Today is like any other day
a day that the Lord has made
not one shaped in some special manner
such that it deserves a granite marker,
a holy prayer, or particular hushed reverence.

But humankind marks the slow working of time
and records in ink those special moments
when babies are born, milestones reached,
tragedies occurred, and accords signed.
This is a day like any other day yet it is a special day.
Both of these are equally true.

Through our town runs a river.
Floaters towing their drinks in the cold water
slip through town while slowly turning clockwise,
following the current's mysterious hand.
Tonight the deep waters will darken with the setting sun,
the river oaks will cast their lengthening shadows,
across the Sierra waters.
But the river will not easily fall asleep,
for it will fill with reflections of light
green, orange, red, white, and blue
the sizzling lights arching, stretching and dancing across the lumbering waters.

``Oh beautiful for sacred skies, for amber waves of grain,
for purple mountains majesty above the fruited plain,
America, America, God shed his grace on thee.
And crown thy good with brotherhood,
From sea to shining sea.''

And so it is that
When your eyes first scan the horizon from the south rim of the great canyon,
or when you kneel down midst a wild field of California poppies,
or breathe the air and feel the breeze while standing in a forest of giant redwoods,
one can't help but echo the creator and say
``this is good.''

But this too we know at some sure place deep within,
That there are great deserts we have never seen
that there are still secrets in an Amazon lagoon, and
that the sun casts a special glow over an Asian field of rice.
And all this too is good.

What is it about me that feels so reluctant
around expressions of unwavering devotion to the homeland?
Am I just imagining something amiss when I sense
a better-than-thou spirit lightly veiled between the lines?

The heart of the matter is simply this:
where does my greatest loyalty rest?
After all that I've seen and known in my life
what will survive and endure life's test?

I have seen children line a dusty, African street
and salute as their motley troops march by on independence day.
And then, a strong man flexing his torso lies flat on the asphalt.
His chest heaving, he steels himself as the Peugot approaches.
First one wheel, then the next, passes over his prone body.
Afterwards, he leaps to his feet his arms waving.
The people cheer and it is as though they are saying in unison
``we are a mighty people.''
When the parade is over the people walk to their homes.
Some climb on bikes and ride home.
A few take their cars home.
Yes, we are a mighty people.

But these are not our people
and they are very poor.
And often I have wondered how it came to be
that I am so unencumbered by this world's misery.
Why it is that my chances for a long life
are better than most?
Is this some kind of neurotic, guilt-induced compulsion,
or is this the best question in the world to ask?

I once read about a people who pooled their resources
combining their many strengths to create a great city.
Their buildings rose high into the sky.
We are a great and mighty people, the people said.
We will make a great name for ourselves.
And their skyscrapers, in time, fell to the ground.

A few buildings, in our own time, have fallen.
And the people rose up and said,
we are a great people, we are a mighty people!
You have killed our innocent friends.
You have taken the lives of our mechanics and our cooks.
You have taken the lives of our firemen and those who love books.
You have taken the lives of our single and those who like to have fun.
You have taken the lives of our bellhops and our very young.
You have taken the lives of our CEOs and those who are old.
You have taken the lives of our timid and those who are most bold.

And thus the debate arose over how to honor the innocent dead.
How do we respect their sacred blood?
Can monuments and water fountains enable a sense of rest?
Can dialogue and debate produce a spirit of calm?
Or do the lungs of the unjustly dead cry out for something more?

A long time ago the wise, appointed one sent his friends out.
Go in small groups, he said.
There are wolves, but you are like lambs, he said.
Take no bag for the journey, he counseled.
There are many who need to hear my voice, he reminded.
Eat and drink with whomever opens their door.
Seek the well-being of those you are among, and say,
the Kingdom of God is here among us.

Honor my memory, my body, my blood,
with your calloused hands, your ready feet,
your open heart, your caring lips.
Take this basin. Take this towel.
Live among others as I have lived with you.
Put my way above all else.

The old river slowly rolls through our town.
Sometimes it divides, the stronger current drawing
the boats and the floaters to its wide path.
Its strong pull is not unlike that which provokes loyalty's deep devotion.
The call of duty and preserving honor.
The call to soberly avenge the blood of the innocent.
And so the young take up the call knowing
that some we will have to bury
without knowing what great deeds they might have accomplished.

The river's other path, the narrow one,
also appeals to loyalty's deep devotion.
Here there are thickets, the environment is hostile.
The innocent dead are not honored with the blood of another.
We, the young and the old alike, honor them best
when we resist the seductive call of atoning justice
and turn instead to the care of the other,
no matter who they are.

Tonight the deep waters will darken with the setting sun,
the river oaks will cast their lengthening shadows,
across the Sierra waters.
But the river will not easily fall asleep,
for it will fill with reflections of light
green, orange, red, white, and blue
the sizzling lights arching, stretching and dancing across the lumbering waters.


--July 4, 2004
--First Mennonite Church, Reedley