An additional note: since I first posted this, the World Series Champion Red Sox paraded through Boston in November. When they reached the Finish Line, they stopped and placed their trophy on the line with a "Boston Strong" shirt draped over it. Now there are plans for a permanent memorial near the site.
During the entire week following the Boston Marathon attack, the phrase that stuck in my mind was “the finish line”--for so many reasons.
For
Bostonians, the Marathon Finish Line on Boylston Street has now become
sacred ground--perhaps it is even becoming a sacred symbol, value, or
idea.
But
for all, since 1897, it has denoted the gold standard of running, since
for most runners at Boston the aim is not to win but rather to finish
the planet’s most prestigious road race. Crossing that line is a
personal victory for all of them.
But
now that finish line has been transformed. It means more than before.
One churchgoer returning to one of the Copley Square churches closed off
as part of the crime scene said, “Now it’s a starting line too.”
From
now on, the finish line is also where the bombs went off. Future
runners will finish only by passing the two spots where three people
died and more than 200 others bled. And very likely the finish line
will soon have a memorial to the victims attacked on April 15, 2013.
“I have fought the good fight, I have run the good race, I have kept the faith:”--2 Timothy 4:7
And Paul himself was echoing the way the prophet Isaiah viewed life’s need for strength and endurance:
“But
those who trust in the LORD will find new strength. They will soar high
on wings like eagles. They will run and not grow weary. They will walk
and not faint.”--Isaiah 40:31
The
stress in both images is not on competition, but on accomplishment, not
on winning the race but on finishing the course, not on the contest but
on the journey and its destination.
Later
Christians built on these images to establish a long tradition of
seeing our life as a journey. This view evolved from seeing life as a
race to the image of a pilgrimage which follows its path to its end—but
the idea of the race to the finish line was never lost.
No
doubt part of the popularity of the Boston marathon lies in its power
to evoke our life’s long struggle to endure all trials and overcome all
obstacles until we finally arrive at our natural end.
Sometimes
someone’s life actually fits this image. When my father died last year
at 94, my wife said, “He died at the end of his life”--a life that
really was a long, fully lived journey to its natural finish (see
CrossCurrents #370, “A Quietly Heroic Life”).
But this is not always so. As Boston 2013 showed and life teaches, the finish line can be moved.
Runners
still on the Boston course after the bombing were stopped short of 26.2
miles. Yet they were awarded medals for finishing, which meant that
for some the finish line was Kenmore square, for others Commonwealth
Ave., for others someplace further back along the course. The finish
line moved, caught them unawares, and suddenly ended their races.
The same is true in life, since for some of us the finish line of life arrives well before anyone expects.
I
have already written about the child whose life was more like a sprint
than the marathon, ending only eight short weeks after his birth (see
CrossCurrents #378, “Precious Child”).
As
I drafted this piece, another young Boston University student died in a
house fire, the 11th BU student to be killed (counting the marathon
victim) in the last 12 months.
And
on Wednesday, April 17—two days after the bombs and 24 hours before the
suspects’ images became public—another runner reached his early finish
line. Our close friends’ son Matthew Shea had suffered leg pains while
running high school track; these led to a 10-year-long effort to outrun
the cancer infecting his body. Through several remissions and relapses
he not only persevered but filled his life with more acts of courage,
generosity, and love than many people achieve in three times his
lifespan. He died at 27 knowing, as did his loved ones, that he had run
the good race with steadfast hope no matter how fast his finish line was
approaching.
In reality, the same is true for all of us.
We
are all alike in living our lives as a journey that (for most) is more
like a marathon than a sprint. But we are all unique in that, while we
all run the same race of life, each of us runs a personal race on a
different personal course. For each of us, the finish line is
different. For each of us, the finish line is a moving target. For
each of us, its final location cannot be known.
We
may pace ourselves like marathoners, looking forward to careers and
vacations and children growing and marriages and grandchildren and
retirement. But that is like saving enough energy to get over Heartbreak
Hill and still have enough left for the last few miles to the official
end of the race. The fact is that our own personal finish line may not
be at the end of the official course (called “life expectancy”). For
each of us, the finish line may be just round the next corner.
Yet
we run on, filling our lives with as much joy and love and hope and
courage as we can before our finish line arrives—and trying always to be
prepared for it.
For
those who died on April 15, 2013, the marathon’s finish line was their
unexpected finish. For the injured, it was a turning point; their lives
are changed forever. And for all of us, it was the reminder that none
of us controls the course we run.
Six
days after the Boston bombings, the London Marathon was held amid
heightened security. The runners wore black memorial ribbons and made
their intentions clear: they are determined to make a show of strength
in the face of violence at Boston 2014. 
So
next year we can expect more runners, more wheelchair racers, more
midnight cyclists, more volunteers and spectators and memorial honors.
The 118th running of the Boston marathon may well surpass the record numbers of the 100th running.
And
for all those hundreds of thousands along the course in whatever
capacity, as well as the millions watching on TV and Internet, that
famous and now sacred finish line on Boylston Street will mean more than
ever, especially at 2:50 PM.
Perhaps
there will be some special moment of commemoration. Perhaps the church
bells will toll. And if they do, all of us will know they toll not
only for those who died, not only for those injured or traumatized, but
for all of us who each day, all our lives, run toward life’s certain,
sacred, but unknown finish line.
And that will be our shining moment to show that Boston has found new strength, and will not grow weary.
© Bernard F. Swain PhD 2013
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