Scoring a perfect 10

When I was a seventh-grader at North Arvada Junior High, I watched the custodian help the gym teacher assemble several pieces of some rather odd-looking equipment one day.

It was gymnastic equipment, I was told -- the pommel horse, the balance beam and my personal favorite, the uneven bars. Apparently, the school district transported the equipment from school to school throughout the year and it was finally our turn.

I am not athletic. I used to squeeze my eyes shut as soon as I brought the bat up, ready to swing. My brief infatuation with tennis ended as soon as I saw a video of my attempt to play. High jump, long jump, even a simple foot race were all beyond my level of competence. And forget climbing rope. I don't willingly take both feet off the ground simultaneously unless I'm seated or sleeping. Surrounded by my peers, who made it all look easy, I was the one with a handful of white "participant" ribbons and I was the always the last one picked for team sports.

Nevertheless, I was fascinated by those uneven bars. The other girls, who apparently had been exposed to gymnastics in elementary school, squealed with joy to see the equipment in place and needed little coaching to complete the required routine to pass the course. I watched in awestruck wonder.

Physique did not seem to matter. Tall girls, short girls, skinny girls, even chubby little Ember, all mastered the routine almost immediately. I watched each girl carefully, trying to memorize their movements, trying to estimate the amount of force needed to flip around the lower bar and then grab the upper bar. Twisting, turning, swinging, even doing the splits mid-routine, it was all beyond me.

To their credit, my classmates never tired of demonstrating the routine and when I mounted the bars to make yet another attempt, they offered unflagging encouragement. Largely due to their efforts, I did finally complete the routine. Once. When the teacher wasn't looking.

It scarcely mattered. I was exhilarated. I did it! For one brief moment, grace visited me on those bars and I've never forgotten the sheer joy of that accomplishment. Even so, the experience taught me early on not to lust after Olympic gold.

Through the course of my life, I have more than made up for my lack of athletic prowess by excelling at mental gymnastics.

I started small. Most mental gymnasts do. Like tumbling on the stiff blue mat in elementary school, my first mental gymnastic routine probably involved a "little white lie" to keep myself out of trouble. I suppose the clinical term for mental gymnastics would be "self-justification."

I quickly discovered my latent talent and have executed some pretty amazing feats over the years. (I still feel badly about the restaurant manager I left hanging when I abandoned my post mid-shift, executing not only internal mental gymnastics, but also verbal gymnastics as I convinced the dishwasher and second waitress to leave with me.)

Not much has changed over the years, in terms of human nature, although exercising mental gymnastics has become easier and easier as the culture has continued to abandon absolutes. A simple tumble routine will suffice nicely today for exercises that once would have required expert skill and Olympian talent. After all, if everyone tells you that what you once believed was wrong is suddenly right, then there is little need to "self-justify" your indulgences.

That is not to say that there aren't any world class mental gymnasts. There certainly are. After all, to abandon a lifetime of moral training, after witnessing the devastation of sin in the lives of others, after boldly proclaiming a stand for righteousness, only to indulge in the same sins once so vehemently condemned, that talent surely must earn Olympic Gold. But even, or perhaps especially, Olympians need coaches. Someone to stand by them, encouraging them, pushing them beyond their limit, little by little, day by day. No one gets that good at anything without a little help. Key phrases for a successful mental gymnastic routine include, "What about me?"; "If only they hadn't (fill in the blank), then I wouldn't have..."; and the most dangerous phrase of all, "Well, God wants me to be happy, and this makes me happy."

That kind of coaching we can do without, especially when culture is coach. Because no matter how well-executed a mental routine is, no matter how many hours of practice it took to reach perfection, no matter how mentally exhausted one became while twisting, turning and flipping their thoughts around so as to align them with their sinful desires, that gold medal is nothing more than pyrite -- fool's gold -- a fake and a fraud, a lie and a cheat.

"What good will it be for a man if he gains the whole world, yet forfeits his soul? Or what can a man give in exchange for his soul?" Matthew 16:26 (NIV)

I don't have all the answers, but I know the One who does. Let's walk together for awhile and discover Him; together.

Dawn