Therefore, since we are surrounded by so great a cloud of witnesses, let us also lay aside every weight, and sin which clings so closely, and let us run with endurance the race that is set before us. Hebrews 12:1
Before today I haven’t really run in…I don’t know when. I was running, a lot. I ran a half marathon in October 2015 and
kept running after that. But 8 months
ago I hurt my hip flexor and walking became difficult—running was a no.
Here’s the confession. I could
have started running before now. I did
try after just resting for about 2 months.
That didn’t go well. But I could
have started running after 5-6 months of resting. It was easier not to. Once I stopped, it was just easier to stay
stopped. And the longer I stayed
stopped, the harder it became to start.
Then the fear started talking. “It’s
going to hurt, you know. You’ll probably
just re-injure yourself. You’ve already
replaced the time…what could you possibly give up now? It’s going to hurt, you know.” And the excuses kept me from trying. People started asking me about running. I heard myself talking about the glory
days. [Imagine in creaky elderly voice back in ’15 I was running with the gazelles…]
And then I stepped on the scale and
tried on some shorts that fit last summer.
And that’s when I realized I had stopped running, but I had not stopped eating
like I was running. That should have motivated
me, but it just added to the already critical and fearful voices in my head: “Now
it’s really going to hurt. It will be
worse than starting over. I bet your
running clothes don’t even fit, and you can’t afford new ones.” (The voices in my head are such mean girl
bullies!)
So I started walking.
I told myself I would ease into things.
And walking was good. But it wasn’t
running. When I was walking I found
myself wishing I was running. And when I
wasn’t walking, I didn’t really want to go walk again. So why didn’t I just run? Because I was still afraid. I didn’t want it to hurt. I didn’t want to discover that I couldn’t get
back in shape.
Then, Saturday, I ran.
My husband has been bragging bragging bragging (ugh! Already) about all his
running. He got new shoes. He comes in all panting and stinking. And I’m trying to be all supportive and “go
you!” but internally I’m thinking “you stink.”
And I’m jealous because I want to run but I’m still afraid. But then Saturday I just decided to run. It was slow.
I think I was creaking. The next
day I was so sore that I considered camping on the center of the staircase
because up and down seemed like ridiculous options to my quads and
hamstrings. But my injury didn’t
hurt. I took a day off. And then I did some weights and told my quads
to be quiet. And then I took another day
off. And this morning I laced up my
shoes and I ran. I ran 2.5 miles in 30
minutes which is very slow. There were
times that I think I was running backwards.
But I ran.
And somewhere in the middle of mile 1 (that spot where your
brain first tells you to stop, go back inside where the A/C is on and turn
Netflix back on like a sane person) it occurred to me: running is like
repentance.
No, Leanne, it’s
not. It’s the opposite. Running is what we do when we don’t want to
repent (aka Jonah). Repenting is not
running.
I know. Let me
explain. Repentance means to stop what
you are doing and turn around and go the other way. But (at least in my life…and in the lives of
many people I counsel) repentance is often met with resistance. “It’s going to hurt. Things aren’t really so bad. Lots of people avoid this too. I really want to avoid the whole crying
scene. I mean, God already knows, so why
do we have to talk about stuff that just makes both of us uncomfortable. It’s not like I’ve killed somebody. I don’t really need to repent. I’m good.
I’ll just stay here.” But then
something causes us to look into a self-reflective mirror. And we realize that there are habits and
attitudes that we have put on that are unbecoming. Our baptism clothes feel a little snug
against our resentments. And,
incredulously, the chaffing causes us to think, “I’m going to ignore that. It’s going to hurt to dig into that and get it
out. I don’t think its really hurting
anything just sitting there.” And that stuff
grows. Resentment and unforgiveness and
unrepentance grows on our soul like milkshakes and Little Debbie grows on our
hips.
But then one day, you just kneel. And the glory of God overshadows the fear of
the pain. And step by slow, timid step
you lay down the hurts, the habits, the resentments, the fears, the judgments,
the anxieties. At some point your brain
(my daughter calls this her little brain) says “stop now…that’s enough. Let’s tuck all that back in where it is safe
and dark and anyway we aren’t as psycho as those people on Stranger Things.” But something, the right song, the right
silence, the right aroma (of Christ) causes you to linger.
In running, the real distance runners describe the
high. It’s when the endorphins kick in
once the brain is convinced you aren’t dying or fleeing from death. Lung capacity grows, heart rate actually
steadies a little lower, and the brain just starts firing all kinds of new
synapses. You kind of get this feeling
that you could just run forever.
There comes this moment in worship and repentance where
everything else fades. You lose track of
who is around you, how many choruses they’ve sung of that song, how freezing it
is in the sanctuary. Because you are
surrounded by a peace that is overwhelming.
Your heart begins to share its burdens with ease. Tight breath loosens up so that grace and
praise are the twin bellows. You were
afraid it would hurt. Were afraid that
every confession of worry or pride would be met with condemnation or disappointment. After all, that is how you talk to yourself.
But the God who meets us in true repentance is always more
gentle, more gracious than any of the voices that live in my head. Oh, God is honest! God won’t let me get away with half-truths
and lies like “It’s not so bad,” or “Others are worse.” You see God’s reflection to me is not of me,
it’s of Jesus. When I look in the mirror
that God holds before me in worship and repentance, I don’t see a reflection of
me to critique. I see a reflection of
the Christ and I recognize how I do or don’t conform to His image. It’s a truer picture than my own personal reflection.
And can I say in this analysis of the similarities between running
and repenting, that the voices in your head matter. When running, tunes are important. The right tunes. Good beat, good lyrics. Good flow.
Because just about the time that I want to give up, if Crowder or Kim
Walker-Smith come on talking about “freedom!” I’m off again. So it’s not that we have to have music playing
when repenting. Sometimes silence is best
for that. But not my voices. God’s voice.
God’s Word is all that will do.
Anything less than the truth of God’s word will deflate me. But God’s word is life, is peace, is joy, is
grace, is mercy, is love.
And this morning as I feel muscles that I haven’t used in so
long speaking to me, I am grateful for the freedom to run. I’m grateful for the freedom to run to God
with all of me. I am grateful that I am
welcomed with open arms. With a heart of
mercy. With a plan of redemption already enacted. God meets me in repentance and I remember, “Oh yeah. I love this.”
The temporary pain of letting go of lesser things is nothing compared to
the glory of grabbing hold of God’s hand.
And that’s how running is like repentance. To be continued…
