Tired of the Treadmill?

It's time for my true confession. I hope I don't disappoint you, but I don't read my bible and pray as soon as I get out of bed. I usually check e-mails, look at my calendar, go for a run (where I sometimes pray), eat breakfast, take the kids to school, check into my office, and then start solving problems. Sometimes in the midst of the problem solving I open my bible or read a devotional. I'm a pastor and I'm not always so spiritual.

This morning I was checking e-mails and opened Face Book (my new technological toy to keep in touch with friends). Then a chat started. It was only 6:00 a.m., but some one wanted to know if I had read my bible yet. I wrote, "No, but I will later." My correspondent wanted to know what I was going to read, and I wrote, "Galatians 5," and gave a brief sermon summary. I had to admit today my bible study was not so much for me, but for CCR. Then my correspondent asked if I did or didn't do things that I felt bad about. I wrote of course I do and don't do things all the time that I regret. I asked what my correspondent felt bad about, and she responded, "Not reading my bible."

I know the feeling. I remember discovering spiritual disciplines and finding new found spiritual vitality. It is a common experience in young faith - days when I can't pray enough or read enough bible. In my life, those seasons were most intense when I was single. Then came married life, the pastoral profession, and 5 kids; and life became much more difficult to manage. I would intend to read my bible, but then one of the kids was sick, or some one at church needed a visit. I dropped my agenda for my nurture, and did what seemed right at the time.

I remember feeling bad because I couldn't do the "spiritual" activity. I felt guilty, resentful, and angry. Had I failed? Could I not manage life better? Or were others to blame? Why couldn't they give me enough "peace" so I could be "pastoral?"

As I struggled with this tension between my spiritual intentions and the reality of a responsible life I came across a devotional comparing our spiritual disciplines to physical exercise. Elite athletes train for hours everyday. Ordinary people can thrive on 30 minutes 3 times per week. Maybe, we are at our best to live an ordinary life full of family, friends, purpose, and community. In the process maybe, we can't be elite at much of anything? However, maybe we thrive best in a climate that is full of discovery and freedom?

On occasion I run on treadmills. They allow me to make life manageable and take out some uncertainty and embarrassment. They help me exercise with discipline. I'm unaffected by bad weather or darkness. I can run at anytime on a treadmill. However, I never get anywhere on a treadmill. The scenery is dull. Also, they make my run predictable. I don't dodge cars, eye angry dogs, greet the neighbors, enjoy a sunrise, or get rained upon. Thus I believe runs are best outside in a community.

Sometimes we can approach God as if we are running on a treadmill. Run at ___ speed, on ___ elevation, for ___ minutes. I think God desires a little more spontaneity.

This week, we'll continue our discussion of freedom. We'll contemplate that Christ came to set us free. Treadmills are out for Christ followers. His desire is a robust journey.

I hope to see you this Sunday.

Come run with me.

Imana ikurinde,

Dave Jenkins

CAN SOMEONE PICK UP THE TRASH?

My family just returned from our Christmas vacation in Kampala – the land of Garden City Mall, Speke Munyonyo Resort, Alleygators Bowling Alley, Cineplex Cinema, and boundless biwempe churches and buvera. Entertainment knows no bounds in Kampala and her mushrooming churches provide almost as much entertainment as her noisy FM stations. My unceasing pondering mind had to wrestle deeply. Why when I drive into Kampala do the number of balokole churches and organizations become as noticeable as the uncollected trash? It seemed that every 200 meters was graced by a church and every 2 centimeters was graced by a buvera.

I planted a church in Kampala, but in my quiet moments I pondered if it was just more religious clutter. Did it really make a difference? As time went on during our 11 years in Kampala my church paradigms were reborn through friendly discussions with those who did not share my beliefs, but who were my colleagues in dialogue about development. My conclusions were no longer orthodox and I became a controversial figure among some balokole. Thus I arrived in Rwanda convinced that the faith community had a voice to offer, but by and large her paradigms of the last 30 years had been irrelevant noise.

During my morning Kampala run I ran on some of my old paths, but came with new eyes. History tells me that the faith community has built the leading institutions of communities during seasons of renewal. However, sometimes what masquerades for renewal seems like the loud noises of my Lord’s opponents. His opponents were masters at drawing attention to themselves with the impressive sounds of religious babble. The Kilokole language is so intense that it is like a new tribe speaking a jargon only known by itself. I know the lingo, but it all seemed the same – religious clutter with no point. About every 200 meters on my run I noticed a balokole church or N.G.O. The names changed, but it all seemed the same. The names were designed to impress. The meeting times were all the same. In fact, they prayed so often I wondered how they had time to work. The buildings were makeshift structures, and I could not but wonder what would remain if an earthquake, fire, or windstorm arose.

Then I noticed Kampala’s other striking feature – boundless buvera. Mingled among the buvera was the urban refuse of life. Occasionally, some one would sweep it all together to start a fire. For my runner’s lungs this was murder. Why can’t someone pick up the trash so I can just deal with elevation and old age? Trash, dust, and smoke are not the substance of life’s best breath. I noticed a striking pattern – the churches in Kampala that had made an impact on the city cleaned the trash in front of their structures. The biwempe who mastered in Kilokole was no different than a fish monger when it came to cleaning the trash. For those who must discern whether a church is legitimate, I offer the buvera test. Can they clean up after themselves? My suspicion is that a dirty church front represents a dirty community.

My morning run found other tests to discern the legitimate from the buvera church. The second test I would offer to provide discernment is the witchdoctor test. Can the Kilokole be easily translated to the jargon of witchdoctors? Is the music the same with only translated words? If the cross and church name were removed could this place easily be mistaken for a shrine? Is the predominant concern success by all methods, healing, and cursing those who one is jealous of? Too many biwempe are witchdoctors masquerading as Christian theologians. If this is a true church she shares my Lord’s convictions that suffering, service, and a prophetic voice are core to all she does. Witchdoctors are never comfortable in an environment where philosophic truth and uncompromising ethics reigns.

My third test is the institution test. When I read the history of religious renewals that history determined were legitimate they always left a legacy. The legacy was institutions – schools, hospitals, libraries, and community gathering points of service and knowledge. I believe particularly in our season of time in this region the building of institutions is key to a lasting legacy. Unfortunately, among some balokole “institutions” are a dirty word. They prefer to huddle and babble in their strange new tongues. Their foreign donors are even worse at institution bashing. In their quest for slide show photos they would rather show a picture of a lone snotty nosed hungry child than healthy hundreds in a school. What better way to promote donor guilt and rake in money? After all an institution requires a budget, and a budget requires accountability. Thus the buvera church prefers to avoid building institutions. The legitimate church hungers for more opportunities to build.

My fourth test is the partnership test. History also tells that during seasons of renewal Christian people put aside their denominational divisions to build. The needs of the community were too compelling for sectarian posturing. From the United States Second Great Awakening to East Africa’s Revival partnerships are a consistent mark of the legitimate legacy. In Kampala’s buvera churches are ruled by a lone pastor. He is a one man show. His preaching seeks to divide from others. His buvera community proclaims him king, and he prefers to be king of the buvera than a partner in a clean community. Thus as we discern the legitimate from the buvera we look for a leader who is most comfortable with people who reason different from he. The legitimate finds lively discussion both refining and refreshing. When the discussion brings many diverse hands together the buvera is cleaned and the community thrives.

So my morning Kampala runs affirmed my new birth. The biwempe and the buvera are close cousins. My balokole brothers at times are misguided. The path to renewal is rather simple. Can someone pick up the trash?

Come run with me.

Dave Jenkins

Dave pastors Christ’s Church in Rwanda in the Caisse Sociale Gaculiro Estate.

I Miss Coffe in Kigali

My family is traveling in the U.S. It has been a pleasant change of venue, but we miss Kigali. In fact, this past weekend I’ve come to the conclusion that what I miss most about Kigali is mid day coffee breaks. We had a startling realization this past weekend. It may be a rather small realization in the big picture of Rwanda’s development, but something absolutely out of the ordinary is happening in bars, restaurants, and coffee shops in Kigali. People from many different backgrounds are enjoying one another’s friendship. I don’t know how many of us are enjoying new friendships. In a country of 8 million it must be statistically insignificant. My educated guess would assume our Kigali networking over coffee can not be done by more than a few thousand people. However, in the world of networking and partnership forming quite possibly our friendships formed over coffee maybe the most influential and underreported development in town.

This past Saturday, Jana and I had a few hour respite from travel and reporting, and decided to enjoy a movie. As we were leaving the theatre and wandering through a shopping mall I noticed a disturbing social phenomenon. People in America socially cluster by race. The Jim Crow south is long dead. No drinking fountains or toilets have race instructions. The public spaces are truly public. Anyone can go anywhere. Yet in the midst of great legislated egalitarianism it seems many are most comfortable in defacto apartheid. Asians socialize with Asians. African-Americans socialize with African-Americans. Hispanics socialize with Hispanics. European Americans socialize with European Americans. The clusters were rigid in their social circles. I kept watching for a break in their cluster. Surely someone went to work, church, or health club with someone from another race; and formed a friendship. Surely, someone asked a co-worker and spouse from a different race to share a movie or meal with their spouses. However, I saw not a single mixed race social cluster.

On Sunday, I spoke at a church where I long ago gave up any hope for social racial mixing. In fact, I with great pastoral reservation have accepted the adage that Sunday church time is the most racially segregated hour in America. Afterwards, it was Father’s Day; and my family treated me to lunch at a restaurant. I watched family after family enter the restaurant, meet a few friends, and be seated. The restaurant was a bastion of the American suburban middle class. Surely, in a suburb of educated upwardly mobile families the racial social divide would be bridged. Yet, my premise continued. The social clusters were all racially pure. Did anyone have a friendship they treasured enough that they two families from different races would share Father’s Day together? I saw not a single one. In fact, my own racially mixed family was the only one I saw seated.

Since the weekend, I’ve asked a few friends are my observations correct? Do Americans only socialize with their racial peers? At this point, the answers are embarrassingly consistent. It is impossible to legislate friendship. A few venture into the realm of social mixing. Some regions of America are more accommodating than others. However, we generally cluster with similar people.

I miss Kigali Coffee. I enjoy going out with my spouse, children, and good friends; and then seeing the magical happen. It all seemed rather mundane until I spent a weekend in America. It happens in Kigali without fail. My racially mixed social cluster notices a friend or is noticed. Some one rises from their seat and greets another. In fact, our seating is not rigid. Maybe, we’ll see an opportunity to connect with someone we have not seen in a few weeks, and we’ll move. We may ask a friend to join us. Our friendships are not based on race, but common experience and interest. Kigali Coffee is the environment where my eclectic friend gathering feels most at home. To be perfectly honest, I rarely see race. It just doesn’t hit my social radar. I had to be in America to realize how truly out of the ordinary Kigali Coffee is in the world of defacto apartheid.

Others have seen it quicker than me. Last month, was Jana’s 40^th Birthday. My oldest daughter, Sophia and I pulled off what most thought was impossible. We threw a surprise party for Jana without any of her social planning. We would have been dead in the water without a few gracious friends’ help. When it came time to create our guest list we did the simplest thing we knew. We went through our list of contacts on our mobile phones and most frequent recipients in our e-mail inbox and invited our best friends to share a surprise party with us. As the party happened our guests were our eclectic mix of friends. Some were like me – evangelical missionaries from America, but I find people just like me to be rather dull. Others came from other walks - embassies, n.g.o. workers, and the international community. Many were Rwandan friends we’ve made as we walked government offices, taught at universities, or just met in Kigali’s social gatherings. A couple remarked as they left our home that had rarely been at such a diverse gathering. Another remarked that the friendships in our home that day could not have happened in the “old Rwanda.” Something new is happening. We’re being transformed by Kigali Coffee.

Though some may see me as a wise and kind pastor, I have a painful truth to share. I’ve been controversial most of my career. One of the consistent criticisms has been my choice of friends. I have too many atheist friends and also too many Balokole. I have too many friends in media and politics. I have too many refugee friends. I have too many friends who have hit glass ceilings caused by gender or ethnic prejudice. I have too many Congolese, Kenyan, Ugandan and Zimbabwean friends. I have too many Bazungu friends, particularly British and Americans. In Rwanda I’ve been told my friendships are too based on ethnicity or origin, but the accusations shift so much I can’t determine what is the real criticism. Religiously, I have too many Muslim, Episcopal, and Charismatic friends. I have too many friends who struggle with addictions, and too many who are crusaders seeking social justice. I have too many friends who come from the upper classes. I also have too many friends who are orphans and widows. I have too many friends who speak their mind and too many friends who guard their thoughts. I have too many friends who are young and too many who are old. Do you see my critique’s point? I have too many friends, and they are too human. Friendship and humanity are troubling to those whose comfort zone is defacto apartheid.

However, this unrelenting criticism puts me in the same category of a Jewish carpenter turned itinerant preacher 2,000 years ago named Jesus of Nazareth. His critics also chose to focus on his choice of friends when they grew weary of losing philosophic arguments. Attacking a man’s friends seems to be one of the last steps of attack when reason and fact are laid against foolishness and gossip.

My pastoral mentor named Jesus chose to make parties his favorite ministry activity. In fact, when we strip his words from their religious babble they basically are doing little more than inviting potential celebrants to a party with a purpose. He chose to make his first creation contradiction changing simple water to wine so the party could continue.

Today, I think he may change the details a bit; but the message and method would remain the same. I suspect he’d walk Kigali’s streets, and decide it was time to brew a great cup of coffee. He’d gather all who wanted to listen to a good joke and ponder possible solutions. He’d make friends with an eclectic mix. I think he’d find coffee in Kigali delightful. In the process of sharing coffee with those who desired his friendship I believe he would set in motion a world changing series of events. Friendship can not be legislated, but it has more ability to change the world than the UN will ever muster.

Can you smell the coffee? It’s delightful. Come run with me.

I MISS COFFE IN KIGALI

My family is traveling in the U.S. It has been a pleasant change of venue, but we miss Kigali. In fact, this past weekend I’ve come to the conclusion that what I miss most about Kigali is mid day coffee breaks. We had a startling realization this past weekend. It may be a rather small realization in the big picture of Rwanda’s development, but something absolutely out of the ordinary is happening in bars, restaurants, and coffee shops in Kigali. People from many different backgrounds are enjoying one another’s friendship. I don’t know how many of us are enjoying new friendships. In a country of 8 million it must be statistically insignificant. My educated guess would assume our Kigali networking over coffee can not be done by more than a few thousand people. However, in the world of networking and partnership forming quite possibly our friendships formed over coffee maybe the most influential and underreported development in town.

This past Saturday, Jana and I had a few hour respite from travel and reporting, and decided to enjoy a movie. As we were leaving the theatre and wandering through a shopping mall I noticed a disturbing social phenomenon. People in America socially cluster by race. The Jim Crow south is long dead. No drinking fountains or toilets have race instructions. The public spaces are truly public. Anyone can go anywhere. Yet in the midst of great legislated egalitarianism it seems many are most comfortable in defacto apartheid. Asians socialize with Asians. African-Americans socialize with African-Americans. Hispanics socialize with Hispanics. European Americans socialize with European Americans. The clusters were rigid in their social circles. I kept watching for a break in their cluster. Surely someone went to work, church, or health club with someone from another race; and formed a friendship. Surely, someone asked a co-worker and spouse from a different race to share a movie or meal with their spouses. However, I saw not a single mixed race social cluster.

On Sunday, I spoke at a church where I long ago gave up any hope for social racial mixing. In fact, I with great pastoral reservation have accepted the adage that Sunday church time is the most racially segregated hour in America. Afterwards, it was Father’s Day; and my family treated me to lunch at a restaurant. I watched family after family enter the restaurant, meet a few friends, and be seated. The restaurant was a bastion of the American suburban middle class. Surely, in a suburb of educated upwardly mobile families the racial social divide would be bridged. Yet, my premise continued. The social clusters were all racially pure. Did anyone have a friendship they treasured enough that they two families from different races would share Father’s Day together? I saw not a single one. In fact, my own racially mixed family was the only one I saw seated.

Since the weekend, I’ve asked a few friends are my observations correct? Do Americans only socialize with their racial peers? At this point, the answers are embarrassingly consistent. It is impossible to legislate friendship. A few venture into the realm of social mixing. Some regions of America are more accommodating than others. However, we generally cluster with similar people.

I miss Kigali Coffee. I enjoy going out with my spouse, children, and good friends; and then seeing the magical happen. It all seemed rather mundane until I spent a weekend in America. It happens in Kigali without fail. My racially mixed social cluster notices a friend or is noticed. Some one rises from their seat and greets another. In fact, our seating is not rigid. Maybe, we’ll see an opportunity to connect with someone we have not seen in a few weeks, and we’ll move. We may ask a friend to join us. Our friendships are not based on race, but common experience and interest. Kigali Coffee is the environment where my eclectic friend gathering feels most at home. To be perfectly honest, I rarely see race. It just doesn’t hit my social radar. I had to be in America to realize how truly out of the ordinary Kigali Coffee is in the world of defacto apartheid.

Others have seen it quicker than me. Last month, was Jana’s 40^th Birthday. My oldest daughter, Sophia and I pulled off what most thought was impossible. We threw a surprise party for Jana without any of her social planning. We would have been dead in the water without a few gracious friends’ help. When it came time to create our guest list we did the simplest thing we knew. We went through our list of contacts on our mobile phones and most frequent recipients in our e-mail inbox and invited our best friends to share a surprise party with us. As the party happened our guests were our eclectic mix of friends. Some were like me – evangelical missionaries from America, but I find people just like me to be rather dull. Others came from other walks - embassies, n.g.o. workers, and the international community. Many were Rwandan friends we’ve made as we walked government offices, taught at universities, or just met in Kigali’s social gatherings. A couple remarked as they left our home that had rarely been at such a diverse gathering. Another remarked that the friendships in our home that day could not have happened in the “old Rwanda.” Something new is happening. We’re being transformed by Kigali Coffee.

Though some may see me as a wise and kind pastor, I have a painful truth to share. I’ve been controversial most of my career. One of the consistent criticisms has been my choice of friends. I have too many atheist friends and also too many Balokole. I have too many friends in media and politics. I have too many refugee friends. I have too many friends who have hit glass ceilings caused by gender or ethnic prejudice. I have too many Congolese, Kenyan, Ugandan and Zimbabwean friends. I have too many Bazungu friends, particularly British and Americans. In Rwanda I’ve been told my friendships are too based on ethnicity or origin, but the accusations shift so much I can’t determine what is the real criticism. Religiously, I have too many Muslim, Episcopal, and Charismatic friends. I have too many friends who struggle with addictions, and too many who are crusaders seeking social justice. I have too many friends who come from the upper classes. I also have too many friends who are orphans and widows. I have too many friends who speak their mind and too many friends who guard their thoughts. I have too many friends who are young and too many who are old. Do you see my critique’s point? I have too many friends, and they are too human. Friendship and humanity are troubling to those whose comfort zone is defacto apartheid.

However, this unrelenting criticism puts me in the same category of a Jewish carpenter turned itinerant preacher 2,000 years ago named Jesus of Nazareth. His critics also chose to focus on his choice of friends when they grew weary of losing philosophic arguments. Attacking a man’s friends seems to be one of the last steps of attack when reason and fact are laid against foolishness and gossip.

My pastoral mentor named Jesus chose to make parties his favorite ministry activity. In fact, when we strip his words from their religious babble they basically are doing little more than inviting potential celebrants to a party with a purpose. He chose to make his first creation contradiction changing simple water to wine so the party could continue.

Today, I think he may change the details a bit; but the message and method would remain the same. I suspect he’d walk Kigali’s streets, and decide it was time to brew a great cup of coffee. He’d gather all who wanted to listen to a good joke and ponder possible solutions. He’d make friends with an eclectic mix. I think he’d find coffee in Kigali delightful. In the process of sharing coffee with those who desired his friendship I believe he would set in motion a world changing series of events. Friendship can not be legislated, but it has more ability to change the world than the UN will ever muster.

Can you smell the coffee? It’s delightful. Come run with me.

A New Journey

One of my greatest ministry joys for the last 7 years has been my friendship with media leaders in Uganda and Rwanda. I particularly treasure my friendship with those fascinated by the moral teachings of Jesus, but not yet convinced of His resurrection. For the last several years I’ve written a column for Focus, which I consider Rwanda’s best independent newspaper. I also do a little writing for other publications

I thought some of you may be interested in 2 items. One is the following column that was published this week in Focus in which I argue for giving church a second chance. The second is an editorial by my good friend, Andrew Mwenda in The Independent Andrew argues for the inclusion of Jesus’ moral teaching in dealing with political difficulties facing Uganda.

I hope you will enjoy the reading.

A NEW JOURNEY WITH AN OLD HUNGER

Published in Focus, 15 May 2008

There are some cravings of life that are inescapable. Air. Water. Food. Rest. Shelter. Reproduction. Yet, when our basic needs are met, something still remains. Holy hungers for something more than just the instincts of survival awaken our sleep. By nature we ask the questions. Where am I going? What is the purpose of life? Deep within ourselves we yearn for more in community. Can someone guide me along the way? Can I really disclose all that is inside me? Are you trustworthy? When the world turns against me, what will you do?

Approximately 2,000 years ago Jesus of Nazareth left upon this earth an infant organization made up of the dreams of his 12 protégés. The term they chose brand themselves was “those called out of the world.” They had few financial resources, no title deeds, little influence and power, a fractured network, and a ludicrous belief that Jesus had rose from the dead. Yet, these 12 protégés set in motion a chain of events that have since filled history books. The church was born from their odd beliefs and bold vision.

However, my guess is that if you are like me the history of the church is not your inspiration. Honestly, church has been a horrible disappointment. The bold visions of the 12 protégés seem to have been long forgotten. However, we still hunger for a community of nurture. So we must wrestle with our hunger and disappointment. Maybe, it is time to redefine “church.” She has not behaved like her original brand name of “those called out of the world.”

David Hansen, in his book, The Power of Loving Your Church, accurately diagnoses the problem with the phrase, “a religious organization that call’s itself a church.” Rwanda has suffered more than any nation at the hands of religious organizations that call themselves churches. Some are not fit to be branded “church.” A quick www.amazon.com search with the “Rwanda” brings up the titles such as Genocide in Rwanda: Complicity of the Churches? The Angels have left us: The Rwandan Tragedy and the Churches; and Committed to Conflict: The Destruction of the Church in Rwanda. The only new bit of insight I can offer is Rwanda’s colonial architecture. Have you noticed when you go to the oldest portions of Rwanda’s cities there are three predominant buildings? They are an administrative center, a church, and a prison. I don’t think it’s a coincidence. It’s an architectural testimony of the church’s role in manipulation and control. Her messages have been repeatedly perverted. Forgiveness has been distorted so that that the violent and immoral are not held accountable. Absolute truth has been negotiated so that denial and lies are associated with Christian testimony. Accountability has been distorted as a means for cyclical revenge. If Jesus walked through these religious organizations that call themselves churches today, I believe he would kick over their tables and flog their pseudo-pastors just before he gathered the hungry crowd and gave nourishing words of comfort.

Aside from the worst travesties of religious organizations that call themselves churches is just their simple day be day self absorbed pseudo-service. James Wolfensohn of the World Bank summed it up well when he stated "half the work in education and health in Sub-Saharan Africa is done by the Church, but they don't talk to each other and they don't talk to us". Isolation and denominational protection stifle religious organizations that call themselves churches from becoming “those called out of the world.”

Still the holy hunger for community awakens our sleep. We hunger for a perfect bride to meet our deepest needs of intimacy. When our youthful enthusiasm grows weary we realize the bride called the church is full of imperfections. Cynicism reins in our hearts. Then our nights are awakened. In still moments we recognize that faith creates a fearless pursuit of truth that teaches us paradoxes of justice and forgiveness, transparency and confidentiality, covenant and creativity. Those called out of the world are the perfect communities to grapple with these paradoxes and find hope for a bright new future. Could it be time to give church a second chance?

My good agnostic friend, Andrew Mwenda has a phrase that sums up this dilemma of our holy hungers. He states, “Leaders make things happen, institutions make them last.” Jesus of Nazareth made things happen. How could a carpenter turned itinerant preacher in an off beat Roman province become the most controversial figure in history if he was not a fantastic leader? Yet in order for his reforms to last he needed an institution that fearlessly pursued world influence. It is this vision of world reform that we dare not deny. It is time to give church a second chance.

History will tell us that the people of faith have gathered together since the beginning of time. Frequently, they listened to voices that tickled their ears. In fact, many times a pseudo God spokesman told these confused communities that if they would just follow his magical formula all would be fine. Yet, true spokesmen arose who told them to put aside their foolish day dreams. Prosperity is built by hard work not wishful thinking. Families are established by nurture in community. If we give church a second chance it means settling down to the day by day realities of imperfect communities (Jeremiah 29:4-7).

In this process we build the institutions that serve as markers of community. These institutions range from churches to schools, parks to business centers, and stadiums to shopping malls. What they share is that the community meets there and seeks a better future. Hopeless romantics despise these institutions in their dreams of utopia. After all, the utopian wants a world with no mundane details and encumbrances to perceived freedom. However it is these institutes of brick and mortar that force us to bind together in a common vision. In simplest terms as we work together we become a united people. Without the trappings of the institution our philosophic discussions never are of any practical good. If we give church a second chance it means we build. Who else will take the risks that our community needs? If not those of faith who else will invest in visions without quick returns? Only those who believe today’s drudgery is of eternal significance can selflessly invest in generations not yet born (Ezra and Nehemiah).

After Jesus of Nazareth a new protégé arose. His name was Paul of Tarsus. His vision of those called out of the world was only matched by his work ethic. Every time he entered a city he left a community of faith. He never would have considered the option we moderns have of being a churchless Christian. If you have faith you have community according to Paul.

He made three arguments for the establishment of faith communities. The first was that we can only grow into personal maturity when we live in a community of accountability and nurture. He was a voracious writer. One of his most frequent phrases was “___________ one another.” He wrote, “Love one another, serve one another, submit to one another, etc… Our holy hunger longs for this care. Maybe, it’s time to give church a second chance?

His second argument was that only in a faith community could the life and mating rituals of human beings be solemnized (Ephesians 5:25-32). Pseudo-spirituality fears our sexual nature, but a true faith community celebrates it. Church is actually one of the most erotic environments we humans can find. Only in church do we celebrate and guide the life and mating rituals of humanity from the beginning to the end. Births of new children are dedicated. In adolescent years instructions on sexuality are given. Church youth programs in their basest form simply tries to prevent mating before our community is prepared to handle new life. They teach the value of keeping one’s commitments in this process. Without knowing that other humans are trustworthy all partnerships are doomed. When that time comes we celebrate marriage and the cycle continues. Finally, as life ends church gives meaning to our human life cycles. Can any organization not based on faith do such a marvelous job of guiding our created order? Maybe, it’s time to give church a second chance?

His last argument confronts our deep seeded prejudices. After all we tend to group together with those with whom we share some commonality. Yet, this can lead to perverted communities that are filled with hate. For those called out of the world there is no division based on gender, age, race, or ethnicity. All are welcome and incorporated into community. Maybe, it’s time to give church a second chance?

Are you ready for a new journey with an old hunger? Come run with me.

Dave pastors Christ’s Church in Rwanda in the Gaculiro Caisse Sociale Estate. For more discussion feel free to contact him at christchurchrwanda@gmail.com.

ALL I NEEDED TO KNOW I LEARNED FROM AN ELEPHANT

Over the recent school holidays our family took a holiday to a nearby game park. We had a fabulous trip in which we saw many animals. Our guide provided insightful commentary on animal life; particularly elephants and Cape buffalo. As he made his comments I could not help but think elephant and buffalo family life is a lot like human relationships. In fact as I watched my children take it all in I saw a teachable moment and opportunity to exercise our wacky sense of humor. We came to the conclusion that all we needed to know we learned at the game park.

Our guide told us that elephants have a remarkable memory. In fact, they can remember events that have happened in detail from 30 years in the past. His commentary was that we need to be very careful in ticking an elephant off as he will harbor a grudge and patiently wait for his opportunity to trample an old opponent. Sound like anyone you know? Truly, it appears from our local elephant commentator, “An elephant never forgets.”

A few weeks ago, I was visiting with a local friend born in 1982 with a friend from a western country. My local friend was describing the emotion of his family towards another group of people and began telling stories from the 1960’s. I did not sense from my local friend a desire for cyclical revenge. However, it was clear that his social system’s emotions were driven by a long tangled history. He was all too familiar with emotions driven by the experiences of previous generations. His eyes had never seen the events of the past, but his heart still beat with the wounds.

My Kizungu culture has become so used to rapid change that it rarely reflects upon the past. My culture’s negotiable truth discovery, perverted view of justice, and passion for quick fixes to life’s complexities shortchanges those who live in situations that demand an elephant’s memory.

However, I have wondered if those of us gifted with exceptional memories also carry an elephant’s curse of never being able to forget. If we are those who always ponder the why questions of life and seek answers to the origins of both human triumph and tragedy our memory will provide the insight to chart new forward visions. Yet it is our elephant’s curse that it also leaves our emotions tattered. We become easily manipulated without a healthy view of justice and mercy, forgiveness and accountability, and an uneasy attachment to paradox.

From the viewpoint of those likely to be trampled by elephants we realize that today’s actions are not just the actions of today. They can set off a chain of events that are unpredictable and volatile. A seeming victory today may shift to a defeat tomorrow. The unscrupulous business profit of today may undermine society’s trust and make long-term development impossible. A person in humble circumstances today may become an influential one in a few years time. If we understand our own potential for future trampling we will make wiser choices today. Fear is not the best motivator for good behavior, but it does get the job done in our most self seeking moments.

If we can foresee our own potential for trampling we will by nature make few enemies and many friends. We will prefer to live in community from start to finish. We’ll grow comfortable with the many roles that life may give us and recognize that time has a way of revisiting the past with a fresh face.

Good teachers learn this lesson well. In the academic world once you reach a certain point upward mobility is almost over. A professor’s knowledge and influence may increase, but his power is rather stagnant. He has the privilege to instruct future leaders. If he can see them through the eyes of one about to be trampled he recognizes that in a few short years many students will be more powerful than he. Thus he instructs with grace, holds firm on matters that are clear, and hopes that in the end the academic relationship will mature into friendship. He knows that the true test of his teaching is not in marks on his exam; but in his student’s performance years later when they must rely upon a never ending thirst for both knowledge and improved character.

A proverb many of us are familiar with is, “When the elephants fight it is the grass that suffers.” Maybe it’s time to look at life through the perspective of the grass. A generation after an elephant fight the grass has moved on. In fact, being in the elephant’s path was a blessing in disguise. The brush was cleared. The earth turned over and fertilized by elephant dung. The ground soaked fresh rain and sun. A new generation of grass has arisen. The grass benefited from the elephant fight of the past, but today it needs peace and forgiveness. Thirty years is too long to wait for opportune revenge.

For those of us who believe in the resurrection of Jesus we must grapple with these awful elephant memories our entire lives. Tragedy begets triumph. From suffering comes victory. Our God does not will evil, but from it He restores loss.

Forgetting is not appropriate if we seek to be wise and forward thinking. However, institutional and generational forgiveness is the only answer to elephant sized problems.

Can you smell the fresh new grass?

Come run with me.

Dave pastors Christ’s Church in Rwanda in the Gaculiro Caisse Sociale Estate. For more discussion feel free to contact him at christchurchrwanda@gmail.com.

A Time to Heal

A few weeks ago, we ventured into the New Year eager to see what it would become. Some of us made resolutions. If we are like most of the world our resolutions will focus on some consistent themes such as improving our physical health, relationships, and finances. Lose a little weight. Save a little money. Meet a special some one new. Run faster. Start a new business. Get married. Find more time for family and friends. Though the goal may be personal transformation, we like the success gurus of the world know it can not happen if it is not measurable. Thus our focus tends to be on potential transforming activities.

As we begin our 2008 journey, let me provide another resolution for us. Maybe, the season is right to take time to heal? Maybe, something within us needs to be still?

Many of you know my habit of beginning my mornings with a run or bike ride in Kigali. At forty one it is not about speed or athletic prowess. Instead, my morning rituals are my coping mechanism for life’s pain and renewed discoveries of hope. In the midst of them occasionally I find a good friend with whom to share the journey. There have been a few times in my life when I’ve walked with a cane and I know my future is simply to return to a pile of dust. Thus it seems the joy of an early morning run is an inescapable hunger in my soul.

However, I also struggle with a boyish desire to achieve. Something in me ponders how long can I do this? Can I find a new challenge? Is there something more I have yet to discover? It may reflect in my desire to start a new church or school, make a new friend, or try one more physical challenge before life’s inevitable decline catches me. I imagine that a few of you share my struggles.

Maybe, even Kigali brings out this compulsive obsession to achieve? How many of us work days that start at 5:00 a.m. and don’t end until 11:00 p.m.? Do our phones ever stop ringing? Are our inboxes ever completely empty? Does our “to do” lists ever say “done”? Is there something about the opportunity before us that tells us that we must seize today as we have no guarantee what tomorrow’s crisis may be?

For me 2007 was a thrilling, but exhausting year. We began a new church in a fabulous facility. We also participated with others in the development of a new school in Kigali. Besides these activities my morning rituals brought me to a few new places. I ran a half marathon in Kigali in May. (I did the half because I was unwilling to commit a whole morning to a run when I needed to preach later in the day.) I swam 5 kilometers in Lake Kivu with a few friends in August. In September I rode my bike with a few others to Butare. However, by December my knees and ankles were sore and seemingly unable to heal. Also, I caught my yearly flew and for weeks could not stop coughing.

Thankfully, many years ago I organized the worst honeymoon in history, and as penance each December take Jana away for a few days on our anniversary. (If one of you ever responds in writing to something I write I promise to tell the story in Focus.) As we retreated for a celebration of 17 years together I broke my morning ritual. I slept in. I did not start the day with exercise. I kept it up for a couple days that we were away.

Then I returned home to the five kids, church, school, a ringing phone, full inbox, and more problems to solve than the day allowed. Somehow, I kept my anniversary habit and slept in a little more. I still reported to office work at about the same time, but skipped my daily runs and rides for a couple weeks. It was a strange paradox of life. I hungered for physical health, but craved quiet and rest.

In the process something out of the ordinary happened. My ankle quit swelling. My knees became pain free. My lungs cleared out and I started breathing again.

Last week, I rolled out of bed and ran again. It was nothing to brag about, but I felt joy in the run again.

I could not help, but ponder that my month of physical rest may have more to teach me than just how to restore my ankles, knees, and lungs. When God created us He defined our nature as being in His image. I’m resistant to definitions of both God and man that emphasize piety over pragmatics. It seems to me that God smiles at the sunsets He creates as much as we do. I suggest that He gave us our physical and intellectual capacities as a reflection of His creative ability. An athlete’s run or academic’s thesis may be as “spiritual” as a monk’s prayer.

I propose that the disciplines of humanity such as study, exercise, and work ethics are a reflection of God’s desire to renew and transform all elements of our humanity. Thus if rest is good for our body’s restoration it is also good for our spirit’s restoration.

As we enter that season in the New Year in which we start to fall back into old habits and early resolutions slip away I propose that we take time to heal. The activities of life can wait. The phone calls can be returned. The inbox can be replied to on another day. Our efficiency is stifled not because of lack of organization and discipline, but because we are not healed people. There are places in our lives that have as much pain as sore ankles and sick lungs. Though our desire to achieve says push on as fast as possible, our wiser self tells us to be still. What needs to happen most in us will not happen in the hurry ups of life.

Will you join me in resting to heal?

Come run with me.

You Are Not In Charge of Me

Several weeks ago in our fair city of Kigali a man was pondering the relationship between freedom and responsibility. We all hunger to be free. Tyranny and dictatorships are despised. In fact the words of equality and freedom are the buzz words we use each time we feel our right to individual autonomy is threatened. Yet in our call to freedom some truths are inescapable. We live in a community. Some have gone before us to set precedent. Our actions do affect others and it is just to consider the rights of others as we ponder our own God given rights.

As our Kigali philosopher pondered two of his sons began a discussion about the same matter. The youngest son of our Kigali philosopher chose to exercise his rights to freedom. The oldest son of our Kigali philosopher chose to exercise his authority. The discussion continued for some time, but came to a final conclusion upon the family’s dining table.

The five year old son chose to show his physical strength and climbed upon the family dining table. From such a position he could look eye to eye with this tyrannical thirteen year old elder brother. The elder brother proclaimed that it was not proper to stand on the dining room table. The younger son proclaimed it was not proper for the older son to tell him what to do. In his cry for ultimate freedom our young revolutionary proclaimed, “You are not in charge of me.”

A revolution almost birthed. Five year old boys through out Kigali heard the rumor. Media outlets were prepared to announce the revolution. Our young revolutionary began stomping his feet in rhythm. It was like a drum beating. The music was inescapable and his cry for freedom passionate. Would five year old boys be permitted to stand on their family tables and dance and argue with no accountability? Yet the older brother held firm. “Get down from the table,” he proclaimed.

At this crucial moment in the almost revolution our Kigali philosopher awakened from his cluttered mind. He heard the noise of the household revolution and came to see what was about to transpire. A final show down occurred. Our Kigali philosopher looked eye to eye with young revolutionary and proclaimed, “When my oldest son seeks to protect my property he speaks with my authority. Get down from the table or I will severely cane you.” The young revolutionary conceded his defeat and scurried back to the floor. The look in his eyes however confirmed that the revolution was not finished in this defeat. The five year old revolutionary would arise again. Another battle was coming. The next one would be well chosen and decisive for he believed to his core being that his older brother truly was not in charge of him.

Sound familiar? Is there a revolutionary lurking in your household? Do you hear this familiar chorus? Could a conspiracy be a foot among us? Or worse yet, is the conspiracy lurking in your place of work? Do you live in a world of chaos where it seems you are the only one willing to take responsibility? Are you weary of the demands of others? Do you hunger for more order and authority in a hope that it will create a better world?

Or do you come down on the other spectrum of the dichotomy between freedom and responsibility? Have you been exploited by those who should nurture and guide? Have you been forced into actions you did not understand or own? Are you weary and tired of the same failed patterns of leadership? Are you eager to try your own hand at leading others in the hope that you will not repeat the mistakes of the past?

Our philosopher’s children are a reflection of our own spirits. The reason we giggle at their behavior is that we see ourselves in them. All they do is strip away the sophistication of our arguments and expose our true selves.

Our naked ambition is mixed with many conflicting desires. One on hand we hunger for the intimacy and order of community. On another hand we hunger for the freedom to make our own way. For some within us is an inescapable urge to lead. Some of leadership quest is about the inescapable needs of our community, but some of the quest is just a desire for power, recognition, and affluence. We come to the table with a mixture of motives and desires. How do we find our way forward?

Allow me to turn back to the disagreement of our two young men. The disagreement started because they lived in the most basic building block of community. They were a family. As brothers they tussle back and forth. Some is good natured play that strengthens body, mind, and spirit. However, some is downright selfish ambition. Yet in the end they are brothers and must find a way forward. They must put aside their own agendas and seek the good of the community.

Authority is a mixed blessing in community. Without it community can not function. Some one must chart a vision and call others to it. Without the role of a vision carrier our community is doomed to cycles of poverty of mind and pocketbook. This leader also in moments when human frailty masks itself in power must call the offender to accountability. Without his voice and action calling for accountability our human nature will embark on a path of destruction. The revolutionaries in our midst will simply stomp the table to pieces.

Our freedom is not about standing on tables and stomping slogans. Our freedom is about the choice to lead our community to a new way of thinking and living.

Today’s message is not so much about leadership as it is following. Out of authentic following we learn the discipline of authentic leading.

Can you hear the rhythm?

Come run with me.

WHO IS THE HERO OF THE STORY?

One of the dangers of being a story teller for a living is that sometimes we can make ourselves the hero of our own stories. It is a very dangerous path to be so self-absorbed. The stories of me must be told with accuracy. This includes both our successes and failings. Without truthful disclosure our history becomes mythology (or political and religious propaganda). Before I tell the story of this week’s column allow me to state clearly I am not the hero of the story.

I have the good fortune of telling stories about a man named Jesus of Nazareth for a living. In order to tell his story well I tell the stories of his interaction with myself, family, and friends. None of us are the hero of our ultimate story. Instead our hero is an out of sync carpenter turned itinerant preacher who rumor has it rose from the dead approximately 2,000 years ago.

This week I want to tell the stories of some teenage young men with whom I run, my son Caleb and his friend, Nat Ntumba. Caleb has journeyed with me for 13 years. Nat has been a family friend for the last 2 years our family has lived in Kigali. A lot has changed in those two years. Watching the events of these two young men the last few months has told me even more change is coming. Caleb and Nat are entering the prime physical years of a man’s life. Each week brings a new found physical strength. Their bodies are becoming the bodies of men. With these changes also come the discoveries of adulthood. It is a delightful journey to share with them.

For the last month I have been running every Monday afternoon with them. At the end we usually do an 800 meter lap around several blocks at the school they attend called Kigali International Community School. For the last 13 years of Caleb’s and my journey, I’ve always tried to run at a speed that was as fast as I thought Caleb could run. My hope was every time to push him to the outer reaches of his ability and encourage him to go just a little more each time. Usually we’ll finish running as fast as we can. I may even graciously let Caleb finish in front of me.

The last month things have changed with Caleb and Nat. Two weeks ago as we began our weekly run Caleb kept right behind me. In fact, I found the roles to be switching. It seemed he was the one pushing me to the far reaches of my ability. Our run has two minor hill climbs and I with more confidence than I should assumed that as we started running up the hills he would give out. Surely my legs were stronger and lungs fuller. I could beat Caleb on a hill. As we reached the end of our weekly run I found myself no longer doing the paced run of Caleb’s childhood, but instead running the last few meters with every once of my physical strength. I just barely finished our weekly race in front of him. Nat came just behind Caleb. As he did, I heard Caleb say, “I almost beat my dad.”

Maybe, these are the scariest words for a father to hear. Forty meets thirteen, and the eventual end of this earthly life is now in sight. My journey in the confines of this body has begun gradual descent. All I can do is fight for the descent to slow. Caleb is on just the opposite perspective. Each day brings a new physical opportunity. He is on the ascent. However, instead of disappointment in me or jealousy for his potential the season of life now says it is my time to cheer for his success. He must become greater while I become less. He will see and do greater than things than I if he chooses the path I place before him.

This week’s run brought another surprise. Nat decided my day had come. He ran in front of me and kept the pace. I thought, “O.k. Today is the time for Nat to learn about pace. Let me follow, but at the first hill I will catch him.” Instead, at the first hill he kept going. We turned around the block and started going down hill. Nat caught his wind before me and began running faster. I pushed to get closer, but saw little by little I was losing ground. However, there was one longer hill coming, and running hills is my specialty. I was confident the final hill would be my opportunity to show Nat I could still stay with him. Now it was a full sprint to the end knowing we would need to save nothing for reserve. Slowly I was gaining on Nat, but he had too much ground on me. We reached our finish line with Nat in front, me next, and Caleb just behind. Forty met thirteen, and thirteen won.

I could not help but congratulate Nat for an exceptional run. From now to the foreseeable future Nat would become faster. My last run of my life that was faster than Nat had been the previous week. It was thrilling to see his future.

As I looked at Caleb I realized my end with him was also in sight. Whether it was one more week or one more month, Caleb would soon overtake me. It was time to prepare for the inevitable. I must become less. He must become more. My role is to coach and cheer for his success whether our endeavor is a weekly run or something more.

So what is the point of this story of two teenage boys running with a middle aged man? Leadership is about relinquishing status and responsibility so that others can succeed. Whether it is our physical bodies or intellectual capacity at a certain point the inevitable decline begins. The younger must take the responsibility of the older. Hopefully, our age makes us wiser for the journey, and we become the coaches of life for our juniors to succeed.

However, some view leadership as a possession to guard. It is their hidden treasure and they refuse to disclose its secrets or plan for their succession. Term limits are their greatest fear. For some strange reason they are never able to conceptualize that eventually the younger will catch them. Their most enduring moment will not be their own victory, but the success of their protégé.

The hero of my story, Jesus of Nazareth, proposed many years ago that true leadership was in relinquishment. In fact, he only gave three years of his life to leadership. On the first year, he asked his potential protégés to follow. Near the second, he offered the serious ones an apprenticeship. By the third the inevitable was nearing, and he nurtured them with confusing words. They never quite seemed to get it, but in the end he gave them his full measure of authority and commissioned them to do more than he.

My challenge today is not to be the hero of your story. Instead it is to lead like my hero, Jesus of Nazareth.

Come run with me.

FRIENDS IN THE JOURNEY

You may grow weary of the story, but I cannot stop telling it. The memories are burned too deeply into my mind and body. From the years of 1994 to 2001 I fought a battle with back pain. When I was 29 my youthful strength was taken from me. I walked with a cane. I experienced three surgeries on my spine. But like those strange fellows 2,000 years ago my life changed and I cannot stop repeating the rumor. The Lord has been kind to me. At the age of 40 I have both gray in my beard and my youthful strength. With my five kids maybe the Lord saw fit to give my youth back to me for a season. I know both humanity’s and my own story well enough to know that eventually age will catch me so for this season of life I must celebrate the Lord’s goodness.

Thus most mornings when I arise I go for a quick run or bike ride. The scars still leave me a little stiff and the exercise gets me through the day’s pain. However, this is more than just coping. This is celebrating joy. As former Olympian Eric Liddell said, “When I run I feel the pleasure of God.” Besides the Lord’s grace in my recovery he gave me friends in the journey.

A few weeks before I moved to Kigali in 2005, a friend in the journey gave me a treasure. His father had passed away and with his inheritance he had bought a racing bike. It was beautiful, light, and fast. He had used it for bike races and enjoyed the journey, but for some reason he believed he needed to give it to me. I was shocked, but could not say no. So as a grown man I received another man’s favorite toy. My friend on the journey gave me his treasure and off I rode.

As the Lord gave my youthful strength back to me, I could not help but seek out opportunities to publicly celebrate the Lord’s goodness. A couple times per year I do some race. I usually hang to the back and enjoy the journey. I am in no way a competitor. I am just man on a journey.

My wife, Jana thinks I am crazy. Occasionally, my boyish brain finds a challenge to ponder. A couple years ago, I pondered what a bike ride from Kigali to Butare would be like. I don’t know where the question came from. Was it my ambition, celebration, or the Lord’s leading? Maybe my grandchildren will understand my strange explorations. For this season of life I will just take the challenges as they come.

This year as I checked the www.projectrwanda.org web site and saw a pastor’s dream – a Saturday road bike race to Butare. This would fit my schedule. It was marketed as for “professionals,” and I double checked that a 40 year old muzungu would be welcome. Thankfully, I was welcome. So on Saturday, 8 September I gathered with some others at Bourbon Coffee to begin the journey.

It started with thrilling ride through Kigali. However, within 10 kilometers I could no longer see any more competitors. I was near the back of the race. This would be my own quiet journey and challenge. Could I make it to Butare on a bike in a day? If possible it would only be made with the help of friends both known and unknown on the journey.

Next I began the climb to Gitarama. For the wananci along the way I must have provided quite a bit of comic relief. Two young women saw me climbing a hill. They had a bucket of water in their hands and a smile on their face. To my surprise they threw the water on me as I passed by. I did not know if I had been the victim of a practical joke or a sincere attempt to help; but the cool water was delightful and I secretly hoped I’d be met by another bucket carrying munanci.

To my surprise Gitarama came relatively easy. It was almost all uphill, but it seemed my training had done all I needed for it to do. My struggle to Gitarama was just to get enough water. Thankfully, I had some more unknown friends on the journey. I had two water bottles to start on my bike, but it did not take long for them to be empty. I don’t know how it was done, but just when I was at my last drop of drinking water someone in a support vehicle found me and gave me another bottle of water.

A little past Gitarama I came to the only food station on the journey. I ate my fill of bananas, grabbed some water, enjoyed a brief visit; and began again. A few kilometers later my day almost finished. My front tire tube blew. I had no extra tube or repair kit with me. I began walking towards help and assumed this journey was over. Instead, a support truck with a known friend pulled up. Within his truck was a new tube. So I drank some water, ate some food, and allowed my friend to repair my bike. A friend on the journey brought me closer to completion.

As I neared Ruhango, a truck with two friends from Kigali found me. I had asked for them to find me near the end and bring me water and food. It was great to see them and my two Kigali friends strengthened me for the journey. My body still felt strong, but my end was nearing.

As Nyanza approached my knees were in great pain. I had 30 more kilometers left to go, and the joy of the journey had left. If it was up to me Nyanza would have been the end. However, there is strength to sharing a journey with a friend. So for 30 kilometers more I went. The joy was gone. In fact, I found myself no longer thanking God for the beautiful hills of Rwanda, but asking him to remove every hill between Nyanza and Butare. The Lord ignored my prayer, but gave me two friends. My friends told me I weaved continually. I remember being dizzy and a little confused. I had passed the point of my body hurting, and now it was my brain.

Finally, I reached Butare. I was almost thankful until I realized the Lord had created one long final hill. I saw a couple more friends on the outskirts of Butare. They assured me I was almost there, and I continued.

By the time I reached the Finish Line it had been taken down. From all appearances the race was over. No one was waiting for me. In fact, I rode about 200 meters past the finish line until an unknown friend told me I had finished. There was nothing glorious in the end. Only the satisfaction of knowing I had met the challenge.

So what’s the point? No glory. Could an enjoyable journey be full of pain? Why? Somehow, I found joy in the journey. The lesson learned was that I could not make this one alone. Maybe, that’s the point of this story. We only finish painful journeys if we have some on to travel with us.

Come run with me.