There are days when I think that, if God intended for man to
run, he would’ve given them running shoes and hydration packs—or, at the very
least, discount coupons to the nearest sporting goods shop.
Oh, I know there are runners out there who believe that
running is God’s favorite athletic event. They’ll write race-centric Bible
verses on their shoelaces before a big race (“1 Cor. 9:26!”) point out that
John’s “beloved disciple” was faster than Peter and tirelessly quote Eric
Liddell from Chariots of Fire.
“I believe God made me for a purpose, but he also made me
fast,” Liddell tells us. “And when I run I feel His pleasure.”
When I run, I do not feel God’s pleasure. Though sometimes I
think I hear his laughter.
God did not make me fast. He did not make me strong. He did
not give me, frankly, any particular desire to run. And yet, like a bull determined
to ballroom dance or a howler monkey set on making an American Idol appearance,
I push myself to run almost every day. If running is God’s favorite
sport—which, considering the pain involved, I don’t see how it could be—I
believe I help keep the obligatory blooper reel stocked.
See, here’s the thing: I run, but I am not a real runner. I
know what real runners look like and what they wear and how they run. I see them
gracefully bounding like gazelles all over town, they of the wicking shells and
multi-bottle hydration belts and bumper stickers that say “runner.” I am not of
that type. I am, frankly, not capable of it.
I know runners who enjoy running. Almost all of them are
insufferable.
My boss runs every day at lunch without fail: If there’s a
snowstorm, he has his administrative assistant dig a path for him as he runs.
Both invariably come back into the office with massive smiles plastered across
their faces, apparently thrilled to be in such simultaneous proximity to
nature, to God and to frostbite. Running makes him happy, he tells me. It keeps
him centered, he says. It gives him time to contemplate God, to pray. I try to
pray, too—and sometimes find myself whispering involuntary prayers during
particularly long runs: “God,” I say, “Please, if it’s in your will, help me
not to throw up all over my new running shoes. Help my kneecaps stay attached
to whatever they’re supposed to be attached to. Please, keep them from
exploding and hurting innocent bystanders.”
I have a friend who runs. “The first hour is for the body,”
he tells me. “ The second is for the spirit.” Perhaps—but only because your
body is probably close to dead by the end of the first hour, so really that’s
all that’s left.
My own daughter loves to run. There are few things she’d
rather do. I’ve always known there was something wrong with that girl.
I rarely enjoy running. I think I’ve experienced what they
call a “runner’s high” about twice in my life, and both times it was followed
by the lesser-known “runner’s low,” in which your legs are so sore that you
have to scale staircases by sitting on them and moving your rear upward, step
by step.
I run not for the sake of the run, but for the sake of the
meal afterward. I run so I can eat like a famished billy goat and still fit into
my five-year-old pants. When I’m training for a marathon, I’ll go on long
weekend runs early in the morning. And then, as an after-run reward, I’ll zip
over to McDonald’s and buy myself a couple of Sausage McMuffins as a reward.
Oddly enough, I do
feel God’s pleasure in Sausage McMuffins. Though there’s a chance that feeling
might just be the cholesterol lodging inside my arteries, causing a certain
lightness of head.
Why run, you ask? Why not just get yourself roomier pants?
Habit, I suppose. If I don’t run, I feel guilty. And as many
Christians know, guilt can be a powerful motivator. I ran my first marathon
about 10 years ago because a good friend of mine talked me into it. And, after
having geared nine months of my life toward covering a ludicrous distance of
26.2 miles in a matter of hours—on foot—it’d
feel wrong to just say, “well, that’s that. Where’s my barcalounger?”
And then there’s this, too. While I don’t particularly like
running—that is, putting one foot in front of the other about half a million
times—I like what comes with it. I like the discipline it asks of me, because I
am deeply undisciplined. I like the sacrifices it requires, because I am often
selfish. I even find I like the pain—not in a masochistic sort of way, but
because with the aches and soreness that sometimes accompany running, I know
that I’m doing something with my body. I’m not wasting it. And that’s the
strangest thing about running for me. I find that if I don’t do it for a week
or two, I feel a little sick. I find that I miss it: the regimen, the
discipline, even the pain. As tedious as some of my runs can be, the whole they
leave when they’re no longer there is worse.
“Consider it pure joy, my brothers, whenever you face trials
of many kinds, because you know that the testing of your faith develops
perseverance,” wrote James in his New Testament book (James 1:2-4).
“Perseverance must finish its work so that you may be mature and complete, not
lacking anything.”
“Now I rejoice in what was suffered for you, and I fill up
in my flesh what is still lacking in regard to Christ’s afflictions, for the
sake of his body, which is the Church,” the apostle Paul wrote to the
Colossians (Col. 1:24).
My little pavement-pounding regimen is certainly not a test
or trial of faith. When I run, I am not suffering for the good of the Church. I
don’t want to prop my aches and pains to the real tribulations people suffer
both for their faith and in the midst of faith. But in a small (perhaps very
small) way, I think I’m a little closer to understanding how someone can be
joyful—truly joyful—in the midst of trials and pain. And it helps me grasp the
nature of faith a bit better … or, at least, how I sometimes experience faith.
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