The Last Reps of the Last Set of Bench-Press, and a Reason I Blog

I used to be good at bench-press; I did it often enough. Now, those days are mostly gone. But one thing I learned from weightlifting was that there is a huge difference between doing just 2 sets of 10 repetitions, and doing 3 sets of 10 reps—even if on the last set you can only get just 6, 7, 8, or 9 reps.

A lot of work happens in just 3 reps when those reps are your last 3. Something painful and wonderful and productive happens near, or at, our limit.

Doing 1 set everyday—1 easy-effort set, without pain and grunting and the shredding of muscle fibers—doesn’t lead to strength. But doing several sets, and digging deep on the last one, even if only done once a week, does lead to strength.

In other words, those last 3 reps are valuable in a way that the first 10 reps are not, because the last 10% of effort produces more results than the previous 90%. This is true to such an extent that during the attempt to complete the last set, in a way, the last set is really completing you.

This is a reason I blog—not the reason but a reason.

For several years, I’ve been collecting random thoughts in random Microsoft Word documents—fly paper placed randomly throughout the house. If you get an idea in the middle of the night, well then, write it down; scratch a few notes on the notepad beside the bed. If you think of something juicy while riding your bike, pull over and use the smartphone.

These are helpful practices. I know this. If I don’t start here, it can never move beyond there. But really, these are the first reps in the first set. They come relatively easy.

Writing blog posts, however, pushes me—like the last 3 reps, in the last set of bench-press, pushed me. Blogging forces me to exert effort and trim the fat. It forces me to think about my audience and to eschew lazy sentences. No lollygagging, no passive fly paper. My ‘spotters’ yell, “Come on, Vrbicek; push it!  Finish the set!”

When I blog, I’m forced to commit to an idea in a greater way than I would have otherwise. Writing for “publication,” albeit publication with a lowercase ‘p,’ gives me knowledge of my limits; my writing muscles get fatigued, and sometimes, the weights thud on my chest, and fatigue gives way to failure.

But it’s okay. Something painful and wonderful and productive happens near, or at, the precipice of (current) ability. After a protein shake and 2 days of recovery, I’ll be the stronger for it.

In other words, the hearty effort to complete 1 blog post at a time, is completing me.

But you might be thinking, “So, Benjamin, what if I don’t blog and I don’t bench?”

To you I’d say, probably there is something in your life where the last 10% matters more than the first 10%, or maybe even the entire previous 90%. Perhaps it’s a hobby or something in your vocation, or an aspect of building a relationship with someone. What is that “something” for you?

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Fresh Words, Fresh Language, Fresh Blood

For some time, I contemplated starting a blog. When I made the decision to move forward, an unanticipated question arose: What shall be my first post? You always remember your first. Recently, while listening to an episode from Tony Reinke’s podcast Authors on the Line, I found my answer.

In the episode, Reinke interviewed Pastor Douglas Wilson (also posted on desiringgod.org here). The main talking point was the use of metaphor; but a subtheme, as least as I heard it, was how to communicate effectively.

Early in the interview, Reinke asked Wilson this question:

Was there an ‘ah-ha’ moment in your life or ministry when you discovered the importance of non-fiction imagination to communicate divine truth?

Here is Wilson’s response:

The first resolve was when we were first establishing Credenda as a magazine. I grew up in an evangelical household; I’ve been around missionary newsletters my whole life; I’ve seen Christian magazines and publications and books, etc., for a long, long time. And one of the things that they all had in common, or seemed to me to have in common, was their boringness, their blandness.

So in the acceptable world of evangelical discourse, you have the bland leading the bland… When we were first setting out with Credenda, this was a central resolve… I wanted to write about theology, and history, and doctrine, and culture in a way that was engaging and interesting—not boring. It might be infuriating or it might be exasperating, and you might be tearing your hair out, but you don’t want to put it down. (emphasis added)

Pastor Wilson’s point: Christian writers are [on the whole] bland and boring, and I do not want to be either.

It’s not my place to say whether the appraisal was accurate then or if it remains true today. I have not been around Christian publications long enough or broadly enough to say either way.

And part of me wonders if Wilson, if asked, would say his critique of a few decades ago still holds today. Perhaps he would say that it is still true, at least broadly, though there are many great exceptions. This would be my evaluation.

But to Wilson’s own takeaway (namely, to move beyond bland and boring), I feel a strong resonance. When he says, “I wanted to write about theology, and history, and doctrine, and culture in a way that was engaging and interesting—not boring,” I say, “Amen. Preach it, preacher.”

I see this as a sensible and timely pursuit, not simply because I personally like to read the type of writing Wilson wants to produce, but also because of the cultural shift away from the historic message of Christianity.

Two Ways to Lose the Christian Message

There are two ways to lose the historic message of Christianity.

On the one hand, we can lose it by cutting ties with the actual historic message—the centrality of the announcement of the good news of Jesus’ life, death, and resurrection. This is the death of severing the veins from the heart. Blood will not flow when the pathways are disconnected from the source. And of this type of ‘death,’ I do feel that I know enough to say that it is rampant today—a lifeless Christianity, not lifeless because Christianity is lifeless, but because it’s not Christianity. As an example of this ‘death,’ consider how often Christianity becomes mere rule keeping devoid of the gospel. That’s not Christianity; it’s mere religion disconnected from the source of salvation, the foundation of forgiveness: the person and work of Jesus.

However, on the other hand, we can lose the historic message of Christianity by saying the message in the same way that we have always said it. This is the death of recirculating oxygen-depleted blood.

I was reminded of this recently when I asked my young children what made someone a Christian. Their first answer: “Ask Jesus into your heart.”

Well, okay, I guess that could mean something helpful, but what does this phrase even mean? It’s an example of language that has lost meaning because it’s expected; it’s been recirculated too many times.

Not stale, not rehearsed, not clichéd language—we need fresh words, fresh language, fresh blood. In these, there is life. And in the pursuit of these, I launch a blog—a first I want to remember.

May God use it to “fan into flame” (2 Timothy 1:6) the craft of speaking and writing the historic message of Christianity in accessible and riveting language. May God use it to pump fresh, oxygen-rich blood into the body.

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