Live Like Steve Irwin

By John Coleman

Editor's Note: A public memorial service for Steve Irwin is expected to be held Sept. 19 or 20 in Brisbane, Australia. The proposed venue, a sports stadium, seats 52,000 people. Irwin died September 4 after a stingray barb pierced his chest while filming off the Great Barrier Reef.

My first encounter with Steve Irwin was midway through high school. A good friend, Will Wagner, came to basketball practice raving about a revolutionary new show he'd seen on the Discovery Channel called The Crocodile Hunter. And after his synopsis—a crazy Australian guy in khakis confronts giant man-eating reptiles with lawnmowers and smiles—I was compelled to watch. My dad and I camped out in front of the TV to catch Irwin's act the following week, and The Crocodile Hunter soon became a staple of our television diet.

That's why (and this sounds stupid, I know), it was really sad for me to hear that last week, Irwin died swimming with stingrays off the coast of Australia. To be honest, I hadn't watched The Crocodile Hunter in years. But my memories of the show are incredibly happy—my dad, brothers, and I laughing together and longing for Irwin's freedom, joy, and enthusiasm, while sympathizing with his love of the outdoors. My memories of Irwin were extremely positive (despite his infamous lack of judgment in feeding a crocodile while holding his young son). He was a goofy guy who loved his life and everything around him. Apparently the same onscreen and off, he was a man of such unbridled passion that it simply spilled out into the world he cared for in a ridiculous, giggle-inspiring way. And we (people all over the world) grew to love him for it.

In Australia last week, thousands of mourners—many of them school children—left monuments to Steve. They ranged from flowers to crayon-drawn notes to khaki shirts on hangers. News outlets from CNN to The New York Times have been clogged with memories of Steve and the details of his death. And on the Discovery Channel Web site, forums to share in the mourning have experienced severe server delays, while special funds to commemorate Steve's life and work overflow with donations. Viewers from Singapore to the UK have poured in to the site to share their sadness and disbelief. They call him a hero. They recommend a national holiday in honor of conservation to commemorate his life. And many, so many, of these people share the same sentiment: Something beautiful and pure has passed from this world. In a time of division, paranoia, and pessimism, a monument to joy and simplicity—one of ours—has passed away.

That is what passion, real passion, does to people. It convicts them. It inspires them. It moves them in unbelievable ways. Steve Irwin was a diesel mechanic from Australia who found his calling chasing animals and pushing a positive message of conservation to the world around him. He had almost nothing in common with the men and women we traditionally consider heroes—Martin Luther King, Jr., Winston Churchill, Nelson Mandela, or Joan of Arc. But, he shared with them an unbridled zeal for his life's purpose. And while his cause was not as heart-wrenching, urgent, or important as the civil rights movement or apartheid, his conviction and his passion made it mean something to many of us.

What if we all lived life in that way? Stupid. Unconcerned with how we look to others. Totally dedicated to something outside of ourselves. Above the pain and detachment around us and able to stand strong against it because we have found joy—real joy—in something we love. Have you ever felt that way about a person? About God? About a cause? Have you ever wanted to totally let go of everything else to pursue it? Have you ever found a love so deep it sent chills through your body and tingled every nerve ending from your feet to your hands?

And feeling that love or conviction, have you ever pushed it away? Have you ever doubted it? Have you ever convinced yourself it wasn't so pure or important? Or worse yet, you were not pure or important enough to pursue it? Have you ever feared losing control so much that you were willing to sacrifice passion on the altar of fear and uncertainty; and, in doing so, have you sabotaged a relationship, a job, a purpose, or a calling because you lacked (or feared) the passion to pursue it?

I know I have. That's why I watched Steve Irwin, and a part of me connected with him. That's why, even as I go through my daily routines I read longingly the speeches of William Lloyd Garrison and Abraham Lincoln and cry like a baby at cheesy movies where the too-good hero struggles through some adversity with a narrow focus on some unquestionably noble purpose. That's why I'm captivated by the story of a God who must pursue (even through death) the creation that is the desire of His heart. And that's why it's often only in retrospect I can truly see or appreciate the things and people I care for most.

It's easy to be punctual, honest, and moderate. It is easy to practice cleanliness (as Ben Franklin would recommend). But passion is a virtue so all-consuming it frightens us. And it is so demanding (and freeing) that most of us only experience passion in its truest form through others or for brief moments in time. And that's why passion, to be sustained, must have a twin: perseverance.

When I was in middle school, we lived in a quiet suburban neighborhood in Columbus, Georgia. Every day, my mom and I would drive by a small house at the corner of the neighborhood. Apparently, the old man who lived there had at some point suffered a stroke, because at the same time every day, you could find him slowly walking up and down his driveway, trying to keep his frail and beaten body moving and alive. He made progress over time. When he started, he had a walker. My last memories of that elderly gentleman were of him standing free of the walker, inching along the concrete with dedication and purpose. And though I never knew his name, I remember him by what my mother called him with tears in her eyes every week for years: "My inspiration."

God, give me the strength to be like that. My mom's "inspiration" could have given up when his body started going downhill. He was always alone in his driveway, so I don't think he had anyone to care for. He knew he would never really recover, and he didn't care. There was something he loved about this life. There was some passion in him that so stirred his soul that he decided to persist—to fight—through anything and everything. I assume he simply could not bear to abandon whatever it was he found beautiful in this world. So, he hung onto it a little longer, and made it a slightly brighter and more hopeful place for a pudgy kid and middle-aged housewife (and how many others?) who passed by every day and found some comfort in his strength.

Passion without persistence can be an emotion, a whim. But passion hardened by troubles and criticism and pockmarked by the wrinkles of time is one of the most beautiful human qualities imaginable. And, like a virus, it spreads into the hearts and minds of those even briefly exposed to it. Even at a distance—when they have done everything in their power to resist—passion is inescapable.

Luke 23:46-47 records the following of Christ's death:

"And Jesus, crying out with a loud voice, said, 'Father, into Your hands I commit My spirit.' Having said this, He breathed His last. Now when the centurion saw what had happened, he began praising God, saying, 'Certainly this man was innocent.'"

The power of Christ's life and death are tied up in the passion He had for those He came to save. It's exemplified in the perseverance He showed in pushing towards that end—past the questions of Gethsemane, the temptations of His time in the wilderness, and the pain of His death on the cross. In a world plagued by selfishness, faithlessness, and uncertainty, He brought the kind of focused, driven love that holds an irresistible sway over the human heart. It was enough to change the lives of his executioners and, more broadly, the very nature of mankind's walk with God.

Ten years from now—or even ten days from now—I won't think of Steve Irwin very often, just as I rarely remember my neighbor treading his driveway. But even when memories of people like these evade me, there is some indelible mark all passionate people—teachers, poets, parents, strangers, friends—have left on my soul. I can't rid myself of it, even when I want to. Their passions infected me. And, in some small way, I have learned from them.

Now the question I have to ask is this: What would the world look like if I, as a Christian, learned to incorporate the passion of Christ into my relationships with people and a steady perseverance into my walk with God? Chances are, my life and the lives of those around me would never be the same.