Back in the day, before we had kids, when we were wild (j/k!) and free and our jobs only tamed us from seven to five, we watched gobs of TV. This seemed an obvious, choice hobby, considering that early on in our marriage we were scrambling to pay the rent. Long days of college classes were eclipsed by various entry level careers–carpentry and warehouse duties (him), temp agency work and kitchen management (me). Before we hardly knew it, we were grownups and trying very hard to earn the title. Both of us were fairly unschooled in the realm of pop culture, thanks to a sheltered youth. We had little in common, but we were untethered, free to explore. Unlimited television–well, at least what the three local channels had to offer–was surely a mark of maturity, no?
Hindsight, as they say, is twenty-twenty. We should’ve been exploring the world, volunteering, tasting exotic food, pushing our physical limits, bonding over co-adventures. All those “quality time” moments that seem wasted fifteen years later, when wrinkles and bad backs settle in. However, we were your average poor twenty-somethings, and it was the awe-inspiring decade of reality TV. We were regular fans of Survivor, American Idol, The Amazing Race, The Apprentice. Around 8 o’clock, slothdom-guilt and self-loathing would kick in and I’d go for a jog around the neighborhood–strenuous enough to break a sweat, easy enough to keep an eye on my watch…I’d be home in time to watch Rock Star: INXS at 9pm.
My hands-down favorite was the tear-jerking Biggest Loser. We would pile ice cream in our cereal bowls and watch as contestants tried to resist temptation as they spent five minutes in a room filled with cupcakes.
Watching the transformation of folks who used to hide in their cars, shame-eating fast food out of greasy paper bags, into hard-bodied athletes was astounding. It was inspiring. Their selfie videos, where they confessed all sorts of feelings to a greater American audience (to the tune of ten million) viewers, pulled heartstrings. One woman had lost her entire family in a car accident. Talk about overcoming adversity. Let them have Ranch on their salad! I’d inwardly scream. Let them call their mom on the phone!
I (secretly) wept for them as I stretched out my hamstrings post-run on the floor where Joe couldn’t see me.
At the end of each episode, barefoot contestants weighed in on an oversized scale, the number above their head flicking like a slot machine, building suspense. As the number slowly came to rest–hopefully smaller than last week’s–the screen would split and a before photo would appear on the left, juxtaposed with the newest version of the “loser”. Our celebrities of the hour were shrinking before our eyes.
Amazing, that’s what it was. An undeniable transformation we could all see. It made anything seem possible, even if it was a slightly harsh, extreme way to induce weight loss. The pictures don’t lie.
At the time, I happened to be working as a personal trainer, acquiring clients with wishlists. “I want to lose weight,” they’d explain, but as I got to know them better, I realized what they truly wanted, and lacked: motivation. It was frustrating to design individualized workouts for people who ignored them and then showed up the following Monday, joking how they “fell off the wagon.” They were stymied by the convenience of the world around them, the Burger King on the way to the gym, the couch in front of the TV. I was limited in succeeding, and so were they, because ultimately I wasn’t cut out to be their motivator. I offered reason and proven theories of cause-and-effect, but I wouldn’t stand above them on the treadmill and scream like Bob or Jillian. They could always choose to ignore my instruction. Plus, I had my own hurdles to jump. I was 22 years old and in no position to play the wise elder.
It bears resemblance to just about everything else in life, doesn’t it? Aren’t we always looking for some spectacular before and after pictures, somebody to notice that we are changing for the better? That we aren’t stagnant or forgettable, but wholly capable of newness?
What, exactly, does it take to become a massively improved version of my former self?
Who can I turn to? Who can help me train my eyes on the prize?
It’s evident we are all yearning for a transformation. Look around and you can see it: identity is everything. It is doubt or security. Chains or freedom. When you are young and inexperienced, or old and foolish (having lived a bitter life with a clenched jaw and unrequited desires), you think identity is something that can be determined on your ability to muscle it to the ground and stick a nametag on it. If we are naturally strong, beautiful, confident–well, bonus points for already having skin in the game. In our culture today, there’s a constant yammering to find our identity, to not conform to any one size, gender, race, religion. We are now applauded if we howl at the gallery for acceptance. We are encouraged to expose and berate folks that don’t agree with our current obsession. If we demand to be accepted, maybe we can supercede the urge to be transformed.
But this is contrary to our very nature, and in the end doesn’t leave us looking much different than our “before” pictures. It just changes the angle at which the photo was taken. We’re still mired in our old self, our old ways. Our deepest desire (if we dare take a peek) is to transform.
Jesus knew this when He walked the earth. The Bible describes us as sick people in need of a Physician. In fact, we were dead.
As for you, you were dead in your trespasses and sins, in which you used to walk when you conformed to the ways of this world…
Ephesians 2:1
Do you understand this? We were dead. Without a heartbeat. Expired. Not alive.
We all lived like this, the Bible says, “gratifying the cravings of our flesh and following its desires and thoughts.” (Eph. 2:3) We thought we were living, but we weren’t.
But because of His great love for us, God, who is rich in mercy, made us alive with Christ, even when we were dead in our trespasses.
Ephesians 2:4-5
God removes a stone organ from our chest and replaces it with pulsing, beating heart of flesh. The real picture is transforming from death into life, a gift offered because of His great love for us. Not moving the sin stain around or reinventing ourselves, slapping lipstick on the proverbial pig. The fact is, we can’t raise ourselves to life. No, only a heart surgeon can perform such a transformative operation. Only God can. Nothing but the blood of Jesus can.
I wish I could say I just turned off the television and started living life, but it has taken me a lot longer than I’d like to admit to living as my “new” self. I was so comfortable in that fat suit of mine, lugging around pride, bitterness, laziness, blame, and secret desires. I didn’t know that if I just let that life burn to the ground I could really start living. There is a word Christians like to toss around–sanctification–the idea of being made, over time, more and more into the image of Christ. It took, for me, a husband vastly different from me to realize I had nothing to offer my marriage. He would just have to take me as I am. It took a bunch of crazy kids to wear my pride down, to make it obvious I couldn’t possibly blaze a perfect path for them. It took the discomfort of feeling alone with nobody but Jesus as my friend to realize He is what makes a heart truly beat for life. He quieted my anxieties and let me pile the burdens high on His shoulders so I didn’t have to carry them anymore.
He is still pointing me around unknown corners, leading me through that abundant life where His kingdom is here on earth like it is in Heaven.
I didn’t know it before, that there was nothing to fear.
When you see a Christian, you should see a person who is alive.
Friend, if you know Jesus–are you walking around in your newness, or are you still taking photos of that old self, switching the lights off and on, trying to get the best angle?
Friends who don’t know Jesus, what is stopping you from transformation? I promise it’s worth it.
