The Blogger Returns to Run

In January I gave a sermon on Hebrews 12, which contributed (in part) to my blog writing absence of late. The passage the sermon was over compares a life lived in faith with running a race. As part of the metaphor, the author of Hebrews encourages the audience to "throw off everything that hinders," just as a runner sheds all extra weight or burdens when competing. Referring to all in our lives that isn't necessarily sin but that keeps us from running hard and running well, the text is a call to examine our lives, or our "race," and see what's slowing us down in our pursuit of the finish line.

One of my favorite statements from the sermon is this: "If you want to know what good in your life is getting in the way of your best, start running hard." When that sentence popped up during the creation of the sermon, I knew I had something that I wanted to hone in on personally.

It's easy to carry around a lot of extra and convince myself that it's good and brings me joy when I forget that I'm running any kind of race. I even allow myself to think about my life as many different races, that all have different race days, and all deserve some training from me. But when I commit, or recommit (as is so often the case) to running hard and running my race, I notice I can barely get out of the gate with all that I'm carrying.

If you want to know what's slowing you down in whatever it is you are pursuing, start pursuing it with a singularity of purpose. Decide that you're going to make it happen, no matter the cost. Hold all else loosely, and see what you must give up. If giving up what you have to give up to get it isn't worth it, you'll know the race you're running is the wrong race. Count the cost, and see if you're okay with the price. It's a question that deserves to be asked, whether your race is career success, strong family life, marathon running, or a devoted life of faith. And you'll never be able to truly answer the question unless you run hard.

And if you find out it's not worth it, that you don't want to throw off that which is slowing you down in this pursuit, if you're not willing to run hard, should you really be running in that direction at all?

Unfortunately, the race we are often most tempted to run is the race of comfort. The weight or hindrances that slow us down are ambition, love, sacrifice, and even joy. Those things slow down our immediate comfort. They delay our resting, slow us down in our pursuit of a comatose sameness, so much so that we are willing to shed them in our run. Dreams and risk endanger comfort. Love worth having spits in the face of contentment and relaxation. Lasting joy is often paired with immediate difficulty. So we shed them, casting them aside like superfluous clothing on a sweat-drenched summer run.

I'm not sure anyone knowingly does this. No one says, "Today I'm giving up love so I can just be me," or "my life goals are really slowing down my race to the couch." But how often are the little battles for love and faith and dreams shirked aside in the present for another hour in front of the TV?

We have become a culture of "feelings." I know this because I'm on the front lines of cultural shifts in the high school classroom. The changing public opinion polls and wavering priorities of society are reflected directly in the mouths of those of 16--18 years old voices reacting (however unwilling) to literature. And what I am blown away by now, as I've seen it progress in frequency over the past couple of years, is the number of sentences coming out of their mouths that begin with "I feel. . ." Whether talking about breakfast, politics, Shakespearean poetry, or the NFL playoffs, I hear "I feel" begin their responses at an uncanny rate. Feeling is reality to them. They've been told to worship at that temple.

Running a worthy race, and running that race well, is about far more than a feeling, though. You will almost always feel like comfort. That is your soul's default race. On most days you will not feel like training, whatever that training may be. I don't often feel like praying. I don't feel like writing. And I don't feel like sacrificial love. I know the value of a training routine, regardless of what I feel like. I wrote more prayer in 2015 than I did in the previous four years combined because I knew I needed to establish a routine. I didn't always feel like it. In fact, I rarely did. But I always felt like I wanted to be a guy who ran hard and ran well in the race of faith. And I never felt good about the race of comfort.

So I go back into training. I poke and prod for the extra that hinders, for the good in the way of the great, and for the discipline to cast aside the not so good that decays all running pursuits.

Feelings beware.