Sometimes I can’t resist the lure of reality competition TV shows. It’s not the terrible acts or singers that keep me coming back. It’s not even the superstars being born right before my eyes. It’s the stories.
It’s the country guy who, previous of the show, has only sang on his front porch. It’s the dedicated dad maintaining hope despite his dream being snatched from his grasp several times. It’s the shy girl who dares to bellow out her voice. It’s the woman who was told she couldn’t do it by scores of people throughout her life. It’s the sisters who are diseased, but determined. It’s the underdogs. The unexpected. The meek.
I clamp onto their stories and find myself desperate for their success. I tear up when they smile – when they realize for the first time that people are for them, cheering encouragement every step of the way.
And when they succeed, the world feels a little more right. Even if they don’t win, you see the telling sparkle in their eye – they know they were made for this. They know they can do it. They know people are behind them.
“Blessed are the meek for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.”
Heaven is evident on earth when the meek – the underdogs, the humble – are recognized for their greatness. Even on shows where a man dresses like a pancreas and dances and a woman puts a sword down her throat.