Our Communion of Saints

A Great Crowd Cheering Us Onward
Reflections on Hebrews 11:29–12:2

I’ve been thinking about how faith isn’t a sprint, but more like a long hike in the mountains. I’m not a runner, not particularly sporty at all, but I do know what it feels like to put one foot in front of another on a trail when you’re tired. I’ve hiked Roan Mountain in East Tennessee, wandered the paths near Asheville, climbed El Ávila in Caracas, and spent long days in the canyons and mesas of New Mexico and the foothills of the French Vosges. I took that long descent into the Grand Canyon to the Havasu Reservation - and back - though just barely. I wasn’t fast, and I wasn’t strong, but I kept walking.

Sometimes, on the trail, you go farther than you meant to, or you take the wrong turn and the “easy” two-mile loop turns into a five-mile endurance test. Sometimes the only thing that gets you through is the presence of others—someone to say, “You’ve got this. Just a little further.” Even when hiking alone, I’m never really alone. The boots I wear, the water bottle in my hand, the idea that this is even something worth doing—all of that came from someone else’s encouragement, experience, or wisdom.

The writer of Hebrews paints faith like that: not a quick dash, but a long, steady journey that demands perseverance. And not one we walk alone.

The passage reminds me that faith is not just a warm feeling we hold in our hearts. Faith moves. Faith acts. Faith keeps walking forward even when the road is steep and the destination hidden in fog.

When Hebrews was written, those early Jewish followers of Jesus were tired. They had given up old certainties, and the payoff wasn’t obvious. They were mocked, doubted, even persecuted. Hebrews tells them—and us—to remember the “cloud of witnesses,” those who came before and walked the road of faith even when it cost them everything. Abraham, Sarah, Moses, Rahab. The prophets. The unnamed saints who endured hunger, injustice, violence, ridicule. People “of whom the world was not worthy.”

And then there’s Jesus—the “pioneer and perfecter” of our faith. The Greek word for pioneer, archēgos, means trailblazer. The one who cuts the path ahead of us. Jesus doesn’t just hand us a map and say, “Good luck.” He walked it. He stumbled. He suffered. He laughed at dinner tables and cried in grief. He kept going, even when it meant the cross. And because he did, we know it’s possible for us too.

The author of Hebrews says to “lay aside every weight and the sin that clings so closely.” I’ve been thinking a lot about those weights. For me, fear is the heaviest one. Fear drags at my steps. Fear of living, fear of dying, fear of failing, fear of not being enough. I’ve carried those fears for as long as I can remember.

But here’s the strange gift of it: over and over again, when tragedy or loss or violence broke into my life, I fled straight into Jesus. I tucked myself up in him. And somehow, in that hidden place, I’d hear the call to keep going. Sometimes it came as a glimpse, sometimes as a saint sent my way—a mentor, a friend, a stranger with just the right word. That’s the cloud of witnesses.

I’m beginning to see that’s how we live this life of faith. We run—or hike—the race with perseverance, yes, but also with company. We stumble, we bump up against each other (sometimes hard!), but we keep moving together. It’s not always smooth, but as my husband Stan likes to quote from Days of Thunder: “Rubbin’ is racin’.” That’s community—not wrecking each other, but learning how to walk this road side by side.

And every once in a while, there’s a glimpse of grace that feels like a mountain feast—what the Germans call Gipfelschmaus. Even the simplest food tastes amazing after the climb, because you’ve made it through with others.

So I remind myself daily: Drop the weights. Lift your head. Take the next step. We are not alone. We are surrounded. And Jesus is already on the trail ahead, waiting with joy at the finish.