"FIRE AND ICE"
- katharinetonti
- Feb 6
- 4 min read
Third in the series of essays on Greek myths.
Back to our regular schedule next week.
02.06.2026
As I mentioned in the last two essays, I’ve been diving deep into Greek mythology lately, and I am embarrassed to admit it took me longer than a minute to connect the dots between the lighting of the Olympic torch and the myth of Prometheus.
For ages, I assumed the torch was simply a nod to Greece—the birthplace of the Olympics—and a symbol of unity and athletic achievement. And yes, I understood the connection between Olympus and the Olympics, but what I missed was the direct line to the myth that inspired it. (I blame whoever scheduled my high school classes for this gap in my education, because I was forced to take PE instead of the elective I wanted: world literature.) But I digress.
It turns out the torch is much more than a ceremonial prop. It is a living connection to Prometheus—a Titan who was a generation older than Zeus and whose daring defiance of a ruler changed the course of human history.
A quick recap:
Once upon a time, gods and humans existed together in a state of relative peace and harmony. Humans were even invited to the lavish dinners hosted by Zeus on Mount Olympus.
One day, Zeus asked Prometheus to prepare a meal for his guests—gods and humans alike. Prometheus, feeling generous toward us mere mortals, decided to play a trick on his almighty host. He wrapped the best cuts of meat in an unappetizing hide and disguised the bones and fat to look like a sumptuous meal. Zeus chose the scraps and left the prime rib for humanity.
When Zeus realized he’d been pranked, he was furious. And in a pattern that repeats throughout Greek mythology, the big guy retaliated—not against the Titan who tricked him, but against the humans who benefited. He took away fire, leaving humanity literally and figuratively in the dark.
Prometheus was compassionate and stubbornly loyal to humankind. He refused to let this injustice stand. He sneaked onto Mount Olympus, stole a spark of divine fire, hid it in a hollow fennel stalk, and delivered it back to the world.
If Zeus wasn’t livid the first time, now he was outraged. Never mind that Prometheus had helped him win a war against the other Titans. Gratitude was never in Zeus’s wheelhouse. And like a maniacal tyrant who spends his sleepless nights dreaming up ways to destroy his enemies, he chained Prometheus to a mountain and sentenced him to a gruesome punishment: every day an eagle would descend to feast on his liver, and every night it would grow back so the agony could start again at sunrise.
The lesson? No good deed goes unpunished.
Now, one might reasonably ask why Zeus didn’t simply finish Prometheus off. Turns out, Prometheus possessed the gift of foresight. He knew a secret about Zeus’s eventual downfall—and he wasn’t about to spill the tea until his ordeal was over.
So, what does any of this have to do with the modern Olympics?
Here’s where I finally connected the dots. (And kudos to those of you who were way ahead of me on this because you got to take electives you wanted while I was hyperventilating my way through 100 jumping jacks.)
The Olympic torch is more than a warm-up act for the opening ceremonies; it is a ritual reenactment of the Prometheus myth. The flame stands for sacrifice. For athletes, it represents years of grueling discipline—the daily “liver-eating” grind required to reach the peak of their sport.
But for the rest of us, the flame carries a broader meaning. It reminds us that real change often requires the courage to challenge the status quo, even when the risks are high.
Today's heroes face dire consequences for trying to make the world better. Like Prometheus, they pay a steep price to light the way for others. And when their own flames are extinguished, we have to ask ourselves: Are we willing to step in and carry the torch for them?
If you ever find yourself in New York City, you can see the personification of this myth at Rockefeller Center. Right by the ice rink stands the shining golden statue of Prometheus, holding the stolen flame high above the crowd. (I like to imagine Zeus will never get it back—make of that what you will.)
Just a half-block away, across from St. Patrick’s Cathedral, stands another figure from the same story: Atlas, Prometheus’s brother, bent beneath the weight of the earth and sky. Together, the two statues feel less like an homage to the Art Deco movement and more like a quiet reminder of the current state of humankind.
Prometheus is the spark—the daring act, the risky idea, the decision to challenge what is comfortable and safe. Atlas is what comes next: the long, exhausting work of carrying that change forward.
Maybe that's the modern meaning of the myth - that inspiration is only the beginning. After the torch is lit, someone still has to shoulder all the burdens that follow.
I'd like to think that somewhere between the courage of one brother and the strength of the other is where we most often find ourselves—learning, day by day, how to carry the torch, while still holding up our own small corner of the sky.
If you're interested in a contemporary retelling of some of the Greek myths, I highly recommend the series, KAOS, on Netflix. (Link to trailer below.) Jeff Goldblum stars as Zeus, and that alone makes it worth watching.
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