The 4th

 

A couple churches wanted me to preach this past Sunday, but I said no.  The choir director at Chris’ congregation was putting together a men’s chorus to help celebrate Independence Sunday.  That’s right up there with Pentecost, right?

I have a hard time with putting on a patriotic show in church.  That’s God’s place.  Why are we waving a flag?  Aren’t we on God’s turf?

We were given satin bow ties to wear.  Stars and Stripes.  My dog Sam used to growl in his chest.  It was more of a rumble.  I think I rumbled when I put on that tie.  But I did and we sang some good harmony to “Eternal Father Strong to Save.” 

The preacher said that he liked the 4^th.  But it wasn’t a country or a flag that made us patriotic.  It was an idea, the idea that those crazy people (I added crazy) put together in the Declaration in 1776.  He read a good chunk of it and the hair came up on the back of my neck. 

Thomas Jefferson was nuts.  He had so much to lose.  Most of them did.  But they all signed it.  They put their names on that parchment and reached out beyond sense and logic into a dream. 

I’m an American.  I’m not continental.  That’s a GPS coordinate.  I’m part of this same dream.  I’ll wrassel with folks about how to celebrate it, but I’m just as proud of my country, maybe more so, than people who don’t approve of my politics.  And that’s their right and privilege.  I believe in the dream that those crazy guys reached for and I will go on believing in it in spite of our feeble efforts to add or detract (that’s from another dreamer).  Maybe I need to be a bit more humble and climb down off my high horse once in a while. 

So, whoopee do!  Happy Birthday USA.  I’m going to Bar B Q tomorrow and put out the flag and I think I’ll read the Declaration.  Some good stuff in there.

But please don’t make me wear that stupid tie in worship.  Satin?  Oh please.