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In doing some “research” (i.e., reading Wikipedia) for the series on creeds that I’ve been writing, I stumbled across a rather interesting document, the existence of which I had completely forgotten about. It’s called “the American’s creed”, written by William Tyler Page and adopted by Congress in 1918. It reads thusly:
I believe in the United States of America, as a government of the people, by the people, for the people; whose just powers are derived from the consent of the governed; a democracy in a republic; a sovereign Nation of many sovereign States; a perfect union, one and inseparable; established upon those principles of freedom, equality, justice, and humanity for which American patriots sacrificed their lives and fortunes.
I therefore believe it is my duty to my country to love it, to support its Constitution, to obey its laws, to respect its flag, and to defend it against all enemies.
Interestingly, this creed for the state religion of nationalism is reminiscent of the classic statement of Christian religion, the Nicene Creed. The phrase “of the people, by the people, for the people” is almost Trinitarian in its import; the language of “a democracy in a republic”, of “a sovereign Nation of many sovereign States”, and of “a perfect union, one and inseparable”, calls to mind the Nicene and Chalcedonian rhetoric of the ontology in the Trinity and of the person of Christ.
The explicit and intentional creedal form of the statement drives home the way that state nationalism can compete with Christian faith and identity in the Church. And indeed, though Page undoubtedly did not recognize this conflict of kingdoms, he himself did speak of the creed he had written in unabashedly religious terms. As he said: “The American’s Creed is a summing up, in one hundred words, of the basic principles of American political faith. … It is a summary of the fundamental principles of American political faith as set forth in its greatest documents, its worthiest traditions and by its greatest leaders.” Of course, an exactly analogous statement could be made about the Nicene Creed as it was intended to be understood: “The Nicene Creed is a summing up, in a few hundred words, of the basic principles of trinitarian Christian faith. … It is a summary of the fundamental principles of Christian faith as set forth in its greatest Scriptures, its worthiest traditions and by its greatest apostles and teachers.”
This creed goes beyond the philosophical, moving swiftly from the abstract principles of sovereignty and union into the apparent ethical imperatives of American citizenship. (Ethics is something that the classical Christian creeds, unfortunately, do not touch on.) The American’s Creed declares that the moral system by which Americans should order their lives is grounded in several duties, each of which has a parallel, but contrasting, analogue in Christian theology: love of country (love of God and neighbor), support of Constitution (reading of Scripture), obedience to law (living in grace), respect for flag (identification with the Cross), and defense against national enemies (praying for our enemies and blessing those who persecute us). Thus, the creed unifies in one document both an abstract set of philosophical beliefs that are representative of American nationalism’s “orthodoxy”, but also, and much more potently, a set of ethical guidelines assumed to be normative for citizens in their daily routine. In so doing, the American’s Creed arguably (and disturbingly) makes even broader claims upon personal identity and lifestyle than do the classical Christian creeds.
Though the Creed itself is not particularly well-known in the modern United States, the ideas it expresses are formative for much of the American community, just as the ideas expressed by the classical Christian creeds are formative for much of the Christian community (even in those churches that do not regularly recite them). If it is true, as Marshall McLuhan writes, that “the medium is a message”, then the import of the American’s Creed is significant indeed. The medium is a religious one, as is, therefore, the message: and thus the American’s Creed exemplifies the way that American nationalism has become a functional religion in its own right, in competition with Christian faith.
In America, today is the day we celebrate a war fought over having to pay too much for our tea.
Independence Day is one of the most important holidays in America’s national religion. As a Christian living in America, I find that today is particularly difficult in terms of evaluating the interplay of conflicting identities, competing communities, and contradictory allegiances.
So instead of using July 4th to speculate on what would have happened if the Revolution had been nonviolent, or musing on the identity of Christians in the kingdoms of the world, or offering prayers for nation and nation’s enemy alike, I’d like to declare independence.
As an American Christian, I declare independence from the mindset that the two adjectives are one and the same. I declare independence from the willful blindness that, in the name of a false patriotism, refuses to acknowledge America’s sins and sees no need to seek reconciliation. I declare independence from the assumption that America is always benevolent, knowing that all Powers are fallen, just as all people are fallen. I declare independence from the arrogance of that part of American Christianity that has sought to make the world in its image. I declare independence from Americans who use Christianity to justify, hatred, intolerance, and unjust war.
But today, on Independence Day, I do more than declare independence. I also declare solidarity.
As an American Christian, I declare solidarity with those who seek to navigate the complexity of multiple allegiances and conflicting identities. I declare solidarity with the effort to seek truth and create reconciliation in evaluating this country’s history. I declare solidarity with those who prophetically seek justice and peace in a self-righteous environment. I declare solidarity with all who humbly seek to gain from others, of all ethnicities, religions, nations, and classes. I declare solidarity with all who do justice, love kindness, and walk humbly with their God: Christians and non-Christians alike, from America and from everywhere else.
I’ve been involved over the past few days in a discussion with some friends about the proper response of Christians to the american Flag Day, which was this past Sunday. Much of the discussion became sidetracked with a debate over the true nature of the united states: benevolent symbol of freedom or dominating empire (or both). It seemed to be assumed that the answer to this question would also answer the question of whether american Christians should celebrate Flag Day.
However, I think we miss the point when we try to determine whether or not the united states has lived up to some arbitrary level of goodness or of whether its actions and policies have matched our Christian ideals. Where the u.s. stands on the righteousness scale is ultimately irrelevant to the question (for no matter what, it will never be perfect, and neither will we as individuals, of course). Rather than ask “Should we as Christians fly the flag?”, we should be asking more broadly, “What is our identity as Christians?”
I submit that it is the question of identity and allegiance that must guide our discussion of the flag. We must consider whether or not we, as Christians, can really regard u.s. citizenship as a part of our identity, and whether or not we can “pledge our allegiance” in any real sense to an earthly kingdom. I believe (to quote John Howard Yoder) that “The Kingdom of Heaven is a social order, and not a hidden one”. Stanley Hauerwas has used the term “resident aliens” to describe our status in the world. Jesus himself said that “my kingdom is not of the this world. If my kingdom were of this world, my servants would have been fighting…” (John 18.36).
As Christians, we are citizens of a very real Kingdom that transcends the kingdoms of this world, no matter how “good” or “bad” they are. God’s kingdom gives us a real political identity and allegiance that must supersede that of the United States, or Canada, or Peru, or whatever else. God’s Kingdom provides an alternative and a witness to the kingdoms of the world, and is more often than not in opposition to and in tension with their actions and structures. As Chrstians, we can disagree about whether the United States has stood over the years for “liberty and justice for all” or whether it has often operated like an exploitative empire (or some combination of both). But no matter what conclusion we come to, we should recognize that ultimately, eternally, we aren’t americans at all. Thus, we should be very careful about how we celebrate “holidays” that are devoted purely to an identity that is in competition with the one Christ has given us.
Robert Jensen (not to be confused with Robert Jenson) is a journalism professor at the University of Texas in Austin. His most recent book, All My Bones Shake, is a departure from his previous works: it is a book of political theology, whereas most of his previous works have been on more secular topics. He writes now explicitly as a layperson rather than an expert, bringing a fresh perspective to divisive and complicated issues.
Subtitled “Seeking a Progressive Path to the Prophetic Voice”, All My Bones Shake presents a new approach to the integration of faith and public life. Jensen has a unique perspective, having been an outsider to the Church for much of his life. The book is very thought-provoking, containing a diversity of valuable insights and intriguing analysis. Much could be discussed in a review of the book, but I want to focus primarily on two aspects: Jensen’s unconventional theology, and his fascinating analysis of fundamentalism.
1. The Nature of Jensen’s Personal Faith
Jensen is a member of St. Andrew’s Presbyterian Church in Austin, Texas. He joined the church after being asked to preach on social justice issues (despite identifying as an atheist at the time). He found the liturgical recitation of the Lord’s prayer to be incredibly moving, and he writes that he left the church that day “not with a new set of beliefs but with a new experience” (29). Soon thereafter, he decided to join St. Andrew’s. He didn’t believe in God, but in a very real sense he believed in the Church and embraced the principles of Christ’s message. He no longer describes himself as an atheist, though he still doesn’t believe in God in the traditional sense.
On God, Jensen writes: “I believe God is a name we give to the mystery of the world that is beyond our capacity to understand.” He writes also that “Christ offered a way into that mystery that still has meaning today” (47). This is clearly a less-than-traditional approach to the divine, and frankly I am not sure what to make of it. The idea of “‘God’-as-name-for-mystery” is intriguing, if not convincing, and I pray that for Jensen it reveals God’s reality in a way that he can understand and relate to.
I disagree with several major aspects of Jensen’s theology: his rejection of the physical Resurrection, his depersonalization of God, and his emphasis on finding the internal strength to struggle rather than falling on God’s provision in faith. But I find his willingness to engage the truth of Jesus Christ compelling, even if it has led him to conclusions that I do not share. He seems genuinely to be striving to follow Christ, whether or not he believes all of what others might consider to be the “right ideas” about him. This is admirable.
2. Jensen’s Analysis of Fundamentalism
Jensen sees fundamentalism as one of the primary forces for evil in the world. But he doesn’t just stop at the traditional analysis of “fundamentalism = religious loony”. Instead, Jensen diagnoses four distinct types of fundamentalism: religious, nationalistic, economic, and technological. Recognizing that religious fundamentalism has already been well critiqued and analyzed, Jensen largely passes over it in his discussion.
His treatment of “nationalistic fundamentalism” focuses, as it inevitably must, on America. In Chomskyan style, Jensen strips away the emperor’s clothes of benevolent intervention, recognizing the inherent imperialism and oppression that lie beneath much of united states foreign policy. Rightly criticizing the “pathological hyperpatriotism that tends to suppress internal dissent” and that is often obligatory for well-behaved u.s. citizens, Jensen advocates instead that we “celebrate out connections to real people in our lives while also declaring a commitment to universal principles that are not rooted in any particular nation-state” (109-10). A compelling vision indeed, and one that is much needed in America today.
The third variety of fundamentalism criticized is economic or market fundamentalism, wherein “the naturalness of capitalism is now taken to be beyond question” and corporate capitalism is viewed as “the only sane and rational way to organize an economy in the contemporary world” (112). Indeed, the “widening gap between rich and poor” attests to the failure of capitalism to provide prosperity for more than the very few; this has been well-documented in other texts, and is a subject that I have only recently become interested in (and in regards to which my formerly libertarian views have been radically shifting).
The final fundamentalism Jensen addresses is technological fundamentalism. He describes this as the belief that “the increasing use of evermore sophisticated high-energy, advanced technology is always a good thing and that any problems caused by the unintended consequences of such technology eventually can be remedied by more technology” (116). Pointing to widespread ecological degradation of the last century, he argues that faith in technology to solve our problems will inevitably lead to further destruction. This is the section about which I am most uncertain; I have always been of the opinion that technological and scientific advancement eventually bring about widespread benefits. I especially am uncomfortable with his dismissal of the worth of the space program, and his idea that humanity has “no business” exploring “the atom and the cell” (118). Nevertheless, Jensen makes valid and thought-provoking criticism of humanistic hubris and technological arrogance, and his ideas certainly merit further discussion.
Concluding thoughts
Though the book as a whole is organized around an entirely different set of themes, the twin pillars of unique theology and anti-fundamentalism are key to his overall vision. Jensen offers a way of approaching religious concepts that engages them with the goals of truth-seeking and justice-action. These twin purposes must be central to our theological and spiritual lives, even though we may differ on many details (as Jensen and I do).
There is much more to the book than what I have written about. All of it is intriguing; much of it is controversial; none of it is conventional. I would highly recommend it to anyone who is willing to consider his ideas thoughtfully, as challenging to American Christian orthodoxy as they are.
So it’s Flag Day here in the United States of America. I would be happy to participate, but find myself sadly unable, for the Kingdom of which I am a citizen has as its symbol not a flag, but a cross.
I wanted to ignore Memorial Day on this blog. Just sort of let it slide by, get back to my “Thoughts from Solitude” series, not say anything “dumb” ( =pacifist). But I realized today that to be a Christian in America means to live with Memorial Day, and to be a Christian in general means to respond, not sit quietly.
Other people have already done a fantastic job of analyzing Memorial Day, of revealing it for what it is as a very un-Christian part of the liturgical calender of the State. I want to talk about something else, not about what Memorial Day is or whether Christians should celebrate it, but rather about how we should pray today.
Many American churches will devote (or have already devoted) special prayer to America’s dead soldiers. After all, that’s what we’re supposed to do on Memorial Day as “good patriotic Americans”. Perhaps it is true that the part of the Church that happens to live in America should pray for the soldiers of America. But we cannot stop there.
Today, the American Church must follow the guidance of our Lord in Luke 6.27-28: “But I say to you who hear, Love your enemies, do good to those who hate you, bless those who curse you, pray for those who abuse you.” If we are praying today for America’s dead, we must also pray for the dead of America’s enemies. We must pray for the nineteen who flew planes into America’s buildings in September 2001. We must pray for the thousands who died fighting American soldiers in Vietnam. We must pray for the millions who fell trying to stop America’s military from advancing through Normandy, through Europe, and across the Pacific.
We must also follow the call of Scripture to stand for the lowly and oppressed. If we pray for America’s strong, we must even more so pray for the world’s weak, for the victims of America’s wars. We must pray for the people of Iraq, of Afghanistan, of Pakistan. We must pray for the people of Vietnam. We must pray for those who perished at Hiroshima and Nagasaki.
We are not Americans; we are Christians who live in America. But we cannot retreat from where God has placed us. Though the State has a liturgical calender that celebrates death, we have a Lord who gives us life. We serve a God of transformation in the midst of a culture of destruction. We must embody that transformation, letting it extend even to Memorial Day, that God might redeem the State’s unholy holidays for his own holy purposes.
That transformation and redemption must begin with our prayers.
Image credit: psalters.com with hattip to CatholicAnarchy.org
Properly understood, the Church functions as a community that:
- Embodies an alternative ethics of nonviolence and transformation, rather than violence and destruction. We overcome evil through good. (Matthew 5.38ff; Luke 6.27ff; Romans 12.14ff)
- Embodies an alternative identity and allegiance in a Kingdom that is not of this world but is present in it. We act as witness to and dissident from Empire and Nation-State. (John 18.36; Luke 17.20f)
- Embodies an alternative economics of generosity rather than greed, of Jubilee rather than exploitation. We give freely and forgive debts as ours have been forgiven. (Matthew 6.19; Luke 4.19; Acts 2.44ff)
Each of these aspects of the Kingdom of Heaven, to which the Church is witness, requires hard commitment and flies in the face of “conventional wisdom” and cultural norms (especially in America). Christianity in this form becomes, ironically, more difficult to live out in societies where Christian rhetoric and nominal institutional membership are normative — i.e., in large countries with a “Judeo-Christian Tradition” or societies where the majority of citizens attend church. This paradox arises because in these situations Christian religion is appropriated by the State, compromising its essential pacifism (and, in individualist-capitalist societies, often its economic/social aspects as well).
Thus for the Christian who aspires to restore the Church to a model like that advocated here, “separation of church and state” is central — not to protect government from undue religious influence, but to allow the Church to maintian its integrity as a witness to the dominant order.
I’ve written previously about my discomfort as a Christian with the Pledge of Allegiance and with American nationalism more generally. I used to think that the Pledge is a rather radical and identity-claiming statement. But today, reading a post over at Experimental Theology, I came across the US oath of naturalization for persons desiring to become citizens — and the Pledge pales in comparison.
Please don’t read this post the wrong way. I have no objection to people, including Christians, who want to become US citizens — some of my closest friends are Christians who have done so. America offers many benefits of political freedom and opportunity, liberties that may not be available in some other countries, and there are indeed many compelling reasons someone might desire to be naturalized. But reading the Oath, I realize that it would be impossible for me, as a Christian standing in the theological tradition of the Radical Reformation, to swear it, if I want my words to mean anything at all.
The oath says this:
I hereby declare, on oath,
(1) that I absolutely and entirely renounce and abjure all allegiance and fidelity to any foreign prince, potentate, state, or sovereignty of whom or which I have heretofore been a subject or citizen;
(2) that I will support and defend the Constitution and laws of the United States of America against all enemies, foreign and domestic;
(3) that I will bear true faith and allegiance to the same;
(4) that I will bear arms on behalf of the United States when required by the law;
(5) that I will perform noncombatant service in the Armed Forces of the United States when required by the law;
(6) that I will perform work of national importance under civilian direction when required by the law;
(7) and that I take this obligation freely without any mental reservation or purpose of evasion;
so help me God.
Here’s why I wouldn’t be able to swear this oath.
(1) As N. T. Wright has said, “If Jesus is Lord, then Caesar is not.” The actual, literal dominion of Christ over the Church makes a very real demand upon my political allegiance.
(2) “Love your enemies, do good to those who hate you, bless those who curse you, pray for those who abuse you.” (Luke 5.27-28 NSRV)
(3) My “true faith and allegiance” can be only to the person of Jesus Christ and his Kingdom. See also #1.
(4) The Kingdom of God is a nonviolent one. See also #2. My faith prevents me from engaging in armed violence.
(5) See #4; I can no more directly aid violence in a noncombatant role than I can perpetuate it myself.
(6) I don’t have much of a problem with this part, assuming that the “work of national importance” doesn’t further the state’s violence.
(7) “Without mental reservation…” This would be impossible, clearly; see #1-#6 above.
I would be interested to see whether other nations’ oaths of naturalization are as identity-intensive as this one. If so, the Christian who pledges her political allegiance to the Kingdom of God and seeks her identity in that polity finds herself in a bind should she ever have to renounce her national citizenship and seek another, for whatever reason.
The Church, of course has its own naturalization oath: baptism. Infant baptism, then, is analogous to citizenship by birth, while adult baptism is analagous to citizenship by naturalization. This is part of the reason that, while I align myself generally with the Anabaptist tradition, I don’t have much of a problem with infant baptism.
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Edit/Update: I was just looking over the confession of faith of the Mennonite Church USA. From Article 20, “Truth and the Avoidance of Oaths”:
Throughout history, human governments have asked citizens to swear oaths of allegiance. As Christians, our first allegiance is to God. (Acts 5.29) In baptism we pledged our loyalty to Christ’s community, a commitment that takes precedence over obedience to any other social and political communities.
Looking back over the time since last summer, which has seen a lot of development in my social/ethical/political views as a Christian (read: I became a pacifist), four books strike me as having been extremely significant in that process. This list is inspired by a similar one recently posted on Seeking First the Kingdom.
1. Jesus for President: I started reading this book in a class at YTI last summer. Written by Shane Claiborne and Chris Haw, this book challenged many of my notions of what a Christ-like ethic is like. It made me start reconsidering Christian pacifism, leading me eventually to embrace that that position as one of the most important aspects of who I am today. It stoked the flames of my already-increasing anti-nationalism, and it was largely due to reading this book that I came to the conclusion that I cannot say the Pledge of Allegiance in good conscience as a Christian. It’s a wonderfully expansive book, delving into Jesus’ relevance for environmental issues, poverty, justice, violence, and more. Despite a few factual inaccuracies/inconsistencies, I highly recommend it as a theological starting point for evangelicals and post-evangelicals who feel like they’re missing something in the contemporary American church.(Also, the layout is visually spectacular, and makes for an enjoyable read.)
2. Jesus and Nonviolence: Subtitled “A Third Way,” this short (~100 pg) work offers a wonderful introduction to the nonviolence theology and method of the eminent Walter Wink. Wink, a veteran of the civil rights movement, offers a key outline of both the practical and the ethical reasons that Christians should adopt nonviolence, pointing to its successes in numerous national and international struggles and its basis in the teachings of Jesus. The book goes a long way towards addressing many of the basic concerns most non-pacifist Christians have about nonviolence. Its brevity renders it both accessible and hard-hitting. When I talk to people (Christians or non-Christians) who are interested in the concept of Christian nonviolence, this is the first book I recommend (and lend).
3. The Powers That Be: Also by Walter Wink, this short book, based on his much longer “Powers” trilogy, is spectacular. The focus of the book is an exploration of what the Bible means when it talks about “principalities and powers”. Wink understands these terms (in line with much modern scholarship) as referring, in the context of a first-century worldview, to the oppressive systems and unjust structures that rule society. Wink calls these structures, collectively, the “Domination System”, and he convincingly demonstrates that Christ’s message was based on a rejection of domination in favor of justice, liberation, and peace, with the goal of redeeming the Powers. Discussing patriarchy, economic inequality, violence, and more, Wink does an excellent job of illustrating and explaining how the Church is called to confront nonviolently the Domination System. This book, perhaps my favorite of these four, contains more eminently quotable passages than any other work I have come across.
4. The Politics of Jesus: I read this book just last week, despite the fact that it is widely recognized as a crucial work for Christian nonviolence and inmany ways is foundational to the books listed above. Written by John Howard Yoder, The Politics of Jesus did a good job of filling in many of the gapos of my peace theology. Yoder systematically exegetes Scripture to show 1) that Jesus’ message and life were inherently political and 2) that Jesus’ example continues to have relevance and the ethics it embodies should be normative for the Church. The book is quite comprehensive, summarizing existing scholarship rather than seeking to reinvent or re-discover on its own. Meticulously footnoted, it gives the reader every opportunity to find more information or seek out independent verification of Yoder’s exegesis. I have a feeling that this book, of the four listed here, will be the one that I refer to the most and use as a reference for my own thoughts. Yoder excellently demonstrates that the New Testament presents a unified, nonviolent, ethical message, from Jesus to Paul to Revelation, and he also considers and discusses the Old Testament witness (though at much less length). Though I had already arrived at many of its conclusions by the time I read it, The Politics of Jesus has helped tie together all the strands of thought that I had been developing over the past months.
I have long been of the opinion that religions do not cause wars, but rather that government power corrupts religion and uses it as a basis for war. In other words, the crusades weren’t caused by Christianity — they were caused by governments using Christianity for their own ends. Similarly, Judaism (properly speaking) isn’t responsible for the atrocities committed by Israel today, and Islam (properly speaking) isn’t responsible for the human rights abuses of certain other Middle Eastern states. Government + religion = disaster (h/t).
Earlier tonight, I wrote that nationalism is a religion.
Let’s apply the Scientific Method to the situation at hand.
Observation: Nationalism goes hand-in-hand with government.
Hypothesis: Nationalism, being a religion and being connected to government, causes wars.
Experiment: The Twentieth Century.
