now that is very good. I am pleased with that.’ And that’s the place I should be waking up into every morning. The joy of knowing that my life is worth more than my success because I am loved, and I love. The joy that a dog gets from the praise and affection of it’s owner. The delight of a child in that moment where his parents say, “Son, we are very proud of you.” That’s what I want to keep my heart beating: the fact that I am God’s masterpiece.

Now I’m not saying that God is proud of me because I’m such a good person. Definitely not. All I have to do to remind myself of that is to read Jesus describing how he wants us to live in the Sermon the Mount. Or reflect for a few minutes on the perfect, spotless love at the heart of God – that holiness that hurts the eyes – and then think about my own heart when someone ever-so-slightly wounds my pride, or speaks in an annoying whiny voice. No. If I’m honest, based on who I am in myself, I can’t look a love like that in the eyes and not be utterly ashamed. God’s not proud of me because of my success at life or my success in being a good person. He’s proud of me because I’m his son. He’s proud of me because Jesus came and found me when I didn’t even realise I was lost, held my hand, and led me to his Father, and when he saw me, and saw Jesus beside me, he loved me for his sake, and he adopted me to be his little brother. He’s proud of me because he has adopted me and I’m his kid now. I’m his kid.

And the moment he adopted me, he started working on something beautiful within me. Started a masterpiece in my heart and head and body and soul. And he’s not finished with me yet. And now everything that I do that is good, or loving, or beautiful, is his achievement. More than that, everything I am is his delight.

So this blog is just me trying to remind myself of that. And remembering that yeah, I want to be world champion; but I am free to get out of the car. Because I am loved, and I love.