We celebrate our country’s independence this year with no small amount of ambivalence. A recent cartoon captured it this way: A woman is asking a wine store clerk for a recommendation. What do you have, she asks, for when you’re watching the death of democracy? Another showed a shredded Constitution turned into a paper crown, presumably for a king above the law. For many of us, the dark humor of these cartoons depicts despairing times for which it is difficult to find a promising outcome.
But my friends, we gather here as people of Christian faith who see history not as a series of consequences wrought by human engineering, but as chapters in a Story authored by God and embodied in a Teacher and Healer named Jesus. It is a story of creation and complexity, divine humanity and demonic choices, violence and striving, resistance and redemption, sacrifice and death. And against all odds, resurrection. The story of our nation is included but does not comprise its entirety. Nor is it the source of our ultimate hope. In today’s text, Jesus offers a potent example of the difference between loyalty to nation and worship of God—-and the attendant responsibilities to each. A reading from Mark, in the twelfth chapter, verses 13-17. Listen for God’s Word to the church and its members who are also citizens of the United States of America. [Mark 12:13-17]
On this Sunday last year, I preached a sermon offered as a love letter to my country. Your comments—and those of others who read online and on our website— suggested it resonated with folks along the political spectrum. People spoke warmly of how it bridged divides among folks with divergent beliefs and created common ground for gratitude and grace. Some said it cleared up confusion about how to express love of this country and worship the God whose love is shown to every country. Some of you liked its poetic form.
I decided to share it again, slightly updated to reflect the current landscape shaped by the most consequential presidential election, perhaps of our lifetime. I have seldom heard (and felt myself) such discouragement and downright despair at our national prospects. Many people are ready to throw in the towel, disengage, and. . . . . well, what? Wait for change? Hope for change? Spend some change on wine?
For people of Reformed Protestant faith, there are better options. We get a glimpse of those options in the morning text. Give to the emperor the things that are the emperor’s, and to God the things that are God’s, Jesus said, and I think it’s safe to assume he said it with a smile. It’s a punch line that the religious leaders got immediately, to their chagrin. . . . because what things do not belong to God? That would be nothing. Everything and everyone belong to the Love that created and embraces it all. We give to God not just our Sunday best, but the totality of our lives and loyalty. The whole she-bang. Then our love of country is in service to our faith, not the other way around.
I dare to believe we can break the impasse and bring us together to form and reform a more perfect union. I offer this letter to my country in despairing times, but not in despair. I offer it in love and for love, the love that peers into a future with hope – not through destruction but through construction; not by insurrection but through resurrection. May it be so.
Dear America,
I look with awe upon your face
your forests, plains and craggy peaks
grand canyon, great lakes, mighty rivers—
whole worlds of intricate design, breathtaking beauty
field of dreams, wide open spaces, and
an interstate highway system that brings it to my reach.
I admire your mind
Articulate vision of one nation conceived in liberty and dedicated to the proposition that all men are created equal (but see—in this expression of our nation’s high ideal—those not included). A constitution and the rule of law. Freedom to worship according to our lights. Freedom to speak our truth. Freedom to gather with others of similar view to advocate and protest, make peaceful change. The paradox of individual liberty for all, while hewing to a notion of the common good. A voice, a vote, a self-determined say in who we are and who we’ll be.
I crave your spirit
Restless, on the move, perpetual seekers.
Explorers, pioneers, voyagers in ships across wild waters, in swaying Conestoga wagons, my ancestors from Ireland and everywhere—immigrants, refugees hungry for a new and better way. (But see—indigenous peoples killed and captured, their sovereign nations destroyed with white man’s lies). A new wave of pioneers, insisting that your promise is for all: suffragettes, Black power leaders, LGBTQ+ communities, new- comers…..pushing boundaries, demanding justice, creative energy channeled into innovation, invention, ridiculous optimism. These mountains? We can climb them. These conundrums? We will crack them.
I adore your heart
Generous, passionate, fierce as a mama bear defending her own, daft as a grandma letting you win. An unprotected heart, not deadened by suffering, but broken in empathy.
Spontaneous, gangly like a newborn colt, eager to please, apologetic. Easy to distract with the latest, greatest thing, but not too self-absorbed to forget the most important things. Friendship. Family. A hunger to connect with something more.
Awe, admiration, craving, adoration—unconditional love, though tinged with disappointment. Deep gratitude for your abundant gifts and graces, yet open-eyed about your hardened side.
For you are human—-God, how human! Divine image smudged and marred, flawed, fallible, failed and fearful. The sin of Adam (Smith) taints the generations to this day. Your greed for gold built wealth for some upon the backs of others. Haves and have-nots. Insiders. Outsiders. Blue states, Red states. Urban and rural and never the twain shall meet. E pluribus multis….out of many, many?
I weep for you, dear country—which means I weep for us.
For the lies and half-truths, the stubborn refusal to admit error, the exceptionalism displayed like a preening peacock, sure of its greatness, oblivious to the wrens and robins and sparrows around it. I weep for structures and systems that define and divide, devoid of justice and mercy.
I weep for the unhoused man, his hitching step suggests an old wound never healed; for the single mother juggling two jobs that barely covers rent; for the farmer cooking meth, the highs disguise despair: it’s never enough. I weep for the trans youth afraid to share his truth, for the elementary school student frightened by another active shooter drill. I weep for prejudice, untreated trauma, undiagnosed mental illness, police brutality, and for all the ways we hide from them.
I weep because it seems we are asleep. Self-medicated, numbed and paralyzed. Sleepwalking through the motions.
So much sleeping. So much weeping.
But here’s something: tears contain stress hormones, so when we cry we are actually relieving and releasing stress from our bodies. They help our bodies produce endorphins that lift us up to live again. When I weep for you, my country, I may let go of grief and disappointment, and receive again the gift of peace.
I love you, America,
like a mother loves a wayward child,
like a dog with a bone
that won’t let go.
I won’t let go. I am a true lover. I will stick with you to my dying day. For love is not a feeling, but a practice.
Because I love you, I will seek your best. I will argue with you about religion and politics. I will advocate, participate, listen as well as speak. I will vote my conscience, formed by faith. I will remember your history whole—the good, the bad, the ugly. I will sing the beauty of your diverse people and dance, holding hands with your precious children. I will pay taxes in gratitude. I love you my country, and will anticipate your bright future…
Awake.
