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Today is Good Friday. We had church last night, and we will have church again tonight. Saturday is a day of decorating - eggs and the sanctuary. Sunday is the 7 am sunrise service, breakfast, then 8:30 service at one church (20 miles away), and the 10:15 service at the other church.
This is what Holy Week looks like for many clergy. By the time we finish with the last Easter Alleluia, we are completely exhausted. But because we are faithful, we go on. That's part of the deal.
But this year, things are different. This year, we have seen astonishing things: a stolen election, a heartless and cruel budget, tax cuts for the wealthy at the expense of the poor. Torture is acceptable for our enemies. There were no WMD's. Over 1,600 American service people have died. We have no idea how many Iraqis have died.
People have lost hope in the future. One needs only to look at the acts of violence and hatred: school shootings, church shootings, attacks on judges.... Everyone's fuse is getting shorter, and it seems that we are on the verge of annihilating ourselves.
Our government leaders have failed us. They would rather investigate the use of steroids in baseball, or join in the political aggrandizing over the life (or death) of one woman. Gas prices rise, people continue to go without insurance, prescription drugs, or even the basic essential of food.
If ever we needed a savior, it would be now.
Yet, as I look out at my two small congregations, I can't help but wonder where the young and middle-aged people are. I see the care-worn faces of those with grey hair, and know that their hearts contain wisdom and love. They are near the end of their journey, and have found a serenity which eludes me. They have lived through more trying times: the Depression, World War II, the Cold War, Vietnam... They know that no matter how hopeless things look, we will somehow manage to survive. God has always been faithful, and will continue to walk with us through this time of fear.
After last night's service, a 65-year-old man approached me, and reminded me of that. While I was preaching about love in the face of fear, Terri Schiavo and the cultural fear of death, and the assurance of God's love - Amiel was remembering. He told me about the things he remembered, and how desperate people were during those times of trial. "All I can say," he told me, "is that this, too, will pass."
Oddly enough, Amiel was one of the younger people there last night. What saddens me is that people my age (and younger) probably will not benefit from Amiel's wisdom. They don't know him, or his story. They only know of their individual struggles. For some of them, their challenges are extraordinary: poverty, domestic violence, illness, unemployment, etc.
But they should know him. They should know the stories of all of these people, because the lives they have led are filled with meaning and value. They can give us something we all need: hope. Hope in remembering the past, with gratitude. Hope in looking at our present state of affairs, with the assurance that we will get through it. Hope in a future that we cannot see, and a future in which their own participation is unlikely.
I don't know about you, but I need that kind of wisdom.
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