Galatians 5:1-15

When I was a kid, we celebrated the Fourth of July with a big cookout.  We had foot-long hot dogs with chili and slaw, baked beans, French fries, and homemade ice cream.  We burned sparklers and set off bottle rockets, which were legal because we lived outside the city limits.  And we watched the Boston Pops Fourth of July Concert on PBS, which always built up to the 1812 Overture and the firing of the big canons.  Sometimes we would go and watch fireworks being set off at the mall or ballpark.  It was a great day that I always looked forward to.  I was proud to be an American, and I believed that the United States was the best country in the world.  I thought we were a people that had succeeded in the great experiment of democracy and that we were respected and admired by other countries around the world for our generosity and willingness to lend a helping hand.

When I moved to New England, I found out that many small towns hold big parades on the Fourth of July, with fife and drum corps, tractors and fire trucks, high school bands, the Boy Scouts and Girl Scouts, old cars, Shriners in their mini cars and trucks, military veterans, and politicians making their way down the parade route.  A real slice of Americana that I enjoy immensely.  And still capping the day off with the concert broadcast from Boston or Washington and fireworks displays.

But somewhere along the way, I realized that the America I used to celebrate doesn’t seem to exist anymore.  At least not in what I see on the evening news.  And certainly not in Washington, D.C.  Politics has turned nasty, with elected officials refusing to work with anyone on the “Other Side,” so that nothing gets done.  And the divisions between people are many and deep.

I think, for me, the beginning of my sense of losing the America I thought I knew came on August 11-12, 2017 as I watched the news coverage of the Unite the Right Rally that took place in Charlottesville, VA.  I really couldn’t believe what I was seeing:  white men walking around boldly carrying assault rifles, Nazi symbols, Klan symbols, anti-Semitic signs, Confederate battle flags, and signs of the alt-right, just feet away from police officers who let them pass by without detaining them in any way.  There were many counter-protesters who also gathered, and as the two sides clashed about thirty people were injured.  On the second day, a man drove his car into the crowd, killing one women and injuring another 35 people. 

I guess I had known that there were still many people in our country who were racists, but I never realized how many of them there were, or that they were so well organized.  And I absolutely could not believe that people who hold to such ideas would dare come out in public and let it be known that they were in support of this kind of thing.  I mean, it was like every racist from anywhere around Charlottesville, or even from farther away, showed up to support this rally, and there were hundreds of them.  And they’re not just in the South.  I see people in New Hampshire flying the Confederate battle flag on their houses or sticking it in the back window of their pickup trucks.  It’s rather frightening, actually, to think about.

The second thing that really caused me – and still causes me – grief, was the murder of George Floyd on May 25, 2020, by police officer Derek Chauvin.  Floyd was handcuffed and face down on the ground, but Chauvin pinned him by kneeling on his neck for nine and a half minutes.  Floyd was heard saying, “I can’t breathe” a number of times.  Those would be his last words.  His death led to protests around the United States and around the world, the likes of which had not been seen since the Civil Rights Movement, and maybe not even then.  People were united in their calls against the excessive use of force by police officers and the lack of police accountability.  Again, I was made to see, up close and in all of its ugliness, the reality of the race problem in our country.  Yes, we’ve come a long way, we’re not where we used to be; but we’re not where we ought to be, either.

Third, we faced – and are still facing – the COVID crisis.  Since the first case was diagnosed in the U.S. in January of 2020, there have been 87,152,356 cases reported as of June 29, and 1,012,166 deaths.  Think about how big those numbers are for a minute.  Over 1 million dead Americans in less than 2 years.  And the crisis, instead of drawing us together, pulled us further apart.  While we lived through lock-down and reopening, and masks or no masks, and vaccines or no vaccines, and being almost afraid to be together for fear that we might become a super-spreader event, and the selfishness that went on as some people resorted to hoarding of toilet paper and other hard to find items, I became more and more disappointed with the people in our country.  I saw grocery store clerks being raked over the coals by irate shoppers who were angry that they were unable to find the items they needed on the shelves.  I heard people complain about having to wear masks when I knew that older people and others at-risk depended on people being careful to not spread COVID because of their weakened immune systems.  I knew of some people who complained over activities being canceled, but couldn’t seem to grasp that it was not out of some political influence that the decisions were made; it was due to the scientific and medical advice being given about gathering in crowds.  People were more upset that they couldn’t hold birthday parties for their children than they were that thousands of people were dying alone in hospitals with not a single family member allowed to be with them at the end.

The final straw, though, was the assault on the United States Capitol on January 6, 2020.  It was no less than an armed insurrection.  It was the attempt to stop the certification of the election of Joe Biden as the next President.  It was an attempted coup.  As I watched in horror as the events unfolded that day, the thing that really bothered me the most was how many Christian symbols and banners were on prominent display.  Many people wore shirts or hats with Christian symbols or messages on them.  There was even a wooden cross.  And a group of people calling themselves the “Jericho march” blew shofars and prayed that God would bring down the walls of government. 

Now, you may be thinking to yourself, “That preacher has quit preaching and gone to meddling.  She shouldn’t be talking about politics.”  Well, let me be clear about one thing:  Jesus talked about politics all the time.  Every time he mentioned the Kingdom of God, he was being political.  Because he was talking about the coming reign of God on this earth.  In her essay, The Kingdom Heresy, Diana Butler Bass writes, “When you proclaim prison abolition, the end of slavery, debt cancellation, and people dwelling in peace, you’re talking politics … Jesus preached politics all the time, everywhere.”  John Dominic Crossan stated that “the Kingdom of God is inextricably and simultaneously 100 percent political and 100 percent religious.  ‘Kingdom’ is a political term, ‘God’ is a religious term.”  And so, if Jesus spent his career addressing political issues, then I feel that it is a pastor’s job to do that on occasion also.  And it certainly falls within the prophetic tradition of the Old Testament.

So what am I to do?  How do I fall in love with my country again, a country I hardly recognize, a country I’m not even sure I like anymore?  I find part of the answer in reminding myself that for every white supremacist out there, there are thousands of people working for racial justice and equality; that for every Derek Chauvin, there are thousands of good police officers doing a great job; that for every person behaving badly with COVID fatigue, there are thousands more who have shown greater compassion and consideration and care for others; and that for every insurrectionist or would-be insurrectionist, there are thousands more Americans who would defend our democratic processes and our country to the death.

And I find part of the answer in the reading from Galatians.  Paul was writing to churches that were deeply divided over an issue.  Paul advised the Galatians that, no matter what, they must love each other.  He reminded them, “Love your neighbor as you love yourself.”  Unless they learned to love each other, they would devour each other with their fighting and their divisiveness.  Love was the answer.  Diana Butler Bass asked herself, “What to do?  Paint on a happy face?  Control my emotions?  Love those Supreme Court justices or the January 6 insurrectionists?  Do I summon every power of will?  I love them.  I love them.  I really love them … I really do.  I may as well call my therapist now.”  But it is possible to love them, in the sense of wanting the best for them, of showing them mercy and compassion and understanding.

It is not an easy thing to do; it is perhaps the hardest thing you and I will ever do: to love our enemies, some of whom are also our friends and neighbors and family members.  But it is the most necessary thing we will ever do.  The answer to loving my country again is to somehow learn to love the people again.  I hope I am up to the task.  Because when I can love – only when I can love – I am learning to be my best self.  And I hope that I am calling others to be their best selves again, too.