The Olympics and Bad Bunny

Early 2026 has already offered us two remarkable spectacles, each capturing our imagination in very different ways.

First came the opening ceremonies of the Milan Cortina 2026 Winter Olympics, rich with Italian pageantry and framed by the theme of Harmony. A world coming together. Distinct nations sharing one stage. The ceremony closed with a call for peace, reminding us that competition does not have to mean division.

That same weekend, the halftime stage of the NFL’s Super Bowl featured Bad Bunny. This year, when Spanish and Caribbean rhythms filled that space, a layered vision of America was presented. Northern and Southern continents together, just as they are symbolized in the Olympic rings. Many peoples together. One shared land.

Each event resonated with some people and not with others. That is natural. Not every symbol speaks to every heart. But beyond approval or critique lies something deeper. Both events were evoking a similar human hunger.

The Olympic Games are more than athletic contests. The Olympic rings symbolize the five inhabited continents linked together. The opening ceremony becomes a kind of civic liturgy. Nations process. Flags are lifted. Music swells. The world partakes.

The Super Bowl halftime show functions in a similar way. Over the years it has transitioned from musical entertainment to a curated, high-stakes spectacle that acts as a mirror for societal, political and cultural conversations.

It is not surprising that each of these events stirs strong emotions. Both are more than performances. They are stories about identity. Mythic in nature, they explore fundamental questions about existence. They help us grasp who we believe we are and give shape to our deepest hopes.

Both the opening ceremonies and the NFL halftime performance resonated for many because they touched on something already alive within each of us. We long for a world where diversity does not divide, where strength and vulnerability can coexist, where belonging does not require surrendering who we are. That longing is not accidental. It is how we were created.

For Catholics, the language of difference is written into our DNA. The Church’s very name means universal. The symbolism of the Body of Christ describes how, though many, we remain one body. We understand that unity does not mean uniformity. Nor does harmony demand the silencing of distinct voices. We appreciate that communion is far richer than sameness.

It will take more than a stage to build the Kingdom of God, and lasting peace will not come through choreography or applause. And yet, whenever humanity gathers to enact a ritual of belonging such as these, we catch a glimpse of something written deep within us. We long to be one family. We long to live without hostility. We long for peace that does not erase difference. These cultural rituals are not the fulfillment of that longing, but they can help name it for us.

They remind us that beneath politics, beneath preferences, beneath cultural debates, there remains a shared human hunger. A desire to belong. A hope that we can live together without fear. A belief that we still have it in us to be better and do better tomorrow than we are doing today.

When we see the nations gather, or when we watch difference celebrated rather than silenced, we are hearing an echo.

An echo of Pentecost.

An echo of communion.

An echo of the unity for which we were created.

And perhaps that is why such moments feel so large. They remind us of who we hope to be.