Have you ever run a marathon? Walked a long distance? Gone through a long deep challenging part of life that felt like a ‘marathon’? I suspect we all have. Perhaps some of us are going through a marathon of life right now. There is something that happens in the final stretch of a marathon that every runner both dreads and, strangely, comes to respect. They say the last third of the race, somewhere around 30 kilometers, is where everything changes. Your body has already given what it can give. Your energy reserves are nearly gone. Your legs feel heavy, your breathing laboured. And yet… the finish line is not quite there. You can almost imagine it. You know it exists. But it remains just far enough away to test every part of you.
It is in that space—between exhaustion and completion, that something deeper is revealed. Some say the hardest part is actually the middle of that final stretch. You have run most of the race. You can see the end coming. But… not yet. Not quite. And there is a voice inside that begins to whisper: “You’ve done enough. You can stop now.” And yet, something else whispers back.
Athlete and writer, Haruki Murakami, in his memoir “What I Talk About When I Talk About Running”, reflects on this very moment. He describes the quiet, internal battle that takes place late in a long run. It is something that is not dramatic, sometimes not visible to the outside world, but it they are feelings that are deeply real. Murakami writes about the discipline required to keep going when motivation has long since disappeared. Perhaps you might relate to some of his observations. As he speaks about the solitude of the road; the struggle and the suffering; and the strange acceptance that comes when you realize your limits… and keep moving anyway. Running, for Murakami, becomes a metaphor for life itself. It is about enduring discomfort, living with uncertainty, and learning how to continue without despair.
I suspect that we are all running some type of marathon in life. And, friends, that is where Lent brings us. Lent is not a season of easy answers. It is not a season of polished faith. Lent is a season that strips things away. Week by week, we have been walking through the great journeys of scripture: Jesus in the wilderness, Adam and Eve leaving the garden, Abram and Sarai stepping into the unknown, Nicodemus coming in the night, The 23rd Psalm’s journey through the valley of the shadow of death, and now, today, we arrive in another valley. A valley not of life, a valley of bones.
The prophet Ezekiel is led by the Spirit into a vision that is as stark as anything in scripture: a valley filled with dry bones. Not recently fallen. Not partially alive. But dry. Bleached. Lifeless. It is an image of complete devastation. This is not just death; it is the aftermath of hope lost. Israel, in exile, feels like this: Cut off…Dislocated. Without future. Without direction. Without life. Perhaps you have been there in your life before; or perhaps you are there now? And God asks Ezekiel a haunting question: “Can these bones live?” It is almost an absurd question. Can what is utterly finished begin again? Can what has lost all life be restored? Can what is broken beyond recognition be made whole?
Ezekiel’s answer is honest. He does not pretend certainty. He does not rush to easy faith. “O Lord God, you know.” And perhaps that is one of the most faithful responses we can offer in our own lives. When we reach our limits…when we stand in our own valleys…when we encounter places in ourselves or in the world that feel dry and lifeless…We do not always know how life will come. But, we trust that God does. Lent peels life back to the raw. It exposes the rough edges, the fears, the places we would rather avoid. That is why we fast. That is why we pray. That is why we ‘do Lent’. That is why we walk this journey. Because eventually, all the extras fall away. And what remains… is the question of faith. What remains are the bones.
And that is where the extraordinary happens! We see it narrated in Ezekiel’s vision. God does not simply snap fingers and restore life. Instead, there is a process. A ‘holy process’ that is crucial for us to understand in faith! Bones come together. Sinews form. Flesh appears. But still…there is no breath. And if that is starting to take you back to our Ash Wednesday service, you are right. “Remember that you are dust, and to dust you shall return. Repent, and believe in the Gospel.” It is NOT enough to be reassembled. It is not enough to look alive. Life itself must be breathed in by God. “Prophesy to the breath,” God says. “And say…‘Come, breath, from the four winds, and breathe into these slain, that they may live.’” And when the breath comes…the Spirit of God…they live.
And then comes the promise: “Then you, my people, will know that I am the Lord, when I open your graves and bring you up from them… I will put my Spirit in you and you will live.” That same promise echoes in our reading from Romans. The Apostle Paul writes to a community that also knows struggle, uncertainty, and limitation. And he says: “You are not in the realm of the flesh but in the realm of the Spirit, if indeed the Spirit of God lives in you.” And then this powerful declaration: “If the Spirit of him who raised Jesus from the dead is living in you… he who raised Christ from the dead will also give life to your mortal bodies.” Do you hear the connection? The breath in Ezekiel’s valley…is the same Spirit Paul speaks of in Romans. The Spirit that raises dry bones…is the Spirit that raises Christ…is the Spirit that lives in you. And that is HOPE…pure, wonderful hope of faith!
And this brings us back to the marathon. Because when a runner reaches that final stretch; when the body begins to fail; it is no longer just about muscles or training. It is about something deeper. Runners will tell you: at that point, you are no longer running on physical strength alone. You are running on will. On memory. On meaning. On something beyond yourself. Some describe it as mental resilience. Others as discipline. Some even describe it as transcendence. But for people of faith…we name it differently. We call it Spirit….running on the Spirit! Because there comes a point in life where we cannot finish the race on our own strength. There comes a point where effort is not enough. There comes a point where we reach our limits. And in that moment, the question becomes: Will we fall into despair? Or will we trust in something deeper?
This is the tension we have been exploring in life between life integration and despair. Despair says: “This is the end. There is nothing more.” Integrity says: “Even here… God is present.” Despair says: “You are alone.” Integrity says: “The Spirit lives in you.” Despair says: “You cannot go on.” Integrity says: “You are being carried.”
And here is the truth we must not miss: No one runs a marathon alone. Even though it may feel solitary, there are always others: crowds cheering, fellow runners pacing alongside, people handing out water, voices calling your name. And in the race of life—it is no different. We are not meant to do this alone. That is why we have community. That is why we have the church. That is why we gather. Because when one person’s strength fails, another can carry hope.
And even more deeply: We do not finish this race without God. There is a profound loneliness that can settle into a life that tries to run without Spirit. A kind of quiet exhaustion. A sense that everything depends solely on us. But the gospel offers something different. It tells us that when we reach the end of ourselves…we are not at the end. We are at the place where God begins something new. Friends, perhaps you know that place. Perhaps you have stood in your own valley of dry bones. Perhaps you are there now. A place where something has ended. A place where hope feels distant. A place where you are not sure how life can come again. Hear the promise: “I will put my Spirit in you, and you will live.” Can you open your heart? Can you receive the Spirit?
In the course of my week, I have the honour of sharing the journey with people in hospital and hospice care. As much as I try to soften my ‘preacher’s voice’ in the hospital setting, one’s voice inevitably carries in the room and neighbouring patients overhear parts of our conversation. And I can’t tell you the number of times people ask me to stop and visit with them…to hear this great story of our faith: of life, of death and the integration of life’s mystery. And so, I have the honour, sometimes, of walking with people and reminding them of their faith. And…also of sharing if, sometime, for the very first time. You have that same honour in your life. Of hearing the great story of hope…and of living and sharing it!
So, wherever you are in the race: cheering from the sideline, running the final stretch: Tired...Weary… Wondering how much further. May we all hear this truth: we are not running alone; we are not running on empty; we are running with Spirit. The same Spirit that raised Christ…is breathing life into you. So, keep going. Not because you have endless strength; but because God’s Spirit is endless. Not because the road is easy; but because you are not alone. Not because you can see the finish clearly; but because you trust the One who waits for you there. And when you reach your limits…that is not the end of faith. That is just where faith begins. And, to that gift of a mature faith, we can say…Thanks be to God.
Amen.