". . .lift your drooping hands; strengthen your weak knees. . ."

Sermon by James W. Crawford

The 5th Sunday in Lent, March 29, 1998

From Hebrews 12

Our Passion Sunday theme this morning, amid this beautiful Schubert Mass, bears a message more in keeping with a Sunday three weeks hence,  Marathon Sunday. Our author, in a larger context, as we just read, puts us Christians not so much in the sanctuary, but in the locker room preparing us for the strenuous contest of the Christian life. Today our author reminds us that our church will be surrounded by an 8-foot plywood wall over Patriots Day weekend in preparation for the Marathon's ending on Boylston Street just outside our front doors. Some Kenyan or Mexican will probably win that eminent event among the men; and perhaps someone from Kenya or Japan will lead the women across the line. All eyes, of course, will be on the winners: the man taking this race of 26 miles, 385 yards in about 2 hours and 10 minutes, the woman, in perhaps, 2 hours and 25 minutes. They will be celebrated, honored, medaled, interviewed, pictured with the mayor, the governor, and every celebrity who can pack the victory stand.

But what about the "bandits"? Yes, "the bandits." They are the runners at the back of the pack, the folk who do not qualify, who pay no fee, who run without a number, "the lumpenproletariat," as one writer describes them.  They hit the wall at 3 miles out, they baby-step up Heartbreak Hill, they totter through Cleveland Circle, they cross the finish line long after dark. One woman, a "bandit," describes her marathon experience this way, "You have no chance of winning. No one will give you a medal. You are not a contender for the Mercedes. But you are going to run this race, a staggering long distance, and you will pay for it. The payments will start. . . months before when your running week gradually expands from 15 miles to 50. Pain will ricochet around your legs and feet, evading ice packs and stretches; doubts will invade your confidence, eroding your determination. Your feet will sprout blisters, your toenails will turn black with the blood that wells up beneath them, you will wonder sometimes what the points is. But you might as well ask about life. As far as you know there isn't one."

 "Bandits:" at the back of the pack, blistered, aching, doubts invading your confidence, eroding your determination; you wonder what the point is; "as far as you know, there isn't one." That is exactly how that little Hebrews church feels about its faith, its mission and its purpose when our author writes to them. He describes the Christian life as an athletic event: "Let us run with perseverance the race that is set before us," he pleads. And he knows what we face is not a dash but a long distance job, not a sprint, but a marathon. And he knows, as well, that training for this our Christian marathon -- preparing for it, running it -- takes its toll, demands a price, levees a cost, and that finally it can burn us out. He knows we can lose heart. He knows we can lose hope. We can just plain get tired of the struggle, tired of facing the problems of the homeless, the hungry, the poor facing us in the city; tired of doing kindnesses and getting zippo in response, tired of making the church school go, tired of raising money, thinking up program, tired of spending our evenings at meetings, pouring our hearts out to those who are just "shopping for a church," tired of the same old sermons, tired of the hassles over coffee hour, the squabbles over church kitchen decor, tired of scraping up a parking place on Sunday mornings, hustling the T, telephoning to synchronize a dozen busy schedules -- tired of doing our best and taking the guff, and yes, tired of trying to live a life with some ethical benchmarks, personal loyalties, incorruptible standards; really tired of fighting off the temptation in the middle of the race to take a rest, sit on the curb, take a long drink of water and enjoy the scenery.

And that is probably what most of us want: a rest in the middle of the race. We are not going to go hide in some esoteric cult; most of us will not write a prophetic diatribe blasting the church, promoting atheism, celebrating a new religion. Most of us will not go away mad - we will just go away, not slamming the door but slipping out the side door, perhaps having taken a chance, pouring a ton into the offering plate, receiving scant blessing, nursing our wounds, counting our scars, losing our hope. Bushed.

And I want you to know, it is not simply those of you who happen to be in our pews this morning who suffer faith's tired blood. Some of us clergy-types can, too. Just this week I received a letter from one of my college classmates telling me his minister just cannot muster any conviction any more. He is hesitant and doubtful, his sermons focusing increasingly on some arcane point, my classmate urging him to sort out what he can speak to with conviction and let it roll. Heaven knows what kind of preaching you put up with here -- perhaps, as the old wisecrack goes, sermons "spoken in the language of a land with no known inhabitants," or as one woman remarked to George Buttrick on leaving the Madison Avenue Presbyterian Church, "Oh, Dr. Buttrick your sermon was like water to a drowning man."

In any case, we can all sympathize with those in that congregation of Hebrews struggling to sustain their faith, to exercise love and to radiate their hope.

And do you remember how our author -- our preacher to those Hebrews -- do you remember how our preacher tackles their tired blood? He knows they are a limping crowd; he knows they are the "bandits" at the back of the pack, he knows they are getting blown away by the world class runners. He has a bead on our type. He says, "Hey! Lift those drooping hands. Come on, strengthen those weak knees. You are in a big time race. You have taken on a strenuous, task, be prepared for the long haul." He says, if you will, we are like that sore and cramped runner who reported as he ran the Boston Marathon, waddling up the first of the Newton Hills, a youngster shouts at him: "Keep moving," his legs churn again and the boy leads a cheer; and when that runner stumbles up the second hill, exhausted, ready to quit, a man steps from the crowd, pats him on the behind urging, "Come on Son! This is the Boston Marathon!" And he realizes suddenly, as he begins to shuffle again, that, as he says. "This is not a race. This is a state of mind. . ." You got it! Lift those drooping hands, strengthen those weak knees!

And our preacher inspires us now, with our primary model. He reminds us that for everything we may put into training for and running the race, there is one who has put in a lot more. "Consider him," he insists, "Consider Jesus who endured such hostility against himself from sinners so that you may not grow weary or lose heart. In your struggle you have not yet resisted to the point of your blood." We may be beat, exhausted, ready to quit, but there is another who endured the race to the end, who got bloodied up in it,  who faced hostility, encountered resistance, shouldered lies, confronted crowds screaming for his execution, braved governors, mayors, local celebrities throwing obstacles in his way, and even found himself the scorned object of his closest friends, conniving behind the scenes to defeat him, others abandoning him to make do and run the race alone to its murderous end. We dare not, says our preacher, give up, poop out, drop by the wayside when we have Jesus pacing us. When we think we have had it with church, or the preacher, or the world going to hell in a hand cart, by heaven, we have not yet endured what Jesus endured in his marathon for God's sake, we have not been savaged yet as he was for love's cause, we have not been tortured in pursuit of God's everlasting and world-recreating hope. "Consider him who endured to the point of shedding blood. . . and lift your drooping hands, strengthen your weak knees."

And by golly, our preacher offers one final encouragement for this marathon of the Christian life we have chosen. He has one more remedy to stiffen those hands and straighten those knees. "Pursue peace with everyone," he urges. "See to it that no root of bitterness springs up and causes trouble." We are a community of encouragement," he says. "We are a limping, cramping, queasy, bunch of pathetic marathon bandits at the back of the pack -- and Brother! Sister! -- do we need each other to keep on going! We have to give one another the benefit of the doubt; to continue in this race we have to say to one another: "good going," "nice try," "I'm with you,"  "hang in there," "let's try again," When one of our buddies stumbles and falls we stop along side offering succor, balm and assurance: "Come on, son; come on daughter, this is the marathon of Jesus Christ" not just a race, but a turn of mind, a state of heart. We are headed for the finish line - the finish line!-- a new city, a new Jerusalem, and he sees there the kind of community it takes endurance, fortitude and vision to build. He sees at the finish a city where the barriers are down, where peace grounded in justice prevails, where our niches and divisions and claims to certain prerogatives and privileges on the basis of status, or bloodlines, or education, or career or race or nationality or religion -- the things killing us -- where these are dissolved by the one who really ran the race and got bloodied up for that glorious communal prize -- and that prize alone. Running with Jesus Christ we may cross that finish line long after dark, but we will finish side by side, arm in arm, a joyful throng, supporting, encouraging, emboldening one another.

How about it, ye spiritual racers, ye Christian marathoners? Beat? Bushed?  Battered? Keep your eyes on Jesus; he has endured it all. And take good care of one another as you slouch toward that finish line, the promised city -- indeed, lift your drooping hands, strengthen those weak knees -- we are in a marathon for Christ's sake.