On Spirituality and Running

Along with summer comes the obligatory attempt to get into shape. What I’ve been doing lately is running, which I try to do 45mins-1hr every morning. Since I don’t have a running partner, it gives me a lot of time to reflect; and my mind quite often goes to the subject of, well, running. Distance, time, technique… but lately I’ve been thinking a lot about the psychology of running, which I think touches on something very fundamental about spirituality. Let me try and explain.

What I’ve noticed is that I generally have two types of runs: 1) the Obligatory Run, and 2) the Rejuvenating Run. With the Obligatory Run it’s a struggle to even get my shoes on, I have to force it, I don’t want to be there, I’m punching the clock and just want it to be over. The Rejuvenating run is the exact opposite; I’m happy to be out there, I’m pushing myself, I’m enjoying it, I’m in ‘The Zone.’

I had a parallel experience in prayer the other day as I caught myself ‘putting in the time’, which made me realize that my spiritual life was caught up in the same dynamic—that of ‘obligatory’ spiritual work, offset by experiences of grace where I feel close to God and that prayer is second nature.

I suspect this tension is simply the reality of being human; in whatever we do, we’re going to have good experiences and bad ones. But regardless, I think that within the framework of our inevitable limitations, we can still move towards improvement and growth.

But how?

I think that regardless of what we find ourselves doing—whether in prayer or ‘in the world’, cultivating a spirit of presence, attentiveness and intentionality can move us towards inner growth and richness of experience. The Jewish philosopher Martin Buber devoted his masterpiece I and Thou to this question, which he explores with an unsurpassed poetic depth;

“In every sphere, in every relational act, through everything that becomes present to us, we gaze towards the train of the eternal You; in each we perceive a breath of it; in every You we address the eternal you, in every sphere according to its manner. All spheres are included in it while it is included in none. Through all of them shines the One presence.”

Entering into this sacred communion requires a contemplativeness in which our hearts are open to this mysterious presence in all things. In one of my favorite films, The Thin Red Line, the character of Pt. Witt (played by Jim Caviezel) reflects on the death of his mother and his own mortality. Through the immense dignity and peace in which his mother responds to her own immanent death gives him an epiphany into the deeper reality hidden all around us. This gives us a deeper sense of what Buber is alluding to (and imagine hearing the following narrated though a lazy southern drawl);

“I remember my mother when she was dyin', looked all shrunk up and gray. I asked her if she was afraid; she just shook her head… But I was afraid to touch the death I seen in her. I couldn't find nothin' beautiful or upliftin ‘bout her goin' back to God... I heard of people talk about immortality, but I ain't seen it… I wondered how it'd be like when I died—what it'd be like to know this breath now was the last one you was ever gonna draw. I just hope I can meet it the same way she did, with the same... calm. 'Cause that's where it's hidden—the immortality I hadn't seen.”

Indeed, that ‘immortality’ is hidden in the calm. Epistemologically, this is consistent with religious philosophers whom argue that God’s hidden-ness is a prerequisite for human freedom. In other words, God must hide because if He were ever-present and in-our-face, we would be so overwhelmed that our freedom would be rendered meaningless. So if God is hidden and yet—as we know through revelation history—wanting a relationship with us, then contemplation is a vital window for that communion.

Novelist Franz Kafka came to a similar insight. Though the nature of Kafka’s faith may be debatable, he recognized that entering this contemplative space was the key to his creativity, and his advice to fellow writers was the following: “You need not leave your room. Remain sitting at your table and listen. You need not even listen, simply wait, just learn to become quiet, and still, and solitary. The world will freely offer itself to you to be unmasked. It has no choice; it will roll in ecstasy at your feet.”

But the point is simply this; whether we are writing, praying, running or even pumping gas, the key to a rich spiritual life is to be ever-mindful of God’s presence hidden all around us. I truly believe that it is our universal vocation to get into this contemplative habit—and through prayer, nourishment from the sacraments, and compassionate relationships—we can move towards sanctification; even from within the tension of our human limitations.