The Race That is Set Before Us

April 22, 2020

A homily for our time.

So where to begin?

How about Cleveland, Ohio. The year: 1990. The date: May 21. Her name was Georgene Johnson. She was 42 years of age. Feeling the effects of impending middle age, she began to jog. Eventually, she decided to try a little competition. The event she chose was a 10K run (6.25 miles). Her point of origin: downtown Cleveland.

Seeing a large crowd at the starting line, she was more than a little surprised that so many were assembling so early. But the gun sounded and, caught up in the surge of the pack, she never gave it another thought. At least, not until she approached the four-mile mark. Which was when she began to wonder why the course hadn’t doubled back on itself … as she was told it would … therefore insuring that there would be a finish line somewhere in the vicinity of the starting line. Slowing her pace to ask an official, it was only then that she discovered she was running the Cleveland Marathon (a distance of 26 miles, 385 yards). Her event, the 10K run, was scheduled to commence from the same starting line, some thirty minutes after the start of the Marathon.

While still running, she tried making her plight known to officials and bystanders lining the roadway. None seemed to understand. And if they did, they seemed disinclined to help. So, Georgene Johnson just kept on running. After all, she reasoned:

• This isn’t the race I trained for.

• This isn’t the race I entered.

• But, for better or worse, this is the race I’m in.

She finished in four hours and four minutes, a most respectable time.

•••••

I can’t identify with that, because I have a hard time believing I could do that. Though I have done a little long-distance running (emphasis on the word “little”).

I was turning fifty years old (and not feeling super good about it). Kris and I had a vacation home just north of Elk Rapids, fronting on Grand Traverse Bay. Every August (as part of Elk Harbor Days), there was a 10K footrace. “I’ll run it,” I said. “You’re kidding,” others said. “How hard can it be?” I countered. Knowing that the turn-around mark was right in front of my house, I figured that if I couldn’t finish, I could quit and collapse into my home. But I was certain I would finish. That’s just who I am.

Well, I barely trained (emphasis on both the words, “barely” and “trained.”). But sign up, I did. Paid my money, I did. Got my t-shirt, I did. Took my place at the starting line, I did.

Where I noticed that all of my competitors were skinny. I mean, I could count their ribs. When I pointed this out to a rare competitor who looked sorta like me, he said, “You and I are in what they call, “The Clydesdale Division.” So I said a little prayer (to myself):

Lord, let me finish.

And if it be even remotely possible,

let there be somebody

behind me when I finish.

Well, I ran. I finished. And there were several people behind me when I finished. Enough, so that I ran the same race twice more in succeeding years (including once with my daughter, to whom I said, a quarter-mile in, “Don’t worry about me. Just go.” Which she did. Because she could, don’t you see. I got two more t-shirts, along with some free fruit at the finish. But I never experienced what people call, “the runner’s high.” Never once. Ever.

•••••

Enough reminiscing. Georgene Johnson is now dead. And I am pushing 80. Meaning that, among other things, I no longer feel the need to prove anything. Except I do need to exhibit endurance in week eight of the COVID-19 Pandemic, while being my most obedient self by staying home and washing my hands.

• This isn’t the race I signed up for.

• This isn’t the race I trained for.

• This isn’t the race I particularly enjoy.

• But this the race I’m in.

Now, you need to know that I am not a patient person. And I am certainly not an introvert. But, in this case, I have been … and will continue to be … compliant. But compliant does mean “without complaint.” For I have learned that my complaining puts me in good company. Biblical company. Just last week, I went to my Bible Concordance to look up the phrase, “How long?” … including the phrase, “How long, O, Lord?” Those phrases are often completed by the words, “Do I have to bear with this … hang in there with this … or even, ‘wilt thou forget me?” Would you believe that the words, “How long, O, Lord?” appear fifty-nine times? Meaning that my co-complainers have been multiple.

So, why am I being compliant? In part, for you. For as much as I don’t want to get it (the virus, I mean), I don’t want to give it. I don’t want to give it to you … to my wife … to my daughter … to my son-in-law … or my two grandchildren. Nor do I want to give it to my church. Which includes thirty guys I meet with on Zoom every Wednesday morning at 6:30 am for study.

I owe so much to so many. But I do not owe you a life-threatening illness. Which means that I will keep in touch. I will reach out (by voice and in print). I will be a cheerleader. And I will be a check-writer.

I have not lost my job. I have not lost my primary source of income. And I may not get a stimulus check. So, Kris and I will dig deep. We will go as far as we can go … for as many as we can go … giving as much as we can give. Quietly.

This is a relational race we are running. And ours is a relational gospel we are practicing. My Alexandria, Virginia colleague, Chris Davis, directed me back to my Concordance in order to discover that there are fifty-nine “one another commands” in the New Testament. Commands like, love one another … forgive one another … weep with one another … rejoice with one another … bear with one another. Then, just to prove things for myself, I hauled out my Concordance and counted. Chris Davis is right. Fifty-nine “one another commands.” Oh my! Who knew? Well, I do. And now you do, too.

•••••

But let me honest with you. I am doing what has been asked for another reason. Not only because I am obedient. Not only because I am virtuous. Not only because I am collegial. And certainly not only because I am patient. I mean, I, too, have some “cabin fever.” But I am doing what I have been asked in a very nice cabin, sharing life with a very nice cabin-mate.

And I am doing it because there is a part of me who is afraid.

• Of getting infected.

• Of becoming sick.

• Of becoming hospitalized.

• Of becoming intubated.

• Of being ventilated.

• And of dying … alone.

How do I know that? Not because I ponder it. Not because I obsess over it. But because I dreamed about it … sort of. Last Sunday, there was an article in the New York Times, which suggested that in the wake of the Coronavirus scare, many of us are having weird dreams.

In my dream, I was piloting a jet ski … over a blue body of water … a big, blue body of water … a big, blue, deep body of water.

I did not turn my jet ski over. No, it just stopped. And at some point in response to its stopping, I just leaned forward. Or maybe I fell forward. So that my upper body was laying across the arms. Which was when it occurred to me that I was dead.

And in my dream, some other people … in some other boat … pulled along side. And, pointing at the jet ski, someone said, “It must have run out of gas.” But as they pulled even closer, another member of the group said, “No, it appears that he ran out of gas.” Whereupon, I was pulled in and brought home.

•••••

This isn’t the race I entered.

This isn’t the race I trained for.

This isn’t the race I’m in.

But out on the waters, I’m still riding the waves … humming … half-singing as I go.

Jesus, Savior, pilot me,

Over life’s tempestuous sea;

Unknown waves before me roll,

Hiding rocks and treacherous shoal.

Chart and compass come from Thee:

Jesus, Savior, pilot me!

•••••