When I was a child, the final week of the school year
meant dreaming of summer. For me, that meant visits with
family in Pennsylvania farm country, basketball camps and
4-H club, and days of unscheduled freedom in the woods
surrounding our home. But what I looked forward to most
were Wednesday mornings at church. F.I.T.S.—Fun in the
Son. Get it? “Son” as in Jesus. And, the hot summer sun.
Every Wednesday, all of my friends from church came. For
the morning, we would play jump the creek, freeze tag,
water balloon toss. But, first there was a devotion. It was
led by our pastor, who also happened to be my dad. Each
summer, we followed a children’s version of The Pilgrim’s
Progress, the 17th-century allegory charting Christian’s
journey from the City of Destruction to the Celestial City.
Along the way, Christian encounters characters with
colorful names like Obstinate and Pliable, and joins up
with his trusty companions, Hopeful and Faithful. The
story invited us, as children, to see faith not as a checklist
of beliefs, but as this great adventure. Faith was something
to live, to explore, to even get lost in. And in the decades
since those summers, I have failed to find a better
metaphor for the Christian life. It is indeed a journey.
As Maya Angelou’s marvelous memoir reminds us: All
God’s Children Need Traveling Shoes. We are God’s
people, always on the move.
Back in seminary, both Sara and I were known as two of
the more driven people on our campus. In fact, we may
have competed for an imaginary title of Most Driven. I
have since conceded. Occasionally, emerging from the
library or rushing from class to meeting to work-study,
we would encounter Nancy. Nancy was our classmate
and a veteran teacher who had discerned her call to
seminary later in life. Nancy would stop us in our tracks
and calmly repeat the refrain, “Remember, kids, it’s not the
destination; it’s the journey.” I rolled my eyes. And now I
realize how right she was. When we focus only on some
imagined destinations, some stopping place, we forget
that how we travel is just as important as where we are
going. Faith is not about a resting place—it is about how
we get there.
In a book he cleverly subtitled The New Pilgrim’s Progress,
Mark Twain wrote, “Travel is fatal to prejudice, bigotry,
and narrow-mindedness...Broad, wholesome, charitable
views…cannot be acquired by vegetating in one little
corner of the earth one’s whole life long.” This is why trips
like our mission trip to Malawi, like our choir’s tour of South
Africa, or our annual Footsteps of Faith pilgrimage for our
high school seniors, matter. The path we take shapes us as
much as the places we go.
So, how do we get there?
The Letter to the Colossians was written to a community
struggling to sustain the faith that had brought
them together. Many were tempted to return to idol
worship and pagan practices. Signs of division in the
congregation were emerging. Cracks were beginning
to show. They needed a word of encouragement. What
would motivate them? What would ground them in the
truth of the gospel?
You might say this morning’s text is like a travel guide
for the journey of faith. It begins with blessed assurance:
“As God’s chosen ones, holy and beloved…” The point is
clear—you did not gather yourselves. God has gathered
you. You are holy. Cherished. Beloved.
But that’s only the beginning. As God’s beloved, we are
given some directions to follow. In fact, we are told what to
wear on our journey. Clothe yourselves with compassion,
with kindness and humility, with meekness and patience.
The passage paints a picture of practical faith. Gratitude.
Harmony. Love. The path we travel shapes us. And so,
ours is a lifelong journey of becoming. And the truth is,
becoming can be difficult, even painful.
When our older son, Samuel, was two years old, I found
myself out of breath after carrying him up a single flight
of stairs. And right then and there, I realized that years of
neglecting my physical health had caught up with me.
So, I decided it was time to follow through on a long-held
dream: becoming a runner.
I began immediately. That is, I bought a pair of running
shoes. Exactly one week later, I took them out of the
box. Progress.
A few days into the actual running part, my body was
sore, and my spirit was discouraged. So, I consulted my
running guru, Andrew Kent, a high school senior and all-
state cross-country runner. “Andrew!” I said. “Why am I in
so much pain?”
Andrew must have read Colossians, because he
responded with compassion, humility, and admirable
restraint. Gently, he broke the news: I was hurting
because…I was desperately out of shape. That’s not what
he actually said. What he actually said was, “It will get
better. You just have to keep running.”
Over time, I learned the key to becoming a runner… is
running. There is no shortcut. The first mile is never easy.
But the transformation is worth it.
For years, I have closed my emails with the words, “With
peace, Chris.” But it turns out that since the latest iOS
update, my phone’s autocorrect has other ideas. In the
place of my carefully constructed, serene send-off, I have
inadvertently sent a number of messages that close, “With
pace, Chris.”
At first, it was just a funny glitch, but then I realized—it fits.
One of the lessons of running is that pace is everything.
It’s how we get there. We can’t do it all at once, but step
by step. Pace. It’s how we endure the hard stretches. Pace.
It’s how we find our rhythm with others. Pace. It’s how
we discover a strength we didn’t know we had. So now
I claim it. With pace, Chris. A reminder that the journey
of faith isn’t about speed or perfection. It’s about staying
with it, running the race before us, one faithful stride at
a time. That’s the image the Book of Hebrews gives us.
“Let us run with perseverance the race that is set before
us, looking to Jesus…” Not a perfect run, but our race. Not
perfection, but perseverance.
On this journey of faith, I have discovered that I need the
presence of community, I need the practice of prayer, and
I need the grace of rest. I need it as much as I need air
to breathe and water to drink. I need to be grounded in
scripture’s call to live with compassion, even for myself.
And I, like all God’s children, need traveling shoes.
And so, this Thursday, I’ll lace mine up for a journey I’ve
never taken before. A sabbatical. You won’t be surprised
to know that I have plans, but much remains a mystery.
I’m trying to trust that the journey is as important as
the destination, to lean into this blessing one of you
sent me last week, “May your muses lead you in new,
unanticipated, inspiring directions, much to your surprise.”
One more thing before I go. It’s about running—and life.
Running, I have learned, is not a solo endeavor. I see this
not only on my own runs, but at track meets with a rowdy
group of fifth graders I’ve been lucky enough to coach the
past two years. Our 22 runners span a great spectrum of
paces—some are fast and focused, others are still figuring
it all out, and a few struggle just to finish. And at every
meet, something sacred happens.
Somehow these competitive kids completely forget the
clock. They line the fence for the last runner on the track,
cheering loudly all the way to the finish. Sometimes, they
jump in and jog alongside a teammate who’s clearly
hurting. I think of a great cloud of witnesses. I have
watched with awe as that struggling runner finds the will
to finish, sprinting to the line, embraced by a shouting mob
of proud friends. Compassion in motion. Paul’s virtues
lived out on the track. They get it: the journey, not the
destination. They remind me every week: how we run
matters. How we get there matters
And so, becoming takes practice—small, steady acts
of commitment. Becoming takes community—people
who run beside you and see you through. Sometimes,
becoming means showing up when you don’t feel like
it, because someone else needs for you to be there.
Sometimes, it means standing firm and taking a risk for
the sake of the truth. Sometimes, it means choosing to be
kind instead of right, staying when you’d rather walk away,
forgiving the one who has hurt you.
Yes, becoming is hard because it’s the most important
work in the world. I’ve got a long way to go. But I’m
learning—again and again—that faith isn’t about having it
all together. It’s the journey. Run with perseverance.
So, listen. Reaching the top does not matter if you have
trampled others to get there. The view means nothing if
there’s no one to share it with. Power, influence, wealth—
none of it endures when you’ve wounded others to gain
it. And that’s true for individuals, for communities, and for
nations, too. How we get there matters. The path we take
shapes who we become. The ends never justify cruel or
callous means. Not for followers of Jesus.
And so, this is what we must become. A church clothed
not with coercion, exclusion, or judgment, but with
compassion, kindness, and patience. The kind of people
who show up for each other, especially when the road
gets hard. A church convinced the race isn’t about being
fastest or flashiest, but about seeing each other through.
A great cloud of witnesses, running with perseverance the
race that is set before us.
Here is the good news: along the route, there will be
manna in the wilderness. There will be fresh water in the
desert. And when your strength fails, there will be rest.
And, when those shoes finally do wear out, you will be
carried to the finish line.
So, friends at Second, tie your laces. Find your pace. Run
with perseverance. Walk with grace. Stay together. And I’ll
see you—down the road.