Clashing Worldviews in the Fitness Room

Most days from around 3:00-4:00 find me in the fitness room of Heritage. Sometimes I work out with various numbers of students. Some days I am the first to arrive, so I hook up my iPad to the Bluetooth speaker and select a playlist of the latest Christian hits on Spotify. (If I'm not the first to arrive, I am happy to listen to whatever else is playing, so long as it is loud enough to cover up the sounds of my creaking joints and groaning muscles.)

Now, I'm a cheapskate. I am happy to use a fitness room that doesn't have all the latest and greatest (no hydro massage table, for example) because I don't have to pay to use it -- not even the low, low price of $4.99 every two weeks. And I'll listen to an ad or two (or ten) to use the free version of Spotify, rather than pay the $10/month I'd need to pay to get rid of the ads.

And therein lies the clashing worldviews. The most frequent ads I hear are for Spotify itself. I wish I could quote the ads directly, but, alas, they always play whilst I'm in the middle of lifting a weight or running on the treadmill. Even for the sake of this blog, I'm not about to dash over to try to somehow capture the content of the ad in all its glory. But they go something like this: "People say that moderation is a virtue, but what fun is that? You should be allowed to eat all the ice cream you want. And you should certainly be able to listen to whatever music you want, whenever you want, wherever you want, without interruption. Click the banner for more details and start your free, three-month premium account now." The message is clear: moderation sucks. Moderation is for losers. (Or for cheapskates who refuse to pay. But they're clearly losers.) You deserve better. You deserve whatever you want. You deserve not to have to exercise moderation in anything, and certainly not in the music you listen to.

The irony does not escape me. I am hearing this message whilst working out. Now, some people might work out because they love it. I am not one of those people. I run, but it's not fun. Sore muscles are just sore muscles -- there is no "good" sore and "bad" sore, just the kind of sore that makes it hard to climb stairs. Basically, I hate working out. I would much, much rather curl up with a good book. Shoot, I'd much rather do most anything than spend an hour in that fitness room.

So, why do I do it? Part of it might be a protest against encroaching age. I don't want to not be able to do the things I can do today, but I know that the things I do today will become harder and harder if I don't keep myself active. Skipping a couple of days doesn't mean just picking up where I left off, it means actually losing ground. So if I hope to be able to do the things I do love to do, like riding my horse and gardening, I need to not lose ground. That's part of it.

Part of it is because I hate the way I feel when I don't get physical activity. I'm not talking about how I feel physically. The physical payoff is maybe nice, but mostly non-existent. I've never felt a runner's high. Running is just always hard. Most of the time, I basically hurt the whole time I'm down there. In fact, I mostly live my entire life with low-grade muscle aches. No, the physical payoff isn't what I'm talking about. I'm talking about how I feel emotionally. Maybe I get more stressed out than most, but by the end of most days, my nerves feel frayed and I'm wound pretty tightly. An hour in the gym unwinds me. It smooths my rumpled soul. It's an outlet for stress. But eating ice cream and reading a good book is an even better outlet for stress, and I'm in the gym, not eating ice cream and reading a good book (which I'd much rather do). So that leads to the real reason I hit the gym.

The reason that gets me into the fitness room from 3:00-4:00 most days is simple obedience. I have struggled with my weight pretty much my whole life. I gain easily. I lose slowly. And years ago, I was convicted that the way I was living was not honouring to God. He has given me this life and a task to do, and I was living myself into an early grave instead -- literally -- heart disease runs in my family, and a genetic propensity for heart disease and high cholesterol coupled with being overweight and inactive is a fast track to an early grave.  I was already beginning to show the signs of an immoderate lifestyle. I could have taken pills to fix the problems, but the pills caused other problems, and I knew that the real problem wasn't my physical heart, but my heart before God. I was buying the world's message that moderation was for suckers. I had completely set aside that whole idea about doing whatever I do for the glory of God. It wasn't even about my lifestyle so much as it was about my attitude about my lifestyle. I had to repent. So today I can't eat whatever I want whenever I want to, however much I want. I choose broccoli when I'd rather choose toast and peanut butter. I choose coffee with a little cream when I'd rather have the caramel macchiato with whipped cream on top (that one is easier on my pocketbook, too). I choose an apple instead of ice cream. I order a salad instead of the burger and fries when I go out to eat. I eat until I'm satisfied instead of eating until I'm full. I try to exercise moderation in my eating, and when I don't, the weight goes on quickly; one week of less than moderation results in gains. And I get myself to the gym.

Getting myself to the gym is part of that life of moderation. It is part of honouring God with my life. On the days when I'm particularly unmotivated and wish for any excuse to not go, it is the one reason that gets me down there. Oh, I'm pretty sure that if I think hard enough about it, my left eyebrow is too sore for me to work out today. I should just forget it and go home early today. And I hear that prick in my spirit that says, Really, Marianne? And I sigh and grab my bag and head down the stairs to the torture chamber fitness room for my daily meeting with discipline and moderation.

So, when I'm down there, running when I don't want to, lifting weights despite protesting muscles, feeling old and achy and tired, trying to keep my groans quieter than the music playing, and I hear the Spotify commercials telling me that I'm a fool to think that moderation is a good thing, it is such a clash of worldviews. Here I am, precisely because I am living in moderation because it is the right and good and God-honouring thing for me to do, and I am hearing that moderation is ridiculous and I can just "tap the banner" to cast off my shackles once and for all. It's a bit of a slap in the face.

But it's a good reminder, too. Because I've lived the life without moderation. I know that even though it looks alluring and shiny and tempting and free, it is actually a life of slavery. There is a hidden cost. The three-month-free promotion turns into a fee that I don't want to pay. And the life without moderation is not as easily cancelled as the subscription to Spotify might be. The shackles are tighter.  The fees are higher: it means sacrificing good health, losing the ability to do the things I love to do (my horse does not carry me as happily when I refuse to be moderate), and mostly, living with the knowledge that I am not living in obedience to my Saviour. Those costs are just too high. I've paid them before. I've had the subscription to that life. I cancelled it years ago. I'm not going back.

So, sorry Spotify, but I'm not hitting the banner. You're wrong. Moderation is freedom. That's why I'm at the gym.

Thought Hunter

Over the last number of chapels the president of the Bible college I teach at has done a series of sermons on thinking biblically. They have been insightful and thought-provoking, and have challenged me to engage my mind around various topics, including thinking biblically about thinking itself. I have deeply appreciated his clear and thoughtful messages. (You can listen to them here.)

His messages have reminded me of the day that I first thought about thinking biblically. That day changed my life.

On that day, I read the words of Paul in 2 Corinthians 10:5: "We demolish arguments and every pretension that sets itself up against the knowledge of God, and we take captive every thought to make it obedient to Christ." Those words revolutionised my life.

I don't know if I have a particularly busy mind, or if maybe I'm half a step away from barking mad, but my mind is generally populated by many thoughts -- so many thoughts that when someone asks me what I'm thinking, I mentally freeze, because trying to explain my thoughts out loud would take far too long than most people have patience for. Or maybe I really am half a step away from barking mad, because I have had more than a fair share of folks who say to me, "You really think about stuff like that?" Haha, no, not really. (But ... yes ....) But at the time that I read Paul's words, all those busy and crazy thoughts felt like weapons that battered and assaulted my heart and soul.

I had no idea that I could do anything about it.

I had this idea that a thought thunk (how's that for good grammar?) was a thought that had to be entertained. Entertained doesn't seem the right word because it was anything but entertaining. But I lived by the notion that if a thought had entered my head it must somehow be real, or have power, or it meant that I really believed it. I couldn't help what I thought. Basically, if the thought was in my head, I felt powerless to do anything about it, and it was free to run around in there and wreak havoc on my heart and soul.

Because an awful lot of the thoughts that were in my head were pure junk. Garbage. Trash. Graffiti that coated the inside of my skull. Thoughts about who I was. Who God was. Thoughts about terrible things that could happen to me, to my loved ones. Thoughts about terrible things I could do. Might do. Probably was already doing. I have a vivid imagination, and I was a prisoner to my imagination. I was afraid of what was inside my own head.

And then I read Paul's wonderful, wonderful words in 2 Corinthians 10:5. It was like cool balm on a sunburn.

"Take every thought captive" -- I read those words and I realised that was living my life backwards. My thoughts were taking me captive. But Paul said that I could take my thoughts captive. A thought thunk was not a thought to be taken seriously, but a thought to be captured. Just because a thought was running around in my head did not mean that I had to entertain it for a single second. I was in control, not my imagination.

And then the rest of the verse: Paul talked about demolishing arguments and retentions that set themselves up against God, making my thoughts obedient to Christ. That meant that my thoughts were weaklings, or at most, blustering bullies with little backbone. I could stand up to them. In Christ, I could demolish my thoughts and I could change my thoughts. I could make them obedient to Christ. Sometimes, a thought thunk had to be given the boot.

So that day, I started to go on a thought hunt. I started to think about my thinking. The moment I became aware of a thought running around in my head, I captured it. (Ok, maybe I am barking mad, but I actually imagined the thought as a wild animal and I would imagine myself hunting it down and trapping it.) Then I would examine it. Sometimes the thoughts I had captured had to be made obedient to Christ. That thought about something horrible happening to myself or one of my loved ones? I captured it. I examined it. Could something horrible happen? Sure. But how do I make that thought obedient to Christ? I bring it to him. I pray. Lord, you know me and my loved ones. You hold us in your hands. I'm taking this thought and making it obedient to you. Take care of us. Sometimes the thoughts needed to be given the boot. That sin that just crossed my mind? Uh-uh. Nope. Not happening. This thought is not obedient to Christ. Out it goes. And every once in while, a thought that was running around in my head was obedient to Christ and brought about conviction and repentance and a renewed commitment to Jesus. That niggling sense of guilt for snapping at that friend? That continued prodding that I should get in touch with the person who has been going through a hard time? Those are true and right thoughts that spur me to true and right action.

It took time. It took loads of time. Not days, not months, but years. There was a lot of graffiti. There were years of letting my thoughts run riot. They were not easily caught. And it is an ongoing process. Like I said, I have a busy mind and an overactive imagination. It would be easy to slide back, to think, I've got this now. I'm good. But that thought, too, needs to be taken captive and made obedient to Christ. So it's not a finished project, nor, I'm sure, shall it ever be. I won't be done till I'm dead.

But it has made living inside my head less discordant. There is less cacophony and more harmony. And I am no longer afraid of what is inside my head. Just because I think a thought does not mean I need to think about it. Much of what I think can be immediately discarded. It is junk mail, and I do not need to open it, look at it, or let it pile up. It goes straight to the shredder. I don't fear it anymore. I just do what Paul says, and demolish any argument or pretension that sets itself up against God, and take the thought captive and make it obedient to Christ. I cannot stop a thought from entering my head, but I can certainly help what I think. A thought thunk can be thrown out.

I've become a thought hunter, and Christ has set me free.

I Feel

Have you ever noticed how language changes?

There was a time when we would say something like this: "I think it's going to rain this afternoon."

Now we say, "I feel like it's going to rain this afternoon."

So what, you say? What does that matter? Perhaps, with regard to the rain, it doesn't matter. Perhaps I notice the thickening clouds and the rising wind, and I infer that rain is coming (thinking). Or perhaps my arthritic knees ache, and I truly do feel like it's going to rain. But with regard to the change in language, it matters a lot. It matters because thinking and feeling are not the same thing, but we have conflated them and it has changed how we view reality. We don't think anymore. We only feel, and we create a "reality" based on our feelings.

I feel like no one loves me.
I feel like God has abandoned me.
I don't feel like God has forgiven me.
I feel like I can't do anything.
I'm sure you can keep going with your own list of "feel likes".

But the truth is that none of that is true.
There are people who love me and who love me deeply, whether or not I feel loved.
God will never abandon me, whether or not I feel abandoned.
I am forgiven, whether or not I feel forgiven.
I can do things, many things, and I can do all things in Christ who gives me strength, whether or not I feel any of it.

Ah, you say, but I don't feel it.

To which I say, So what?

Since when did what I feel become more important than what I know? Since when did my emotions become what dictates reality rather than what is actually true? Since when do my feelings override my thinking?

The fact is that the stuff that runs around inside my head is often simply blatantly untrue. Just because I feel something does not make it fact. I notice this all the time with my horse. My horse feels like the jacket that is lying on the ground is a horse-eating dragon that is waiting to kill him. He feels like the garden hose is a python ready to wrap around his ribs and crush him to death. He feels like the garage door that rattles in the wind is concealing a tiger ready to leap upon him and tear his throat out. But none of what he feels is true, and it is my job, as a rational, mature, thinking human being to help him to navigate the real world, not the world of his feelings. So we don't run away from jackets, because despite how he feels about them, jackets are not dangerous. We don't leap over garden hoses; we step over them sanely, because regardless of how he feels about them, garden hoses are not a threat. We go back to the end of the arena where the garage doors rattle, and we do it again and again and again, because even though he feels afraid, there is no reason to be afraid.

Now, I do not punish my horse for his feelings. I understand them. I understand that he is afraid of (or at least nervous about) jackets and hoses and rattling doors. I don't discount his feelings. I acknowledge them. I might even say to him (though he understands not a word), "Buddy, I know you're afraid of that, but you don't need to be afraid." He may not understand the words, but he understands the tone and the body language. I respect his feelings, but I do not allow his feelings to dictate his reality. Eventually, we will walk past the jacket or the hose or the garage door.

I am really no different from my horse. "I feel like no one loves me" is no different than "I feel like that jacket is going to leap up and eat me." "I feel like God has abandoned me" is no different than "I feel like that door is rattling because a tiger is behind it". "I feel unforgiven" is no different than "I feel like that hose is going to swallow me whole". My feelings do not dictate reality. But here's the difference: my horse is just a dumb animal. He does not possess the ability to think logically. He depends on me to do that for him. But I do have the ability to think. So why don't I?

Why do I think that it is ok to just go with my feelings, because after all, I've felt them? Why am I content to act like a dumb beast? How has it come to be that I act and talk like relying on my feelings is the better option and have stopped talking about what I think and say instead, "I feel like ..."?

My feelings are important. They are a God-given gift. I strongly believe that there are no such things as good and bad feelings, only good-feeling feelings and bad-feeling feelings. I strongly believe that all our feelings can be brought to God. But they must never dictate my reality. They must always be held up to reality, to the light of God's Word, and taken captive to obey Christ (2 Cor. 10:5). Just as I allow my horse to feel afraid of the jacket and do not punish him for it, so will I allow myself to feel afraid and not punish myself for it (or fear that God will punish me for it). But just as I then ask my horse to walk by the jacket, so will I press forward into whatever it is that is making me afraid. Reality controls my fear; my fear does not create reality. Just because I feel something does not make it so. It is my job as a rational, mature, thinking human being to discern feeling from fact, and to move forward into what is real and true, not to flail about in the imagined world of my feelings. I am called to live in truth, not in the contrivances of my wildest fears.

So, sometimes I may feel unloved, but I know in my head that there are many, many people who love me deeply, and I know, above all else, that I am unendingly loved by the God who made heaven and earth, and I know that even in the moments when I do not feel it.

Sometimes I may feel abandoned by God, but his Word tells me that he will never leave me or forsake me, and this is true regardless of how I feel, and knowing this gives me the freedom to cry to him and tell him how hurt I am and how sad I am by the things that I am going through, but I know, regardless, that he is there.

My feelings do not change my reality.

And I think it is going to rain.