The joy of fitness is finding out what you can do with it.
Despite my yoga, powerlifting, boxing and cardio classes I can’t hold a candle
to a ten year old gymnast. What I can do, is bounce for an hour and be smirk
and chortle entertaining. Especially when recorded on slow-mo video. I’m terribly
hilarious. As it turns out I lack the natural grace essential to gymnastics.
Or, as I like to remind myself, I have not practiced anything gymnastic like since
college. Which isn’t saying much. I think I got pommeled by a horse once or
twice. I may never be a tenth of the gymnast my mother was, or half as good as
a ten year old, but that doesn’t have to spoil the joy of trying unfamiliar
things. Except when you replay how bad you look in slow-mo, because even you
are trying to figure out what you were thinking.
The unfortunate thing about looking at video of yourself, is
looking at video of yourself. Not only are you aware of the embarrassing things
you’ve attempted, but you also notice your body shape. Even though I workout
often, my body is still not the shape I want it to be. It has the function I
want it to have: the ability to try anything for an hour, but shape is still
elusive. Looking at a video of my own physical activity I notice the things I
thought were bigger, but are small; the bigger things I want smaller; how
ridiculous my hair looks and I wonder why I wasn’t wearing shorts. Oh yeah,
spur of the moment. The video was an ample reminder that there’s no such thing
as perfection. I might be really good at other things, but I will never be
great at everything. And my friend has the video evidence J
Fast forward to my next workout. Having seen the ‘imbalances’
of my body, I set about to correct them, while at the same time not giving up
the functionality I desire. My typical Monday involves boxing plus other
exercises. Boxing is at least something I am good at. There’s a sense of pride
knowing you can do something well. After boxing, and a session of pride
building, I set about to work on those ‘other’ things. I’ve decided the best bang
for my buck is Tabata intervals: six to eight sets of twenty seconds on, ten
seconds off. Knowing I’m weak in the areas I’m about to practice, I pick six
sets, but have high hopes. I’m going to do one full set of pull-ups, then
push-ups and bench dips.
The best space to do this at my gym is the free standing
power lifting cages. The space isn’t too large, but it’s a favorite of the
trainers at my gym; they train all kinds of clients in this space. This morning
a trainer is training two female clients in the area. Because of spacing
issues, I’ll have to be near one of them. About a meter and a half away. Which
is close, but not too close. I set my timer on the ground, press go and start
doing pull-ups. My shirt comes up. Apparently it’s not long enough to touch my
shorts when I raise my arms over my head. Should have thought about that when I
got dressed this morning. Clothing Fail. At least I can do the exercise well. Or
maybe not. Turns out pull-up Tabata intervals are really good at making you not
able to do pull-ups. By the fourth set I could only do one pull-up, then had to
hang there for another ten plus seconds until the timer ran out. Exercise Fail.
Did I mention the girl across from me is doing squats AND she’s facing me? Spacing
Fail. Yep, that’s a sight you want to see. A guy struggling to do pull-ups,
directly in front of you, while you’re trying to do squats AND his shirt doesn’t
completely cover his lower abdominals. Awkward. SO awkward. At least they knew
I could box well.
The push-ups weren’t as traumatizing, but they weren’t
pretty. Yet again I discovered the humility of Tabata intervals. You start out
strong, but by the end of your repetitions you’re tired, sweaty and struggling.
And doing push-ups on your knees. Which is in no way considered manly. I think
there’s an unwritten man rule about knee push-ups, a rule I break when I have
to but don’t enjoy doing so. Kneeling during push-ups is a confession of
weakness, but as I remind myself, it’s a sign of strength. You do what you can
do, then you humble yourself, pushing your muscles to grow. Dips were a similar
story: started out easy, ended up hard. There’s nothing fun about struggling in
a basic body weight exercise, the only reward is the knowledge the next time
you try you will be stronger. That’s the power of humility. Growing in strength
by pressing forward through weakness.
Tabata intervals are an exercise in humility; you simply go
until you can’t. They aren’t flashy. They are frustrating. But it’s worth it. I
will gladly do these exercises again, hopefully without placing myself in a
potentially socially embarrassing situation. I say potentially embarrassing,
because even though I was mortified, something odd happened. The trainer’s two
female trainees, neither of which was in peak physical condition, actually
seemed encouraged. Instead of being creeped out. Like watching me struggle to
complete basic exercises empowered them. Like watching someone else struggle
validates your own struggling and somehow makes it easier.
When I think of the spiritual life, humility is the workout
that’s done only for the benefits: not because it looks cool, is easy to do, or
helps you gain social standing. Humility lowers our pride, reminding us that the
basics of life are hard. Humility gets us back to the basics. To the things
that are essential, but often overlooked.
The foundation of the Christian spiritual path, is Jesus.
What I find incredible about Jesus? He was humble AND he was a spiritual
leader. There are too many spiritual leaders in the word today who lack
humility. Leaders who would not submit themselves to being photographed or
videoed when they don’t look their best. Who try too hard to cover up any signs
of weakness, instead of embracing humility and its surprising ability to
empower and encourage.
What image of Jesus am I referring to? You can read the
short narrative in Matthew chapter 26, from verse 36 through verse 44. It’s a
stark contrast to the images of power we see today. It’s an image of humility.
In this story Jesus says to his disciples, “My soul is
overwhelmed with sorrow to the point of death. Stay here and keep watch with
me.” Jesus, who is God incarnate, asks his disciples to help him during his distress.
Jesus asks for help. He asks his friends to support him. He doesn’t call for
angels. He doesn’t call for the heroes of the faith. He asks a few men to be
with him during his hour of need.
Going a little farther away from them, he falls with his face
to the ground. He prays, “My Father, if it is possible, may this cup be taken
from me. Yet not as I will, but as you will.” This cup he’s referring to is his
crucifixion. It’s not out of pride that Jesus is willing to endure being nailed
to a cross and mocked until he dies. It’s humility. He’s willing to go that far
to do God’s will. He asks, if possible, that he doesn’t have to do it. Jesus is
overwhelmed with sorrow to the point of death because he knows how hard it will
be. It means being separated from his Father. He’s afraid of not being able to
see his Father’s face. For he knows that when he hangs on the cross for our
sins, God will turn away from him. He’s willing to endure separation, because
he’s willing to do his Father’s will, not his own. Even though he deeply loves
the Father, calling him ‘my Father’ he’s willing to be separated.
Jesus returns from his prayers to check his disciples. Not
the other way around. He finds them sleeping. He asks Peter, “Could you not
watch with me for one hour? Watch and pray so that you will not fall into
temptation. The spirit is willing, but the body is weak.” Jesus returns and
prays again. “My Father, if it is not possible for this cup to be taken away
unless I drink it, may your will be done.” He’s accepting what is about to
come, even though it’s deeply troubled his soul. It’s touched him at his very
core. It has shaken him to the point of falling on his face, asking his friends
to lookout for him, crying out to God if there are any other options. There are
none.
Jesus comes back to his disciples a second time. Finding
them sleeping, because their eyes are heavy, he leaves them again to pray. He
lets them rest; his human help has failed him. For the third time, Jesus cries
out to God for the same thing: take the cup, but not my will, yours. He does
this for the third time, showing how desperate he is and that there is no other
way. He totally is troubled in his soul and totally devoted to following his
Father’s will. When Jesus goes to the cross their will be no grand
pronouncements. No final theological dialogues. Just death and separation from
the Father.
Christians do not worship Jesus because he died a
humiliating death, but because he rose again. That Jesus chose to die on the
cross is a sign of his humility. That he knew how hard it was going to be, and
did it anyway. That he went to the cross, and suffered, and died alone. This is
depth of his humility. Even if we only think of Jesus as a great thinker, he
didn’t deserve that kind of death.
Jesus’s humility shows four things: the depth of his
emotion, his request for friends’ help, his plea to God, and his commitment to
do his Father’s will. I put my faith in Jesus because he understands push-ups
on the knees admissions of weakness. He doesn’t look down on me because I am
weak, he encourages me by his example. He doesn’t exalt himself because he’s
the son of God; instead he lifts me up, giving me strength to continue, even
though I embarrass myself while attempting to grow. Through Jesus, I do not
give up. I press onwards. Straining towards what is yet seen, sure of the hope
that is to come. My hope is built on Jesus, that through him and by him I have
life. This makes me smile, and encourages me to continue. I hope it does the
same for you.
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