The Long Road Home

Welcome to Vespers, where we take up the last hour of your day.

Tonight: endurance — the long road home.

A reminder: this is a survey of great ideas, not necessarily an endorsement of any one contribution.

Tonight we take up the oldest labour of the people of God — not the battle, and not the arrival, but the long walk between the two. The wilderness. The stretch of road after you have been delivered and before you have come home, when the temptation is not so much to fight as to turn back. Peter wrote his first letter to exiles scattered across the world, strangers far from home, and he told them how to hold on. We begin there.

From the first letter of Peter: Wherefore gird up the loins of your mind, be sober, and hope to the end for the grace that is to be brought unto you at the revelation of Jesus Christ; as obedient children, not fashioning yourselves according to the former lusts in your ignorance: but as he which hath called you is holy, so be ye holy in all manner of conversation; because it is written, Be ye holy; for I am holy.

And Peter tells them what their endurance rests upon — not their grip on God, but the price already paid: Forasmuch as ye know that ye were not redeemed with corruptible things, as silver and gold, from your vain conversation received by tradition from your fathers; but with the precious blood of Christ, as of a lamb without blemish and without spot.

Gird up the loins of your mind. It is a travelling word — the long robe gathered up and tucked into the belt so a man can walk far and walk fast. And redeemed by the blood of a lamb without blemish: that is the language of Passover, the night the whole pilgrimage began. Which is where we go next, because the pattern of every pilgrim is the Exodus.

From the book of Exodus. Israel had been ransomed by the blood of the lamb and brought out of Egypt with a high hand. And then, in the wilderness, with Moses gone up the mountain into the cloud of God, the people's hearts turned back. And when the people saw that Moses delayed to come down out of the mount, the people gathered themselves together unto Aaron, and said unto him, Up, make us gods, which shall go before us; for as for this Moses, the man that brought us up out of the land of Egypt, we wot not what is become of him. And Aaron made a molten calf: and they said, These be thy gods, O Israel, which brought thee up out of the land of Egypt.

Notice the danger. It was not the army behind them, nor the giants ahead. It was the turning-back inside them — the ache to go back to a god they could see and manage, the moment the true God was slow. That is the pilgrim's peril in every century. And Paul says the whole scene was written down for us.

From the first letter to the Corinthians: Moreover, brethren, I would not that ye should be ignorant, how that all our fathers were under the cloud, and all passed through the sea; and did all eat the same spiritual meat; and did all drink the same spiritual drink: for they drank of that spiritual Rock that followed them: and that Rock was Christ. But with many of them God was not well pleased: for they were overthrown in the wilderness. Now these things were our examples, to the intent we should not lust after evil things, as they also lusted.

And then the sentence for anyone who thinks the danger is behind him: Wherefore let him that thinketh he standeth take heed lest he fall. There hath no temptation taken you but such as is common to man: but God is faithful, who will not suffer you to be tempted above that ye are able; but will with the temptation also make a way to escape, that ye may be able to bear it.

The letter to the Hebrews reads the same wilderness, and gives the far country a surprising name. It calls it rest. Take heed, brethren, lest there be in any of you an evil heart of unbelief, in departing from the living God. But exhort one another daily, while it is called To day; lest any of you be hardened through the deceitfulness of sin. Harden not your hearts, as in the provocation, in the day of temptation in the wilderness. So we see that they could not enter in because of unbelief. There remaineth therefore a rest to the people of God. Let us labour therefore to enter into that rest, lest any man fall after the same example of unbelief.

Labour to enter into rest. It is a pilgrim's paradox — you press on hard in order to arrive where the pressing stops. And the eleventh chapter of Hebrews gives us the great company who did exactly that, and who all died still walking — described not as conquerors who arrived, but as strangers who kept faith with a country they never saw.

By faith Abraham, when he was called to go out into a place which he should after receive for an inheritance, obeyed; and he went out, not knowing whither he went. By faith he sojourned in the land of promise, as in a strange country, dwelling in tabernacles. These all died in faith, not having received the promises, but having seen them afar off, and were persuaded of them, and embraced them, and confessed that they were strangers and pilgrims on the earth. For they that say such things declare plainly that they seek a country. And truly, if they had been mindful of that country from whence they came out, they might have had opportunity to have returned. But now they desire a better country, that is, an heavenly: wherefore God is not ashamed to be called their God: for he hath prepared for them a city.

They might have had opportunity to have returned. The door back to Egypt is always open; that is what makes staying on the road an act of faith. And the chapter ends with a roll of those who paid for the road with everything — and here we tread lightly, for the record is bloody. And others were tortured, not accepting deliverance; that they might obtain a better resurrection. They wandered about in sheepskins and goatskins; being destitute, afflicted, tormented; of whom the world was not worthy: they wandered in deserts, and in mountains, and in dens and caves of the earth. And these all, having obtained a good report through faith, received not the promise: God having provided some better thing for us, that they without us should not be made perfect.

And so, says the writer, run. This is the marching order of the whole book, and the fuel is one long look in one direction. Wherefore seeing we also are compassed about with so great a cloud of witnesses, let us lay aside every weight, and the sin which doth so easily beset us, and let us run with patience the race that is set before us, looking unto Jesus the author and finisher of our faith; who for the joy that was set before him endured the cross, despising the shame, and is set down at the right hand of the throne of God. For consider him that endured such contradiction of sinners against himself, lest ye be wearied and faint in your minds.

Looking unto Jesus, who endured. That is the whole engine of Christian endurance: not that we are strong, but that he endured first, and we run in the light of his running. The church has always known this road, and it trained hard for it. Hear two of the ancients.

Eighteen centuries ago Tertullian wrote to a group of Christians in prison, waiting for the arena, and told them to see the prison not as a cage but as a gymnasium. From Tertullian, To the Martyrs: Look upon the prison as your training-ground, that at the goal of final judgment you may be brought forth well disciplined by many a trial. The athletes, too, are set apart to a more stringent discipline, that they may have their physical powers built up. They are kept from luxury, from daintier meats, from more pleasant drinks; they are pressed, racked, worn out.

Endurance, he is saying, is not the accident of the strong. It is the discipline of the trained. And Augustine, two centuries later, asked where that strength comes from, and answered that it is not finally our own. From Augustine, On Patience: The patience of man, which is right and laudable and worthy of the name of virtue, is that by which we tolerate evil things with an even mind, that we may not with a mind uneven desert good things. And of whom cometh in us love, of him cometh patience: for a good will, by which we love God, cannot be in man, save in whom God also worketh to will.

So the strength to endure is itself a gift — patience is the love of God, holding on. Paul knew that arithmetic exactly, and set it down as the pilgrim's ledger: everything spent on the outside, everything gained on the inside.

From the second letter to the Corinthians: We are troubled on every side, yet not distressed; we are perplexed, but not in despair; persecuted, but not forsaken; cast down, but not destroyed. For which cause we faint not; but though our outward man perish, yet the inward man is renewed day by day. For our light affliction, which is but for a moment, worketh for us a far more exceeding and eternal weight of glory; while we look not at the things which are seen, but at the things which are not seen: for the things which are seen are temporal; but the things which are not seen are eternal.

Twelve hundred years after Augustine, an English tinker in a Bedford jail dreamed the whole road as a single journey, from the City of Destruction to the Celestial City, and gave the pilgrim a name. Near the end of John Bunyan's Pilgrim's Progress, a man called Valiant-for-truth comes at last to the river that has no bridge — the river of death. This is how he crosses. When the day that he must go hence was come, many accompanied him to the river-side, into which as he went, he said, Death, where is thy sting? And as he went down deeper, he said, Grave, where is thy victory? So he passed over, and all the trumpets sounded for him on the other side. And these were his words before he went down: My sword I give to him that shall succeed me in my pilgrimage, and my courage and skill to him that can get it. My marks and scars I carry with me, to be a witness for me, that I have fought his battles who now will be my rewarder.

My marks and scars I carry with me. The pilgrim does not arrive unmarked; he arrives as a witness. The psalms know this road too — they even have a name for the man on it: the one whose strength is not in himself. From the eighty-fourth Psalm: Blessed is the man whose strength is in thee; in whose heart are the ways of them. Who passing through the valley of Baca make it a well; the rain also filleth the pools. They go from strength to strength, every one of them in Zion appeareth before God. For the Lord God is a sun and shield: the Lord will give grace and glory: no good thing will he withhold from them that walk uprightly. O Lord of hosts, blessed is the man that trusteth in thee.

They go from strength to strength. Not from strength to weakness, as the body does on a long walk, but the other way — uphill, and gaining. And the shortest of the pilgrim songs, the hundred-and-twenty-first, tells him why: because Another is keeping the watch he cannot keep himself. I will lift up mine eyes unto the hills, from whence cometh my help. My help cometh from the Lord, which made heaven and earth. He will not suffer thy foot to be moved: he that keepeth thee will not slumber. Behold, he that keepeth Israel shall neither slumber nor sleep. The Lord is thy keeper: the Lord is thy shade upon thy right hand. The sun shall not smite thee by day, nor the moon by night. The Lord shall preserve thee from all evil: he shall preserve thy soul. The Lord shall preserve thy going out and thy coming in from this time forth, and even for evermore.

He that keepeth thee will not slumber. That is the reason a tired pilgrim can sleep at all. A converted slave-trader turned that keeping into the song the whole English-speaking church now knows by heart. From John Newton: Through many dangers, toils, and snares, I have already come; 'tis grace hath brought me safe thus far, and grace will lead me home. The Lord has promised good to me, his word my hope secures; he will my shield and portion be as long as life endures.

And grace will lead me home. Near the end of his own road, Paul wrote one last letter, and counted the race not as a burden survived but as a trust kept. From the second letter to Timothy: I am now ready to be offered, and the time of my departure is at hand. I have fought a good fight, I have finished my course, I have kept the faith: henceforth there is laid up for me a crown of righteousness, which the Lord, the righteous judge, shall give me at that day: and not to me only, but unto all them also that love his appearing.

Unto all them also that love his appearing. John, on the island of Patmos, was shown that whole company at journey's end, and shown who they were. From the Revelation: And one of the elders answered, saying unto me, What are these which are arrayed in white robes? and whence came they? And I said unto him, Sir, thou knowest. And he said to me, These are they which came out of great tribulation, and have washed their robes, and made them white in the blood of the Lamb. They shall hunger no more, neither thirst any more; neither shall the sun light on them, nor any heat. For the Lamb which is in the midst of the throne shall feed them, and shall lead them unto living fountains of waters: and God shall wipe away all tears from their eyes.

They came out of great tribulation. Not around it — through it. The endurance was the road, and the road led home. Two poems to close the night, both about that same climb. The first is a small dialogue written in London by Christina Rossetti, between a tired traveler and a voice that has already walked the way. "Up-Hill":

Does the road wind up-hill all the way? Yes, to the very end. Will the day's journey take the whole long day? From morn to night, my friend.

But is there for the night a resting-place? A roof for when the slow dark hours begin. May not the darkness hide it from my face? You cannot miss that inn.

Shall I meet other wayfarers at night? Those who have gone before. Then must I knock, or call when just in sight? They will not keep you standing at that door.

Shall I find comfort, travel-sore and weak? Of labour you shall find the sum. Will there be beds for me and all who seek? Yea, beds for all who come.

Yea, beds for all who come. And the last word tonight goes back to Bunyan — to the song that Valiant-for-truth sang on the road, the pilgrim's own creed set to meter.

Who would true valour see, let him come hither; one here will constant be, come wind, come weather. There's no discouragement shall make him once relent his first avowed intent to be a pilgrim.

Whoso beset him round with dismal stories do but themselves confound; his strength the more is. No lion can him fright, he'll with a giant fight, but he will have a right to be a pilgrim.

Hobgoblin nor foul fiend can daunt his spirit; he knows he at the end shall life inherit. Then fancies fly away, he'll fear not what men say; he'll labour night and day to be a pilgrim.

Good night.