On election night in 1976, I sat in a little dark storage closet at the back of a campaign headquarters in Yonkers, New York and cried until I had no more tears. I'd just watched my father concede a long, hard, and expensive race for Congress to an opponent I was sure was a pretty bad guy. I was biased, of course, but not entirely ill-informed. The new congressman would soon leave politics in disgrace for lying about a non-existent military service record. Our veteran campaign manager would also leave politics after that race, disillusioned by the outcome, and, tragically, would take his own life one day.
Strangely, that painful loss would set my father onto a path that led to the rediscovery of his Christian faith and the establishment of mine. My dad would go on to have a very fruitful career in public life, but on that night in 1976, I could not imagine that. My vision had shrunk to the size of the storage closet and was blinded by tears. I wonder if you have ever been in a place like that where the world seems to shrink to a little dark room where it seems so obvious that Good has lost and Evil has won?
The end of the campaign
At the close of a campaign vastly more significant than the one I just described, the disciples of Jesus found themselves in a place of anguish like that. They had labored for three long years to advance the cause of good. They'd traveled on blistered feet through more towns than they could remember, listening to the hopes and hurts of people and ministering as best they could. They'd seen Jesus draw amazing crowds and heard him give remarkable speeches that laid out the vision of a new kind of kingdom where life worked for everybody as it was meant to from ...
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