Turning 63 last month was not very traumatic. Odd number birthdays seem to fly under the radar. The big ones, like 50 or 60, take on much more significance because as decades change, milestones are celebrated. 63? Not so much.
However, as I take my arthritis medication and say a silent prayer of gratitude for Metemucil, I am more and more aware of the passing of time. The events that formed me and set me on a path of ministry are ancient history for the majority of the population. The March on Selma, war protest marches down Woodward, the Second Vatican Council, riots and love-ins, poetry readings at Wayne State, coffee houses, bell bottoms and beads are so far in the past. For the first time in my ministry I have an Associate whose parents are younger than me. Student glass over when I speak of the excitement of the 60's and 70's.
These were times of great excitement. We believed that we could change the world and in many cases, did. We were part of a revolution that stretched across all areas of society. The Vatican Council changed not only how we worshipped our God but also how were celebrated each other. The liturgical music of the time might have been trite but it was our music. We celebrated that God was love and knew it and embraced it.
The Summer of Love and all that went along with it such as music and art and hope stayed with us long after the smoke blew away and the flowers, and music, died. Having been touched by the possibility that all was possible, we strapped on backpacks and hiked trails and mountains aware of the life that could be found there. We became conscious of the impact that we had on the planet.
Dissolution with the Johnson and Nixon administrations led to protests against governmental actions which led in turn to a knew involvement in government. We not only protested, we also became involved and put action to back up our words.
All of this, and much more, formed me and how I look at the world and how I try to minister to my brothers and sisters. And I have come to realize that my students, and the majority of my parishioners, have no real idea of what I experienced.
But that is fine. They have their own experiences and I need the grace to be open to them. I remember that, in 1966, I put a peace symbol bumper sticker on the bumper of my father's car. My father, WW II veteran and not very pleased with the opinions of his long haired hippy son, left it there. And we talked.
That is the secret. Talking. Listening and trusting.
63 is no big deal except that it means that I am just that much closer to retiring at 70.
