Justice vs. Mercy

I’ve always thought of justice and mercy as being pitted against each other, as if they are opposite ends of a spectrum. And we need to try to find some happy compromise in the middle, erring on the side of mercy.  As I work my way through Martin Luther King Jr.'s "autobiography", my thoughts on this are changing.  (I left autobiography in quotes because it's actually a re-writing of his speeches, sermons, interviews, and letters in autobiographical form.)

I always defined justice as bad guys getting what they deserve and mercy as bad guys not getting what they deserve and being given a second chance.  Under these definitions I thought, “Jesus is pulling us away from justice and toward mercy.”  Dr. King seemed to have different definitions in mind than I have always had; he saw mercy as a step toward justice.

As Dr. King spoke to the African American population of Montgomery, AL, during the bus boycott, he used the word justice frequently. However, he was clear that the justice he spoke of had nothing to do with punishment but with wrongs being righted. After his house was bombed, it would have been understandable for him to ask that the bombers get their deserved punishment. Instead he said, “We want to love our enemies. I want you to love our enemies. Be good to them. Love them and let them know you love them.”  Justice is not against the wrongdoers, but justice is for the wronged.

When I consider this definition of justice, I think Jesus would’ve thought the same way.  This puts a whole different spin on Luke 18:1-8, the parable of the unjust judge. Jesus says, “And will not God bring about justice for his chosen ones, who cry out to him day and night? Will he keep putting them off?  I tell you, he will see that they get justice, and quickly.” (emphasis mine) The justice Jesus brings isn’t punishment against those deserving; it’s making things right for those who have been wronged.

Jesus used (and is still using) mercy (or grace) as the chief vehicle for his justice. Jesus’ sacrifice rights the wrongs that man has done to God, to each other, to ourselves, and to creation.  His justice is restorative, not punitive; redemptive, not retributive, and in the upside-down way that Jesus does things, he makes it possible through grace, mercy, and love.

Slow and steady wins the race...unless there's Kenyans

I'm chafed between my butt cheeks and still feel good.  It's a runner thing; you wouldn't get it.

Actually, the chafing is mostly gone now, but my legs are still incredibly sore.  So I sit here on my couch writing this post on my experience at the Bank of America Chicago Marathon before the memories (and pain) fade away.

The weekend started with a nice drive to Chicago, accompanied by Arcade Fire's Neon Bible, Elliott Smith's XO, and a conversation with my beautiful wife about where we see ourselves in five or ten years (we still have no idea). We stopped for lunch in Hyde Park right by the University of Chicago at an excellent restaurant called Medici. (try the pesto/goat cheese calzone if you get a chance)  Jamie was convinced it was an Artesian restaurant, because she's bad at spelling and misread "artisan" on Yelp.  (I guess an Artesian restaurant would serve French food?)

From there we darted over to McCormick Place for the Health and Fitness Expo, so I could pick up my race packet. Free event, yes; with parking for $15.  I am a bit of an atypical marathoner.  Most runners walked around proudly sporting their running shoes, athletic shirts, and jackets, while checking out the latest trends in running merchandise.  I was wearing a flannel shirt, jeans, and my duct-taped Birkenstock Milanos, while I was only interested in checking out the booths with free samples and SWAG.  (and the Goose Island booth)

It was at this Expo that I think Jamie finally got a complete appreciation for my minimalist style of running.  When she contrasted my use of nothing but the human body, shorts to stay "decent", and a bandana to keep the sweat out of my eyes, to the materialistic gear acquisition that others feel they need to run successfully, she saw where some are missing the point.

Signing the Runners' Wall

We left the Expo and decided to go check into our hotel.  The drive was horrendous.  It took us over an hour to drive 18 miles due to traffic and construction.  About 30 minutes into the drive, we decided that we would eat dinner near the hotel and not go back into the city that night.  After checking in, we decided to deny conventional marathon wisdom and eat pizza instead of carbo-loading on pasta for dinner.  After all, we were in Chicago, home of the triumvirate of stuffed pizza: Giordano's, Gino's, and Lou Malnati's. 

Looking through Marathon packet

Since we knew we weren't going back into the city, we returned to our hotel following dinner, hoping to catch the Walking Dead marathon, in preparation for the fourth season starting Sunday night.  Alas, the Westin O'Hare does not have AMC.  So on our last hurrah before becoming parents of three, we were in bed at 8:30.

The alarm went off at 4:00, and we grudgingly got out of bed.  I walked down to the hotel cafe hoping to grab a bagel only to find it didn't open until 6:00.  We checked out at about 5:05am and made the trek over to the Blue Line Rosemont Station, where we got bagels from the attached Dunkin Donuts.

We were the second stop on the Blue Line, and when we boarded the train, it was already standing room only.  Marathoners, you should be ashamed of yourselves for not giving up your seat to a pregnant lady who looks like she's going to pop any day (even though she still has 2 months or so), although Jamie said she was fine and refused to ask for a seat.  It was about a 45 minute ride to the Jackson stop, where I walked to Grant Park, and Jamie transferred to the Red Line to watch with the Team World Vision group.

I walked 6 blocks or so to enter the impromptu gates to Grant Park, runners everywhere.  The security guard was a bit too thorough when searching my bag and had to get approval from his supervisor to allow me to bring in the pocket knife from my brother's wedding.  They relented, as it was in my jeans pocket in the very bag that I would be checking.  After that ordeal, I found my way toward the port-a-johns, before checking my bag and ditching my shoes.  (I did not want to use a port-a-potty barefoot.  Ew!)

When the guy at the bag check saw me walking toward him shoeless, he said, "Are you doing this barefoot!?!?  I'd be honored to check your bag!"  Thus started the first of many compliments received throughout the day for running barefoot.  Clad only in my shorts, bandana, and iPhone, I shivered through the next hour and a half with the mercury reading in the upper forties.

Item by item, the annoying radio announcer started introducing events, beginning with a 30-second moment of silence to remember the tragedy at the Boston Marathon, an awkward national anthem with the microphone cutting out, and the wheelchair marathon.  When the first wave of the marathon started (fast people), everyone in wave 2 started moving forward, and then we were more crowded as we had to wait another 30 minutes for our wave to start.  Finally, the announcer told us we had just a few minutes left, and people started tossing all their warm clothes, which afterward were donated to a homeless shelter in Chicago.

The clock struck 8:00 and we slowly jogged across the starting line.  This was it; a bucket list item I've been wanting to do for about 2 or 3 years, happening right now.  I meant to follow the pace group to finish at 4 hours 10 minutes, but when we bottle-necked on one of those underground streets (think lower Wacker), I lost the pacer and never saw him for the remainder of the race.

I didn't care about that though, I was thoroughly enjoying myself.  Chicago remains one of my favorite cities, and I enjoyed taking it in amongst this massive group of people.  The spectators were a large part of that as well.  People lined the sidewalks for the entire 26.2 mile course.  All along the way, I kept hearing "That guy's barefoot?" "He doesn't have any shoes" or "Go barefoot guy!"  I received several high fives and fist bumps from fellow runners who were impressed with my lack of shoes (especially the further along I got in the race).

Several spectators make motivational signs to cheer on the runners. Any time a sign was generic, or to another Danny or Daniel, I imagined they were written for me to cheer me on.  (There was one that said "Sutter" too!) Some of the signs were motivational, but my favorite signs were funny.  Here are my top 5 favorite signs I saw during the marathon:

5)You're running more than the government today.
4) Take your time, you're not gonna win this.
3) If a marathon were easy, it'd be called your mom
2) My arms sure are tired from holding this sign
1) Hurry up, the Kenyans are drinking all the beer!

 Throughout my training this time around, I skipped several runs.  Mostly short runs, but a couple of the long runs as well.  As such, I think my body wasn't quite prepared to run the whole distance.  I started to notice I was getting tired around mile 17 or 18, and I was slowing down pretty significantly.  I was hungry too.  Lucky for me, we passed a group that was handing out protein drinks and Rice Krispie Treats, which was enough to keep me going, although making me slightly nauseous.

Around 11.5 miles in

We passed through 29 different Chicago neighborhoods throughout the run, and I seldom knew which was which.  But when we hit mile 19, I knew we were passing through Pilsen.  Pilsen has the reputation for being the most excited crowd on the course, and they live up to that reputation.  I got a bit of a lift and was able to run through most of mile 19.

Mile 20 hit, and I started taking several walking breaks.  Prior to the race, I didn't want to take walking breaks (other than the aid stations) this time around, but I don't regret doing so.  I'm not the type of runner to run at all costs.  I run because it feels good.  I walked quite a bit of my last 6 miles, but enjoyed it the entire time.

As I hit mile 25.2, I started running again.  Not because I was determined, but because some guy who had seen me throughout the race saw me walking and shouted, "Come on barefoot, you can do it!"  So I ran across the finish line, exhausted, at 5 hours and 2 minutes, beating my first marathon by 5 minutes.  (11:30 per mile;  Runkeeper showed that I ran 29.85 miles at an average pace of 10:09 per mile.)

As finishers, we were herded from the starting line like cattle, receiving cellophane capes, our medals, and a 312 Urban Wheat Ale from Goose Island.  I like 312 okay, but yesterday, it was the best beer I ever had.

I caught up with Jamie, and as happened at the end of my first marathon, I said, "I'll never do that again."  Well, as I sit here reminiscing on the day, I am looking forward to my next one (maybe New York?).  No regrets about the walking; I had a blast.

Bonus:  I ran a marathon barefoot without getting a single cut or blister.  Jamie walked about 3 miles in her boots and has 3 blisters.  Take that, naysayers!

'Cause Baby We Were Born to Run: A marathon of a blog post

I recall a day in the spring semester of what was likely my eighth grade year at Central Junior High School.  On a track outside the school, our PE student teacher for the semester tasked our class with what seemed like the most challenging feat that the human body could possibly be subjected to: running the mile.  My chubby, awkward, adolescent self had the audacity to think, "I'm going to do this."  Where this idea came from, considering my complete lack of athleticism, I have no idea, but I tried.

As the fast kids finished their miles in 7 minutes, or 8, or even 12, I had a long way to go.  My running speed was probably slower than my walking speed, and it wore me out more so and took all my effort to continue to breathe.  I walked across the finish line (actually, I walked quite a bit of it), several minutes after everyone else had gone into the locker rooms to begin showering, and our student teacher said to me, "You need to quit smoking."  I said, "I don't smoke," and he responded, "yeah, right."

While he was way off base to accuse me of being a junior high smoker (keep in mind, I was a graduate of the D.A.R.E. program), I should have been active enough as a kid to be able to run this reasonable distance. But I wasn't, and running seemed like torture.

A couple years earlier, I had joined the track team (actually I went out for all the sports teams in Junior High, making only the ones they don't cut anybody from) to do the discus or the shot put.  I thought, "I'm a strong guy; I can probably throw things." (I was wrong!) Even though these were the only events I was interested in, I quit the team when they made me run in practice any way. (After little league baseball, I quit all the sports teams I was part of)

I hated running more than I hated just about anything.  So, what changed?

Well, in September, of 2010, my wife ran the Chicago Half Marathon.  I thought she was crazy for wanting to spend over 2 hours running, when I had no desire to spend even 2 minutes running. As she was training, I thought I would join her for a bit, because I really wanted to get in shape.  I (half) committed to the Couch To 5k program, which takes you from being a couch potato to being someone who can run 3.1 miles without stopping.  I stood there in Jackson Park on the cloudless September morning of the Chicago Half Marathon, with "the Golden Lady" (pictured below) watching over the race, and I saw how excited everyone was; I caught the bug.

The Statue of the Republic stands at the starting/finish line of the Chicago Half Marathon.

When I got home, I carried on with the Couch to 5k.  I plodded away, shod in my Chuck Taylor All Stars and dressed in flannel pajama pants with a plain white t-shirt, and gradually increased the amount of time I was able to run. On week 5, when I hit 2 miles straight, I knew it was something I could accomplish.

I didn't want to run my first 5k alone in the woods, so Jamie and I signed up for a 5k together.  We did the inaugural Monster Dash 5k in Chicago, which is a costumed race.  Not only did we do the race together, but we brought our daughter (in the jogging stroller...with a flat tire) and our chocolate lab, Satchmo.

Downloaded from the Monster Dash Facebook page.

 The race itself felt like forever, as if the finish line was moving further and further away from our location on the route.  We pushed forward, flat tire and all, and we crossed the finish line after about 38 minutes.


It was such a thrilling experience that I figured I would keep running after the race.  I upped my mileage week by week, and in December of that year, I decided I would really commit to running, so I signed up for the Illinois Marathon at the end of April.  A person with good common sense would have picked a race in the summer or the fall to avoid training during the winter, but then again, a person with good common sense wouldn't voluntarily run 26.2 miles.

The day after Christmas, I started training in my brand new Brooks running shoes with This American Life playing through my ear buds.  It was cold as hell for 2 months (an expression I never fully understood, because most of the hellian imagery involves eternal flame). I continued to run, taking a break only for the February 1st blizzard dubbed the "snow-pocalypse".

When I started, my runs were out and back.  As the spring approached, I was able to circle the 7.6 miles of Lake Bloomington and run loops.  I was hitting new milestones every week, and I was feeling great.  I was still pretty slow however.  People always talk about how much of a time commitment running a marathon is, and if you're running a 13 minute mile, which was a pretty typical pace for me, it is even more of a time commitment.  I probably ran around that lake 50 times, and I listened to every single episode of This American Life.  And it felt like a chore.  It wasn't fun.

Even so, I carried on.  The big day came, and I was ready for it. I lined up with the slowest pacing group, which was probably 11 minutes per mile, and the race started.  Now, when you're running a race, something magical happens (actually, it's biological, but that doesn't sound as exciting) The thrill of the crowd triggers some sort of emotional response that sends adrenaline rushing through your body, and you are suddenly capable of reaching your complete physical potential.  The problem therein, is that it can only be sustained for so long until you are wiped.

By the time I got up to mile 6, I found myself running with the pacing group on track to a 4:40 marathon (like a 10:45 pace, which is way faster than I normally ran).  I was only able to sustain that until about mile 16, when I started to fall back.  Each mile after I started to slow down took so much effort to keep running, regardless of what pace it was.  But I kept it up until mile 22.  Every step was further than I had ever run, and I was drained of all energy. I couldn't carry on running, so I started taking several "walking breaks", where you walk instead of run.  When I hit mile 24, I took an entire mile of a walking break.  The slowest pace group passed me, and I knew that surely this could not be a good sign.

I started running and walking and running and walking for my last 1.2 miles.  Though I was slow, there was still a crowd cheering me on, and as I saw Memorial Stadium, the football field whose 50 yard line served as the finish line, I started sprinting.  After 5 hours and 4 minutes, I crossed the finish line, got my medal, and went to lie down on the ground. As I lay there I said to myself, "I'm glad I did that, but I will never do it again!"

Fast forward to New Year's Eve that same year.  It was cold, probably 29 degrees.  It had rained the night before, and much of that rain had iced over, leaving a rough ground.  I was out in Carpentersville, IL for a New Year's Eve party at a friend's house, and I was running 6 miles.  By the time I was 2 miles in, I could not feel my feet.  I was barefoot, and I had bad form, so my feet got some major blisters.

I spent the countdown to 2012 in a bathtub breaking open my huge blisters.

I started running barefoot shortly after the marathon.  There are many reasons for this, but the main reason I do so is because it feels good, and not just physically, but mentally, emotionally, and spiritually. In some Buddhist traditions, the monks engage in Barefoot Walking Meditation, and while I don't share the bulk of their beliefs, I think there is something to this practice. When my naked sole kisses the earth, God touches my naked soul through the engagement with his creation.  It functions as exercise and prayer, fun and meditation, a destressor and an act of worship.

Over the past two years of running barefoot, my form has improved significantly and my callouses have gotten as thick as Kanye West's ego.  I can now run great distances without blistering. Prior to barefooting, running was a chore; now it is pure joy.

I swore off marathons at the end of my first, but next weekend, I am running the Bank of America Chicago Marathon, and I couldn't be more excited.  I plan to do the whole thing barefoot and run with the 4:10 pacing group, which would knock almost an hour off my first time.  I'm excited to run in one of the larger marathons in the country, and I'm even more excited to take in the Windy City on foot.

Note:  A myriad of books on barefoot running have come out recently due to the success of Born to Run by Christopher McDougall, which is not actually about barefoot running but has a pretty significant chapter on the topic.  One such book is Barefoot Running Step By Step by Barefoot Ken Bob Saxton.  Born to Run is an essential read for runners and non-runners alike, with the chapter I mentioned talking about the physiology of barefooting.  Ken Bob's book is a fun read about getting into barefoot running and contains some funny stories from those who run shoeless.