Why Brushing Your Teeth Can Be a Holy Act

If you watched the recent Milano Cortina Olympics, you might have noticed a new event or two. Skimo, short for ski mountaineering, made its debut this year. It’s a sprint on skis with about 230 feet in vertical climbing. There’s a point in the race where athletes remove their skis, stow them correctly in their backpacks, and hustle up a set of steep stairs. Skis are slipped on again for the downhill portion of the race after the skins are removed.

Freestyle skiing isn’t all that new to the Olympics, but it keeps expanding with new components: aerials, ski cross, halfpipe/slopestyle, and big air. It’s full of twists and turns and rotations, with the option to take off or land backward.

And then there’s an event called skeleton, which is one of the oldest Olympic events, but this year for the first time, “mixed team” was added to the line-up. It’s basically riding a thin, skeleton-shaped sled—head-first and face-down just inches from the ice—reaching speeds of up to 90+ mph.

While watching the winter game highlights, I was also re-reading Liturgy of the Ordinary by Tish Harrison Warren.

In a chapter titled “Brushing Teeth,” Warren wrote:

“These teeth I’m brushing, this body I’m bathing, these nails I’m clipping were made by a loving Creator who does not reject the human body. Instead he declared us—holistically—‘very good.’”

I suppose the author could have added to the list: “This body I’m throwing on a sled hurtling 90 mph downhill.”  

According to Psalm 139, God knit you together in your mother’s womb. He knew the bodily gifts and abilities and limitations you would have. He knew, for example, that I would never be an Olympic athlete. Not even close.

Jesus experienced life on earth in a physical body:

“In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God.  … The Word became flesh and made his dwelling among us.” – John 1:1, 14

Jesus laughed and cried. He ate food, and walked dusty roads. He bathed in water. His body knew joy, and exhaustion, and sorrow.

Our bodies are part of who we are, and God intended for us to enjoy life in these earthen vessels. For me, the enjoyment includes road trips with my husband, listening to music, the deliciousness of a chai latte, reading, conversation on a bench overlooking the river, petting a dog, trekking through the mountains in hiking boots or snowshoes, writing, baking in our kitchen, the aroma of Dutch apple pie hot out of the oven, gift-making, watching the squirrels in our backyard chase each other. And much, much more.

I love this word picture that Tish Harrison Warren included in her book:

“When we denigrate our bodies—whether through neglect or staring at our faces and counting up our flaws—we are belittling a sacred site, a worship space more wondrous than the most glorious, ancient cathedral. We are standing before the Grand Canyon or the Sistine Chapel and rolling our eyes.”

Wow. Never thought of it like that. I’ve stood before a mirror and counted up my flaws, not fully grasping that it was a form of complaint for how God fashioned me, not realizing that I was, in essence, rolling my eyes at something my Creator made.

Tish Harrison Warren closed her teeth-brushing chapter with these words:

“When we use our bodies for their intended purpose—in gathered worship, raising our hands or singing or kneeling, or, in our average day, sleeping or savoring a meal or hiking … or nursing a baby or digging a garden—it is glorious, as glorious as a great cathedral being used just as its architect had dreamt it would be.”

I believe that if our Creator made us with the muscles and speed and endurance, and with the focus and mental toughness to be an Olympic athlete, then doing what we were created to do brings the Artist, the Creator, the Architect good pleasure and great joy.

It can also bring us sweet joy—doing what God created us to do with the body he gave us. Cooking a meal, teaching a child to read, picking flowers, playing the piano, roller skating with grandchildren, planting a garden, painting a picture, parenting a special needs child, mowing the lawn, reading in the sunshine, running a marathon—these can all be holy acts.

I’ll never know what it feels like to stand on an Olympic awards podium. But I’ve seen the tears, and the lifted-off-the-ground hugs, and the exhilaration of a proclaimed winner. It’s the reward for the long hours and months and years of discipline, of using their bodies in an all-out bid for excellence.

Whether brushing our teeth, planting flowers, or competing in skimo or the skeleton, we have the opportunity to participate in a holy act.