Hebrews 12:1-2
Rev. Dr. Deborah L. Clark
November 7, 2021
On the afternoon before the Boston Marathon, I stopped by the Stewart-Morales home to drop off some carb-loading chocolate chip cookies for Jeff, who was preparing to run to support the Framingham Boys and Girls Club. Cesar, David and Daniel invited me in to see signs they were making to encourage their dad. They had mapped out their stops along the route, so Jeff would see them multiple times.
The race was a huge success. Jeff and his friends on the Framingham team raised lots of money for organizations that help make our city a more just and loving place. Jeff finished strong. Along the way, I imagine there were moments of fatigue and frustration. I also imagine what it must have meant to have his family cheering him on. I have this picture in my mind of Jeff struggling his way up a hill, then hearing familiar voices, looking over and seeing those signs. I imagine the burst of joy, the surge of energy that propelled him forward as he felt his family’s love surrounding him.
Our scripture reading compares the life of faith to a race. “Let us run with perseverance the race that is set before us.” What gives us strength to keep going, the author suggests, is the assurance that we are not alone. We are surrounded by a great cloud of witnesses, the people who have run this race before us, whose wisdom guides our feet, whose voices assure us it is possible, whose presence enables us to persevere.
It’s a compelling image for these times. It certainly feels as though we have been running a marathon, maybe an ultra-marathon. We’ve struggled our way up heartbreak hill, only to find there’s another, equally heart-breaking hill after it. We’ve wondered whether someone’s playing tricks on us, moving the finish line—or whether there is a finish line. We’ve hit our stride and soon thereafter wondered how we could take another step. We’ve been energized and exhausted, reveling in an occasional runners’ high, more often battling shin splints and pulled muscles.
Imagine with me. We go around a corner, and we hear familiar voices. There is our cloud of witnesses, cheering us on. In the front row, camped out in a beach chair wearing an Odd Fellows cap is James Ellis. We hear the love behind his gruff, “Go get ‘em.” Shirley Forrester and Beverly Ablondi are a little quieter, but when we listen carefully we hear their words of encouragement. Kaye Gooch has organized the party, with carefully penned signs reminding us that we are loved. Behind them, around them, we see more saints, a great cloud of witnesses—Mary, Brownie, Sue, Olof, Jeannette, Barb, Nancy, Ruth, Don, Marie, Dave, Ella, John, Richard. They are chanting in unison: We love you. We are with you. Run, walk, roll, rest. Run, walk, roll, rest.”
Now that our eyes and ears are open, we see they are lining both sides of the street, cheering us up the next hill and around the corner. They are lining up along Edwards Street now as we prepare to process up the hill into the sanctuary, signs and noisemakers in hand. Can you hear them? Can you see them? Can you let yourself be carried forward by the energy of their love?
***
The life of faith as a race—it’s a great metaphor, all about movement and purpose. On its own, like every metaphor, it’s incomplete. It doesn’t honor the times faith is about being present, being still. Today, I offer a second metaphor to balance it out.
In March of 2020, when we suddenly had to close our sanctuary, we had just begun our Lenten theme, “A Grove of Trees.” The Spirit must have been at work guiding us to that theme, for the image helped us claim the ways we were connected even when we were apart—deep roots intertwined, nourishing each other through a network of caring beneath the surface. When we worried whether the storms of uncertainty would destroy us, this picture of a grove of trees helped us celebrate how our roots and our closeness enable us to withstand the winds.
Today, as we honor the saints who have gone before us, as we enter our sanctuary after twenty months, I invite you to reclaim that image of our church as a grove of trees. The saints who have gone before us are the rich soil; they are the roots that connect us to each other and to the wisdom of our tradition. Think of the people, almost two hundred years ago, who built our sanctuary, and the people since then whose love and prayers have made it a holy place. Think of Sunday School teachers, justice advocates, bread-bakers, door-knockers, phone call makers, people from Grace and Edwards who persevered, rejoiced, and loved.
The individual trees in a grove are connected through their roots; they are also connected through the canopy, the overlapping leaves that absorb sunlight and give energy for growth.
Did you know that every Sunday, Joanie White has been collecting the prayers we have put into the chat function in our zoom worship? She’s been writing them on colored strips of paper and creating a prayer chain. Our canopy today is made up of those prayers, held together by saplings from the Cleveland’s Vermont home. Just as leaves in a forest canopy enable the trees to absorb the sun’s energy, so our prayers for one another and our world enable us to absorb the energy of God’s healing love. The light of God’s love is always with us—when we pray together, we open ourselves to receive it in a new way.
Take a moment and envision this strong, resilient grove which is our church. Feel the deep roots connecting us together, absorbing the rich soil of the love that has gone before us. Look up at the canopy—prayers that open us to the healing power of God’s love.
Two very different images for the life of faith in community. Both of them speak to where we are today. We are a team running a marathon for a higher purpose, sustained by the cloud of witnesses urging us forward. We are a grove of trees–rooted in love, nourished by a canopy of prayer. Let us run—or walk or roll—with joy. Let us sink our roots deep and absorb God’s healing love. Amen.