Growing up I was hard core gymnast. To know me at all was to know that this was true. I, like all other young gymnasts, had Olympic aspirations ('96 in Atlanta was to be my year, unfortunately, Dominique Moceanu barely edged me out for that last spot! Really!
...ok, not really, but I wish). I could often be found doing kips on the monkey bars on the playground, doing full turns and beam routines on any curb I could find, and tumbling on the sidelines of my brother's soccer games. My wardrobe consisted primarily of gymnastics t-shirts, all of which proclaimed profound truths, such as "If Gymnastics were any easier, it would be called football" And "A Champion is someone who gets up even when they can't...NO FEAR".
But maybe the clearest sign that I was a gymnast was the bun, scrunchie, 1.000 clippies and HUGE bangs that I doted far beyond the point when this was socially acceptable. You know the look...the bun so tight that it pulled your face back much better than any botox could ever do, and the wave of bangs that wouldn't move due to the bottle of white rain hairspray you "lightly spritzed" on them every morning. (Not sure why I switched to second person here, as I know this did not describe any of you...only me. Caroline...super gymnast).
The main problem with my gymnastics however, (aside from the fact that I was just not all that talented), was that I suffered from a great degree of performance anxiety. Unlike most people, I LOVED practice and absolutely HATED to compete!! I would be doing great all week in practice hitting routines, landing on my feet on my vaults, and staying on the bars all the way until my dismount. But no matter how well I performed in practice , when the meets came I just totally choked. If you had been in the audience you would have seen me falling off the beam 4 and 5x's. (Once I fell off, got back on and fell right back off the other side). Or you'd see me peeling off the bars onto my back, running straight into the vault at full speed, and flipping and twisting until some part of my body hit the floor, unfortunately my feet were rarely first.
Performing or Competing took all the joy out of gymnastics for me. Knowing that I was being judged and evaluated on how I performed, knowing that it mattered whether or not I executed skills perfectly and having the keen awareness that someone was watching me, adding up each fall, each wobble, each step out of bounds, and knowing that I could never measure up, that I was never going to do perfectly, or even as well as people expected or wanted me to, or as well as I wanted to myself, caused me just to crack under the pressure. I ended up leaving meet after meet in an endless stream of tears, wishing that I had done better, wondering what it would have been like if I had...would my friends have been more impressed? would my coaches and parents be more proud? would my teammates be more excited to have me on their team? would I feel better about myself?
I left meets differently than I left practice each night; I left practice with a sense of freedom, but I often left meets with a sense of sadness, shame, and the sure resolve to do and perform better next time.
I quit gymnastics a little over ten years ago, but that performance anxiety has not left me yet. It is rooted deeply in my heart, and expressed in countless ways in my life. It shows up in my pride, in my fear of man, my desire for reputation, and my endless seeking of my own praise and glory. It manifests itself in how I want my friends to be impressed with me, my parents and mentors to be proud of me, strangers to think well of me, people I work with to be honored to have me on their team. It shows up in my deep sense of guilt and and shame in my failures and my falls and my sin, and especially when other people can see those things. It shows up in my slowness to confess sin, and seek forgiveness. It shows up in the endless goals and resolutions I make to "do better." It shows up in the fact that I am often afraid to even come before the Lord with the obvious failures of my heart because of the knowledge that I have not measured up in any way to his standard for me.
This week one of my professors spoke the gospel to me in such a way that it completely penetrated this performance anxiety in me. He spoke of the glorious reality that Jesus has fulfilled the law for us. That everything that is required of me he has done perfectly. That there is nothing more that I can do or add to it. He spoke of the reality that I am hidden in Christ, and sealed with the Holy Spirit and that nothing can change that.
Like in my meets, there is a Judge, the righteous Judge. And he is judging on the basis of performance. But this same judge has hidden my life in the perfect life of his Son Jesus Christ. His performance was perfect...no wobbles, no falls, always doing what brought glory to and pleased the father, always loving him with everything that he was. And by his sheer mercy and grace, this perfect performance has become mine. So that in the wake of every wobble, every fall, every failure, every guilt, every shame (even the very deepest ones), God looks upon me, lifts up my fallen head, looks into my weepy, shame-filled eyes and says, "Righteous" "Perfect" "Everything I have required" "Beloved child, in whom I am well pleased."
This is the gospel...Christ's perfect performance has completely delivered me from the need to perform...for anyone. And it's given me freedom...freedom to be honest about who I am and my sin, freedom from trying to earn and secure the applause and adoration of others, freedom from my guilt and sin, freedom from myself that I might love God and love others. Freedom to rest. And freedom to find joy!
"For our sake, he made him to be sin who knew no sin, so that in him we might become the righteousness of God." (2 Corinthians 5:21)
This even better than the freedom and joy of practice. Jesus performed when it counted, and our his perfect performance is ours! Hallelujah! Oh that I might daily believe this is true and live out of this glorious reality....
