I never read the Bible when I considered it the sole source of Christian authority. Now I lead Bible studies in the club that says it’s not. Surprisingly, leading with so little experience does not make me nervous. St. Thomas Aquinas called the Summa “straw,” so the difference between the best and worst of my input cannot be material. Logistics is another matter—though it is one of nausea rather than nerves. Setting times and locations, buying and cooking food, etc. People plan events for a living, and I would rather die. Granted I deal with ten people and jalapeño poppers, but those ten are twenty-year old boys over whom I have no authority. It’s not like I would excommunicate them, but the threat of pushups couldn’t hurt.

My stage is small, but I did not appreciate the distinction between attendee and leader until week one. If no one has defined a group of concentrated stares, then I propose the word “ambush.” I stare back, and I see everything but apathy in their eyes. It does not surprise me that they care; it surprises me that they show it. I told them that they had no reason to trust me, and maybe that’s why they do. They trust each other too. They speak in turns like a stream of impressions in a single mind. Their words converge without competing. They collide without conflicting. They flow together toward truth, and they are getting closer.

I am here to convey Truth to them with charity, but I am not here to make them like it. Christ said that His followers would deny themselves, pick up their crosses, and follow Him. Not so fun. It helps that I deal with athletes. They say yes to pain every day. But pain is easy, and pain is cool. I want them to say no to pleasure too. A salesmen might try to mask the hurt. I told them that it should hurt. People don’t go to the gym because it feels good, and the same is true of people who pick up the cross. They understand that.

But to understand the cross is not to take it up. These boys will not become saints overnight anymore than they could have benched three plates on day one in the gym. Weights have numbers that say “can” and “cannot,” and training turns “cannot” into “can.” Abstract weight is not difficult to grasp, but it’s not as concrete as a barbell on the windpipe. What crosses can they lift, and how can they know? Weights have numbers, but verses do too. Mt. 5:11 is beyond me, but I recently picked up 28:19-20. I’m faking 5:41 by driving someone to Waco next week (don’t tell me how far it is; I don’t want to know). If you’re reading this, then you likely lift 5:42.

There is a saint inside each of them ready to come out. All it takes is exercise of the Word. A person who lives sin and says that he cannot be a saint is like a person who breaks his own bones and says that he cannot be a lifter. The question is not whether they are saints. It is whether they will allow God to make them saints. Faith without works is dead, and a gym membership is nothing without the weights.

Deo Gratias.