Yesterday, we celebrated Independence Day. At many American churches, this is unremarkable. But here in Romania — in a service where only a few of us were from the United States — it was a different event. Or, rather, it felt different. I wondered how the other people felt about it. After all, not every nation enjoys the same independence we do. Not every nation is equally excited about the uses to which we have put our independence, or our many other blessings.
People were good sports, though, and celebrated along with us. We had cake, with sparklers, and sang the “Star-Spangled Banner”, more or less right. Theodore wore an Uncle Sam hat.
Before all this, though, I taken a few minutes to reflect upon the way that different nations observe their national holidays, and on what it means. I said something like this:
July 4th is a big holiday in the United States — a celebration of our history and our liberty. We celebrate in different ways (grilling meat in the back yard, selling cars at a discount), but the most traditional of them by far is setting off explosions. From a few friends lighting firecrackers in the driveway to a massive display of fireworks over the harbor of a great city, Americans celebrate today with bursts of light and color. They are beautiful and exciting, but they also remind us that our liberty was purchased with violence and war.
I suppose that every country has some day like this, and I suppose that on such days, our nations give a sort of testimony. They tell a story about who they are. In Cameroon, one member tells me, they set aside one day each year to rejoice in their bilingualism, their two official languages, French and English. A few days ago, Canadians held their national day; no explosions, because their independence was a peaceful transition. Sometimes they invite the Queen to visit, as a reminder that they are still part of one Commonwealth. These are our stories, the things we value about ourself, and they are not the same from one nation to another. Independence; tolerance; peacefulness — they are all beautiful things, and they are all different.
And what about us, my friends? What about our “nation,” the Church? What story do we tell the world about ourselves?
Christians have much to celebrate. Much of the greatest art in human history has been created by Christians, to the glory of God. In places where there is poverty or disaster, Christian relief agencies are often on the front lines. When Jesus sent out his seventy apostles, they returned with joy, saying, “Lord, even the demons submit to us.” What was true then is true now as well: God gives us the power to subdue the forces of evil, the powers that seek to take away human dignity.
But Jesus warned the apostles, and he warns us as well: ”Do not rejoice because the demons submit to you. Rejoice because your names are written in Heaven.” In other words, the wonderful things that God gives us the power to do, and that we do in God’s name, are not the ultimate reason for our celebrations. We celebrate not because of anything that we do, but rather because of what Jesus did for us, when on the Cross he won a decisive victory against the powers of death and hell, and gained us the hope of eternal life.
Some nations fire rockets into the sky; others invite a foreign queen, or rejoice in their many languages. But our nation, our Church, tells its story in a different way. We tell it by gathering together to sing and pray, whether five or six of us around a table, or thousands packing massive amphitheater. We tell it when we reach out our hands to help those in need, victims of fire or flood; to lift up the oppressed or comfort the lonely. We tell the story of Jesus, and his victory against the powers of death; the story of God, who has made us and redeemed us. Each time we make peace or protect the weak, each time we forgive somebody, each time we love somebody, we tell the world who we are — and who God is.
