The Children Know

From today’s reading…

Every month a tough guy shows up to show us Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu practitioners what’s what.

They’re big and strong; most played football back in the day; some have dabbled in Crossfit; a lot of them have beards; some have some nice ink; they drive big trucks; they don’t smile much; they’re used to being the BMOC—Big Man On Campus—and it shows.

After 10-15 minutes of warmups, if you look closely, you’ll detect a fleeting moment of concern flash quickly in their eyes. But they are the BMOC, so it is subdued quickly.

During drills they are decent students, but usually take things too far because, you know, they are the BMOCs.

Then the moment of truth arrives: sparring time. This is always at least three rounds of six minutes each, but they are usually four rounds, and many times five and even six.

This is the moment the BMOC has waited for. He has watched UFC for years and has even managed to tap some of his drunken buddies in the living room during some of the matches.

As the BMOC all of his buddies tell him one of two things: he’d kill it in Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu or he’d get his rear end handed to him. (The latter are run off and not allowed to return until they publicly proffer a growler of his favorite craft IPA and an extra large pizza as penance for their heresy.)

So the BMOC is partnered with a mid to high-level partner and the fun begins. The BMOC comes out firing with both barrels. He grabs and he grunts. He attacks and he smashes. He drags his opponent around with gusto…and then it happens…typically within 20 seconds…the great ones actually make it to 30 seconds. (None make it to 45 seconds.)

Once the adrenaline is dumped they are made acutely aware of their utter and total lack of cardio, skills, and technique, and they are humbled. Sometimes it’s a knee-on-belly that sucks the life from them. Other times it’s a mount that snuffs out their will to live. If they are especially arrogant/rude/cocky, it’s a combination of a sweep to mount to arm bar that makes them spew this guttural sound that only comes from the simultaneous swallowing of one’s pride mixed with the real fear that they’ll never use their arm again blended with a mouthful of the Hot Pocket and Red Bull they choked down on the way to the gym, you know, for more energy!

When this happens, the BMOC is faced with a difficult choice: admit they ain’t all that and commit to a lifetime of learning this “gentle” martial art, or quit because his ego is too fragile and he lacks the discipline and intestinal fortitude needed to grow.

Kids, however, don’t have this problem. They are jumping with joy and excitement to learn and spar. They hug, they laugh, they try new moves, they tap, reset, and go again.

God is the ultimate BMOC, the undisputed UFC champion, and His Son has suffered the ultimate humility for our salvation. All we have to do is swallow our pride and seek what is hidden, which is the only way to…

Stay the course. Keep the faith. Endure.

Now go sell something.