The End(s) of Discipline

"This is not good."

That's the thought that was running through my head this past Monday morning at around 8:30am. It was President's Day, and my brother and I have this running annual tradition of winter hiking/mountaineering Mount Washington on President's Day. Each year we set out to give our best attempt at reaching the summit, taking the Lion Head trail around the north edge of Tuckerman Ravine. Landing on conditions that make for a successful, complete ascent is never guaranteed; on Washington in February, wind and snow are pretty much the two things one can bank on. When they combine in the right way - which they often do - visibility above the tree line can drop to under a few feet, making any sustained effort at the summit unsafe and untenable. In the past three years, we have had to turn around below Lion Head - well below the summit - for various conditional reasons, twice. And that's all part of the experience: knowing when the conditions are right, and knowing when they're just not. This past Monday, though, conditions were good: sunny and clear, highs in the twenties, and not enough fresh powder for the winds to blind you with. It was a beautiful day for a climb.

That is to say, the WEATHER conditions were good. My own condition, on the other hand, was a bit wanting.

Around 8:30am, about an hour into our (eight hour) climb, I already knew I was in for a rough day. While I would consider myself an outdoorsman of a limited sort - camping, fishing, hunting are all things I enjoy, and spend a good deal of time doing - hiking mountains is not something I've been in the regular habit of since high school. In case you haven't noticed, for those of us north of 30 years old, high school is surprisingly well into the rear-view mirror, more and more so every year. So, while my brother and I do have this annual tradition of tackling Washington in February, this past Monday officially marked the one year anniversary of the last time I had strapped on hiking boots. Suffice it to say, that doesn't really constitute much of a conditioning regime. Additionally, while I would say I was in pretty good physical condition a few years back, that was a 'high water mark' of fitness for me. Over these past 2 or 3 years, the 'tide' has retreated considerably, while  - funny enough - those numbers on the scale have advanced by 25 pounds or so.  On top of that, it had become clear the night before that the Bannon family February cough and cold, that the kids had been trading back and forth for the past month, had finally decided to grace my respiratory system. So there I was, an hour into a full day of more or less continuous, reasonably strenuous physical activity, breathing hard, beginning to sweat under my layers of clothing, and feeling the weight of my pack bearing down on shoulders and legs that were already beginning to complain. We were nowhere near the challenging part of this hike. This was not good.

As tends to happen, it was in that moment that I was suddenly struck by a renewed appreciation for physical conditioning. While much of our daily motivation for bodily discipline and physical training, to what degree it exists at all, tends to gravitate towards greater or lesser degrees of vanity - the number of notches available on our belt, or how the torso above that belt is going to look when we find ourselves shirtless at the beach this coming summer - there are actually much better reasons for good management and stewardship of our bodies. Namely, that they will be prepared and able to DO things that we may want or need them to do when the time comes. To hike a mountain, run alongside our children, lift an object, to build or plant or carry, or simply to live a life to the fullest extent possible, unfettered by unnecessary illness or injury; our bodies have been given to us in order that we might live and DO, and to the extent that we fail to care for and train our bodies, we limit their ability to fulfill that end. As I set my feet upon the path to Washington's summit, I quickly knew that these past couple years, absent of physical discipline, were coming home to roost.

There's a pretty easy spiritual-journey parallel at work here, but it took me a couple more hours into the hike - and a good deal more exhaustion - to arrive at that epiphany. We'll get there momentarily.

We made our way up the wide, groomed trail from Pinkham Notch - struggling more than we ought to have been  - to the point where the Lion Head winter trail breaks off, and we stopped to put on crampons and get out the mountaineering axes. For the next half mile or so our path would consist of steep mixed climbing, up snow, rock and ice. Still below the tree line and out of the wind; the fresh snow clinging to the stunted alpine evergreens, the brilliant blue sky and sun, and the breathtaking panoramic views that improved with each carefully chosen step, were enough to remind one why this was a worthwhile endeavor. It was the kind of joy-inspiring beauty that mutes the challenge and the experience of physical strain. It was slow-going, but in the sort of surroundings that encourage you to take your time, anyway.

Emerging from the tree line some distance below Lion Head, you encounter for the first time what the second half of this journey will be like: the terrain is rocky and slow, and there will be no more shelter from the wind. Suddenly, I was reminded how tired I was. Buffeted by the arctic winds, gusting anywhere from 50 to over 85mph that day, just keeping our feet became a task requiring concerted focus and effort. In spite of this, visibility remained excellent. Which, among other things, meant that the conditions were right for summiting; the only thing that could stand between us and our stated goal that day were our own limitations. In the end, I think, it was that realization that pressed me onward. In the two years previous, we had been forced to turn around by conditions beyond our control. As such, on both those occasions I could happily say that I'd given it my best shot, but that it just wasn't the right day to summit. And that was fine. But on this day, I knew that if I was going to turn around it was going to be because I was admitting that I just didn't have it in me, and that was going to be a tough pill to swallow. So, onward we went.

We stopped to rest and eat something against some large rocks at the base of Lion Head around 10 or 10:30 that morning, getting out of the wind as best as we were able. It felt good to get off my feet, but I could feel the circulation slow and the cold begin to creep into my fingers almost instantly. We couldn't stop moving for very long. From here forward, though, every step was taken with the distinct impression that the next step remained a very much open question. Would I open my mouth to verbalize the message that my body was speaking to me? Would I concede defeat, there on the mountainside, turn and descend? Two more hours would pass while this debate raged internally; in the meantime, one step followed another, carefully and deliberately, as I could not find the will to stop or speak that word of defeat.

We crested Lion Head and made our way across the plateau of the Alpine Garden, with Tuckerman Ravine gaping majestically just off to our left. In the spaces between gales of wind, the February sun was almost warm. Incomparable views greeted us in every direction, and once again the beauty of our surroundings was such that the struggle of the moment was nearly forgotten. What grace, and what a privilege it was, to be two people immersed in the glory of the Creator in that place on that day! Exhausted as I was, I could not help but smile as I breathed deeply in that moment; I gave thanks to God for the richness of His blessings. And that is significant, because it was right about that time that this excursion would shift to become a distinctly more spiritual affair. God was about to draw back the internal curtain and put on a show.

There on the Alpine Garden, my already limited physical abilities took a turn for the worse; the hours of anaerobic strain suddenly reached a threshold, and my legs began to cramp. Every step became shaky and questioning. Gritting my teeth in discomfort and frustration, I began to realize that this could very well spell the end of our ascent. With more than a mile of steep, rocky terrain still ahead of us, I just didn't know how I could possibly continue if my own legs turned traitor to the cause. And so I stood there, stretching and massaging my quadriceps, while staring down the path ahead of us. From there on that rocky plateau, the steep and imposing Snow Field rose up directly ahead of us. Beyond that, our trail would merge with the Tuckerman Ravine trail to make for the summit via Split Rock; appropriately named, and 50% steeper, still. From where I stood, the ever-distant summit appeared as a mountain upon a mountain. As far as we had come, and as much energy as we had spent, there was still a mountain - steep, jagged and imposing - between us and our goal. And in that moment, I realized that I just couldn't do it. I was not in any way equal to the path, and I could look nowhere else but to my own weakness and personal limitations for the reason. Others were suited to the task that day - guides with clients, experienced winter hikers - but I was not. They were prepared for the challenge before them, though personal conditioning and an intentionality of experience, whereas by contrast I was merely a cavalier tourist on this mountain, aiming for a prize that my preparation simply did not merit. This was a humbling and illuminating realization.

Maybe it was just exhaustion, or maybe it was a spiritual epiphany, but in that moment the impossible height before me suddenly came to represent our present journey of life and church in a pretty profound way. As a newly 'minted' church planter, I know that the journey of church planting is, in the very best case, a five year journey toward sustainable vitality. Thinking of our fledgling community, The Commons, it came home to me the degree to which we stand just before the trailhead of this path that Jesus is calling us to undertake. There is a mountain standing before us; it cannot be avoided. It is, in fact, the very essence of the call itself. But standing there, more than a mile below the summit of Washington and having already spent every ounce of energy, I came to the stark realization that I was not remotely prepared for the demands of this journey of faith that lies ahead, any more than I was conditioned to take on New England's highest peak in February. Even as I have striven to be faithful in hearing and responding to this call, I know that I have often failed to prepare myself for the journey itself. Even now, standing at the trailhead, I can feel the limits of my own wisdom, competency and piety stretched to the point of breaking by the demands of the path. And I am afraid. Afraid of being betrayed by own weakness, stranded somewhere along that height, far short of the goal. And I long for a heart and mind disciplined and honed so as to be fit for the task before me. I resonate with the words of Paul to the Corinthian church as he reflects on his own need for discipline, both physical and spiritual:

"Do you not know that in a race all the runners run, but only one receives the prize? So run that you may obtain it. Every athlete exercises self-control in all things. They do it to receive a perishable wreath, but we an imperishable. So I do not run aimlessly; I do not box as one beating the air. But I discipline my body and keep it under control, lest after preaching to others I myself should be disqualified." (1 Cor. 9:24-27, ESV)

In the end, our only hope is the grace of God, embodied and given to us in and through Jesus Christ. I know that no amount of will, wisdom, strength or personal piety could ever make me fit for the task ahead. I know that, unless God himself does this work and builds this house, all our labor and sacrifice will have been in vain. And so, I cast myself upon the grace of Christ, confessing my weakness and sin, and thanking him that his love is such that he inclines to our weakness in order to lend his own strength. This is Grace, and it is the only rightful foundation of our hope and work.

That said, the temptation is to cheapen the gift of grace; mistaking the freedom with which it is offered for a lack of cost in both the giving and receiving. The paradox of the grace of Christ is that it is a totally free, undeserved gift, that also costs us everything. We cannot receive the gift of Christ without simultaneously giving ourselves to him; we cannot accept his embrace without surrendering ourselves to his arms. And so, while we rejoice that on this journey ahead will never need to rely upon our own strength, we also know that the Savior who meets and calls and inclines to us in our places of weakness simultaneously begins a transforming work, in order to lead us from that weakness to a place of fitness and life. We engage in spiritual disciplines (rhythms of prayer, scripture reading, sabbath, and the like) , then, not in order to merit the favor of God, or to establish his Church on the basis of our own strength, but in order to know the joy and fulness of that life of Christ himself as it is birthed within us and begins to bear fruit for his Kingdom.

As I consider the path and challenge before us, I am convicted by the thought that I might, through lack of discipline, risk a life of stunted fruitfulness by presuming to cheapen the grace of Christ, rather than surrendering to it. I fear that, through laziness or presumption, I might miss the richness of fruitfulness and life that Jesus has purchased for me. I long so much that I (and we) would not merely stumble through life, half asleep, and miss the unspeakable abundance that Christ so longs to place in our hands! The vistas are far too beautiful to not risk the climb. And so my heart cries out with the Apostle Paul:

 "Not that I have already obtained this or am already perfect, but I press on to make it my own, because Christ Jesus has made me his own. Brothers, I do not consider that I have made it my own. But one thing I do: forgetting what lies behind and straining forward to what lies ahead, I press on toward the goal for the prize of the upward call of God in Christ Jesus."

In the end, we did manage to make it to the summit of Washington that day. I'm not really sure how. Surely, pure stubbornness and force of will were really all we had left to go on, humanly and physically speaking, so I'm willing to admit that God probably just took pity on us. By the time we reached the summit the wind, the cold, and the climb had sapped us of any residual vitality. Our victory was an empty, humorless one, endearing only in hindsight. We rounded the corner into an arctic gale, sat for one scowling moment at the top of the world, then began our descent. I would like to imagine that I might finish this race of life in somewhat better form.

All told, it was driven home for me in a profound way that, inasmuch as to discipline ourselves physically is not a matter of mere vanity but of preparation for the journey ahead, so too for our souls. Too often we are cavalier tourists within this community of Jesus, stricken with laziness and presumption. In the end, we will merely undermine our own Kingdom fruitfulness and joy. So as we prepare to enter the season of Lent I would exhort us all, beginning with myself, to take this opportunity to (re)discover the blessings of a rhythm of spiritual discipline and preparation, in whatever form that might take for you. There is a journey ahead of us, and the horizon is eternity itself; along the way, we will certainly find ourselves grateful for the improved fitness.