I took a wrong turn on my run today. Let me point out that I'm only two months into living in my new neighborhood, so when I went down one road thinking I'd end up at a place on Beacon closer to Newton I ended up closer to downtown Boston. I'd almost doubled the length of my anticipated distance for the day.
I had planned to run from my front door to the front door of the coffee shop I work at; the planned 3.6 miles was a perfect run. I had served as liturgist at church this morning and, as it was both All Saints Day and a Communion Sunday, church had run long. An hour and forty minutes, give or take a few. I was tired, but I decided earlier this year that I wasn't going to fall prey to the "Preacher's Nap" - I didn't want to sleep away the one afternoon a week I knew I wouldn't have to be working at the coffee shop or sitting in class. So I got home from church, put on my running clothes, and headed out.
I started down Kelton, thinking I'd very soon see Beacon - and that I'd be right near Marathon Sports (3.1 miles from the front door of Peet's - a marker I used a lot when I was training for my first half - I'd run from school to Marathon Sports and back, adding in some side streets to make it 7 or 8 miles on a long run day). But I wasn't right near Marathon Sports. No. By the time I reached the running store, I'd already run almost 2 miles.
I got to the Chestnut Hill Reservoir and realized that I could turn home - I'd already run most of my planned distance and I didn't need to run to Newton anyway. I could stop running, walk up the hill, get on the T, and go home.
But I didn't stop. And I think this is the one thing that running has embedded in me more than any other lesson. It's also something that came up at the career assessment I had to participate in last week (it's a requirement for ordination in the conference I belong to). The psychologist who worked with me asked a question after I told her about some hard times I'd gone through - "Why do you always keep going?"
My response was, "I have to. I have to see it through. And underneath it all, even when things are hard, I know that in the end, it'll work out. Maybe not how I planned, but it'll work out."
I called this perseverance, determination, and will.
The psychologist suggested that it was faith.
And so I'm at the Reservoir, and I'm tired and cold because I didn't really dress for a run this long in winds this cold, and I'm contemplating turning up the hill or running the additional 3 miles out to Newton. Can I make it? Will I end up walking the rest of the way just to get on the T and come back? Why do I even need to run anymore today?
Well, I didn't need to run anymore - I got to run.
I walked a little bit but I ran much more than I walked.
And yes, of course I could make it to Newton.
It was while waiting for a crossing signal at one of the busier intersections that the thought occurred to me, this is why I will finish a marathon. It won't be because I'm a very talented runner, or ridiculously fast, or anything technical. When I finish my marathon, it will be because every molecule of my being was determined to finish. It will be because I persevered, and willed myself through the hard times. It will be because I had faith that I could make it that far. It will be because, for me, there is no other option.
Calling someone for a ride because I've gotten tired, it doesn't work for me. Even if I finish a race in the very last place - even if I limp the last mile of a 5k (like I did a few weeks ago at a race where my plantar fasciitis really presented a problem), I have to finish. And I think that goes for a lot of runners, because we know that this sport is about endurance - seeing it through.
Now what if we looked at our participation in religious communities that same way?
What if we were committed to seeing it through, even when it got hard? Even when our head was telling us it was too difficult to finish? The head likes to speak up long before the body has reached even half of what it can really give?
I think of my home church, my beloved and amazing home church, that has already done so much. They've gone through an awful lot the past year. To say it's been hard is an understatement.
Admittedly, yes, some have said this race is too much and they need to step away, to heal. I understand there is grief and pain there, and I ache for those people who have decided that, for whatever reason, the hurt outweighs the words of the covenant we each made to be members in this community of faith.
But I have also seen resiliency; people who, despite hurting, despite grieving the fractions in the community, continue to believe there is work to be done, good work, and that this congregation is still participating in it. There are those who know that faith, that being a member in a church, is sometimes running uphill with a headwind at night in the rain - and yet, they are committed to crossing that finish line.
It's trying on the brain and the body, but we covenant to run this race together. We don't covenant to be in community only when it's easy or only when it suits us. We covenant to see each other through thick and thin, to put aside our ego, our desires, our preferences, to do the work that really needs to get done.
Of course, I compare an awful lot of being in community to running a race. But there's a huge difference: races have finish lines. There are no finish lines for our religious communities. We keep going. Once we pass one obstacle, there will, eventually, be another. No matter what. That's part of what it means to be in community together. It's when we reach those growing edges that we have to ask ourselves, "Are we going to back down or do we believe that we have the strength to endure?"
