When I tell people that I am running a marathon, my favorite reaction is, “You know you don’t have to, right?” My friends’ attempts to convince me that I do not have to run marathons have failed, thus far. Indeed, on Sunday, Nov. 3, I ran the New York City Marathon for the third year in a row. If it’s any solace to my friends and family, each marathon I’ve run has been connected to raising money for a different charity. Not only that, I find running the marathon (and, yes, certain parts of the training) to be one of my richest spiritual practices.
After moving back to New York for law school, I set my sights on the New York City Marathon, which is difficult to get in to. This confuses my friends who find the marathon to be nothing more than an exercise in stupidity. Their confusion deepens when they learn that more than 50,000 runners willingly come from around 148 countries to run. The NYC Marathon, much like the Catholic Church, is universal. And like the church, I find marathons to be focused on community, universality and hope.
I did not run the marathon alone. My family fanned out across the course to cheer me on: My parents saw me in four spots, each of my three sisters saw me in two spots, my cousins saw me in multiple spots, my aunts and uncles cheered. One of my aunts even ran between two spots along the race course to see me, completing what would typically be a 12-minute walk in only five minutes. Friends—in some instances the same friends who questioned why I would run a marathon in the first place—made signs and cheered for me, too.
Volunteers, race organizers, bands, police officers, paramedics, photographers, tourists and New Yorkers wake up early to get the race course ready for us. Random strangers who I do not know and will likely never see again shouted their voices hoarse when I was at my most enthusiastic and when I was at my most depleted. (If you ever run a marathon, buy a shirt with your name on it. Being called by name, a common refrain in church music and a joy in the marathon, is sustaining.) Indeed, many churches in New York City host marathon Masses on Saturday during which they bless runners. I have enjoyed going to St. Patrick’s Cathedral for their 5:30 p.m. Saturday Mass. At this Mass,over 250 runners gathered around the altar to receive a blessing at the end of Mass with the entire congregation outstretching their hands.
Marathons are the triumph not just of a human spirit but the human spirit. Community sprouts and flows from shared paths on concrete sidewalks. Roads that we quickly pass through every day become places to linger and to encounter a stranger. At marathons, we see the best in each other and ourselves. We see what hard work and support can do. We see that we go further together than alone. Our faith calls us to this community, too, a community that supports and embraces and celebrates our individualities and our passions.
When I got on the N train to travel from my apartment in Astoria to the Staten Island Ferry, I smiled at someone as I took bread from my pocket. Generally, I don’t smile at people on the subway, but on Marathon Sunday, rules seem to shift. I asked the person across from me how she intended to get to the ferry; would she transfer to the 4/5 at 59th/Lex or take the R? After a brief conversation, we decided to take the train together. When we got out at 59th Street, someone asked if she could join us because she was unfamiliar with the subways. When we hopped on the 4, another person joined us and soon we were a group of four, sharing food and running tips and stories along our commute to Staten Island. When we all split, I exchanged numbers with Chinenye, an oncologist in Nigeria, and she told me to reach out if I ever visited Nigeria. On Marathon Sunday it seems we are all slightly more open to grace and connection.
The universality of both the church and the city were on display, with flags from around the world waving on each street. I couldn’t help but think of the ways that the church shows this, too. Running with my friend Will early in the race, I pointed out different churches, telling him that St. Michael’s parish between 43rd and 42nd was my grandfather’s parish when he was a child in Bay Ridge, which was then mostly Irish but now has more Masses in Spanish than English; that Our Lady of Czestochowa and St. Casimir on 25th Street has three Polish Masses each weekend; that Our Lady of Peace on Carroll Street has the best 8 a.m. Mass and was my go-to when I was living in Gowanus.
Running the marathon is a physical, multisensory experience. My taste buds crave water, my nose begins to suffer from the smell of my sweat, my ears are listening for my name, my eyes constantly scan for friends, and my feet feel the impact of every step on the road. In other words, the marathon reminds me I very much inhabit a physical body. (This is even more true for the days that follow the marathon, when stairs torment me and prove my muscles are spent.)
I thank God for the ways in which the marathon underscores my physical reality and the physicality of our faith. Jesus entered the physical reality of our existence, certainly the birth and death of us all, but also the pulled muscles, the twisted ankles, the upset stomach, the salt in the eye and the lack of sleep. During a marathon, my relationship with my body shifts from gratitude to frustration, and much like with our faith, pain and hope intermingle, often in the same step. My friends joke that Catholics are obsessed with pain and asceticism, but I don’t find that the faith particularly encourages me to seek out pain or suffering. Rather, I find that faith encourages us to be willing to transform pain into peace, defeat into victory and weakness into strength.
As I sit sore and tired, I cannot also help but think that the N.Y.C. Marathon for me is a thin space, a space where I can easily see God’s presence in the world. I see this presence in my family and friends who cheer for me and encourage me to move forward. I see this presence in the thousands of spectators who enjoy supporting someone they don’t know and in other instances might be wary of. I see this presence in the joyful atmosphere. I see the presence of God in the same streets that I walk every day, and I remember that our God is not so distant but intimately involved in everything we do, whether we choose to run a marathon or not.
