John Mark Mines

For My Next Trick

I learned early in life that success demands a spotlight. Valedictorians get to speak at graduation; champions get their pictures on the covers of magazines. Winners shine while losers fade into the background.

Success sells. Gatorade’s “Be Like Mike” ad campaign in the early ’90s wasn’t subtle. It didn’t need to be: the jingle increased Gatorade’s revenue from $681 million to over a billion dollars. People liked Gatorade but they loved being “like Mike.”

You don’t have to be Michael Jordan to sell success. In 2025, the social media influencer market surpassed $32 billion. The entire industry is built on superiority, and we’re no longer just watching ads on TV — we’re scrolling through them, 24/7.

Success goes deeper than money. We curate social media and dating profiles around accolades and achievements. Success doesn’t just make money: it makes us worthy of love.

Success is intoxicating because it feels like control. To succeed is to shape the world around you, to decide what happens next. It means your fate is in your own hands. Success is more than achievement — it’s power.

Losing, on the other hand, is to succumb. It makes us feel weak, exposed, and forgettable. Winners are enshrined in halls of fame; losers are erased.

Generally, losing means disappearing. But in magic, disappearance is the point.

Turning the Tables

The crucifixion of Jesus Christ is one of the most renowned moments in history. Going into the Last Supper, Jesus was undefeated. Not anymore. He would soon be defeated through public humiliation, suffering, and death… and it would be remembered forever.

For Christians, the crucifixion is a weekly fixation. In communion, believers break bread and drink wine (or Welch’s grape juice) in remembrance. The worst day of Jesus’ life is relived again and again.

In view of our love for success, this is a rather strange practice. Jesus had no shortage of victories: he healed the sick, fed thousands of people, turned water into wine. He literally walked on water. Nevertheless, of all the days of his life, the worst is remembered the most.

That doesn’t add up. An ad campaign would boast Jesus’ greatest miracles. The commercial would show him moonwalking across a Sea of Gatorade. It would put “Be Like Mike” to shame.

Instead, the cross became the symbol of Christianity. It’s worn around necks, placed on walls, and etched into stained glass windows. Far from a footnote, the crucifixion is told four times over in the Gospels. Clearly, his worst day is intended to be remembered most.

Why? Because the crucifixion is the turn. And the greater the turn, the greater the prestige.

Abracadabra

The turn is something we all go through. A few years ago, I had one of the worst days of my life. A soccer ball to the back of the head sent my occipital lobe for a wild ride. My vision blurred with blind spots. The headaches lasted over a year. Even now, when I look up, bright sprites dance across the sky.

Recovery gave me too much time to think. That day replayed in my mind constantly… What if I had just stayed home? None of this would have happened. I would never have gotten hurt.

Jesus could have stayed home too. He could have remained unblemished and undefeated. But if he had, there’d be no resurrection. No turn, no prestige.

This is why the Passion resonates, why it overshadows the miracles. It confronts our greatest fear: that if we fall, we won’t get back up — that failure becomes final.

Falling down is part of the trick. Your story isn’t over yet. That’s the power of the Passion: defeat isn’t the end. Redemption is real.

The cross reveals the magician’s secret: the magic is in the comeback. There’s no trick where nothing disappears, no awe in a life where nothing is risked. If the rabbit never leaves the hat, no one applauds when it’s still there.

If you want greatness, you will fall. That’s the turn. Your story isn’t over. Getting back up — that’s the prestige.