It happens every time. Here’s the scene. We train our fourth-
and fifth-grade runners to find a tempo that they can hold
for two miles. Then race day comes, and I watch our plan
unravel in real time. The starter’s pistol cracks, and half the
kids blast off like it’s a 100-meter dash. It’s glorious to watch.
Arms pumping, legs flying—for twenty seconds. Then,
predictably, inevitably, shoulders slump, breath shortens,
faces tell the story: the pace will not last.
But here’s what I also notice: the kids who do keep pace
never run alone. They move in a pack, encouraging each
other without words, effortlessly matching rhythm, keeping
an eye out for a friend falling further behind.
The sprinters are immediately isolated, often gasping by the
side of the course.
But the pacers finish together. In Indiana, we know that well.
There’s a lesson here. In life, too, we sprinters can find
ourselves outrunning the most important part of the
journey: the community meant to pace us. The danger isn’t
just burnout; it’s the heartbreaking irony that we can win
the race and discover that we’re standing at the finish line
all alone.
This isn’t about running out of time. It’s about losing the very
thing we’re running for.
And friends, this isn’t just personal burnout. We are being
sorted into separate realities. We are running through life
alone. Different fears. Different enemies. Different facts.
Families are fracturing not from busyness but because they
literally inhabit different worlds of information. Neighbors
cease communication because they’ve been convinced the
other side is evil. Church members turn on each other over
issues engineered to divide us. This is more than fatigue. It is
the tragic loss of our ability to see each other as human.
For Greek philosophers and ancient Christian thinkers
alike, virtue grows. It requires two necessary elements:
sustained practice and a supportive community. Aristotle
named four “cardinal” virtues—temperance, prudence,
justice, and courage. The ancient Greeks argued that
all four virtues require practice and communities of
accountability and support. Christian theologians added
faith, hope, and love for a biblical seven. This month, we
take up the four cardinal virtues.
Temperance. Not the flashiest virtue. In fact, it feels
somewhat outdated, somewhat awkward, ill-suited to an
age of excess. And yet, when violence is celebrated, when
retribution is regarded as a rational response, and rage
poses as righteousness, temperance offers an answer and
an antidote. It is self-control in the service of others. It is the
proper ordering of our human desires. It is the radical act
of saying no to the forces of destruction so that we can say
yes to the path of healing.
For personal reasons, I love that Paul uses running as a
metaphor for the life of faith. He does it in several of his
letters. In this particular letter to the church in Corinth,
Paul knows that the Corinthians have turned spirituality
into a race, a contest, a competition. They wanted to know
which spiritual gifts dazzled the most? Which spiritual
resumé looked most impressive? Whose prophetic powers
were most verified? Who spoke in tongues with the most
convincing accent?
Paul sketches a different course. He begins by asserting
his freedom. “Though I am free with respect to all.” But then
Paul chooses limits for the sake of love. “I have made myself
a servant to all.”
That turn is temperance: Spirit-formed self-control for the
sake of others. So when Paul writes, “Run in such a way as
to win the prize,” he is not blessing a breathless sprint; he is
subverting the goal of solo glory. He’s clear. The prize is not
one person’s medal. It’s the whole body crossing the finish
line together. Self-control is not for outperforming. It’s so no
one gets left behind.
It is helpful here to remember that Paul’s letters were written
to real Christian congregations, real people, communities,
wrestling with how to live together in difference and
diversity. It’s helpful to remember that Paul’s instructions
to the Church have not changed, nor has our unique call.
And here it is: we are called to embody the way of Jesus
in the world. If we ended every program and partnership,
every class and small group, every event and program our
church offers, our mission would be the same. We are to
embody the way of Jesus in the world. And you cannot learn
to forgive, or love, or show the compassion Christ requires
unless you first commit to the messiness of community.
That’s the secret of temperance we too often forget: it is not
a private virtue; it’s a communal practice. Remember: the
pacers finish together.
It probably goes without saying that our culture makes
this nearly impossible. When anything less than extreme
feels like failure, we overschedule ourselves and our kids.
We glorify hustle as if only exhaustion proved love. If you
add the digital overload of notifications buzzing, screens
glowing, endless reels highlighting the perfect vacation, the
most well-organized home, the family that has it all figured
out—and the comparison engine never shuts down. We say
we use technology to stay “connected,” but here’s the truth:
it’s making us sprint alone. Meanwhile, the ancient practices
we too often skip—communal worship, shared meals, face-
to-face conversation—they create the connectivity we’re
desperate to find.
Yes, life in the age of excess rewards the sprint. And right
now, we’re caught in the most dangerous sprint of all—a
vicious cycle where violence breeds more violence, where
the race toward retribution only speeds our descent toward
total collapse. When acts of violence go viral, when tragedy
is trending, when the rhetoric of leaders fans the flames,
temperance turns down the heat. And so, I believe we must
rediscover temperance—not as personal willpower, but as
pack running—before it is too late. For the sake of the future
we must share. For the sake of what has been built before
and is ours to steward now. We must choose temperance
over conquest.
Our lives on this planet are too short, the work to be done
is too important, to let a spirit of fear-fueled fury animate
our action. We finish together or we will not finish at all. The
gospel’s vision of temperance provides a guiding light down
another path.
It is Jesus who modeled this shift. Jesus who gathered
disciples. Jesus who traded power for humility, who emptied
himself, who humbled himself. Jesus who chose sacrificial
love over domination, building a community meant to carry
his mission forward. Let the same mind be in you that was in
Christ Jesus, who humbled himself to the point of death, even
death on a cross. Jesus is the model for our life together. The
call of the church is to embody the way of Jesus in the world.
The most sacred moments in any race come when the
community rallies around the individual. Sometimes the
pack creates the possibility for individual excellence, a new
PR. Other times the supportive crowd enables a struggling
runner to dig a little deeper than they thought possible.
But temperance isn’t just personal. It must be public. We
need leaders who practice what we might call “sacred
slowness”—resistance to moving at the speed of fear,
choosing instead the speed of love. We need public
officials who choose long-term flourishing over short-term
political wins.
The causes of our dis-ease are legion, but I believe we
must consider the power of technology. Our screens
reward excessive, and even addictive, patterns. They
require constant engagement designed to outrage us. We
feel it draining us, and still somehow we can’t stop. The
tactics of past temperance movements are transferable
here: collective action and communal resolve for health
and wholeness. So, here’s an idea. What if we formed
Technology Temperance Societies in our homes and in our
communities, in our schools and in our congregations?
What if we tempered technology and tried a tech-
temperance rule? Something like phone-free dinners, no
devices in bedrooms, weekly screen sabbaths, turning off
the comments. Saying no is hard alone, but in community
it becomes possible. And the well-being is worth the
discipline it requires.
This is temperance as Paul understood it: not stamping out
our passion but directing it intentionally so that everyone—
and not just the strongest—can finish the race.
This is why belonging to a community like ours matters.
The counter-cultural act of joining a family of faith creates
the conditions in which temperance can be practiced. Paul
knew this. He knew it’s hard to set a tempo when you’re
running all by yourself.
You need a pack. That’s what we can be for each other. The
pacers finish together.
And so, when the cultural current pulls us toward the sprint,
we remind each other what matters. We remember that
we’re running toward something—toward Christ, toward
each other, toward the flourishing of our neighbors.
You see, our temperance is not personal discipline. It’s
about making room for those who can’t survive the cultural
sprint. The elderly who are dismissed as irrelevant. Children
who are treated as productivity projects rather than human
beings. Struggling families who are told their poverty is
a moral failing. Whenever a society abandons its most
vulnerable, it has lost its soul.
None of us can run this race alone. Life is designed to
exhaust us these days, to isolate us, to convince us that
our worth is in our productivity, that our consumption
determines our value, that our tribal loyalty is our most
important identity.
Paul casts a different vision: temperance as collective
resistance to the machine of rage, retribution, and
relentless excess. When the culture screams, “Run faster,
win bigger, yell louder,” we can choose the radical discipline
of running together.
The world is desperate for communities that refuse to be
swept up in cycles of vengeance, desperate for people who
turn down the noise and turn toward each other.
I think of those young runners, who will learn over time to hold
something in reserve—and to hold each other accountable. I
promise you, at the finish line, the joy will not be in who started
fastest. It’s in who stays the course together.
My friends. My church. Do not succumb to despair. Do not
submit to the forces of division and retribution. Do not let
isolation and extremism win. Do not go it alone. Not now.
Find your people. Hold your ground. Choose your hope. We
must finish together. By God’s grace, we will. Amen.