By Christian Curran.
“Honor is a man’s gift to himself,” I think in the voice of Liam Neeson, my breath pumping in and out of my body in measured bursts. Honor. Slow breath in. The Samurai will have honor or they will kill themselves. Quick breath out. Bushido seems a little excessive. My legs move more quickly as my mind distracts itself with thoughts of the Japanese, of the Chinese, of martial arts, and of Communism in turn. These thoughts are muted by a sudden siren of pain sounding from my lower body. “This is not the way running is meant to feel,” I think to myself.
Runners all run for their own reasons. Most enjoy the health benefits; running lowers cholesterol and burns fat. Some like to run to relieve stress after a long day. “Posers” just like to run to be seen running. “Perverts” like to run to see others running. A good many people are drug addicts who crave the savor of their own endorphins, neurotransmitters released to neutralize pain. Endorphins are the same chemicals released at the height of sexual intimacy. Some are running to something, like the father of the prodigal son. Others are running away from something, like the prodigal son himself. Many run because they are good at it; many more run so they can become good at it. I do not run for any of these reasons.
I definitely do not run because it is easy for me. I have the build of a Welsh corgi: a short, stocky upper body riding on top of short, stocky legs. Compared to the long, graceful strides of world-class runners, when I run, I look like I am struggling my way up a current so I can spawn.
I also don’t run because I find it fulfilling. I am never content with how far I run; there is always another mile or another lap laughing at my shaking hands and face, flushed with exertion. I don’t need the health benefits because I play soccer; I don’t need the endorphins because I drink coffee. I run for spiritual growth.
Running is a physical model for understanding spiritual growth. C.S. Lewis writes of the need for such models in The Four Loves:
“Nature never taught me that there exists a God of glory and infinite majesty. I had to learn that in other ways. But nature gave the word glory a meaning for me. I do not see how the “fear” of God could have ever meant anything to me but the lowest prudential efforts to be safe, if I had never seen certain ominous ravines and unapproachable crags.”
Similarly, I could look at, but I could never touch and call my own the desperation of “press[ing] on toward the goal to win the prize for which God has called me heavenward in Christ Jesus,” if I had no way of interacting with those emotions with my gut, and not just my head. Without daily straining and living out the Army motto, “Every day, better,” in the measurements of running success—timing, pulse, pace, recovery time—I could never comprehend certain aspects of the measurements of spiritual success—love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, and self-control. Running allows me to think with my gut.
This thinking I have learned from running, I can apply to my perception of the world. In The Tao of Pooh, Benjamin Hoff writes of the importance of clearing one’s mind: “The surest way to become Tense, Awkward, and Confused is to develop a mind that tries too hard – one that thinks too much.” The wisdom of this idea lies in the moderation of its use, but it is nevertheless true that the clearing of one’s mind allows for the sorting of many sources of stress. Running clears one’s mind of stressing factors such as work, relationships, money, the future, and so on. Pain sharpens the wit and focuses the mind to the simple task of gaining the next step. However, even though it has certain points of agreement, the purpose of running also calls into question assumptions lying at the heart of Tao.
Hoff goes on to say, “A way of life that keeps saying ‘Around the next corner, above the next step,’ works against the natural order of things and makes it so difficult to be happy and good.” Two miles in twelve minutes is a decent pace for any stocky mesomorph, but for me, it is most definitely beyond the spectrum of the “natural order of things.” And yet, to achieve this goal is to feel both happy and good. To reshape the world for the better, even in a small way like running faster, is to defy the natural order of a fallen world, and to take part in its redemption.
This is the root of C.S. Lewis’s “Further up and further in!” We are constantly running, constantly persevering, constantly moving to greater and better and more important things. I would not dare to say that Taoism is a false ideology because I like running, but by running, I can experience Taoism in practicum. When one applies Taoism to running, one ceases to run, or at least never runs any faster or better because who cares what is “around the next corner, above the next step?” And when running is a model for spiritual progress, what does that mean for the Taoist? For the Christian, perfection is never attained, but the Way also just so happens to be the Truth and the Life. Christianity asks “Can we be happy in the natural order of things?” In his Nobel prize-winning novel, Snow, Orhan Pamuk asks the question, “If God does not exist, how do you explain all the suffering of the poor?” Taoism would answer, “The way things are.” Christianity carries both the burden and the joy of answering, “Further up and further in!” We are not there yet.
When W.H. Auden wrote in his most famous poem, September 1, 1939, “We must love one another or die,” he was speaking of the invasion of Poland by Germany. As Alan Jacobs has noted, he was later to regret this phrase, including it in his later anthologies only at the request of his editors and with the stipulation that the phrase be changed to, “We must love one another and die.” Auden later writes in The Horatians:
“We can only
do what it seems to us we were made for, look at
this world with a happy eye
but from a sober perspective.”
We run best when we are not thinking from our heads, but from our guts. The exercise forces us to acknowledge pain and suffering and weakness, especially in ourselves. And yet, by a divine paradox we count it as joy to face these imperfections, because only when running through these things are we not running away from them. There is a real world of prostitutes, tax collectors, and crack addicts that Christians are called to serve. We can only lead these to the God who can save them by pacing ourselves alongside them. Taoists can smile that they are fortunate enough not to be the least fortunate, but Christians must serve even these—the widows, the poor, the lepers, and most unfortunate of all, the complacent.
As I run, the idea that “This is not the way running is supposed to feel,” is slowly replaced by thoughts of finishing what I had set out to do. It is my constant goal to finish the race, to keep the faith. Through loss of breath, doubts in my mind, and mud, I keep thinking with my gut and moving forward. I can never turn back. I can only hope to keep running until I can run and not grow weary.