After a busy night at the Duke restaurant, I went over to watch what was left of the State of the Union address with friends at the same house where we had gathered to watch the debates and the election night returns, which meant I was even later than usual getting home. When I got to my email, I found an alert telling me that Howard Zinn died today, at the age of 89. That he died on the day of the State of the Union seems somehow fitting.
I first learned of Howard Zinn through his book, A People's History of the United States: 1492 to Present. I was out of college (with a history degree) before Zinn’s book hit the shelves, but I remember one of my professors challenging the way history was taught, for the most part, because he said it was taught, predominantly, by the winners: those who won the wars got to tell the stories. History, he told us, was so much more. The real history of a nation was in the stories of everyday lives, in what people ate and drank and talked about, in what happened to the losers.
Howard Zinn was the son of Jewish immigrants, fought in World War II, taught at Spelman College, was active in both the Civil Rights Movement and the Anti-Vietnam War Movement (alongside Daniel Berrigan): he was a man of passion, action, and deep resolve. He criticized his country because he deeply loved it. I love this description of Zinn by James Carroll:
Howard had a genius for the shape of public morality and for articulating the great alternative vision of peace as more than a dream, but above all, he had a genius for the practical meaning of love. That is what drew legions of the young to him and what made the wide circle of his friends so constantly amazed and grateful.
And that is why I’m taking time to notice that one of our most passionately burning lights has gone out: I have been inspired by his dedication, tenacity, and compassion, regardless of whether or not I agreed with him on a particular point. He was a man who trusted people, ordinary people, to grow and change. He is one who knew how to speak truth to power without becoming bitter or superior or cynical. Here he is, recently, talking with Bill Moyers.
she said, in that way one speaks to get a reaction, or the way I titled this poem so you’d keep reading. I’m not proud, she said, because I had nothing to do with it,
deftly putting patriotism in a new light, a search light, under the bare bulb of interrogation.
What, then, can I be? Thankful: that I was born in a South Texas town named for the Body of Christ and not Port-au-Prince; pride, perhaps, would be easier
because it requires nothing of me. Gratitude guides me to share what was never mine.
I read a thought-provoking post this morning over at The Other Jesus. Greg Garrett, the author, is an acquaintance from years past and a good writer and thinker. His words have kept me thinking all day:
At the risk of beating a dead horse, faith is not really faith if it’s easy. What the Christian tradition teaches us about faith is that we are called to exercise it, that we are called to try to believe in worthy stories—like the story of America, for one.
I appreciate his call for us to be diligently hopeful and faithful and I don’t think my faith in Christ compels me to pledge allegiance to the United States of America. Faith and patriotism are unrelated. And I’m talking about more than the usual discussion of separation of church and state, which mostly revolves around institutional hot button issues. On a personal level, which – for me – includes our local church communities, the call to discipleship – to do justice, love kindness, and walk humbly with our God – means to be unaffiliated, ultimately, because it’s too easy for us to make excuses and allowances for “our” side. If, for example, another country was holding hundreds of Americans in the same manner as we are keeping those at Guantánamo imprisoned would we say, “It’s just how they have to act in a post-9/11 world?” Would we sit as quietly as we have for the last seven years?
The answer to both questions is, “No.”
The kind of strange thing is Greg and I kind of end up in the same place, even traveling different roads. Hear him again:
This year, I want to challenge people of faith, whatever their political affiliations, to ask themselves whether Jesus, a victim of political imprisonment, torture, and execution, would be for or against political imprisonment, torture, and execution. I want to ask people of faith to be a people of hope as well. I want to ask us to love, to serve, to witness to the best that is in us, and not the worst.
I agree and I would add that the best in us will not be found in our government and political structure. Hear me clearly: I plan to vote and I hope Barack Obama is our next president for a number of reasons and how we love and serve and witness as people of faith does not swing on who moves into the White House. God is not on our side. The last best example of Christianity in action, on a national scale, was the Civil Rights Movement. Things changed in this country because people of faith, mostly coming from the poor and marginalized in American society, marched with King and others in God’s name, sitting at lunch counters until they were beaten down, choosing not to answer violence with violence, and bringing an unjust nation to a new realization of itself. The legislation and cultural changes that have come since would never have come about had our government and the rich and powerful who influence it most had been left to their own devices.
It seems to me that the church has been most effective down through history when it has been farthest from the halls of wealth and influence. Sure, the institutional church rose to power once Constantine baptized everyone in his army and made Christianity the state religion, but power and effectiveness, in terms of the Community of God we are called to build, are not the same thing. To follow Jesus’ call to discipleship is, in part, to come to the understanding that “Christian nation” is an oxymoron. We are called to be the church -- not the country -- of Jesus Christ. If we want to know where the hope for the next generation is gestating, we would do well to turn our gaze from Washington, or from the pristine suburbs that house many of our most beautiful (and expensive) religious buildings, and start looking for faith in the places Martin looked for those who pledged their allegiance to God: among the homeless, the undocumented, the displaced, the marginalized, the wounded. You know – the people Jesus healed and loved.
In Jesus’ parable of the final scene when nations stand before God, some were affirmed for the way they had lived out God’s call:
I was hungry and you fed me, I was thirsty and you gave me a drink, I was homeless and you gave me a room, I was shivering and you gave me clothes, I was sick and you stopped to visit, I was in prison and you came to me.'
"Then those 'sheep' are going to say, 'Master, what are you talking about? When did we ever see you hungry and feed you, thirsty and give you a drink? And when did we ever see you sick or in prison and come to you?' Then the King will say, 'I'm telling the solemn truth: Whenever you did one of these things to someone overlooked or ignored, that was me—you did it to me.' (The Message)
The second part of the parable reverses the story and chastises those who didn’t take time or resources to care for those in need. Perhaps in a country – our country – where, for example, 47 million people live without health insurance, we would do well to look across oceans and borders to learn from the rest of the world. We are the most powerful nation on earth, and we are not the world’s last best hope. We may be able to win more gold medals than anyone at the Olympics next month, but we are not Number One in many categories, particularly those that have more to do with compassion than competition. We are better tellers than listeners. We prefer to be in charge rather than in community. As Christians who also happen to be Americans, we do well to remember we are called to be God’s people, not act as though we are the Chosen Ones.
Greg closes his post with good questions:
Let’s show the world what it means to be a people of integrity, faith, and hope.
If not now, when?
If not us, who?
The questions are powerful to me because I choose to read them as a pilgrim, not a patriot.
I've been trying to think about what to write off and on all day. Tonight, after the Durham Bulls game, they had fireworks to "patriotic" music -- Springsteen's "Born in the USA," Lee Greenwood's "I'm Proud to be an American," Ray Charles singing "America," Louis Armstrong's "What a Wonderful World," and Toby Keith's "I am a Soldier -- played sequentially without any hint of irony. The songs made me think of my post last year at this time and, at the risk of being either redundant or self-indulgent, I'm re-posting it tonight, mostly because not a whole lot feels different between then and now.
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I do a fair amount of listening to country music, but I’m always a little gun shy of my radio this time of year (no pun intended) because the closer we get to the fireworks the more often they play Toby Keith singing about putting a boot up anyone’s ass who disagrees with our government, or – inevitably – I’ll hear Lee Greenwood sing about being proud to be an American.
I’m not proud to be an American.
I can’t be since I had nothing to do with my being an American. I can take pride in things I’ve cooked or written because I did those things, but I’m an American by circumstance, by geography, by fortune. I feel grateful. I feel responsible. But I’m not proud.
Another way to think about pride is to define it as arrogance: rather than it being a sense of accomplishment, it is a sense of entitlement. I’m concerned for our country because I think the latter is the image we project to much of the world, whether we intend to or not. We come across as though we see ourselves as The One Who Know Everything or The Ones Who Are Convinced Everyone Wants To Be Just Like Us.
The analogy that comes to mind is a scene from The Breakfast Club after all the kids (Brian the science nerd, Andrew the athlete, John the angry kid, Allison the outcast, and Claire the popular girl) have become vulnerable with one another:
BRIAN: Um, I was just thinking, I mean. I know it's kind of a weird time, but I was just wondering, um, what is gonna happen to us on Monday? When we're all together again? I mean I consider you guys my friends, I'm not wrong, am I? ANDREW: No... BRIAN: So, so on Monday...what happens? CLAIRE: Are we still friends, you mean? If we're friends now, that is? BRIAN: Yeah... CLAIRE: Do you want the truth? BRIAN: Yeah, I want the truth... CLAIRE: I don't think so... ALLISON: Well, do you mean all of us or just John? CLAIRE: With all of you... ANDREW: That's a real nice attitude, Claire!
The scene continues:
BRIAN: I just wanna tell, each of you, that I wouldn't do that...I wouldn't and I will not! 'Cause I think that's real shitty... CLAIRE: Your friends wouldn't mind because they look up to us...
Brian laughs at her.
BRIAN: You're so conceited, Claire. You're so conceited. You're so, like, full of yourself, why are you like that?
To turn the world into a high school detention hall may seem simplistic, but hear me out. We are a lot like Claire: she’s not mean or vindictive; she is uninformed and arrogant. She has been taught she’s better than others and has not heard voices telling her otherwise until that Saturday in detention. (Wouldn't that make a great Security Council ice-breaker: OK, if your country was a character in The Breakfast Club, which one would it be?)
When we were in Greece and Turkey last year, almost every hotel had CNN International on the television. The same alleged news organization that fills our homes with endless teen drama queens and pontificating pundits has an international channel that is informative and articulate. I can only assume they don’t want us to see it lest we become informed and realize the world is not what we think it is. We are being taught not to question, not to act, even not to care.
Almost twenty five years ago Little Steven Van Zandt, of E Street Band and Sopranos fame, wrote a song called “I am a Patriot,” which I first heard on Jackson Browne’s wonderful 1989 record, World in Motion. In the video clip I found of Little Steven, he makes an impassioned and linguistically colorful introduction to the song, imploring his audience to question everything and then he sings:
And the river opens for the righteous, someday
I was walking with my brother And he wondered what was on my mind I said what I believe in my soul It ain't what I see with my eyes And we can't turn our backs this time
I am a patriot and I love my country Because my country is all I know I want to be with my family With people who understand me I got nowhere else to go I am a patriot
And the river opens for the righteous, someday
I was talking with my sister She looked so fine I said baby what's on your mind She said I want to run like the lion Released from the cages Released from the rages Burning in my heart tonight
I am a patriot and I love my country Because my country is all I know
And I ain't no communist, And I ain't no capitalist And I ain't no socialist and I sure ain't no imperialist And I ain't no democrat And I ain't no republican either And I only know one party and its name is freedom I am a patriot
And the river opens for the righteous, someday
I love the honesty of the song: “I am a patriot and I love my country because my country is all I know.” Van Zandt names our love of family and want of security right along with our call to question what is going on and work for justice. My friend Gene pastors a church that talks about Life Mission Questions, which I find wonderfully resonant. The answers we find, my friends, are only as good as our questions. In that spirit, I have a few I think we need to ask more emphatically.
How can we hold people indefinitely at Guantanamo Bay without telling them or anyone else why and then talk about human rights to other countries?
How can we complain about countries seeking nuclear power and/or weapons, even threatening war if they continue, when we have them and intend to keep them?
How can we continue to staff military bases in countries all over the world when we would never let anyone set up a base on our soil?
How can we spend a billion dollars a week on war and not have universal health care our citizens?
How can we work to end terrorism without working passionately and relentlessly to end poverty?
Why do our presidential candidates have to raise millions of dollars to get elected?
Why don’t we think of the other countries of the world as colleagues rather than subordinates?
Why aren’t the voices of healthy dissent louder in our country?
Why are all our issues described as polarities?
Why must everything be either red or blue?
Where are the courageous leaders who are willing to do something other than raise money, worry about being electable, and pander to multinational corporations?
Where are the real journalists?
Feel free to add your own.
I am a patriot and I do love my country, even though it’s not all I know. I do think the river will open for the righteous someday and, as Martin said, justice will roll down like water. Liberty and justice for all – all the world.
Sen. Barack Obama's refusal to wear an American flag lapel pin along with a photo of him not putting his hand over his heart during the National Anthem led conservatives on Internet and in the media to question his patriotism. (AP)
Pledge of Allegiance
I was eight years old when they took down the picture of Queen Elizabeth over the blackboard, ending her reign over the classroom, making way for our new President, Kenneth Kaunda, as we stood and sang, “Stand and sing of Zambia.”
I was eleven, sitting in the middle of the front seat of his old Ford pickup, listening to the radio somewhere in East Texas while he went in to buy some unfiltered Lucky Strikes, when they said Bobby Kennedy had been shot to death.
I was twenty-one, on a bus in Lenningrad, going to see the memorial for all those who had died in Hitler’s vicious siege, when a man -- a survivor – offered to give me everything if I would promise it would not happen again.
I was thirty-five, teaching school in Boston, and talking with one of my Chinese students. When I mentioned Tiananmen Square, he looked up at me and said, “I was there.” That’s as close to freedom as I ever stood.
I am fifty-one and they want me to believe that what matters comes down to lapel pins and hand signals. I don’t believe them. I pledge allegiance to the God who made us and calls us to stand together in love.
I do a fair amount of listening to country music, but I’m always a little gun shy of my radio this time of year (no pun intended) because the closer we get to the fireworks the more often they play Toby Keith singing about putting a boot up anyone’s ass who disagrees with our government, or – inevitably – I’ll hear Lee Greenwood sing about being proud to be an American.
I’m not proud to be an American.
I can’t be since I had nothing to do with my being an American. I can take pride in things I’ve cooked or written because I did those things, but I’m an American by circumstance, by geography, by fortune. I feel grateful. I feel responsible. But I’m not proud.
Another way to think about pride is to define it as arrogance: rather than it being a sense of accomplishment, it is a sense of entitlement. I’m concerned for our country because I think the latter is the image we project to much of the world, whether we intend to or not. We come across as though we see ourselves as The One Who Know Everything or The Ones Who Are Convinced Everyone Wants To Be Just Like Us.
The analogy that comes to mind is a scene from The Breakfast Club after all the kids (Brian the science nerd, Andrew the athlete, John the angry kid, Allison the outcast, and Claire the popular girl) have become vulnerable with one another:
BRIAN: Um, I was just thinking, I mean. I know it's kind of a weird time, but I was just wondering, um, what is gonna happen to us on Monday? When we're all together again? I mean I consider you guys my friends, I'm not wrong, am I? ANDREW: No... BRIAN: So, so on Monday...what happens? CLAIRE: Are we still friends, you mean? If we're friends now, that is? BRIAN: Yeah... CLAIRE: Do you want the truth? BRIAN: Yeah, I want the truth... CLAIRE: I don't think so... ALLISON: Well, do you mean all of us or just John? CLAIRE: With all of you... ANDREW: That's a real nice attitude, Claire!
The scene continues:
BRIAN: I just wanna tell, each of you, that I wouldn't do that...I wouldn't and I will not! 'Cause I think that's real shitty... CLAIRE: Your friends wouldn't mind because they look up to us...
Brian laughs at her.
BRIAN: You're so conceited, Claire. You're so conceited. You're so, like, full of yourself, why are you like that?
To turn the world into a high school detention hall may seem simplistic, but hear me out. We are a lot like Claire: she’s not mean or vindictive; she is uninformed and arrogant. She has been taught she’s better than others and has not heard voices telling her otherwise until that Saturday in detention. (Wouldn't that make a great Security Council ice-breaker: OK, if your country was a character in The Breakfast Club, which one would it be?)
When we were in Greece and Turkey last year, almost every hotel had CNN International on the television. The same alleged news organization that fills our homes with endless teen drama queens and pontificating pundits has an international channel that is informative and articulate. I can only assume they don’t want us to see it lest we become informed and realize the world is not what we think it is. We are being taught not to question, not to act, even not to care.
Almost twenty five years ago Little Steven Van Zandt, of E Street Band and Sopranos fame, wrote a song called “I am a Patriot,” which I first heard on Jackson Browne’s wonderful 1989 record, World in Motion. In the video clip I found of Little Steven, he makes an impassioned and linguistically colorful introduction to the song, imploring his audience to question everything and then he sings:
And the river opens for the righteous, someday
I was walking with my brother And he wondered what was on my mind I said what I believe in my soul It ain't what I see with my eyes And we can't turn our backs this time
I am a patriot and I love my country Because my country is all I know I want to be with my family With people who understand me I got nowhere else to go I am a patriot
And the river opens for the righteous, someday
I was talking with my sister She looked so fine I said baby what's on your mind She said I want to run like the lion Released from the cages Released from the rages Burning in my heart tonight
I am a patriot and I love my country Because my country is all I know
And I ain't no communist, And I ain't no capitalist And I ain't no socialist and I sure ain't no imperialist And I ain't no democrat And I ain't no republican either And I only know one party and its name is freedom I am a patriot
And the river opens for the righteous, someday
I love the honesty of the song: “I am a patriot and I love my country because my country is all I know.” Van Zandt names our love of family and want of security right along with our call to question what is going on and work for justice. My friend Gene pastors a church that talks about Life Mission Questions, which I find wonderfully resonant. The answers we find, my friends, are only as good as our questions. In that spirit, I have a few I think we need to ask more emphatically.
How can we hold people indefinitely at Guantanamo Bay without telling them or anyone else why and then talk about human rights to other countries?
How can we complain about countries seeking nuclear power and/or weapons, even threatening war if they continue, when we have them and intend to keep them?
How can we continue to staff military bases in countries all over the world when we would never let anyone set up a base on our soil?
How can we spend a billion dollars a week on war and not have universal health care our citizens?
How can we work to end terrorism without working passionately and relentlessly to end poverty?
Why do our presidential candidates have to raise millions of dollars to get elected?
Why don’t we think of the other countries of the world as colleagues rather than subordinates?
Why aren’t the voices of healthy dissent louder in our country?
Why are all our issues described as polarities?
Why must everything be either red or blue?
Where are the courageous leaders who are willing to do something other than raise money, worry about being electable, and pander to multinational corporations?
Where are the real journalists?
Feel free to add your own.
I am a patriot and I do love my country, even though it’s not all I know. I do think the river will open for the righteous someday and, as Martin said, justice will roll down like water. Liberty and justice for all – all the world.
