In the summer of 1968 I was asked to be part of a group of clergy who would go to Grant Park in downtown Chicago and serve as "mediators" between the police and the crowds of antiwar youth who were camped out there in an effort to influence the Democratic Convention then in session. The idea was for us to wander around the park, striking up random conversations and making our presence known. At one point, a beaded young man with a confident demeanor asked me, "I suppose you plan to mediate with the police by reliance upon your rapier-like wit?"
It was a let-down, as I had thought I was being quite funny, relevant, and hip. It all became academic in a few minutes, however, as Mayor Daly's police force fired tear gas into the crowd and swept us all out of the park, clubbing indiscriminately at reporters, demonstrators, and mediators as we fled down the sidestreets.
Neither clerical collar nor rapier-like wit mattered on that occasion, but only brute force and determination to defend the status quo. The same held true of the convention itself, which opted for a pro-war candidate in Hubert Humphrey, who went on to lose to Richard Nixon in the General Election.
Whether as activists, mediators, or even chaplains to the establishment we often seem irrelevant, ridiculous, and self-deceived, swept from the field by whoever has the tear gas and mocked by the worldly-wise.
So what? I'm still glad I was there in Grant Park. Glad that I am still inclined to be a mediator and a reconciler and a peacemaker. Glad that I can be forgiven for my attempts at rapier-like wit. Glad that you are reading these lines and might want to tell one of your stories also.
Peace be with you.
Epiphanies, quandries, and fishing stories. Updated more frequently since my retirement September 1, 2011. On going theme:"sacred irreverence."
About Me
- Rambling Rector
- When not writing for this blog, my name is Jonathan Sams. I am a retired Episcopal priest currently serving 1/2 time as priest-in-charge of St. Andrew's Episcopal Church in Waterford, MI. When my father retired as a distinguished university professor, he said this to me: "My institutional identity is ending. Now it's up to me to demonstrate if I have any other identity whatsoever." He did to me, of course, but he died before having a chance to prove it to himself. Now it's my turn.
2 comments:
I was not qualified to be wandering around Grant Park in the summer of 1968... being at that time just shy of 7 years old.
Perhaps I shouldn't mention that.
However, I am purely glad you brought your rapier-like wit and mediator/reconciler/peacemaker inclinations across the state line to share with us a few years later. And I'll be looking forward to your sabbatical stories here.
Thank you for believing with me. You are a kindred spirit of the deepest degree. I am so lucky to have family members who totally understand why I want to take children out into the woods and just sit with them. Thank you!
Love, Cara
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