True Grit

“Strive to enter through the narrow gate, for many, I tell you, many will attempt to enter but will not be strong enough.” (Luke 13.24)

Crybabies need not apply. The Galilean Teacher scribbled those words on a piece of paper that he slid across the desk to the young marketing agent opposite him. A frown crossed the young man’s face as he read the words. Hesitantly, he said to the Teacher–not that much older than he was, but with an old soul for sure–Rabbi, I’m afraid you’ll never get any disciples with that message. The Teacher smiled and answered, Numbers aren’t important to me. Many will not be strong enough. And with those few words, the Teacher rose and walked out of the office, leaving the marketing agent with his head in his hands. Nobody is going to buy this product, he says to the empty room.

Twenty centuries later and we know the marketing agent was right. Or close to right. If you want people to do something, then you make it easy for them to do it. The Rabbi had other ideas. He didn’t want crybabies. He wanted followers who had true grit. Why? Because his way was not the easy way. His path was not a stroll through the park. His gym membership was not for people who had no intention of breaking a sweat. Strive to enter through the narrow gate, he said.

A contemporary writer talks about the time she forced herself to go on a trip through a labyrinth of caves in the commonwealth of Virginia. She did it, she said, because the very idea scared her and she decided she needed to practice courage. As she prepared for the expedition through the dark tunnels and caverns, she read what more experienced cave explorers had written. She learned, for example, that a squeeze refers to a passageway so narrow that it can rip the buttons off your clothes and rub the skin off your face. It also is called a belly squirm. Both names make it clear you’re going to work to get to the other side.

She learned that when you are stuck in one–and it happens regularly–the best thing to do is to study where on your body you feel the pressure. Also, use a light, which surely you brought with you. Finally, don’t forget to breathe. Of course, sucking in some breath might be necessary to squeeze through the narrow passageway. On the other side, she learned, you generally find a room spacious and full of energy. Those are her words. Alive and vast like a ballroom before a ball. Again, her words.

If getting yourself in tight places isn’t your thing, then stay away from dark caves and from the Jewish Teacher called Yeshua bar Yossef. Follow either and you can be certain you will end up squeezed near to death. Instead, stick with the other way–the roomy road and the loose-fit discipleship. You will find it has far fewer demands and fewer days on the job. You’ll like its comfortable rules to live by. Pace yourself. Breathe easy. Let somebody else do it. Ride the tide. Don’t make waves. Stand back. Stay silent. Mind your own business. Look out for yourself. Latitude–that’s what you want.

One thing can be said for the Teacher. He believes in truth in advertising. He knows his way of life will not appeal to the masses. He understands the lethargy of the human heart. The tiredness that overwhelms us after the first lap around the track. The ease with which we give up the effort. He walked the roads of Galilee and he made a few trips to the Big City, so he sees we’re most comfortable on the couch with a remote in our hands. Many will not be strong enough. We want a workout without the work.

His rules for living are anything but. The weak of heart or the weary in body need not apply. Forgive seventy times seven times, he said. We’re winded after two times. Give the shirt off your back, he said. We’d like to stay warm ourselves this winter. Love your enemies, he said. We don’t even want to be in the same time zone with the people we dislike. As the path he puts before us gets narrower with each of these commands, the squeeze around us becomes so tight we can’t breathe. We want to reverse course and back out of the squeeze.

But there is still more. Wash the feet of one another, he said. But we don’t even like to wash our own feet. Invite the shaggy-haired man in dirty clothes to a meal, he said. But the man smells. Speak out for those who cannot speak for themselves, he said. But what will people think of us? Take up your cross and follow me, he said. But we don’t like to lift heavy weights. With scared voices, we say, Rabbi, we didn’t sign up for a wilderness experience. Don’t you have a weekend cabin get-away with a few hiking trails?

Yet, we cheered for those tenacious girls in “A League of Their Own” when they narrowly won the nationals. did we not? We wanted them to push through as they fought setbacks and situations that would have squeezed the life out of anybody else. We even agreed with Tom Hanks, the team’s relentless coach, when he pushed them further with his no-nonsense argument–It’s supposed to be hard. If it were easy, everyone would do it. We cheered for them because we know deep down that the human spirit is at its best when it is tested and tried, when we show that true grit runs through our hearts and out our hands, when we admit that unless a grain of wheat dies, it remains just a grain of wheat. We know the easy way out may get us out of life without scratches, but also without successes.

True, the odds always are against us in the fight for a new way for living. True, the world is not a friendly place for a do-gooder. True, we will bleed if we follow the Jewish Rabbi on the narrow path to crucifixion. The other option–the wide path that gives plenty of wiggle room and requires little if any exertion–is always available. But if we never feel the pinch of reforming ourselves or the pain of remaking the world in which we live, then we can be sure everything will stay pretty much the same. And we can be just as sure that the last thing the Galilean Teacher wants is the world the same as it always has been.

So, the few and the brave buckle up for a rough ride. We accept that there are going to be lots of narrow places on the road ahead. We know we’re going to end up with some bunged up fenders and loose bumpers. And the one thing we do not do is cry. We hear the Galilean Teacher say to us, in the same commanding voice Tom Hanks used on his ragtag team, “Are you crying? Are you crying? Are you crying? There’s no crying! There’s no crying in baseball!”

— Jeremy Myers