Our normal bike route takes my husband and me past a row of flags. They are beautiful. American flags hanging at an angle from mailbox after mailbox. It seems apparent these neighbors have collaborated – or maybe one had a great idea and others followed suit. Those flags remind me how grateful I am to live in this country. I’ve traveled enough to know for sure that I’d never want to call any other place home.
It was great last month to be home for several weeks in a row – to worship in my own congregation and hear my minister preach her spiritually challenging sermons; great to share communion in a beloved community. It’s been a taste of true Sabbath to bike along Fall Creek, catching glimpses of Gold Finches and Blue Birds and Pileated Woodpeckers – and those flags.
I find myself wondering, though, if the sight of the Stars and Stripes curling in the wind would leave a hollow feeling in the heart of a Muslim American these days. To me that flag represents the freedom to worship God my way, to read my Bible openly, to ride my bike in the time and place of my choosing. That flag waves over the country my great-grandmother risked life and limb to reach, boarding a boat in Finland, eighteen-years old, alone with her sister. America: land of the free! These are the words in the Star-Spangled Banner when we all stand and cheer.
I love seeing that row of flags. It reminds me of the promise of our country – of freedom: of speech, of religion. I hope that I am big enough not only to receive the promise but to extend it to my neighbors – loving my neighbors as myself – whether they worship in a church or a synagogue – or a mosque.
