When I was a child, the final week of the school year

meant dreaming of summer. For me, that meant visits with

family in Pennsylvania farm country, basketball camps and

4-H club, and days of unscheduled freedom in the woods

surrounding our home. But what I looked forward to most

were Wednesday mornings at church. F.I.T.S.—Fun in the

Son. Get it? “Son” as in Jesus. And, the hot summer sun.

Every Wednesday, all of my friends from church came. For

the morning, we would play jump the creek, freeze tag,

water balloon toss. But, first there was a devotion. It was

led by our pastor, who also happened to be my dad. Each

summer, we followed a children’s version of The Pilgrim’s

Progress, the 17th-century allegory charting Christian’s

journey from the City of Destruction to the Celestial City.

Along the way, Christian encounters characters with

colorful names like Obstinate and Pliable, and joins up

with his trusty companions, Hopeful and Faithful. The

story invited us, as children, to see faith not as a checklist

of beliefs, but as this great adventure. Faith was something

to live, to explore, to even get lost in. And in the decades

since those summers, I have failed to find a better

metaphor for the Christian life. It is indeed a journey.

As Maya Angelou’s marvelous memoir reminds us: All

God’s Children Need Traveling Shoes. We are God’s

people, always on the move.

Back in seminary, both Sara and I were known as two of

the more driven people on our campus. In fact, we may

have competed for an imaginary title of Most Driven. I

have since conceded. Occasionally, emerging from the

library or rushing from class to meeting to work-study,

we would encounter Nancy. Nancy was our classmate

and a veteran teacher who had discerned her call to

seminary later in life. Nancy would stop us in our tracks

and calmly repeat the refrain, “Remember, kids, it’s not the

destination; it’s the journey.” I rolled my eyes. And now I

realize how right she was. When we focus only on some

imagined destinations, some stopping place, we forget

that how we travel is just as important as where we are

going. Faith is not about a resting place—it is about how

we get there.

In a book he cleverly subtitled The New Pilgrim’s Progress,

Mark Twain wrote, “Travel is fatal to prejudice, bigotry,

and narrow-mindedness...Broad, wholesome, charitable

views…cannot be acquired by vegetating in one little

corner of the earth one’s whole life long.” This is why trips

like our mission trip to Malawi, like our choir’s tour of South

Africa, or our annual Footsteps of Faith pilgrimage for our

high school seniors, matter. The path we take shapes us as

much as the places we go.

So, how do we get there?

The Letter to the Colossians was written to a community

struggling to sustain the faith that had brought

them together. Many were tempted to return to idol

worship and pagan practices. Signs of division in the

congregation were emerging. Cracks were beginning

to show. They needed a word of encouragement. What

would motivate them? What would ground them in the

truth of the gospel?

You might say this morning’s text is like a travel guide

for the journey of faith. It begins with blessed assurance:

“As God’s chosen ones, holy and beloved…” The point is

clear—you did not gather yourselves. God has gathered

you. You are holy. Cherished. Beloved.

But that’s only the beginning. As God’s beloved, we are

given some directions to follow. In fact, we are told what to

wear on our journey. Clothe yourselves with compassion,

with kindness and humility, with meekness and patience.

The passage paints a picture of practical faith. Gratitude.

Harmony. Love. The path we travel shapes us. And so,

ours is a lifelong journey of becoming. And the truth is,

becoming can be difficult, even painful.

When our older son, Samuel, was two years old, I found

myself out of breath after carrying him up a single flight

of stairs. And right then and there, I realized that years of

neglecting my physical health had caught up with me.

So, I decided it was time to follow through on a long-held

dream: becoming a runner.

I began immediately. That is, I bought a pair of running

shoes. Exactly one week later, I took them out of the

box. Progress.

A few days into the actual running part, my body was

sore, and my spirit was discouraged. So, I consulted my

running guru, Andrew Kent, a high school senior and all-

state cross-country runner. “Andrew!” I said. “Why am I in

so much pain?”

Andrew must have read Colossians, because he

responded with compassion, humility, and admirable

restraint. Gently, he broke the news: I was hurting

because…I was desperately out of shape. That’s not what

he actually said. What he actually said was, “It will get

better. You just have to keep running.”

Over time, I learned the key to becoming a runner… is

running. There is no shortcut. The first mile is never easy.

But the transformation is worth it.

For years, I have closed my emails with the words, “With

peace, Chris.” But it turns out that since the latest iOS

update, my phone’s autocorrect has other ideas. In the

place of my carefully constructed, serene send-off, I have

inadvertently sent a number of messages that close, “With

pace, Chris.”

At first, it was just a funny glitch, but then I realized—it fits.

One of the lessons of running is that pace is everything.

It’s how we get there. We can’t do it all at once, but step

by step. Pace. It’s how we endure the hard stretches. Pace.

It’s how we find our rhythm with others. Pace. It’s how

we discover a strength we didn’t know we had. So now

I claim it. With pace, Chris. A reminder that the journey

of faith isn’t about speed or perfection. It’s about staying

with it, running the race before us, one faithful stride at

a time. That’s the image the Book of Hebrews gives us.

“Let us run with perseverance the race that is set before

us, looking to Jesus…” Not a perfect run, but our race. Not

perfection, but perseverance.

On this journey of faith, I have discovered that I need the

presence of community, I need the practice of prayer, and

I need the grace of rest. I need it as much as I need air

to breathe and water to drink. I need to be grounded in

scripture’s call to live with compassion, even for myself.

And I, like all God’s children, need traveling shoes.

And so, this Thursday, I’ll lace mine up for a journey I’ve

never taken before. A sabbatical. You won’t be surprised

to know that I have plans, but much remains a mystery.

I’m trying to trust that the journey is as important as

the destination, to lean into this blessing one of you

sent me last week, “May your muses lead you in new,

unanticipated, inspiring directions, much to your surprise.”

One more thing before I go. It’s about running—and life.

Running, I have learned, is not a solo endeavor. I see this

not only on my own runs, but at track meets with a rowdy

group of fifth graders I’ve been lucky enough to coach the

past two years. Our 22 runners span a great spectrum of

paces—some are fast and focused, others are still figuring

it all out, and a few struggle just to finish. And at every

meet, something sacred happens.

Somehow these competitive kids completely forget the

clock. They line the fence for the last runner on the track,

cheering loudly all the way to the finish. Sometimes, they

jump in and jog alongside a teammate who’s clearly

hurting. I think of a great cloud of witnesses. I have

watched with awe as that struggling runner finds the will

to finish, sprinting to the line, embraced by a shouting mob

of proud friends. Compassion in motion. Paul’s virtues

lived out on the track. They get it: the journey, not the

destination. They remind me every week: how we run

matters. How we get there matters

And so, becoming takes practice—small, steady acts

of commitment. Becoming takes community—people

who run beside you and see you through. Sometimes,

becoming means showing up when you don’t feel like

it, because someone else needs for you to be there.

Sometimes, it means standing firm and taking a risk for

the sake of the truth. Sometimes, it means choosing to be

kind instead of right, staying when you’d rather walk away,

forgiving the one who has hurt you.

Yes, becoming is hard because it’s the most important

work in the world. I’ve got a long way to go. But I’m

learning—again and again—that faith isn’t about having it

all together. It’s the journey. Run with perseverance.

So, listen. Reaching the top does not matter if you have

trampled others to get there. The view means nothing if

there’s no one to share it with. Power, influence, wealth—

none of it endures when you’ve wounded others to gain

it. And that’s true for individuals, for communities, and for

nations, too. How we get there matters. The path we take

shapes who we become. The ends never justify cruel or

callous means. Not for followers of Jesus.

And so, this is what we must become. A church clothed

not with coercion, exclusion, or judgment, but with

compassion, kindness, and patience. The kind of people

who show up for each other, especially when the road

gets hard. A church convinced the race isn’t about being

fastest or flashiest, but about seeing each other through.

A great cloud of witnesses, running with perseverance the

race that is set before us.

Here is the good news: along the route, there will be

manna in the wilderness. There will be fresh water in the

desert. And when your strength fails, there will be rest.

And, when those shoes finally do wear out, you will be

carried to the finish line.

So, friends at Second, tie your laces. Find your pace. Run

with perseverance. Walk with grace. Stay together. And I’ll

see you—down the road.