A few Sundays ago, I found myself talking to a friend at church who happens to be in seminary. She told me about her current assignment: write a funeral sermon for someone you know. It was an unusual but valuable task. How do you distill what truly mattered about a person’s life into a handful of pages? How do you convey hope in grief, rebirth in death, all in maybe twenty minutes? She told me a little of what she was writing about, but the concept stuck with me. After service was over, I went home to continue with my day. I was enjoying a late lunch when a notification popped up on my phone. It was just a handful of words, but they stopped everything I was doing.
Kobe Bryant. Dead. Helicopter crash.
I audibly shouted, “NO!” to my empty room, perhaps the first time I have ever reacted so instinctually in a situation like this. I couldn’t believe it. It had to be a mistake; this was Kobe Bryant we were talking about. He had just retired a few years ago. He was still living his life. But the headlines refused to change. No matter which agency was reporting, they all said the same thing. Kobe was gone.
Kobe and I
I am not a Los Angeles Lakers fan. I never have been. For well over a decade, I’ve supported the Silver and Black, the Most Boring Team in the NBA, the San Antonio Spurs. And when you think about the Spurs dynasty through the 2000s into the 2010s, there was one team that constantly threw a wrench into our works: the Lakers. They are the only team in the league with a winning record against the Spurs, and that is largely thanks to the efforts of Kobe Bryant. As a Spurs fan, I had nothing but begrudging respect for the man. Begrudging because he added an order of magnitude of difficulty to our playoff runs, respect because of his fierce work ethic and immense talent on the court.
I remember him taking down my Spurs in the 2008 Western Conference Finals, squaring off against the greatest Big Three of all time: Tim, Tony, and Manu. I remember when he announced his retirement and the ensuing farewell tour. I remember him dropping 60 points, in typical Kobe fashion, during his final match of that season.
After he retired, the league was different. Tim Duncan retired at the end of that season as well, completely changing the landscape of two of the biggest teams in the West. Some things didn’t change, though. Every time I hurled a muffin wrapper, wadded up piece of paper, or empty cup at a distant trash can, I did so with a cry of “Kobe!”
January 26, 2020
The day Kobe died, the emotion that dominated everyone’s reaction was shock. The world reacted in pain. I was sitting in my room, grieving the death of a man I never knew. Dozens of basketball players began tweeting and the sentiment was the same everywhere: this can’t be true. The news continued to pour in and it just got worse. Kobe’s daughter was on board along with 7 others who all perished in the wreck.
The tributes began pouring in immediately. I didn’t buy a wreath or travel to mourn outside a stadium, although many did. Hundreds gathered outside the Staples Center to remember the man who dazzled that arena night after night. Games were still scheduled across the league that couldn’t be canceled, although rumors floated that the possibility hung in the air. Teams alternated the first possessions of the game by taking backcourt violations (8 seconds) and shot clock violations (24 seconds) in a fitting memorial to Kobe’s two numbers. It didn’t matter which teams were playing, stadiums were filled with yellow jerseys and fans chanting, “Kobe! Kobe!” Players openly wept on court.
I received a voicemail that evening from a number I didn’t know. The voice sounded like a young child calling an older family member. The audio was fuzzy and broken; I was about to delete it until I heard a few words. His daughter, the one who played basketball…helicopter crash…on their way to a game. For a brief moment, I was connected with a stranger, bonding over a loss that neither of us were attached to directly but were both deeply feeling the effects of.
My favorite tribute, though, was outside the Lakers’ arena in Los Angeles. It was a small, ordinary trashcan set up in the plaza. To the outside was taped a sheet of paper that read: “#SayKobe. You know what to do.” Soon, the basket was overflowing with wads of paper, each one launched with Bryant’s name passing over the lips of the shooter.
Once Upon a Time
Long, long ago, in a land far, far away, lived a man. One day, he stood on a street corner, preaching the gospel. Another man, just passing by, heard the man. He listened to what the preacher was saying, encountered Jesus for the first time, and became a Christian. This man’s life completely changed. Not because he had won a lottery or earned his dream job, but because he had met the Savior. He eventually got married and raised a family. He served in his church without fail. But every time he told the story of his experience meeting Jesus, he did so with tears in his eyes. He knew he had received the most precious gift in the world from an absolute stranger.
I know this story because I’ve heard my mother tell it a million times. She tells it because it’s the story of her father. My grandfather became a Christian because he heard the gospel being preached on a random street corner in one of the largest cities in India. In that moment, the entire trajectory of his life changed. The reason my mother became a follower of Jesus is because she saw it modeled by both of her parents. The reason I made the same choice is because I saw the same example from both of my parents. So much of my life is shaped by the fact that one man on the opposite side of the planet spoke about the greatest news the world could ever hear.
Legacy
Quick, how many rings did Kobe earn with the Lakers? How many Finals MVPs? What was his free throw percentage? How many assists did he average in a season? In the days following Kobe’s death, no one cared. No one mentioned stats or accolades. Teammates talked about the time that he took their Kobe-branded sneakers after a loss because he believed they didn’t play hard enough. Players shared how Bryant learned to trash-talk them in their native tongue, whether it was Slovenian or French or Italian or Serbian. Overwhelmingly, people pointed to the love he had for his family. A picture of Kobe sitting courtside with his daughter, Gianna, became the image that defined him. Not the pictures of him raising the Larry O’Brien Championship Trophy or accepting an Oscar, but one of him laughing alongside his daughter.
That Sunday evening, my roommate and I talked about Kobe’s death and more broadly, about what legacy meant. What would either of us be remembered for? What would we want to be remembered for? It was a question that forced me to pause.
In the days following Kobe’s death, I got to glimpse just how powerful his life had been. Runners and swimmers alike were mourning. One friend wore his pair of Kobes for the week in memoriam. Another has been wearing a Lakers ball cap for over two weeks. In their own unique ways, people have been publicly demonstrating their respect for this remarkable man.
I began thinking through all the things I am passionate about or good at. I’ve talked about some of those things on this blog before: cubing and cooking and cast iron skillets come to mind. But I don’t want any of those things on my gravestone. At the end of all days, here’s what I want people to remember.
- I want to be known as someone who loved. I want every person I speak with to leave the encounter knowing that they talked with someone who cared. I want to be known as someone who engaged with the deepest parts of a person’s heart, with the things that truly mattered.
- I want to be remembered as someone who finished well. I don’t want people to point to a long list of accomplishments but to a fundamental, lifelong character trait. I want people to know that I was faithful in the little things and the big things until the very end.
- I want to be defined by my friendship with God. I want it to color every aspect of my existence. I want to live like the Creator knows me. And in the same breath, I want to be marked by my unquestioning obedience to my God.
It’s one thing to say “This I would most want to be known for.” It’s an entirely different matter to live it out. I read an interesting observation once: People celebrate when someone made a small, consistent effort twenty years ago that resulted in a payoff today; no one thinks they can make a small, consistent change today that will bear fruit in twenty years.
Remember the man on the street corner? The one who preached the gospel and led my grandfather to Jesus? We don’t know who he was, not even his name. Like I said before, he was a complete stranger. Does he know the fruits of labor? Does he know that because of his faithfulness, Jesus has been passed down through three generations of my family? Does he know that people 9,000 miles away have been directly impacted because of the message he preached? Maybe. Maybe not. I don’t know if he’s even still alive. What I do know is that his obedience over sixty years ago has shaped my life.
This is the life I want to live. I don’t care if my name is ever remembered, but if it is, I want it to be known for more than a career or a hobby. If people think of me a century after I’m gone, let it be because they saw Jesus. I want the pages of my life today to write the greatest funeral sermon ever written.