c. 2005 Religion News Service
DURHAM, N.C. _ Where I live, sounds of summer’s arrival at Memorial Day were confusing this year.
First came the dismaying crackle of fire, as burning crosses left a message of racial hatred at three locations in Durham. That stirred the more encouraging sound of citizens protesting, “No, this is not the city we are!”
While partisans continued shouting about school board rules, yellow buses made their final runs, children slept late, and frustrated teachers began their annual exodus from the profession.
A young couple heard two sounds: a physician announced that their baby would be a girl, and the father-to-be heard that his second tour of duty in Iraq will begin one month before their first child is born.
At the ballpark, a school chorus sang The Star-Spangled Banner, a pretty Latina stationed near a Carolina barbecue stand offered samples of Spanish churros, and in its usual seventh-inning slot, the 1908 classic “Take Me Out to the Ball Game” merged three generations in song.
I heard happy sounds, like wedding bells ringing, beach chairs unfolding, swimmers shrieking, and recent graduates announcing plans. I heard unhappy sounds, like emergency-vehicle sirens wailing distress and religious partisans making their arrogant claims to sole possession of God’s ear.
The sounds I especially wanted to hear came on Sunday over my portable radio. An exuberant band drowned out a military quartet singing the National Anthem at the Indianapolis Motor Speedway, but were more restrained on a solemn rendering of “Taps.” While 33 race crews waited to start their engines, some 400,000 people went silent to remember those lost in warfare. Then stands that once rang with cheers for good ol’ boys named Cliff, Jimmy and Johnny went wild for a 23-year-old woman named Danica.
Every year I wish I could be “back home again in Indiana” for the 500-Mile Race. This event is about more than cars going fast. It speaks to deeper realities: the tragedy of warfare, “honored dead,” and a patriotism grounded in shared home, shared goodness, shared opportunity, shared sacrifice, shared farmland, shared dreams, shared pain.
Patriotism is a powerful emotion that demagogues and charlatans routinely exploit with calculated flag-waving, appeals to base passions, and a distorted vision of what homeland and community are about.
But at its best, patriotism is an invitation to look around and be grateful. See human dreams brought together in one place. See goodness given room to flourish. See the sacrifices that some make for the good of the whole, even sacrifice unto death. See all sorts sharing space without rancor. See crops rising green in the fields and graduates turning tassels to a new side. See victims finding hope and refugees home. See ordinary people stepping forth into tomorrow with not a single assurance of success, but abundant hope and a God who believes in us.
See all that, and be grateful. Be grateful for what we did not earn but are pleased to receive. Be grateful for those who keep us safe. Be grateful for a God who hears everyone’s voice, even ours, and shows love and mercy to all, even as we hedge our commitment to “liberty and justice for all.”
That patriotism sees burning crosses and says “No” to hatred and “Yes” to oneness. That patriotism sees life as it is, steps boldly into challenges, and works together for a future worth pursuing. That patriotism honors those who “stand in harm’s way” and pledges to refrain from wasting their sacrifice.
That patriotism remembers that our flag is one among many, our voices part of a great human shout for freedom and respect, and our silence embraces many prayers, many sorrows, many joys, all dear to God.
MO/JL END RNS
(Tom Ehrich is a writer, consultant and leader of workshops. His forthcoming book, “Just Wondering, Jesus: 100 Questions People Want to Ask,” will be published by Morehouse Publishing. An Episcopal priest, he lives in Durham, N.C. His Web site is http://www.onajourney.org.)
Editors: Search the RNS photo Web site at https://religionnews.com for a photo of Ehrich.
