Texts: Luke 5: 17-20; Galatians 6: 2
A Few Thoughts on Beginning, Born at the Finish Line
Bear one another’s burdens with gladness.
St. Paul, Letter to the Galatians
To begin, an image. It’s born from the early chapters in the Gospel of Luke, in that familiar story of an ailing man being lowered through the roof of a house so that he might be healed. You likely know the details, how the crowd was so thick that the man and his friends couldn’t get to Jesus, and that they dug a hole through the roof of the house in order to gain entry. A conversation about the forgiveness of sins follows, as does a healing. But that’s not the image I want you to form in your minds. The image is this: at some point before the story picks up, there is a man whose legs would no longer carry him forward. His bodily capacities for movement had come to an end. There is a man. But there are also a collection of friends. And the friends won’t let him be. They care about him, enough that when the time is right, they bear him along to the source of his healing.
That’s the image: a person whose legs no longer work, borne along by people, by friends, who care for him. Hang onto that image, if you would. I’ll return to it in due time, because it has everything to do with how we orient ourselves as people of faith and conscience, during an ugly moment when selfishness, greed, and callousness have been mistaken for virtues. It has to do with how we here at FCCOL orient ourselves for the coming year, poised as we are just now at the precipice of another cycle of programs and gatherings, learnings and challenges. It has to do with what it means to be a church, but more than that, it has to do with what it means to human. I’ll return to it in due time. But first, I’d like to tell you a story, one that leads back to that image of a person born along by those who care.
Here’s the story: A week ago today, I ran the Pikes Peak Marathon with my brother Jeremy, a race that begins in Manitou Springs, Colorado at a little over 6,000 feet. The course then climbs for 13 miles, and more than 7000 feet, to the top of Pikes Peak, at 14,115 feet. After that, runners turn around and retrace their steps, all the way back down. It was 9 miles into a 26 mile race, at somewhere around 10,000 feet, that I knew I was in trouble. When we began our ascent at 7 AM, I had felt confident, and so while Jeremy chose a more cautious approach, I pushed hard to cover as much ground as possible in the early hours, knowing that the elevation would eventually slow me down. And then it did. Somewhere around 10,000 feet, the wheels began to come off. My fingertips went numb. I felt lightheaded. Suddenly, I couldn’t move. And so I stepped off the trail and leaned against a tree, wondering if I’d have to be carted off the mountain.
Running the Pikes Peak Marathon had seemed like a good idea back in January, when Jeremy and I chose to sign up for it. We had done plenty of road races, and we wanted to try something different, something that was both more challenging and a little more unknown. What better way, we thought, than to sign up for what was, reputedly, America’s toughest marathon? What better way than to run to the top of one of the highest peaks in the lower 48, where oxygen is scarce, where the weather can be fierce, and where the trail is strewn with boulders and twisted roots that make each step precarious? What could go wrong?
Maybe it’s just me – or the several hundred of us who ran a week ago. But I think there’s a desire among many people, whether we realize it or not, to connect with our bodies, with the natural world, and with our spirits, in a more elemental way. We lead pretty domesticated lives, filled with all sorts of creature comforts, that as often as not, tend to alienate us from who we most deeply are. It can be hard to hear from ourselves, our deepest selves, amidst the competing demands of our lives. It can be harder still to hear from God, or the Divine, or however we might individually name the source of life, in which, as the Apostle Paul says, we live and move and have our being.
Sometimes we need to re-wild ourselves if we are to get in touch. It’s not that domesticated comfort is all bad. It’s just that for many of us, something elemental and true has gone missing in the midst of our screens and schedules. I think it has to do with the ability to feel human connection. I think it has to do with the capacity to hear from ourselves, and to be in touch with what, individually, are our most pressing questions in our lives. I think it has to do with returning to a kind of physical existence. I think it has to do with feeling wonder and awe at the beauty of the natural world. I think it has to do with confronting impossible tasks, and then being forced to dig deep to overcome whatever obstacles lie in our way. It doesn’t require running to the top of Pikes Peak to rediscover all of that, but back in January, that was what called to us, my brother and me.
And so there I stood, at the edge of a trail with miles yet to go, feeling dizzy and weak. Say, for the sake of argument, that life is something like climbing a mountain. What do you do when all of a sudden you’re sidelined, short of breath and unable to go forward? Many of you have been there, I know – a depression, a personal tragedy, a betrayal, an illness, the death of a friend – these can leave us gasping for breath. God only knows, I’ve encountered a lot of those stories this summer. And so what do we do? Well, we slow down for a while. We adjust, little by little, to what we had hoped, and to what will be. We take stock of the resources for care that we have. We look to others for support and encouragement. And then step by agonizing step, we move forward, trusting that what we need to get through will emerge. That’s what it means to have faith – the assurance that in a manner we can neither schedule nor predict, we will be given the means to endure.
That’s something of how it worked for me at any rate. My reserves were depleted, and so I got some nutrition in me. I slowed down to what felt like a crawl. I gratefully accepted the encouragement of some volunteers on the trail. I sought advice from other runners. But above all, I just kept moving. It wasn’t the day that I hoped for, but in time, I became confident that I had the strength to endure.
It took 5 hours to reach the summit. Gravity took over on the way down, and with each step, oxygen became more plentiful. I saw my brother on the descent, not far from the top, and we offered words of encouragement to one another. Soon the trail became runnable, and I let gravity have its way, all the way to the bottom, where, after rounding a corner in Manitou Springs, the finish line came into view.
But it was only after I crossed it that the most profound learning took place. I just sat in a chair under a tent for a few hours, waiting for my brother, and watching what happened at the finish line. What I witnessed there was incredibly moving. A group of volunteers circulated among all the recently arrived runners. If someone needed water, they brought it. If someone else needed a bandage for a scrape or a cut, it was delivered. Others circulated with ice, while still others brought around bananas, or crackers, or – wait for it – pickle juice. I’m here to tell you it’s the greatest thing you never knew you wanted after an exhausting run. I found myself feeling so grateful for those individuals and their willingness to be of service in that moment. For the hours that I sat there, one woman filled cup after cup with water. When I would shuffle forward with a drained water bottle, as I did many times, she would receive it and fill it for me. It was a simple act, but one that was deeply meaningful, to say nothing of helpful, to all the weary and exhausted people gathered in that tent.
But then I noticed something else. I began to observe all the people coming across the finish line. Many of them were in pretty rough shape. Some of them teared up when they crossed the line, as they released the emotions they had been carrying up and down the mountain. But more than a few were wobbling, on the verge of collapse. It was beautiful to see what happened when each of those runners arrived. A team of people waiting at the finish line would catch them, stabilize them, and hold them up long enough to get a chair underneath them. No one was allowed to hit the ground. And then they were given food, water, medical care, whatever they needed. They were given “ministrations.” It was the most literal example of “ministry,” being ministered to, and providing ministry for, that I have seen for some time. In time, my brother found his way across the line too, in much better shape than most. I exercised my own ministration by delivering him – what else – pickle juice.
Let me return now to the image I began with: a man on a pallet, whose legs have given out. As often as not we focus on the man himself, or on Jesus, or on the Pharisees that begin an argument over the propriety of healing the man. More than ever, I’m drawn to the friends who choose to bear the man up, to carry him toward the source of healing. What a gift to have friends like that. What a testimony to their love, to their dedication, to their care. They’re not unlike all those volunteers at the finish line, waiting to catch people should their bodies fail.
Life itself is a mountain. It’s a bear to climb. Sometimes, it brings with it some glorious moments. Sometimes, it brings moments when we wonder how we’ll get through. There are times when, like me, we have to pull over and figure out what we need if we’re going to keep moving. There are times when our way is reduced to a steady shuffle, where it seems as though we’re barely making progress. There are times, too, when our strength is renewed, and we move ahead with vigor and purpose. But I happen to know that for every one of us, life can get pretty wobbly sometimes. There are moments for each of us when we’re so drained and depleted that we’re very much like those runners at the finish line, at the brink of collapse. In my own life, this summer has brought with it a good many stories that have served as reminders of just how vulnerable we are as human beings. I don’t know if it’s a sign of the times, or the compounded stresses that too many people are facing, but for a lot of people I’ve encountered lately, life has come to feel more than a little wobbly.
What if this is what it meant to be a church, to be people of faith? What if it meant that we’re stationed in such a way that we’re able to catch people when their legs give out, when the effort has become too great, when it’s too much to move another step. And it means that when we’re the ones stumbling, when we’re the ones prone to collapse – which we each of us are at different moments in our lives – someone will be there to catch us, to stabilize us, and to help us get our feet and our bearings again. I believe we experience the fullness of our God-given humanity when we catch those who fall – or when we allow ourselves to be caught. For we are none of us so strong that we cannot stumble or fall – not you, not me, none of us. I’m so grateful to be a part of a community that understands that, and that practices it so well.
And so as we gather on the precipice of autumn once again, summoning our strength to meet the challenges set before us, I would have us all remember that image. We are to be those who watch out for one another, who array ourselves along the base of this mountain called life, who reach out and catch one another when our legs are on the verge of giving out. We are to be those who bear one another’s burdens with gladness, as the Apostle Paul put it so memorably in his letter to the Galatians. Why do we do it? We do it, at least in part, because God has already done it for us. “Surely he hath borne our griefs and carried our sorrows,” the prophet Isaiah wrote. We offer ourselves because we have already been carried and supported, not only by our friends, not only by our family, but by God. In ways you may not even have recognized, you’ve been supported by a gracious and encouraging Presence throughout your journey upon life’s mountain.
There’s one more thing I wish to tell you this morning. This isn’t just a church thing that I’m describing. It is, but it’s more. It’s not simply a learning for those who identify with a faith tradition. It is, but it’s more. In truth, it forms the essence of what it is to be a human being. If you don’t believe me, consider the finish line under an alternative ethos. Imagine what it would be like if those at the finish line just watched with indifference as people collapsed. Imagine if they shook their heads, and laughed. Imagine if they scoffed at the runners, and said, “well, it was their choice, they did it to themselves.” Imagine if all the water coolers and Gatorade and medical care were removed from the finish line, in order to foster a greater self-reliance and independence. Imagine if there was nobody there to catch those who stumbled, because everyone agreed that “you just can’t take care of everyone.”
That’s precisely the impulse that many people in our country, and in the world at large, are yielding to just now. I don’t have to tell you – you already know it – but it bears saying in public: such a vision has nothing in common with the life of faith outlined by Jesus, outlined by the Apostle Paul, or outlined by generations of theologians. It has nothing in common with any faith tradition with which I am acquainted, all of which move us toward the ethic of care found among those friends who carried a man toward healing, found in the words of the Apostle Paul, and found at the foot of Pikes Peak. They all recognize that life on the mountain is hard. They know too well that for far too many, things can get pretty wobbly. They know how to show up, and they know how to care.
My hope is that we’ll be those who do it as well. Standing at the precipice of another year, I hope we’ll be that kind of church. I hope we’ll be that kind of people.
