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Running the Race
“…let us run with endurance the race that is set before us…” Heb. 12: 1
I have been having breakfast with Christian brothers one day per week since my retirement about 25 years ago. The cast of diners has changed over time. Presently the regular attendees are drawn entirely from Berean – with occasional visitors from other sources. As you might expect, I am the oldest, but most of the guys are also retirees. To be fair, one of our regulars is in his early 50s. We call him “The Kid”. He, perhaps sadly, still has to work for his living.
All of the men are both pretty astute and largely agreed on theological matters. That broad topic inevitably consumes much of our discussion time, but other subjects are admitted and enjoyed. Last Tuesday we (or perhaps I should say “they”) spent some time discussing their physical conditioning activities. I was impressed. We have some very serious runners – even a marathoner! A couple of the men play tennis. Almost all play some golf. As each man made his contribution, I had nothing to say. I was, however, forced to notice that several of them (some from habit, others from need) kept raking their hair off their faces with one hand as they talked. I thought this a bit showy. The activity reinforced my sense of isolation as I sat quiet, bald, and observing. When finally confronted related to my own conditioning activities, my response was that it is my habit to rise daily at a relatively early hour and take my coffee and muffin while sitting on the family room couch. Most days at about 11 a.m. it is my wont to rise from my original position and sprint to an alternate couch. On reflection, this seemed, even to me, a bit weak. The whole thing forced me into deep contemplation and calculation. I am pretty sure that if I were able to add up all of my running distances life-to-date, they would not sum to that of a single marathon.
I attribute my poor performance in the exercise area to my gene pool. After my confrontation with the reality of my situation on Tuesday, I have suddenly taken an interest in two tomes in my library that are dedicated to the history of my family tree. I have had the volumes for more than a decade but have only cracked the covers this past week. It was good news and bad news. My people came to America from England in 1682. We were delegates to the Constitutional Convention and ratified the finished document representing the state of Georgia. We were founders of Emery University, The University of Georgia, and furnished the first President of Duke University. Sadly, however, nowhere in the two large volumes did I find record of any family athletic distinction. If my line is to be rescued from the bleachers and benches of the athletic world, my wife Jacquelynne will be our catalyst. She was captain of the women’s basketball team in college. Of course, now that I recall, there were a lot of short gals on that team in those days, plus they only played half-court. Still, we live in hope.
Some day I will stand with my athletic brethren before the throne of our Maker. Only what was accomplished by and for Christ will have significance there. In light of that reality may God grant that we might all have the wisdom in this life to expend our principal labors in pursuit of eternal things.
In our text, the writer likens our Christian journey to a race. The text suggests that we each run a course uniquely designed for us by our Lord. The preceding chapter of Hebrews tells us of others who have run before and finished. They now eagerly observe us. We are admonished to be patient and persevere. We are warned not to be sidetracked, but to stay the course and endure. We run that we may obtain a prize: A crown of righteousness that the Lord himself will give us on that Day (2 Tim. 4:7,8.).
As a child in elementary school our family lived on the last street in Detroit that had houses. There was a street behind us to the West, but no structures had ever been built on it. Continuing in that direction there was solid forest for about a mile terminating at Telegraph Road. The Rouge River ran through it.
Our school sat on the edge of a square mile of trees. Sometimes in winter, my brother Holmes and I would abandon the gravel road and go home through the woods instead. We would play there until dark. I remember that often, after extended exploration, being suddenly cold and hungry. I would turn toward home. Our house was one of the few visible and on those nights, I could see the glow of its lamps and feel the warmth of family and hearth.
Should I live a few more weeks, I will then be 85. The race is almost done. I am the last alive who knew that place and time. I can see the lights of home!
George Moore
Elder Emeritus
