Long Road Back

I almost didn’t run today. My knees are tender—from starting up, from carrying too much weight—and the road ahead seems daunting. To get to where I want to be, which is simply in decent shape, able to run up to 10 miles, say, in reasonable comfort, is going to take a considerable and steady effort. For a moment or two, it didn’t seem worth it. More accurately, it didn’t seem possible. The goal was too far off.

The only way forward, of course, is to put on blinders and take it one day at a time. What this requires is, first, humility, facing the truth of where I am, accepting the reality that progress happens in small increments; and second, faith that those small increments will eventually add up to something.

I have the experience of having successfully trained for and completed a marathon to bolster my faith. What may be harder at this stage is to maintain a true humility, that is, the ability to face and accept what is right now without becoming discouraged. I am challenged every time I look in the mirror, by things that I can control (albeit with difficulty) and things that I can’t. Let me accept what I must with grace and equanimity, and let me also be resolute in changing what I can.

Scandal

The real thing is this: For me, an educated, professional, 52-year-old man working at a large public university in a secular society, to publicly kiss a cross is a scandal. What would my colleagues say? My boss? Neighbors? Fellow parents? Friends?

I didn’t have my kid with me for cover. He was in school, and I didn’t insist on pulling him, which would have been another scandalous move. So it was nakedly me and this public display of affection.

Affection? Reverence? Acknowledgement? No other church requires such a definitive focusing act, not that I know of. And that is a reason to cherish the Church.

We endure it sheepishly, distractedly, glancingly, because to really face what we’re doing is too difficult—at least it is for me. Can others make this gesture wholeheartedly? I envy them. For me it is a mere show of piety, and this makes me deeply uncomfortable. I can’t see Jesus; all I can see is myself.

All I can do then is pray: to see more clearly, to grow in faith. To be freed from the iron shackles of self-regard. To sweat blood.

Maybe that’s all that is required.

Good Friday

I took off work and went to the liturgy, as I always do. Walking from the parking garage, I felt the familiar doubt. Why are you doing this? And the corollary temptations: No one else is doing it—only the young and the gullible. It doesn’t matter if you don’t go—it’s only a ritual. You already know what this is about. You don’t need to do it. God will understand. Then: It’s really kind of silly, isn’t it?

It’s a dramatic ritual: the altar is stripped, the priests blazing in scarlet. They come in without music, prostrate themselves, their prone bodies our confession. The silence is powerful.

That much I like. But from there it drags on, with a long stilted reading of the Passion, repeated from Palm Sunday, and an even longer litany of prayers for all categories of people. The homily seems like overkill.

The center of the liturgy is the veneration of the cross, and this is the part that really triggers my self-consciousness. Everyone files down and kisses, touches, or otherwise reverences the cross held before the altar. Should I kiss it, or just touch it? Should I kneel? Everyone is watching (and, if they're like me, judging). It takes forever. The music is lugubrious. Two attendants are wiping potential germs from the wood after every kiss, a modern touch of fastidiousness that to me is both jarring and lamentable.

It’s an old-fashioned act of piety, and it makes me uncomfortable. But of course that’s the point. The whole overlong service is an enactment of shared discomfort. We are required to make some small sacrifice, of our time, our attention, our foolish pride, to remind us, however inadequately, of the larger sacrifice. To the extent that it annoys me, makes me uncomfortable, tries my patience, and is therefore an opportunity to embrace His suffering, it is important for me to attend.

Indoor track

Ran inside today, for the second time this week. There was no getting around it. We had snow last night, and this morning freezing rain. By noon it had warmed up enough to be just rain, and the roads and sidewalks were covered in slush. It was run inside or don’t run at all. Even the big boys, the Boston Marathon boys, ran inside, which made me feel less of a wimp. That left only the monotony to deal with.

I’m grateful for the indoor option on a day like today, but that doesn’t make it pleasant. I go around and around that old banked track like a hamster on a wheel, breathing the stale dry air at the top of the old gymnasium, trying to find my rhythm.

It was easier today than on Wednesday. I felt better, for one thing, a little lighter, a little less duck-footed and clumsy. My new shoes felt spongy. I put myself in a sort of a trance and just ran the minutes down, where on Wednesday I was fighting it. It didn’t hurt that there was a shapely young baton twirler practicing on the deck below in short shorts and a tube top, a welcome sight at the end of every oval.

I have taken to praying when I run on the track, as a way to pass the time. Some days I pray for other people, devoting a lap to each one. I move from family to friends to enemies to special cases, accomplishing a kind of giant rosary, and sooner run out of laps than out of names. Today, though, I lacked the extra energy to be specific. I just tried to be open, receptive to whatever message God might have for me. There didn’t seem to be anything in particular, but that was okay. I was determined to be patient, even as I fretted over the monstrous lack of humility in this attitude. Me being patient with God! Ah, but God will understand, I thought. God just shakes his head and laughs at my childishness, as I sometimes laugh at Danny’s. He indulges me. He knows that I’m a helpless mess and he gives me points for trying.

Examination

What are my motivations for running?

On a good day, it makes me feel good, both while I’m doing it and after. I enjoy the feeling of using my body and being in shape. Feeling good physically makes me feel younger, and gives me hope that I can stave off aging. Being in shape makes me feel more attractive. This raises my spirits.

I enjoy running. I would not do it if I took no pleasure in it. However, that pleasure can be elusive. There are some days when I have to force myself to get out and run; I just don’t feel like it. And there are some days, not always the same ones, when running feels plain lousy, no matter how much I take it easy. If there were more days and times when it felt lousy than there were days and times when it felt good I would stop running. It is harder to get back out there after a lousy day, easier after a good day.

Running requires effort. There is no guaranteed immediate reward. But there is the possibility of immediate reward. And there is a sort of guarantee that if you stick with it, you will get better at it. You may not become a good runner, but you’ll become a better one: the harder you work, the better you’ll become.

Are the same things true of prayer? Not exactly. Ultimately, improvement at prayer is a matter of grace, not of effort. Yet effort is required. Prayer, making yourself open to grace, is a discipline, in that it’s easier not to do it. One must be dedicated. And there is no promise of reward.

If I’m honest, I’ll admit that I pray mostly because it makes me feel good. But again, feeling good is not guaranteed. Grace will come when it comes; I can’t control it. I have only to put myself in the way of it, be patient and humble waiting for it, and be thankful when it comes and accepting when it doesn’t.