In the British TV game show “Taskmaster”, five celebrities are given tasks to complete. They can be as simple as “Do not blink” to as mind-bending as “Physically recreate a classic video game.” The rules are open to interpretation, so “not blinking” includes keeping your eyes closed the whole time – or taping them open. One of the show’s two hosts, the “Taskmaster”, judges the performances, deciding who wins the task and awarding one to five points to each contestant; the highest points tally after five tasks wins.
The fun part of the show, which is mixed reality TV and comedy, is that the Taskmaster is an authoritarian curmudgeon. He can call you names, insult your efforts (or your outfit), decide that everyone has failed and give out no points, play favorites, and so on. Competitors may take their chances and goad him to earn the audience’s approval, or sycophantically suck up to him to curry favor. It is these sardonic touches that make the show brilliant. Nobody is taking it seriously, yet everyone is taking it seriously. In spite of the hopeless unpredictability of the whole affair, every contestant tries their hardest to win: whether that means winning over the live crowd, racking up reputation points with the TV viewership, impressing the Taskmaster, or simply excelling at the task.
Dirty, dastardly, and dramatic, one thing is understood: nobody expects the game to be fair. Perhaps the popularity of the series (19 seasons and counting) has something to do with the blatant cynicism of the show’s format (and, I venture, how it somehow mirrors life). Perhaps we find it oddly refreshing to soak in the guilty pleasure of schadenfreude, to watch celebrities’ best efforts thwarted by the random whims of the Taskmaster. Perhaps observing the contestants’ futile efforts makes us feel less solitary; perhaps the fact that everyone is having a laugh in the process makes enjoying their angst so much more passably forgivable.
Contrast the contestants on Taskmaster to my cats. My two boys often remark on what enviable lives they have. They do nothing to please us, yet all through the day, they receive attention and sweet words. They go where they choose, do what they will. When they mew, they are fed; when they purr, they are stroked; when they come alongside, they are cuddled or massaged. They are praised, patted, and plied with good things. Even when they are scared or confused – such as when they are driven to see the vet – all things are working in their best interests. They exist to be loved, and we go out of our way to love them. I think deep down, as humans, we love our pets because we are warmed by the idea that even if life is not perfect for us, we can make life as perfect as possible for our furry friends. Unlike the Taskmaster, we are not antagonists to our wards; rather, we are their patrons, protectors, and providers.
What a life, to exist to be loved!
Alas, this hardly describes our experience. Doesn’t it often feel as if we live in the Taskmaster universe? We certainly don’t feel as if we exist to be loved. Rather, we hustle and strive. We bootstrap and double up. We dig in and we dig out. In my past two essays, I’ve tried to make the point that such efforts – both efforts we undertake to earn reward (work) and efforts we undertake to help others (altruism) can be uncharitable Taskmasters. In both real life and the TV show, the rules of the game can be hard to discern, luck can play an outsized role, outcomes are difficult to predict, being the objective best doesn’t always net the prize, and unscrupulous rivals can, and do, win.
Despite this, most of us still choose – or perhaps feel we have no choice but – to be defined by our striving and our efforts. Are there other options to consider? The good news is “yes”. The bad news is that we must first accept – truly and deeply accept – that all striving is vanity. That it is ultimately pride that drives us forward in such pursuits – a grasping, urgent, need to fill out our hollow balloon-selves. Our pride is why, when our efforts (inevitably) do not deliver satisfaction, we so easily slip into destructive behaviors: comparison, victimhood, pretense, gossip, spitefulness, indifference and the like. It is rare to encounter one who continuously, ardently, and joyfully labors on; most of us falter and become weary. Pride, as they say, is the precursor to the fall.
It is only after we recognize that our efforts are driven by pride, that we can set aside that pride. And it is only after setting aside that pride that we can seek something higher in which we can root our identity. But what is higher?
He is.
Christ is.
(If, at this point, you’ve followed my reasoning for 2.67 essays, please don’t quit here, especially if what I’ve written has resonated. Please hear me out.)
When we ground our identity in Christ, the rule, and the rules, of this world fall away before him. In him, our identity is sure. If we offer him our work as barter for favor, he will refuse. Our work is an unworthy sacrifice, because he has done the saving work for us on the cross. We cannot attain status with him through effort. But – and this is a big “but” – if we offer him our hearts, which is not effort but only relenting, he accepts it gladly and with rejoicing.
Why? Because our hearts are what we ultimately, and only ever, own, and it pleases him that we give our hearts over to his care, understanding that unlike the world, he will be a kind steward. What he wants from us is not work (which is unceasing and never completed) or giving (which necessarily involves taking). His relationship with us is therefore not defined by our work, or our giving. Rather, the only thing he seeks from us is that we allow him to give himself to us. In other words, our destiny is to be completed in being loved. And so, to pursue Christ is a beautiful pact, because it means we never have to destroy ourselves to please him. We need only open ourselves to allow him to fill us.
In Christ, the worldly paradigm is inverted: we exist not to work, but to be loved.
Because our work no longer defines us, we are no longer enslaved to it; rather, our work – and the help we give others – are graces entrusted to us: not to fill our hollow selves, but so we can empty our Christ-filled selves for the betterment of the world and for the sake of others. This then, is our worthier, indeed, holier, identity – not based on what we do for ourselves, but based on what he has done for us.
Work, and worry. Service, and servility. Pride, and purpose.
These are concepts we all struggle with, all through our lives. I have been trying to let go of my preoccupation with work by taking greater hold of Christ for some years now. Some things came more easily. I stopped stressing over my bonus. Promotion and recognition diminished as a measure of my worth. I learned to appreciate my colleagues better. I found myself increasingly interested in helping and encouraging people; I started coaching more and I tried to put compassion more firmly at the center of my decision-making.
Still, it is not always easy. I am sometimes surprised to discover, despite my most sincere intentions, that there are deep roots of self-reliance that I still cling to for security. I recently worried about what would happen if I suddenly lose my job in a recession, about what that would mean for my family and whether a new working arrangement would impact how I can support them. So, I still have a way to go. But I would not go back to the old way – not knowing what I know now, that I can embrace a life in which I exist to be loved, rather than striving as an end in itself.
It took me a long while to internalize that old saying, that you may love your job, but your job does not love you back. But I know Jesus does. So, I’m going to take his hand and see where he leads me. His yoke is easy, and his burden is light.
Thank you for letting me share my experience with you.
Grace and peace,
J
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Justin, I truly appreciate your reflections in this article, as well as in Service and Servility the week before. You have a beautiful way of weaving humor, cultural insight, and theological depth into something that both uplifts and challenges the heart.
Your contrast between the chaotic meritocracy of Taskmaster and the unearned love our pets receive is both clever and profound. (I’ve been looking at my dog, Chase, and cat, Claire, differently ever since I read your article!) And I couldn’t help but reflect on how often I treat life as if I'm performing for points—hoping the Taskmaster approves—when in truth, my identity in Christ frees me from that burden entirely.
Your words echo the heart of Isaiah 64:6, which reminds us that “all our righteous acts are like filthy rags.” That verse has always struck me deeply, pointing to our utter dependence on God's grace. On our own, our striving, our pride—even our service—fall short. But in Christ, we are invited into something completely different: not a life of earning, but of receiving. Not a performance, but a presence. Your writing reflects that truth with clarity and compassion.
Thank you for reminding me that I / we exist to be loved. Not to hustle for worth, but to rest in the One who gave it to us freely.
Please keep writing. Your voice is a gift, and your honesty a light. With much gratitude, Inely