We Said This Already

A confession of failure and hope

I am sixty-eight years old.

When I look back on my college and seminary years, I remember hope. I remember the enthusiasm with which we talked, argued, planned, and dreamed. The world we inherited from our parents and grandparents was not terrible, but we were convinced we could make it better.

We would shape it into something more just, equal. More thoughtful. Kinder.

We believed educated minds mattered. We believed kindness could spread. We believed acceptance would grow wider with each generation.

In many ways, we were feminists before today’s feminists were born. We were trying to become sensitive and caring men before anyone spoke of toxic masculinity or bro culture. In many of our churches, the language of the pulpit was changing. We spoke of God without pronouns and of inclusion, openness, justice, and the dignity of every person.

For a while it felt as though history was moving in our direction. In 1982, I stood in the pulpit of Hawthorne Lane United Methodist Church and preached a sermon that included a children’s story about emotions and genders – on Father’s Day – and it was applauded. Literally.

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And then, somewhere along the way, many of us stepped away from the wheel.

Not entirely. We voted. We worked. We raised families. But perhaps we believed that enough had been accomplished, that the institutions would carry the work forward, that once our generation became the leaders the future would largely take care of itself.

It did not. Instead, the ground shifted beneath us.

Technology changed the way people knew each other. Social media rewarded outrage. The internet fragmented truth. A relentless marketplace turned attention itself into a commodity. The old capitalistic machine became faster, larger, and more consuming than we imagined. And, if I am completely honest, I changed too. I leaned into my own desires and needs and sought…security, safety.

Meanwhile, the pulpits of many mainline churches spoke to emptier pews while new sanctuaries of steel and screens filled with old certainties dressed in modern clothing.

And many of us watched. Or ignored it. Or assumed the pendulum would eventually swing back on its own, that it was a last gasp of the old.

Now the young speak again, as every generation must. But too often they speak past one another, loudly and angrily, hidden behind screens and algorithms that profit from fear.

They have inherited not only our dreams but also our unfinished work.

I do not want to spend the last years of my life simply complaining about what became of the world.

I still believe in educated minds. I still believe kindness matters. I still believe that equality, compassion, and curiosity are worth fighting for. I still believe that faith, at its best, opens rather than closes the human heart.

Hope at sixty-eight is different than hope at twenty-two.

At twenty-two, hope believes progress is inevitable.

At sixty-eight, hope understands that every generation must choose it again.

Perhaps my task now is not to lead the parade or control the future. Perhaps it is simply to stand beside those who still believe another world is possible and tell them that the work is worth doing.

I want to believe there is hope.

Most days, I think hope is believing that the conversation is not over yet.

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Photo by Kimson Doan on Unsplash