Last Sunday morning, I was grateful to live in a time zone where I could watch the USA vs. Canada men’s hockey final live, before I needed to leave for church. I sat with my kids—my 3-month-old in my lap—and watched as the thrilling game reached its climax before 8 a.m. Pacific. Tied at the end of regulation—thanks to some insane saves from goalie Connor Hellebuyck—the sudden-death overtime period commenced. A few nerve-racking minutes in, Jack Hughes seized the moment and took his shot. History. Goosebumps. No algorithm could have scripted this outcome. Not a miracle—but a moment that nevertheless felt transcendent. “Great moments are born from great opportunity,” says Kurt Russell’s version of Herb Brooks in a locker room speech in Miracle, the film about USA men’s hockey’s 1980 gold-medal team. On Sunday, Hughes had a great opportunity and turned it into a great moment. The puck sailed into the net and Team USA secured its first men’s hockey gold in 46 years. I screamed and high-fived my boys. We watched with joy as the American team cleared the bench and the fans went wild. As Hughes draped himself in the American flag, his smile—bloodied and full of gaps, thanks to Sam Bennett’s high stick knocking out three of Hughes’s teeth mere minutes earlier—added to the poetry of the moment. Here was an image Claude couldn’t have conjured up: a snapshot of the grit and the glory, the pain and the pride, the uncontrollable drama of athletic competition—one of the last singularly human spectacles in an age of machines. Are Sports the Last Human Art Form? Why do great sports moments resonate with us and indelibly stick in our memories? Because they capture the vulnerability and unpredictability of what it means to be human. In the dawning AI age, distinctly embodied phenomena will increasingly stand out as displays that can’t be artificially reproduced, even by the most sophisticated LLMs. I expect that as movies, music, and other written works become more and more AI-rendered or AI-enhanced, athletic competitions and live sporting events will become dearer to us as refreshingly unenhanced displays of purely human prowess. Maybe physical sports will become the last human art form. What literature and poetry have been to the humanities up until now, perhaps athletics will be for the humanities in the age of AI: a genre where the pain and glory of human existence is hashed out, not on a canvas or a page but on a field or in an arena. Maybe physical sports will become the last human art form. Even if teams of android robots could one day compete in professional athletic leagues of their own, would we care to watch? I don’t think so. We don’t watch sports primarily for the feats of hard athletic skill on display. We watch them for the human stories behind the skills—the families who made these athletes, their cultures and nations, their personal and patriotic passion, the physical and emotional hurdles they’ve overcome. These athletes aren’t personality-lacking robots programmed and built in factories to be athletically perfect. They’re imperfect humans who put in the work to become as good as they can be. We’re awed because we understand the long hours, focused discipline, and “blood, sweat, and tears” sacrifices these athletes endured to get here. We know what they do isn’t easy, even if they make it seem effortless. We know what they do isn’t easy, even if they make it seem effortless. We also know that central to embodiment is the risk of injury, the limitations of biology, and the reality of mortality—things AI cannot know or model. These are actual, flesh-and-blood, highly breakable human bodies pushing themselves to the limit, flipping through the air on skis or skates, careening down steep slopes at 75 mph or bobsled tracks at 90 mph. This bodily vulnerability is part of what makes athletic competition compelling. It’s Hughes scoring the game-winning goal while still spitting blood from just having three teeth knocked onto the ice. It’s the unforgettable moment of Kerri Strug clinching gold for the USA women’s gymnastics team in 1996 when she landed her second vault despite an injured ankle. But it’s also the horror of knowing that elite skiers like Lindsey Vonn can nearly lose a leg in a horrific accident, or that short-track speed skaters might get a blade to the eye during a race. It’s the thrill of athletes embracing real risk, something AI is programmed to always avoid. Possibility of Failure We also resonate with sports because they’re unpredictable, uncontrollable, and utterly contingent on factors no algorithm could predict. In this way, sports feel like real life. As much as modernity tries to tell us otherwise, our stories are hugely directed by providential factors beyond our control. “Where there’s a will, there’s a way” is simply not correct. Curveballs can and do confront every ambitious high-achiever. We might try to force our own path, but God redirects us at his sovereign will (Prov. 16:9; 19:21). Sports capture this reality in microcosm. We cheer our favorite teams and athletes, hoping to see them victorious. But we know the result might be heartbreak. Some of the hyped stars of Team USA collapsed under pressure at these Winter Games—like “quad god” Ilia Malinin’s eighth-place finish in men’s figure skating. For Canadians watching Sunday’s men’s hockey game, the “what might have been?” is hard to stomach. Every athlete and sports fan experiences the bitterness of losing. But this is precisely what makes sports so thrilling. Nothing is guaranteed. Outcomes are unpredictable. In an excellent recap video of the Winter Games, NBC sports correspondent Mike Tirico said, “The truth is, you can be the best in the world for four years, over 1,400 days, but your career is often defined by what happens that one day. That’s why the Olympics draw us in.” Indeed. You can’t script sports according to statistical probability or data analysis. And if you could, they’d lose their appeal. What resonates with us in life is what defies engineerability, as contemporary German sociologist Hartmut Rosa argues. You can’t manufacture resonance. It’s only possible when you release yourself to be touched or affected—perhaps the word is graced—in ways you didn’t plan or control but receive. In his short book The Uncontrollability of the World, Rosa says, It is only in encountering the uncontrollable that we really experience the world. Only then do we feel touched, moved, alive. A world that is fully known, in which everything has been planned and mastered, would be a dead world. An AI-optimized world, I fear, will quickly begin to feel like a “dead world” devoid of true resonance. Yet athletic competition has the potential to keep us grounded in humanity, providing those ever-rarer moments of real resonance. Because even as athletes and coaches certainly apply “optimization” techniques in every way they can, there’s only so much they can control. The weather, sickness, nerves, emotion, and other X factors throw a wrench into the best optimization schemes. But these God-given realities make life dynamic and interesting. Image-Bearing Glory and Honor As a sports fan, I’ve had other moments similar to watching Team USA’s 2026 hockey victory: Watching my Kansas City Chiefs at Super Bowl LIV (2020) come back from a 10-point deficit in the fourth quarter to win their first championship in 50 years Watching the Kansas Jayhawks overcome a 9-point deficit against Memphis in the 2008 men’s basketball national championship, culminating in Mario Chalmers’s “miracle” 3-point shot to tie the game and send it to overtime It’s interesting how often the word “miracle” is used in dramatic sports moments (or other religious language like “immaculate reception” and “hail mary”). The 1980 USA men’s hockey victory over the Soviet Union was dubbed the “miracle on ice,” revisited recently with an excellent Netflix documentary, Miracle: The Boys of ’80. Why do we feel compelled to assign supernatural language to these events? We know these superstar athletes aren’t actually “gods” but rather breakable, mortal beings like us (albeit with more toned muscles). But maybe as they excel, win races, and break records—despite their human limitations—we see something of the imago Dei on display. We’re not God. We’re limited. But we’re also imbued with God-given dignity, image-bearers who are a little less than angels, and crowned with glory and honor (Ps. 8:5). What resonates with us in life is what defies engineerability. As Olympic athletes stand on the medal podium and have gold, silver, or bronze placed on their necks, perhaps we see echoes of this “crowning with glory and honor.” Humans are profoundly flawed and contingent, yes. But we’re capable of beautiful works and inspiring achievements because of how God wired us, because of the common grace he gives. Perhaps pinnacle athletic achievements also appeal to us eschatologically, as we glimpse ever so faintly the future when our fallen nature and broken bodies will give way to redeemed humanity. Sporting achievements are temporal goods, fleeting “highs” that won’t eternally endure. But they’re still good gifts, with values and virtues that will likely become even more vital as the age of AI unfolds.

It’s the perfect symbol of progress. The United Nations headquarters was built in the aftermath of war and designed—appropriately enough—in the modernist style. Since work began in 1948, it has stood as a symbol for how the world can live as one. The UN charter preamble states, We the peoples of the United Nations determined to save succeeding generations from the scourge of war, which twice in our lifetime has brought untold sorrow to mankind, and to reaffirm faith in fundamental human rights, in the dignity and worth of the human person, in the equal rights of men and women and of nations large and small, and . . . to promote social progress and better standards of life in larger freedom. The UN charter perfectly captures how we feel. The past is dark. The future, we hope, can be better. That idea is baked into modern Western society. You’ve probably heard somebody say “Get with the times,” “That was the Dark Ages,” “They need to update their thinking,” or “Those people are on the wrong side of history.” The progress story is so powerful nowadays that people try to win moral arguments by simply stating the date: “How can anyone believe that in 2026?” In this way, even the most secular people believe in progress religiously. And we say religiously not just because of the force of this belief but because of its source: Progress is a biblical idea. Biblical Vision of Progress Consider a statue you can only see on the UN Headquarters garden tour. Unveiled in 1959, it’s called Let Us Beat Swords into Ploughshares, and it depicts a man beating a tool of violence into a tool of agriculture—moving from death to life. The statue is the perfect encapsulation of everything the UN is about, and it’s a profoundly biblical idea. The image is taken straight out of Isaiah 2:3–4 (NIV, emphasis added): Many peoples will come and say, “Come, let us go up to the mountain of the LORD, to the temple of the God of Jacob. He will teach us his ways, so that we may walk in his paths.” The law will go out from Zion, the word of the LORD from Jerusalem. He will judge between the nations and will settle disputes for many peoples. They will beat their swords into plowshares and their spears into pruning hooks. Nation will not take up sword against nation, nor will they train for war anymore. This is part of the biblical vision for progress, and it begins on page 1 of the Bible: “And there was evening and there was morning, the first day” (Gen. 1:5). God sets everything in a direction, and then he methodically improves things day after day. He even gets humanity to methodically improve things by instructing them to work and keep the garden of Eden and to name its animals. So we go from darkness to light. We go from simple to complex, from water to land, from seed to tree, from animal to man and woman, from nothing to good, to very good. It’s all progressing. Read on in the Bible, and you see it in Israel’s story. First they’re slaves in Egypt and then they’re headed to the promised land (see Ex. 1–15). You later find them in exile, but they’re awaiting the Messiah, and when the Messiah comes, he first suffers and then is glorified. It’s cross and then it’s resurrection. Some cultures think of time as a great circle: Round and round it goes with no progress. Other cultures have a decline narrative: We started with a golden age, but it’s all been downhill since then. But the Bible has an arrow: We’re going onward and upward. One day, God will wipe away all tears (Rev. 21:4), and we’ll beat our swords into plowshares. The UN charter perfectly captures how we feel. The past is dark. The future, we hope, can be better. Progress is profoundly biblical. The drafters of the UN’s Universal Declaration of Human Rights admitted as much in their more candid moments. John Humphrey, the Canadian law professor who first drafted the declaration, wrote in his diary that his intention was “something like the Christian morality without the tommyrot.” “Tommyrot” is a brilliant word. It’s like poppycock or balderdash. Humphrey thinks Christian theology is nonsense. He exemplifies the whole Western project after Christendom—to ditch Christian theology as tommyrot but somehow keep Christian morality. That’s why the UN Declaration can speak of humanity with dignity and hope. These are Christian ideas with their biblical roots hidden. But what happens when you do more than hide the biblical roots of progress? What happens when you cut yourself off from them completely? Downfall of Modern Progress Let’s take a second look at where the Swords into Ploughshares statue came from. It was sculpted by Evgeniy Vuchetich as a gift from the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics, the USSR, to the United Nations in 1959. Communism is one example of severing the progress narrative from its biblical roots, and maybe the shape of the statue you can see in the video or image above is starting to make sense to you now that you know its origin. Here’s a proletarian worker holding a mallet and a plowshare, or in other words, a hammer and a sickle. You don’t have to be an expert in Cold War politics to know trolling when you see it. Khrushchev likely couldn’t believe he pulled this off—a giant statue of a hammer and sickle installed in New York City during the height of the Cold War! Karl Marx, who wrote the Communist Manifesto, was a prophet of progress in the 19th century, but there were all sorts of other prophets of progress. Marx wrote about political progress. Hegel wrote about historical progress. Darwin wrote about biological progress. And Freud wrote about psychological progress. When those secular prophets of progress prophesied, evidence seemed to back up their claims. The Industrial Revolution was taking hold in the West, and there were unprecedented upticks in wealth, health, and life expectancy. Prosperity seemed to be advancing just as the secular prophets had said. But if the 19th century was a century of progress, what were we progressing toward? The 20th century has been called the “murder century.” More people died violently in those hundred years than in every century before. We all believe in progress. The big question is, What kind of progress? Hitler wanted a thousand-year Reich, and the death toll from World War II stretched to millions. In the USSR, the communists killed millions more in their revolution and reign. When the Swords into Ploughshares statue was being unveiled, Chairman Mao was launching his Great Leap Forward in China, an effort in which probably tens of millions died from being either beaten, worked to death, or starved to death in the name of progress. We all believe in progress. The big question is, What kind of progress? Discerning Biblical Progress How do we discern the biblical idea of progress from all the counterfeits? Here are three questions you can ask. 1. What is the standard of progress? When we say things are better now, what do we mean? Things have improved a lot by the standards of economics, technology, and health care. But have human beings improved? Is our moral fiber better? If we were to travel to the past, we might impress an ancient society with our iPhones, but we probably wouldn’t impress them with our moral character. What’s the standard? In Isaiah 2, the standard is clear. It’s the Lord’s ways, his paths, his law, his Word, his light. He is the judge. 2. Who is the bringer of progress? On the statue, they shifted Isaiah’s language from “they” to “us” or “we.” Let us beat our swords into plowshares. We will bring about this brave new world. That’s a big shift. In Isaiah, the focus is on the Lord. He will teach us his ways. The Word of Yahweh will flow out from Jerusalem. He will judge between the nations. According to Isaiah, the Lord, through his Word, is the agent of progress. And that’s actually how history has worked out. Think of the moral changes that have happened over the last 2,000 years—the birth of charities, hospitals, and hospices; education for all; the outlawing of blood sports, infanticide, and child sexual abuse. Think of the whole concept of human dignity, worth, and rights that the UN’s Universal Declaration is founded on. Think of the abolition of the transatlantic slave trade. These have been profoundly biblical movements—Christian movements. The Lord, through his Word and through his Spirit at work in his people, brings progress. 3. What is the way of progress? In 1958, while Vuchetich was working on that statue and Mao was enforcing his Great Leap Forward, Martin Luther King Jr. wrote in a little magazine called The Gospel Messenger. For the first time, he used a line now remembered by millions: “The arc of the moral universe is long, but it bends towards justice.” He got the line from a 19th-century abolitionist, a preacher named Theodore Parker. They both got it from the Bible. Parker and the abolitionists in the 19th century brought God’s Word to bear, and moral progress was made. King and the civil rights movement in the 20th century said the arc of progress wasn’t done. The rights, dignity, and freedom that birthed abolitionism needed to be applied again in King’s day. So he proclaimed biblical truths and the arc continued to bend. But here’s a vital question: Which way does the arc bend? We naturally imagine a rainbow-shaped arc rising up from the earth and soaring into the distance—an up and down trajectory. But that isn’t the biblical arc of progress—that’s a Babel arc. Remember Babel from Genesis 11? They built up a great tower by their own efforts to make a name for themselves, and in the Lord’s judgment, it all came down with a crash. Up then down—that’s the way of the flesh. What’s the biblical way? Down, then up. In Isaiah 2, we see that nonviolence is at the heart of the Lord’s revolution. Swords turned into plowshares. The world brings progress by force, but the Lord brings progress by his Word. What’s it like to lay your weapons down and only use the Word of the Lord? It’s very costly, but King, like many others in the civil rights movement, embraced that way. He embraced the vulnerability of nonviolent, Word-based progress. It cost him his life. But that’s the way—down, then up. That’s the way the Lord brings progress. Though he could’ve called 12 legions of angels, Jesus Christ refused to pick up his sword (Matt. 26:53). Instead, the weapons of violence were used on him, but he rose up to proclaim peace. That’s the way of his revolution, and it leaves all the others in the dust. Jesus Christ refused to pick up his sword. Instead, the weapons of violence were used on him, but he rose up to proclaim peace. When the Swords into Ploughshares statue was unveiled in 1959, Soviet propaganda seemed so cutting-edge, but now it’s the hammer and sickle that are on the wrong side of history. Progress is real, but it’s biblical. There is an arc, and it does bend, but it bends down and then up. It bends toward death then life. It’s cross and then resurrection, and in the end, all nations will see that it’s the Word of God that brings real progress. It’s the Word of God that will prevail.

Jesus died as a ransom for all people.

When someone crushes your creativity, it can feel like they crushed a piece of you. What if the gift they tried to silence is still alive and waiting for God to restore it?

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