Patriotism

Many American Christians believe they can achieve Christ's kingdom on earth through political means, by dominating the culture. Author Tim Alberta, in his 2023 book The Kingdom, The Power, And The Glory: American Evangelicals In An Age Of Extremism, attempts to get to the core of the issues involved.

He spoke to Pastor Brian Zahnd of Word of Life Church in St. Joseph, Missouri. Zahnd told him:

Christianity is inherently countercultural. That's how it thrives. When it tries to become a dominant culture, it becomes corrupted. This is one major difference between Islam and Christianity. Islam has designs on running the world; it's a system of government. Christianity is nothing like that. The gospels and the epistles have no vision of Christianity being a dominant religion or culture.

Tim Alberta elaborates:

The Bible, as Zahnd pointed out, is written primarily from the perspective of the underdog: Hebrew slaves fleeing Egypt, Jews exiled to Babylon, Christians living under Roman occupation. This is why Paul implored his fellow first-century believers - especially those in Rome who lived under a brutal regime - to both submit to their governing authorities and stay loyal to the kingdom built by Christ. It stands to reason that American evangelicals can't quite relate to Paul and his pleas for humility, or Peter and his enthusiasm for suffering, never mind that poor vagrant preacher from Nazareth. The last shall be first? What kind of socialist indoctrination is that?

Pastor Zahnd considers that the kingdom of God isn't tangible for many Christians: "What's real is this tawdry world of partisan politics, this winner-take-all blood sport. So, they keep charging into the fray, and the temptation to bow down to the devil to gain control over the kingdoms of this world becomes more and more irresistible."

Alberta concludes:

Pastor Zahnd told me he was offended by what the American Church had become. God does not tolerate idols competing for His glory and neither should anyone who claims to worship Him. He said, “You can take up the sword of Caesar or you can take up the cross of Jesus. You have to choose.”

The decline of the church in America is posing tremendous cultural problems. And sociologists are beginning to sound the alarm.

Once upon a time, America was a land filled with churches, dotting the leafy streets of small towns and major cities alike. In 1965, churches affiliated with mainline denominations, such as Baptists, Episcopalians, Lutherans, Methodists, and Presbyterians, claimed around 50% of the American population. However, by 2020, this number had dwindled to a mere 9%. This dramatic decline is one of the largest sociological changes in American history, impacting institutions that were once central to the nation.

The result is undeniable. We are living in an age of spiritual anxiety. Some mainline Protestants left for Evangelical churches and others for Catholicism. But much of that decline came from the people who simply felt that their politics gave them the moral satisfaction they needed.

As a result, people are desperate for meaning, latching onto fleeting political movements and slogans in search of purpose. And now their children are in the street—without any satisfaction at all. Spiritually anxious, they react to each short-lived bit of political hoopla as though it were the trumpet of Armageddon.

Desperate for meaning, they latch on to anything that gives them the exciting pleasure of seeming revolutionary, no matter how little they understand it or perform actions that meaningfully affect it. Shouting slogans, they ache for the unity of a congregation singing hymns. What Protestantism once gave, they have no more: a nation-defining pattern of marriage and children, a feeling of belonging, a belief in Providence, a sense of patriotism.

The danger in all this comes from the fact that the apocalypse is self-fulfilling. If everything in public life is elevated to world-threatening danger, if there is no meaningful private life to which to retreat, then all manners and even personal morals must be set aside in the name of higher causes—and opponents quickly come to feel they must respond with similarly cataclysmic rhetoric and action.

A small glimpse into what our heroic war veterans went through can be found in the seven-part Ken Burns documentary The War. It covers World War II from the perspective of the soldiers.

In the episode "When Things Get Tough," the narrator quotes Pulitzer Prize winning Bill Maulden, a cartoonist and writer for Stars & Stripes. It is an analogy written for those who have never fought in a war on the miseries and hardships of the American soldier, in this case with scenes from the Italian Campaign:

Dig a hole in your backyard while it is raining. Sit in the hole while the water climbs up around your ankles. Pour cold mud down your shirt collar. Sit there for 48 hours. So there is no danger of your dozing off, imagine that a guy is sneaking around waiting for a chance to club you on the head. Or set your house on fire.

Get out of the hole, fill a suitcase full of rocks, pick it up, put a shotgun in your other hand, and walk on the muddiest road you can find. Fall flat on your face every few minutes, as you imagine big meteors streaking down beside you. If you repeat this performance every three days, for several months, you may begin to understand why an infantryman gets out of breath. But you still won't understand how he feels when things get tough.

When the crowd inside the gymnasium stood to its feet to begin the game between the West Portsmouth High Senators and the visiting Tigers of Waverly High, everything seemed to be ready. Except, there was one missing ingredient. The announcer had just directed everyone to stand for the national anthem, but after a few awkward seconds turned into a minute, then two minutes, it became clear that something was wrong with the sound system.

That’s when Waverly parent Trenton Brown decided he’d waited long enough. Brown told CNN, "I looked over at the announcer and the music didn't play and didn't play and I looked over and he was getting a little frustrated. My wife gave me a little nudge and said ‘Sing’ and I said, ‘All right.'" Brown began to sing, and after a bit, others in the crowd also joined in.

Johnny Futhey was in the crowd, and managed to catch the moment on video with his phone. Futhey, whose son is teammates with Brown’s, felt the moment was special, so he posted it to social media. Futhey said, "He brought about everyone in the gym to tears when he saved the day by standing up in the crowd and singing the anthem.”

Despite the video getting over a million views, Brown has taken the whole experience in stride. "There was a lot of awkward silence ... and then I started singing and that was it."

Possible Preaching Angle:

As a Christian you never know when you might be called upon to provide a needed service in a critical moment; it’s important to remain flexible and ready to move when the Spirit provides opportunity.

John Ortberg shares what he learned about civic duty and enthusiasm from being called to jury duty:

It was 9:00 on a Monday morning and I was one of 150 unhappy campers sitting on plastic chairs crammed into a sterile basement room in the San Mateo County Courthouse, reporting for jury duty. We all had one thing in common: We wanted to be somewhere else.

Until Larry happened.

Larry works for the government, and however much we pay him, it's not enough. In a few short minutes, he won over the crowd of prospective jurors and infused us with a sense of honor and purpose. "I know you're all busy people," he said. "But I want to say thank you. I want to tell you, on behalf of the judges and our legal system and the county of San Mateo and, really, our nation, we're grateful for your service."

Although almost no one is happy about getting a summons to jury duty, Larry said, it's actually incredibly meaningful, and it's the foundation of a justice system in which people have a right to trial by a jury of their peers. He told us a story about a ninety-five-year-old woman who was no longer able to drive, but who took three buses to get to the courthouse so she could serve. When she arrived, Larry asked her, "Did you call ahead like you're supposed to, to find out if you're even needed for jury duty?" She said, "I couldn't. I don't have one of those push-button phones." Turns out, she still had a rotary dial phone.

Larry reminded us of the nobility of justice, and the long centuries of struggle for it, and how, even now, people around the world were fighting, and in some cases dying, for the right to exercise this privilege. As he spoke, people stopped texting; they sat up straight; they nudged each other and seemed inspired. By the time my number was called, I was so excited to serve that when the judge asked me whether I could pronounce someone guilty, I told him I was a pastor and that, according to the Bible, everybody was guilty. I said, "I could even pronounce you guilty!"

I wasn't selected to serve on a jury that time, but the point is that a room full of sullen, silent, phone-checking, self-important draftees had been transformed into a community of joyful patriots in a matter of minutes. When people left the courthouse that day, they were talking and laughing like old friends.

In his 2010 memoir, A Journey: My Political Life, former British Prime Minister Tony Blair shares the following story:

A friend of mine whose parents were immigrants, Jews from Europe who came to America in search of safety, told me this story. His parents lived and worked in New York. They were not well off. His father died when he was young. His mother lived on, and in time my friend succeeded and became wealthy. He often used to offer his mother the chance to travel outside America. She never did. When eventually she died, they went back to recover the safety box where she kept her jewelry. They found there another box. There was no key. So they had to drill it open. They wondered what precious jewel must be in it. They lifted the lid. There was wrapping and more wrapping and finally an envelope. Intrigued, they opened it. In the envelope were her U.S. citizenship papers. Nothing more. That was the jewel, more precious to her than any other possession. That was what she treasured most.

It's not all that hard to argue that Ken Burns is the biggest name in the world of documentaries. His stirring works about the Civil War, baseball, and jazz have garnered numerous awards and helped put PBS back on the "must-see" list. What could be argued, though, is his ability to consistently give the Latino population its rightful due.

It began with Burns's 1994 documentary on baseball. In 18 hours worth of material, Latino players were given six minutes of attention—four of which went to Roberto Clemente alone. In 2001, his 19 hour opus to jazz music afforded a little less than three minutes to examine the Latino contributions to the genre. With his new 14hour look at World War II—to air on PBS in September 2007—Burns has done it again. Not one Hispanic veteran was interviewed despite the fact that half a million Latinos fought in the war effort, and their military service "produced a higher ratio of Medal of Honor recipients relative to population than any other ethnic group."

In a CNN.com commentary, Ruben Navarette Jr. wrote: "If either PBS or Burns knew more about the ethnic group, they might have known they were playing with dynamite … A special source of pride are the World War II veterans, who came home to segregated schools, restricted restaurants, and bans on speaking Spanish."

When several Hispanic associations protested the snub, Burns told the press he was going to add an addendum at the end of the 14 hours, celebrating the Latino contributions to the war effort. When his proposed footnote approach received a lukewarm reception, Burns finally agreed to shoot new footage and interviews that he could weave seamlessly into the production.

A real patriot is the fellow who gets a parking ticket and rejoices that the system works.

Prayer is political action. Prayer is social energy. Prayer is public good. Far more of our nation's life is shaped by prayer than is formed by legislation. That we have not collapsed into anarchy is due more to prayer than to the police.

Visitors to the Smithsonian Museum of American History see the flag that flew over Fort McHenry when Francis Scott Key wrote "The Star Spangled Banner" in 1814. The original flag measured 42 by 30 feet. It was the immense size of the flag that allowed Key to see it from his position 10 miles out to sea, following a night of gunfire.

The means by which a flag that large could fly on a pole 189 feet in the air is on display at Fort McHenry on Baltimore's inner harbor. There, in one of the barracks, are two oak timbers, 8 foot by 8 foot, joined as a cross. National Park Service personnel discovered this cross-shaped support near the entrance to Fort McHenry in 1958, buried nine feet below ground. Not only did the cross help rangers locate the original site from which the star spangled banner flew, but it answered the mystery of how such a large flag could fly in stormy weather without snapping the pole. This unseen wooden device provided a firm foundation for the symbol of our national freedom.

Similarly, the cross of Christ provides the foundation by which our faith is rooted and supported.

In Ronald Reagan's first inaugural address, he referenced the simple white grave markers in Arlington Memorial Cemetery. He said:

Under one such marker lies a young man, —Martin Treptow, —who left his job in a small town barber shop in 1917 to go to France with the famed Rainbow Division. There, on the western front, he was killed trying to carry a message between battalions under heavy artillery fire.

We are told that on his body was found a diary. On the flyleaf under the heading, "My Pledge," he had written these words: "America must win this war. Therefore, I will work, I will save, I will sacrifice, I will endure, I will fight cheerfully and do my utmost, as if the issue of the whole struggle depended on me alone."

General Colin Powell writes:

On the speech circuit, I tell a story that goes to the heart of America's longing. ABC correspondent Sam Donaldson was interviewing a young African-American soldier in a tank platoon on the eve of the battle in Desert Storm. Donaldson asked, "How do you think the battle will go? Are you afraid?"

"We'll do okay. We're well trained. And I'm not afraid," the GI answered, gesturing toward his buddies around him. "I'm not afraid because I'm with my family."

The other soldiers shouted, "Tell him again. He didn't hear you." The soldier repeated, "This is my family, and we'll take care of each other."

That story never fails to touch me or the audience. It is a metaphor for what we have to do as a nation. We have to start thinking of America as a family. We have to stop screeching at each other, stop hurting each other, and instead start caring for, sacrificing for, and sharing with each other. We have to stop constantly criticizing, which is the way of the malcontent, and instead get back to the can-do attitude that made America. We have to keep trying, and risk failing, in order to solve this country's problems. We cannot move forward if cynics and critics swoop down and pick apart anything that goes wrong to a point where we lose sight of what is right, decent, and uniquely good about America.

What Powell says about coming together in our nation applies even more emphatically to the unity of the Body of Christ.

A little-known hymn by Cecil Spring-Rice called "I Vow to Thee My Country" was a lifetime favorite of Diana, Princess of Wales. She requested the song be sung at her wedding, and it was sung again at her funeral in 1997. The lyrics of the hymn provide a rich vocabulary for contemplating what it means to give our lives to God and his kingdom.

I vow to thee my country, all earthly things above. Entire and whole and perfect, the service of my love. The love that asks no question, the love that stands the test. That lays upon the altar the dearest and the best. The love that never falters, the love that pays the price. The love that makes undaunted the final sacrifice. And there's another country, I've heard of long ago most dear to them that love her, most great to them that know. We may not count her armies, we may not see her King her fortress is a faithful heart, her pride is suffering. And soul by soul and silently, her shining bounds increase and her ways are ways of gentleness and all her paths are peace.

Abraham Lincoln was the first President to use the phrase, "This nation under God." It inspired President Eisenhower, in 1954, to add the words "one nation under God" to the Pledge of Allegiance.

In the final years of our imprisonment, the North Vietnamese moved us from small cells with one or two prisoners to large rooms with as many as 30-40 men to a room. We preferred this situation for the companionship and strength we could draw from our fellow prisoners. In addition to moving us to new quarters, out captors also let us receive packages and letters from home. Many men received word from their families for the first time in several years. The improved conditions were a result of public pressure put on the North Vietnamese by the American public.

In our cell was one Navy officer, Lt. Commander Mike Christian. Over a period of time Mike had gathered bits and pieces of red and white cloth from various packages. Using a piece of bamboo he had fashioned into a needle, Mike sewed a United States flag on the inside of his shirt, one of the blue pajama tops we all wore.

Every night in our cell, Mike would put his shirt on the wall, and we would say the pledge of allegiance. I know that the pledge of allegiance may not be the most important aspect of our day now, but I can tell you that at the time it was the most important aspect of our lives.

This had been going on for some time until on of the guards came in as we were reciting our pledge. They ripped the flag off the wall and dragged Mike out. He was beaten for several hours and then thrown back into the cell.

Later that night, as we were settling down to sleep on the concrete slabs that we our beds, I looked over to the spot where the guards had thrown Mike. There, under the solitary light bulb hanging from the ceiling, I saw Mike. Still bloody and his face swollen beyond recognition, Mike was gathering bits and pieces of cloth together. He was sewing a new American flag.

There are three possible ways in which the church can act toward the state:

In the first place, it can ask the state whether its actions are legitimate and in accordance with its character as state, i.e., it can throw the state back on its responsibilities.

Second, it can aid the victims of state action. The church has an unconditional obligation to the victims of any ordering of society, even if they do not belong to the Christian community, "Do good to all people."

The third possibility is not just to bandage the victims under the wheel, but to jam a spoke in the wheel itself. Such action would be direct political action, and is only possible and desirable when the church sees the state fail in its function of creating law and order.

Within the scope of those human matters that are relative, political systems have their place in society; but the Christian is not called to confer on any of those systems the quality of the absolute, because that which is absolute is found only in God. Furthermore, without pretending to have a false political neutrality, the Christian should always reserve the right to criticize any political system, whether of the left or of the right, in the light of the Word of God.