I recently got back from a spring break trip to Florida—family, friends, sunshine, the usual mix of chaos and rest that comes with traveling with kids.
I left a day early, though.
My oldest had a playoff soccer game, so I packed up and hit the road solo while everyone else stayed behind. That night, I got a few pictures from the group—big smiles, kids running around, friends enjoying those simple, meaningful moments together. I felt a little sad not to be there for the last day. But I’ll be honest—it was also kind of nice. I got home first, slept in my own bed, and woke up to a quiet house. There was a strange kind of peace in it, and maybe it’s an indicator of my age.
But somewhere in that space between missing out and settling in, this word came to mind: forerunner.
Back when I was skiing competitively, we had something called a forerunner. It was the person who went down the course before the actual race started—not to compete, but to test it. Make sure the gates were set right. That the snow was holding. Sometimes it was an older racer from a different division.
Every now and then, they’d pick a younger skier who showed promise. I got to do it a few times. It was fun, but honestly kind of weird. You’re skiing the same course as everyone else, but you’re not in the race. No clock. No result. You just go first, then step aside.
Lately, that’s what life and ministry have felt like—like I’m forerunning. I’ve taken a big step of faith into something new. The path is real, but the race hasn’t started in any official sense. There’s no clear scoreboard or crowd, and few measurable outcomes. And that’s actually okay with me. I’m not chasing results.
But I do notice more quickly now how much of ministry conversation can start to feel like a competition—who’s growing fastest, reaching widest, leading most effectively. Simply put, I don’t want to play that game. And a few of us are on a different kind of journey right now. It feels more like we’re skiing the course early—not to compete, but to test the ground, to make sure it’s ready. It’s quiet work, but it matters deeply.
It got me thinking about Paul’s words in Philippians—that we run the race for “the prize of the upward call of God in Christ Jesus” (Philippians 3:14, ESV).
Paul wasn’t competing against anyone. He was running toward something. His eyes were set on the finish line that only Jesus could define. He was a pioneer at heart—always asking where the gospel hadn’t yet gone. In Romans 15:20, he says, “I make it my ambition to preach the gospel, not where Christ has already been named.” He wasn’t looking for a crowded course; he was seeking uncharted ground.
But Paul never did it alone. He always traveled with a few others—Timothy, Silas, Luke, Epaphroditus, and more. The pioneering work was communal. In Acts 20:4, we see just one example of his team: “Sopater… Aristarchus and Secundus… Gaius… Timothy… Tychicus and Trophimus.”
Paul’s way of running the race didn’t lead him into isolation—it led him into love. Nearly every letter ends with names. In Romans 16 alone, he greets over two dozen individuals by name, saying things like, “Greet Priscilla and Aquila, my fellow workers in Christ Jesus… greet my beloved Epaenetus… greet those in the Lord who belong to the family of Narcissus” (Romans 16:3–5, ESV). His affection was real and expressed toward individual people in so many places.
He also leaned upon the generosity of churches to continue the mission, and often wrote with deep gratitude for those who supported him along the way. There weren’t abundant resources—just a shared conviction that Jesus was worth it and mutual affection for one another that was communicated through letters. I have to imagine Paul occasionally felt the strange mix of emotions that come with being a forerunner – someone who goes first.
So maybe that’s the invitation for some of us right now—to embrace the quiet, early work of forerunning. To ski the course before the crowds arrive. To go ahead, not to prove something, but to prepare the way. There may not be much applause. There might not even be a clear result. But it’s the kind of race worth running.
Because we’re not chasing the approval of others—we’re pressing on toward “the goal for the prize of the upward call of God in Christ Jesus” (Philippians 3:14, ESV). We’re asking, like Paul, where the gospel is still needed, and we’re choosing to walk that path with others—even when it feels like we’re building as we go. And we do it with hope: that God sees, that God provides, and that one day, we’ll hear the words we’ve longed for all along—“Well done, good and faithful servant” (Matthew 25:21, ESV).
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