Running: Good For the Soul (But Not For the Sole)

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.

Siriel, the Make-Believe, Answer-Everything Christian App

According to a new survey from the Pew Forum on Religion and Public Life, one out of every five Americans now claims to have no religious affiliation.

Now, there’s been a lot of discussion about the study—what it means, what it doesn’t mean, how accurate it is—but for me, it made me think about how great it’d be if there was some sort of one-size fits-all, answer-everything Christian app.

I’m not talking about an app that gives you encouraging daily Bible verses or walks you through Leviticus or offers you coupons allowing you to attend your next church service for free. Those are great, but I’m talking about an app that would act as a spiritual Siri or something—a sort of all-purpose pastor on call, answering all your immediate spiritual needs.

Say you wanted to know whether it’d be OK to omit your annoying Uncle Harry from your Thanksgiving Day gathering. The app (should we call it “Siriel?”) would tell you whether you, as a good Christian, could in good conscience do such a thing. Or maybe you’d really like to see Paranormal Activity 4 (heaven help you) but worry that maybe God wouldn’t like you going to horror flicks. Well, Siriel would tell you whether horror movies would ever be allowed in a Christian’s entertainment diet—and if so, which ones. (The Exorcism of Emily Rose might be OK. The Saw movies, not so much.)

It could be theological: No longer would devout fundamentalists need argue over pre-millennial vs. post-millennial interpretations of Revelation. Siriel would render a quick and chipper verdict. It could be sensitive: Ask it why a good God would allow so much pain in the world, and it’d have a ready answer. “Are you speaking generally, or are you referring to your recent breakup with Mindy, that no-good restaurant hostess?” it might say. It might even offer voting advice.

And, if it noticed that your spiritual life was in some jeopardy—say it noticed you were walking into a Saw movie with Mindy—it’d set off some sort of officially licensed alarm to gently usher you back to the path of righteousness. Linda Ronstadt’s “You’re No Good,” perhaps, or AC/DC’s “Highway to Hell.”

And, if we didn’t like Siriel’s advice—if it felt just a little too judgmental for our tastes--maybe we could adjust the settings so that it might go a little easier on you.

An app like that would solve a lot of problems, wouldn’t it? Wouldn’t it be great if something like that could tell you how to live your life? We’d never have to think again.

Just as God gave us that pesky sense of free will—giving us a choice as to whether to follow Him or not—he made the act of following Him really tricky at times. Jesus told us to love our enemies, but He might not’ve had Uncle Harry in mind at that very moment. Paul might’ve encouraged us, in Philippians 4:8, to focus on whatever is pure and virtuous and noble and whatnot. But he also said in 1 Corinthians 10:23 that everything’s permissible. So where does that leave Saw?

The thing is, Christianity is hard. It’s not just hard to act like a Christian (though that’s plenty hard). Sometimes, it’s hard to know just how a Christian would act. It’s as if God wanted us to struggle at times. It’s as if he wanted us to think deeply about this stuff.

It’s as if He thought that, grappling with the mysteries of life might help us draw closer to Him. It’s as if He was really serious that we should put our trust in Him and that boundless grace and mercy—to follow His will as best we can but to understand that we won’t get everything always right … and to know that, sometimes in spite of ourselves,  that our lives are still cupped in his loving hands.

Which, ironically, makes this hard faith of ours quite simple as well.

But paradox is a hard sell. Any PR agency or focus group could tell you that. Mystery and wonder and struggle (particularly struggle) won’t do much to convince those 20 percent of religiously unaffiliated American to give Christianity a go.

No, what we need is an app.

James Bond, Model Christian

Who’s the best Bond?

It’s a question that James Bond fans seem to ask themselves with each new movie. Was Sean Connery’s lethal charm better than Roger Moore’s suave sense of humor? (Yes.) Could Pierce Brosnan wear a tux better than Timothy Dalton? (Yes.) Was poor ol’ George Lazenby wrongfully chastised for being the worst 007 ever? (No.)

Don’t spread this around, but I’ve been a big fan of Bond since I was a kid—in spite of his drinking, carousing, killing ways. I liked the dude so much that, when I was a religion reporter, I somehow conned my editors into letting me do a Bond-centric entertainment story when Daniel Craig was about to make his 007 debut in Casino Royale. I called it “Bonding Agents,” and it was tasked with weighing the attributes of each Bond as carefully and clinically as possible. Not who was “best,” mind you—that, now and forever, will be a matter of personal opinion—but who was the most lethal, the most lecherous, the most likely to quaff a vodka martini at any given moment.

(If you’re curious … Connery racked up the most confirmed kills during his seven-film run, including his unofficial outing in Never Say Never Again … but Brosnan was the most lethal per film, offing an average of 19.25 per film. Lazenby got around the most, having slept with three women in his one movie—but all the Bonds averaged more than two sexual conquests per flick.)

We can call James Bond many things: An assassin, a patriot, a lover, a fighter, a snob. But few would call him a Christian role model.

Except now, after seeing Skyfall, I might.

Oh, he’s still a horrible example of Christian living, no question. In fact, he might be a sober illustration of what we ought not to do. And yet for all his faults, in Skyfall he gets something right. He shows the heart of a servant.

Early in Skyfall, as Bond grapples with a bad’un, he overhears M asking another agent to take a shot at the villain—even though Bond might be in the way. Sure enough, he is. He gets hit and falls off a bridge, apparently to his death. Only he doesn’t die; he simply vanishes for a while, letting the home office assume he’s toast while he spends his nights drinking and sleeping around and playing with scorpions.

But when he hears the MI6 building has been attacked, Bond heads home and offers his services once again. He’s a bit of a wreck; he fails all of his physicals and the department shrinks suggest he has some addiction issues (imagine). But M ships him out to the field anyway; she trusts him. She believes in him.

Naturally, he doesn’t disappoint. But it’s a costly mission, and he loses a great deal along the way. And when Bond comes face-to-face with Silva, he endures what might be classified as a crisis of faith.

Silva, you see, was a former agent himself—a highly skilled operative who, like Bond, M eventually left to die. M, Silva tells Bond, is the real villain here—willing to sacrifice anyone and anything if it suits her purposes. Then he tells 007 a secret: He (Bond) is not fit for duty. Silva knows because he hacked into M16’s computer system. Bond failed all of his tests. M sent him out, knowing he’d likely die.

Bond is forced to ask whether his faith in M—his faith in Queen and Country—is justified.

I think most of us ask a similar question in our walks with God. Along the way, we’re invariably confronted with doubt and despair. We suffer and wonder how a loving God could be so silent in our time of need. We might, like Bond, grow angry. And some of us, like Silva, might get so mad that we leave the fold. He’s not there, we say. He doesn’t love us. I’m outta here.

We can’t know whether Bond ever wavered in his commitment—whether he ever truly doubted M during this temptation on a desert island. But M never apologizes for her decisions. When she learns what Silva’s been saying, M tells Bond she’d made the same decision again. If there’s a greater good to be had through risking an agent, she’ll do so every time.

But while M won’t flinch at making a difficult call, that doesn’t mean she’ll like it. When she believed Bond was dead, she mourned him in her own steely way. And Bond, in his own way as well, cares deeply for M. At the end of Skyfall, I find myself asking a strange, serious question—whether the spy has ever loved a woman more.

In the end, Bond accepted that he wasn’t his own man: He was an instrument in another hand. And if he could serve that hand through either his life or death, he was willing to do so.

In a sense, isn’t that what we all are? Instruments in God’s hand? We are made for His work and pleasure. We are at our happiest when we’re at the labor God intended for us, even if the work is dangerous. Whoever and whatever we are, we’ve been called to be servants of a higher purpose. How easy it is to forget that. Because, let’s face it: It’s a frightening thing to remember.

But even as we acknowledge that we are God’s to use as He will, we must also remember that God love us and wants the best for us. We are part of his plan. And I believe that, in that perfect plan of His, He wants us to be happy.

It’s a bit poignant in Skyfall, when M sees Bond’s test results and sends him out anyway. She doesn’t do so to be rid of him, but because she (in her own way) loves him. It reminds me of how many imperfect people God has called to do great things in His name—people who would’ve failed every aptitude test that an ancient MI6 might’ve rolled out.

Who’s the best Bond? I’ve always been partial to Sean Connery. But Daniel Craig, in Skyfall, brings something to the table I don’t think I’ve ever really seen in 007 before: Imperfection. Fragility. The inkling that not every mission will end with a vodka martini toast. And yet still he serves Queen and Country—not because he has to, but because he wants to. He’s not just a spy; he’s a servant. And serving a greater power can be a beautiful thing.

A Little After-Election Perspective

As President Barack Obama was mopping up his successful campaign to lead the country for another four years, I was polishing off Walter Isaacson's biography of Benjamin Franklin. For me, personally, it felt like a fitting conclusion to the evening—and really, to this hard-fought election season.

Franklin was America's first Renaissance man—its best-known inventor, philosopher, writer and statesman before the United States officially cut the cord with the British Empire. He was also a man with an ability to get along with folks of all political persuasions (except for his own son, who sided with Britain during the war). That makes him, I think, an inspiring character in an age of bitter partisanship. And even though the guy was not particularly religious—many atheists (wrongly) claim him as one of his own—his spirit of compromise actually had some deeply spiritual underpinnings.

In 1987, four years after the Revolutionary War and as the United States struggled under its Articles of Confederation, an 81-year-old Franklin was asked to participate in a convention to "revise" those articles. As it turned out, the convention opted to scrap the thing altogether and craft a new form of government. But here's the thing: They were creating it from scratch. After all, they had just rebelled against a monarchic government (so in vogue at the time) and had no interest in creating a petty dictatorship. There was no country in the world from which they could model the sort of government they wanted, and there were some wildly different ideas on how it should look. Franklin, for instance, hated the idea of a sole President, preferring a cabinet for the new nation's executive branch. And the legislature? Forget two congressional houses. One will do much better.

Most of the delegates were equally opinionated, and in-house fighting grew quite heated. But as things threatened to spin out of control, Franklin made an interesting proposal: Why don't we pray about it? Writes Isaacson:

Franklin was never known to pray publicly himself, and he rarely attended church. Yet he thought it useful to remind his assembly of demigods that they were in the presence of a God far greater, and that history was watching as well. To succeed, they had to be awed by the magnitude of their task and be humbled, not assertive. Otherwise, he concluded, "we shall be divided by our little, partial, local interests, our projects will be confounded, and we ourselves shall become a reproach and a by-word down to future ages."   

Franklin didn't get his prayer: The convention didn't have the money to hire a chaplain. But the point was made. The convention, naturally, went on to craft the United States Constitution—a document that was a product of compromise and imbued with the understanding that none of us are perfect. The Constitution's divisions of power and its system of checks and balances tells us, more than 200 years later, that absolute power cannot be entrusted to one man, or even one body of man. We all need help. We all need guidance. And we work best when we understand there are other, higher authorities watching us.

I wonder, sometimes, if we could use more of an attitude of prayer—not just in politics, but in our daily lives. Prayer is great for a lot of those reasons, of course … but one of the biggest is how it puts us—emotionally, spiritually and often physically—in a posture of humility. It reminds us that we're not as great and cool as we sometimes imagine ourselves to be; that we're dependent beings that need help and guidance. It reinforces that it's not all about us: We're a small piece in a much bigger picture.

Franklin died three years after the convention, leaving behind one of the greatest epitaphs of all time. Though he opted to use something a bit similar for his tombstone, his original seems far more fitting for America's premiere 18th-century wit:

The body of

B. Franklin, Printer:

(Like the cover of an old book,

Its contents worn out,

and stripped of its lettering and guilding)

Lies here, food for worms.

But the work shall not be lost:

For it will, (as he believed) appear once more,

In a new and more elegant edition,

Revised and corrected

By the author. 

Voting Values ... And Valuing the Vote

I love politics. I really do. But even I’m about ready for this political season to be over.

I’ve read the stories, watched the debates, heard the ads and felt the spin. Even in September, my enthusiasm for this hallowed tradition was still running strong. But you can only hear so many times that the other guy’s a jerk before you just start rolling your eyes and losing just a wee bit of hope in our political system. George Will of The Washington Post offered a great quote from Woody Allen Nov. 2: “One path leads to despair and utter hopelessness. The other, to total extinction. Let us pray we have the wisdom to choose correctly.”

Christians should do a lot of praying this time of year. It’s a big responsibility, this voting thing. We’re asking these folks to handle some pretty hefty responsibilities, and we should be equally grave in deciding who’s the best fit for the jobs at hand.

But sometimes, I wonder whether in our zeal to select the right folks, we might go a little overboard.

When I was a religion reporter in Colorado Springs, I had a chance to cover the 2004 election, when “moral values” was (according to the exit polls) the biggest issue of the election. Evangelical voters turned out in droves to vote for George W. Bush, which helped push him to a narrow victory over Sen. John Kerry.

But during that election, I was surprised by a handful of Christians who told me a vote for Dubya didn’t just better reflect their values: Anyone who voted against him was voting against Christian values. It wasn’t just that God had a political preference (these folks insinuated): He had a vendetta against the other guy ... and the other party. Many were probably amazed that the election culminated in a vote and not a bolt of lightning.

Now, I’m all for Christians voting their values. Anyone who thinks that people of faith can somehow separate their faith from their politics—well, they don’t have a great handle on how faith is supposed to work. My beliefs filter into every area of my life, and for me, pert near everything on the docket—health care, the environment, the economy—all are “values” issues. How I think about those issues reflect my priorities, which in turn reflect my faith.

But I dunno. It feels that sometimes, we Christians can get our politics and religion a little confused. I’m not saying that God doesn’t care who wins elections … I’m just saying that, important as they are, they are “just” elections. And all the folks in ‘em are all God’s creation, whether you agree with their politics or not. And as such, they deserve our respect, if not our votes.

I just finished reading ReFocus, the new book from Focus on the Family’s Jim Daly. Now, he’s my boss (Plugged In, where I work as an entertainment reviewer, is a part of the ministry), so I hope this doesn’t sound too much like a plug. But I really appreciate his belief that Christians should be humble, even in the realm of public discourse and debate. Now, Daly’s as staunch a defender of the values evangelicals hold dear as anyone; he definitely encourages folks to take an active part in the political sphere. But he understands that the Christian faith isn’t inherently synonymous with one political party. And sometimes, during a particularly heated political season, we can all get so wrapped up in winning the argument that we forget we’re supposed to be winning hearts as well. Writes Daly (with collaborator Paul Batura):

Sometimes we might do what’s right—but for the wrong (usually selfish) reason. I am reminded of the story of the philosopher Diogenes. He was once seen sitting on a curb eating lentils and bread, a meager meal. A fellow philosopher, Aristippus, a man who lived well because he flattered the kind, approached him and mocked his circumstance. “If you would learn to be subservient to the kind,” he snarled, “you would not have to live on lentils.” Diogenes looked up with a smile, tilted his head, and replied, “Learn to live on lentils, and you will not have to cultivate the king.”

When politics and religion have grown too tightly connected to one another, the results have not always been particularly successful. I can’t help but feel that governments—all governments—are fallable, potentially falling prey to either corruption or weak leadership or any number of ailments. The Church is, I think, at its best when it stands just a bit outside the halls of power—speaking boldly to the issues of the day without the need to cultivate the king. Or, for that matter, the President.

Casting for the Crown

Sure, there’s a big movie about Noah coming out in 2014 (though production has been delayed a bit, ironically due to flooding), and a massive 10-hour ministeries on The Bible next spring. But while the Bible is big business in Hollywood right now, I haven’t heard anything about a major motion picture based strictly on the Gospels trundling out in the near future. (It seems a few have been done already.)

Clearly, Hollywood is waiting a bit before the inevitable reboot ... but you can't wait too long. Which, naturally, makes now the best time to pick out a cast! At least, that seems as though that’s the idea behind a question asked by VanityFair and 60 Minutes: "If you were directing a new film version of the New Testament, which actor would you cast to play Jesus?"

Denzel Washington was the runaway favorite, apparently. And in my opinion, he’d be a great choice. He made a kick-butt biblical defender in The Book of Eli, for one thing, and you can picture doing pert near everything the New Testament might ask of him—from turning over tables to weeping occasionally to bantering with the woman at the well. It doesn’t hurt that he’s a Christian, either.

But runner-up Daniel Day Lewis would be a pretty awesome choice, too. (I’m reviewing Lincoln next week for my day job. Can’t wait!) Woody Allen and Philip Seymour Hoffman didn’t fare so well in the poll.

It’s a pretty interesting exercise, though, casting the Bible. I wrangled up a would-be dream cast for Genesis a few years back for Beliefnet.com, and it was a hoot. And the entertainment industry already knows that Exodus can make a popular, action-packed movie, too. (In fact, rumor has it that Steven Spielberg is close to signing a deal to direct just such a film. Really.) But let’s face it, once you hit Leviticus, you realize that not every book in the Bible is primed for a major Hollywood production.