It happens every time. Here’s the scene. We train our fourth-

and fifth-grade runners to find a tempo that they can hold

for two miles. Then race day comes, and I watch our plan

unravel in real time. The starter’s pistol cracks, and half the

kids blast off like it’s a 100-meter dash. It’s glorious to watch.

Arms pumping, legs flying—for twenty seconds. Then,

predictably, inevitably, shoulders slump, breath shortens,

faces tell the story: the pace will not last.

But here’s what I also notice: the kids who do keep pace

never run alone. They move in a pack, encouraging each

other without words, effortlessly matching rhythm, keeping

an eye out for a friend falling further behind.

The sprinters are immediately isolated, often gasping by the

side of the course.

But the pacers finish together. In Indiana, we know that well.

There’s a lesson here. In life, too, we sprinters can find

ourselves outrunning the most important part of the

journey: the community meant to pace us. The danger isn’t

just burnout; it’s the heartbreaking irony that we can win

the race and discover that we’re standing at the finish line

all alone.

This isn’t about running out of time. It’s about losing the very

thing we’re running for.

And friends, this isn’t just personal burnout. We are being

sorted into separate realities. We are running through life

alone. Different fears. Different enemies. Different facts.

Families are fracturing not from busyness but because they

literally inhabit different worlds of information. Neighbors

cease communication because they’ve been convinced the

other side is evil. Church members turn on each other over

issues engineered to divide us. This is more than fatigue. It is

the tragic loss of our ability to see each other as human.

For Greek philosophers and ancient Christian thinkers

alike, virtue grows. It requires two necessary elements:

sustained practice and a supportive community. Aristotle

named four “cardinal” virtues—temperance, prudence,

justice, and courage. The ancient Greeks argued that

all four virtues require practice and communities of

accountability and support. Christian theologians added

faith, hope, and love for a biblical seven. This month, we

take up the four cardinal virtues.

Temperance. Not the flashiest virtue. In fact, it feels

somewhat outdated, somewhat awkward, ill-suited to an

age of excess. And yet, when violence is celebrated, when

retribution is regarded as a rational response, and rage

poses as righteousness, temperance offers an answer and

an antidote. It is self-control in the service of others. It is the

proper ordering of our human desires. It is the radical act

of saying no to the forces of destruction so that we can say

yes to the path of healing.

For personal reasons, I love that Paul uses running as a

metaphor for the life of faith. He does it in several of his

letters. In this particular letter to the church in Corinth,

Paul knows that the Corinthians have turned spirituality

into a race, a contest, a competition. They wanted to know

which spiritual gifts dazzled the most? Which spiritual

resumé looked most impressive? Whose prophetic powers

were most verified? Who spoke in tongues with the most

convincing accent?

Paul sketches a different course. He begins by asserting

his freedom. “Though I am free with respect to all.” But then

Paul chooses limits for the sake of love. “I have made myself

a servant to all.”

That turn is temperance: Spirit-formed self-control for the

sake of others. So when Paul writes, “Run in such a way as

to win the prize,” he is not blessing a breathless sprint; he is

subverting the goal of solo glory. He’s clear. The prize is not

one person’s medal. It’s the whole body crossing the finish

line together. Self-control is not for outperforming. It’s so no

one gets left behind.

It is helpful here to remember that Paul’s letters were written

to real Christian congregations, real people, communities,

wrestling with how to live together in difference and

diversity. It’s helpful to remember that Paul’s instructions

to the Church have not changed, nor has our unique call.

And here it is: we are called to embody the way of Jesus

in the world. If we ended every program and partnership,

every class and small group, every event and program our

church offers, our mission would be the same. We are to

embody the way of Jesus in the world. And you cannot learn

to forgive, or love, or show the compassion Christ requires

unless you first commit to the messiness of community.

That’s the secret of temperance we too often forget: it is not

a private virtue; it’s a communal practice. Remember: the

pacers finish together.

It probably goes without saying that our culture makes

this nearly impossible. When anything less than extreme

feels like failure, we overschedule ourselves and our kids.

We glorify hustle as if only exhaustion proved love. If you

add the digital overload of notifications buzzing, screens

glowing, endless reels highlighting the perfect vacation, the

most well-organized home, the family that has it all figured

out—and the comparison engine never shuts down. We say

we use technology to stay “connected,” but here’s the truth:

it’s making us sprint alone. Meanwhile, the ancient practices

we too often skip—communal worship, shared meals, face-

to-face conversation—they create the connectivity we’re

desperate to find.

Yes, life in the age of excess rewards the sprint. And right

now, we’re caught in the most dangerous sprint of all—a

vicious cycle where violence breeds more violence, where

the race toward retribution only speeds our descent toward

total collapse. When acts of violence go viral, when tragedy

is trending, when the rhetoric of leaders fans the flames,

temperance turns down the heat. And so, I believe we must

rediscover temperance—not as personal willpower, but as

pack running—before it is too late. For the sake of the future

we must share. For the sake of what has been built before

and is ours to steward now. We must choose temperance

over conquest.

Our lives on this planet are too short, the work to be done

is too important, to let a spirit of fear-fueled fury animate

our action. We finish together or we will not finish at all. The

gospel’s vision of temperance provides a guiding light down

another path.

It is Jesus who modeled this shift. Jesus who gathered

disciples. Jesus who traded power for humility, who emptied

himself, who humbled himself. Jesus who chose sacrificial

love over domination, building a community meant to carry

his mission forward. Let the same mind be in you that was in

Christ Jesus, who humbled himself to the point of death, even

death on a cross. Jesus is the model for our life together. The

call of the church is to embody the way of Jesus in the world.

The most sacred moments in any race come when the

community rallies around the individual. Sometimes the

pack creates the possibility for individual excellence, a new

PR. Other times the supportive crowd enables a struggling

runner to dig a little deeper than they thought possible.

But temperance isn’t just personal. It must be public. We

need leaders who practice what we might call “sacred

slowness”—resistance to moving at the speed of fear,

choosing instead the speed of love. We need public

officials who choose long-term flourishing over short-term

political wins.

The causes of our dis-ease are legion, but I believe we

must consider the power of technology. Our screens

reward excessive, and even addictive, patterns. They

require constant engagement designed to outrage us. We

feel it draining us, and still somehow we can’t stop. The

tactics of past temperance movements are transferable

here: collective action and communal resolve for health

and wholeness. So, here’s an idea. What if we formed

Technology Temperance Societies in our homes and in our

communities, in our schools and in our congregations?

What if we tempered technology and tried a tech-

temperance rule? Something like phone-free dinners, no

devices in bedrooms, weekly screen sabbaths, turning off

the comments. Saying no is hard alone, but in community

it becomes possible. And the well-being is worth the

discipline it requires.

This is temperance as Paul understood it: not stamping out

our passion but directing it intentionally so that everyone—

and not just the strongest—can finish the race.

This is why belonging to a community like ours matters.

The counter-cultural act of joining a family of faith creates

the conditions in which temperance can be practiced. Paul

knew this. He knew it’s hard to set a tempo when you’re

running all by yourself.

You need a pack. That’s what we can be for each other. The

pacers finish together.

And so, when the cultural current pulls us toward the sprint,

we remind each other what matters. We remember that

we’re running toward something—toward Christ, toward

each other, toward the flourishing of our neighbors.

You see, our temperance is not personal discipline. It’s

about making room for those who can’t survive the cultural

sprint. The elderly who are dismissed as irrelevant. Children

who are treated as productivity projects rather than human

beings. Struggling families who are told their poverty is

a moral failing. Whenever a society abandons its most

vulnerable, it has lost its soul.

None of us can run this race alone. Life is designed to

exhaust us these days, to isolate us, to convince us that

our worth is in our productivity, that our consumption

determines our value, that our tribal loyalty is our most

important identity.

Paul casts a different vision: temperance as collective

resistance to the machine of rage, retribution, and

relentless excess. When the culture screams, “Run faster,

win bigger, yell louder,” we can choose the radical discipline

of running together.

The world is desperate for communities that refuse to be

swept up in cycles of vengeance, desperate for people who

turn down the noise and turn toward each other.

I think of those young runners, who will learn over time to hold

something in reserve—and to hold each other accountable. I

promise you, at the finish line, the joy will not be in who started

fastest. It’s in who stays the course together.

My friends. My church. Do not succumb to despair. Do not

submit to the forces of division and retribution. Do not let

isolation and extremism win. Do not go it alone. Not now.

Find your people. Hold your ground. Choose your hope. We

must finish together. By God’s grace, we will. Amen.