A Catholic Imagination & the American Project
on protests, flags and a sacramental worldview
On the far side of the road stood a man in army fatigues holding an enormous American flag. The pole itself towered high above his head, and the flag it held fast billowed out and over Shawan Road. The flag moved gently, caught up in the gusts of air caused by the constant passing traffic: the Wegman’s shoppers, the light rail, those out on their Saturday morning errands. Against the busyness of the moment, the man himself stood still, silent, somber.
It was a striking image, and—despite the road lined with cheerful, sign-wielding, smiling protestors—it the was the first I saw as we pulled into our local “No Kings” demonstration this past weekend. I was surprised at how overcome with emotion I felt.
His was not the only American flag present there: two women wandered up and down the street waving flags about the size of my arm; another man walked solemnly across the intersection with the flag carefully positioned on his shoulder; countless others waved flags of varying sizes as they cheered for peace and democracy and a country that rejects fear and tyranny and instead welcomes and respects all.
My two little girls each had a small flag of their own. “Wave these with respect,” I said. “These aren’t toys.” They did so—waving, cheering, smiling.
The American flag is a symbol that is loaded with meaning, sacrifice and significance, recognizable not just in our country but around the world. Too often throughout our history—and certainly, far too often in these last several months and years—it is a symbol that has been co-opted by values that fly in the face of what the flag should point to: life, liberty, peace, hospitality, equality and justice.
And so, it’s been a real shame that for too long the flag has been viewed with suspicion at protests like the one we attended over the weekend. What should be a rallying standard for all of us, a sign that points the way to a better, more inclusive future, has become something else.
Not anymore. And I think that’s why I was so overcome with emotion seeing all those flags waving alongside that road, proudly and reverently held by folks who not only love the United States of America but love what this country can be—will be—and, most importantly, love the people who make up this country—all the people. We cling to a vision of how this land we love and the values we hope to make real will serve all people, everywhere.
You know, it’s no surprise to readers of this newsletter that I’m a Catholic and that I’m heavily influenced by a Catholic imagination. I know the power of signs and symbols; I know what it is to swim in a sacramental worldview, one that insists that all things point beyond themselves to a reality far greater than we yet realize. I’m not collapsing or conflating a love of country with a love of God, patriotism with religiosity. But I do think that my own Catholic imagination sees and is moved by these symbols of the United States in a unique way. I want to believe—in fact, I insist on believing—that these all-important American symbols can and do point us to something beyond our knowing, something we’ve not yet fully arrived at but can and must continue muddling toward.
The flag is not a symbol of the past, a marker we place somewhere along the timeline and leave alone. The flag is a beacon calling us to continue shuffling forward, envisioning a new and better tomorrow. We don’t look backwards as though we’ve left the flag somewhere in the past and only just remembered it; we look ahead to where it billows boldly on the shores of a more perfect union: one that welcomes immigrants and refugees, that insists on peace over violence, that makes room for folks of all faiths and none, that upholds the rule of law and makes amends for past mistakes.
Readers of this newsletter will also know I’ve been thinking a lot about peace and spirituality these past many months. I’ve returned lately to a formative essay in the great anthology, Peacebuilding: Catholic Theology, Ethics and Praxis, by the late Fr. Robert J. Schreiter, C.PP.S.
In his essay, entitled “The Catholic Social Imaginary and Peacebuilding,” he writes on the importance of imagination in the work of peace. “The imaginary is the mental realm in which the juxtaposing of new possibilities takes places,” he says. “A Catholic imaginary sees the world filled with God’s grace, even as sin and evil continue to be present. How these two worlds are connected, and what travels between those two worlds along that connecting path, is the problem of mediation.”[i]
I’m struck by this invitation to hold two juxtaposing realities in our mind and to do the work of meditation—of connecting them, pointing out the path between them, insisting that there is more and that we can be better.
This morning as we attended Mass at the local Jesuit parish in Baltimore, we sang the great hymn “How Can I Keep From Singing?” If you know it, you may recall the lyrics:
My life flows on in endless song;
Above earth’s lamentation,
I catch the sweet, though far-off hymn
that hails a new creation.
There—right there!—during Sunday Mass, as we pierced the veil between heaven and earth through the celebration of the Eucharist, as we called to mind our sins and in the same breath the love of a God who delights constantly, we sang those words of holy mediation: a bold claim that the sweet sounds of heaven are echoing in our ears even here, that “all creation is groaning in labor pains even until now”[ii] because God is doing something new, God continues to work in and through us—at protests and demonstrations, in prayer and adoration, in the conversations we have and the values we make real and the trajectories upon which we set our lives. Why? Because God is intimately concerned with the affairs of God’s people. God yearns for our great good.
Signs matter. Signs point us beyond ourselves. They begin to mediate that divide. But it falls to us to make the signs real, to infuse them with the values we claim. We proudly wave the flag because we proudly celebrate—and insist upon—a land that is for all people. But now, we must continue the work to make this claim real.
“The kingdom of heaven is at hand,” John the Baptist declares.[iii] God’s own dream, always becoming and not yet fully arrived. We, then, practice a disposition of gratitude toward God’s goodness present here and now; and, we respond with a spirit of urgency, working to close the gap between God’s desire for all of creation and where we’ve yet fallen short.
“For the vision is a witness for the appointed time, a testimony to the end; it will not disappoint,” Habakkuk insists. “If it delays, wait for it, it will surely come, it will not be late.”[iv] Indeed, we point to that time, work to make it a reality available to all. We use what signs and symbols we have, providing “yeast that produces far beyond our capabilities” in the collaboration with and inspiration of others.[v] We offer our very selves to the work of mediating these juxtaposing realities because we believe that God’s peace is here—even now, even amidst the darkness—waiting for all of us.
How, then, can we keep from singing?
And another thing:
On a markedly different note, I got the chance to interview Dean DeBlois—writer and director of How to Train Your Dragon. It was awesome, and I loved the new film. You can read my review and spiritual takeaways here.
[i] pp 221, 223
[ii] Rom 8:22
[iii] Mt 3:2
[iv] Hab 2:3
[v]“ Prophets of a Future Not Our Own”
I loved your words about symbols pointing to beyond what they are and often to the future. I think I can use these words...attributed of course....in my doctoral dissertation....which is poems interpreting Mark. Thank you!!
This is really well said, Eric. Thank you for this!