Socrates and the Beach

The beach is not my favorite place to vacation. Sitting in the hot sun with sweat dripping in my eyes and sand in my shorts is not my idea of a great time. On our first day out, Zack sprayed me with sunscreen, but it apparently didn't go on smoothly. (I'm sure spray-on sunscreen was a great idea on paper; but in the real world of windy beaches, it doesn't seem so bright.) Now I have a funny-looking sunburn.

But Judy loves the beach, my kids love it, and Judy's family goes every year. So I have learned to enjoy it with them. And to be honest, when the kids were younger I really did enjoy playing in the sand and waves. (The waves are still fun. Sand in my shorts—not so much.)

As a younger man, I would have preferred to go places and do things. Now I enjoy a quiet, beautiful setting to relax, read, and think. So I prefer to retreat to the mountains. And there is no better place than the mountains to pray.

In recent years, Judy has graciously returned with me several times to the mountains above Gatlinburg for a time of rest and renewal. It seemed only fair that this time I would go with her to the beach. So after a week at St. Simon's Island with her family and our grown kids, Judy and I have now moved to Myrtle Beach for a quiet week to ourselves. It's not as secluded as the mountains; but we are enjoying time to ourselves, time to rest and reflect, and time together with God.

There are aspects of the beach that I do not find helpful. It's overcrowded this time of year. Too many people and umbrellas block my view of the ocean. The scantily clad sun-worshipers frequently strolling past are an uncomfortable distraction. And then there's the distraction of those scantily clad sun-worshipers who make you silently wonder, "What in the world did they see when they looked in the mirror and thought that was a good choice in beach attire!"

But there are other aspects of the beach that are a blessing, much as are the mountains. The vast expanse of the ocean…the relentless surge of the tides…the quiet roar of the waves drowning out almost all other noise…the mysteries of the deeps hidden beneath the white-capped waters—these all give testimony to the Great Creator.

I'm reminded of the biting words of God in response to the complaints of Job:

Where were you when I laid the earths' foundation?
Tell me if you understand.
Who marked off its dimensions?
Surely you know!

Who shut up the sea behind doors when it burst forth from the womb…
when I said, "This far you may come and no farther;
here is where your proud waves halt"?

Have you journeyed to the springs of the sea or walked in the recesses of the deep?
Have you comprehended the vast expanses of the earth?
Tell me, if you know all this!

My father used to tell me that the value of an education is not in what you know, but in what you know that you don't know. I have to admit, I'm getting quite an education this trip. Our visits to the relatively obscure Fort Frederica from the Colonial era and to Fort Jackson from the Civil War, to the oldest African-American church built by slaves in Savannah, and to the exclusive winter club on Jekyll Island for the captains of the Industrial Revolution taught me lessons in American history that I was embarrassed I had never heard. I'm reading a very challenging book (The Tangible Kingdom) that is reminding me how little we church leaders really know about the church and God's mission in this world. My son and I tried to swim from the sand bar to the shore against the outgoing tide and I discovered how uninformed I was about my physical condition. And looking out at the ocean, I shudder at how pathetic our confidence must seem to the One who made the seas and all that is in them.

I wore a T-shirt to the beach today that I bought last year in Greece. On the front is a quotation from Socrates: hen oida hoti ouden oida. It translates roughly as:

"I only know one thing, that I don't know anything."

Jesus and Old Glory

Last Saturday was the Fourth of July. Instead of having our usual cookout and excursion to see Nashville's impressive fireworks show, Judy and I were driving back from a week volunteering at Barefoot Republic Camp. By the time we got home, unpacked and showered, we were too pooped to do much but have a quiet dinner at my parents' and watch fireworks with them on TV (but I must admit, the fireworks looked pretty good in high definition!).

Each year on Independence Day I find myself somewhat uncomfortable. As an American I feel patriotic. I am certainly grateful for the freedoms and prosperity we enjoy in this country. And having travelled to many other countries, I am convinced we live in the greatest country on earth. (I wonder if French travelers say the same thing about their country . . . and if they do, is that patriotism or self-delusion!)

On the other hand, as a Christian, I struggle with what it means to live as "aliens and exiles" (1 Peter 2:11), a stranger in a foreign country longing for a better country (Hebrews 11:8-16), knowing that my true citizenship is in heaven (Philippians 2:11). What does it mean to be a Christian and to be an American? Can I have dual citizenship, like someone who is a citizen of two countries at the same time?

And what does it mean for an "alien and exile" to pledge allegiance to a flag? Is it enough to say "one nation under God" and by that to assert that my allegiance to my country can only go so far as is consistent with my higher commitment to God?

Sometimes it seems to me that our talk of "God and country" runs the risk of confusing the two. If I were a Christian in Brazil or South Korea or New Zealand, wouldn't I love my country and face these same questions? And then what would we all do if we found our countries at war with each other (like the British and German Christians facing each other in the trenches of World War I). If we are not careful, could unquestioned loyalty to our country and saluting the flag in church put us at risk of following the path of Christians in Nazi Germany who saluted the Nazi flag in their churches?

Now please don't misunderstand me. I am certainly not saying that America is Nazi Germany! But then, in 1930 Germany wasn't yet Nazi Germany. Yet within a few years, many Christians in Germany somehow found themselves saluting the flag hanging in their churches—a flag that stood for almost everything the cross stands against. Somewhere along the way they crossed a line—or maybe it was more a gray area—between loyalty to their country and faithfulness to the will of God.

I wonder where that gray area begins. I wonder at what point our patriotism could enter that gray area. I wonder if we would realize we were in it.

As we were driving home Saturday along a rural highway, we passed a little church with a row of dozens of flags out front. As an American, seeing the row of red, white, and blue stirred feelings of pride. As a Christian, I couldn't help but wonder if we were slipping into that gray area.

Last year I attended a Christmas parade in Texas. Amid the various floats and clowns and marching bands came a group of horses with riders dressed in red, white, and blue. Some were carrying a U.S. flag and a Texas state flag with crosses on top of the flag poles. That image troubled me. What were we to make of a cross on top of a flag pole? Did they mean that the flag is under the cross—that what the flag represents should always be seen as subordinate to what the cross represents? Or, was it possible that they actually had the cross and the flag confused—that patriotism and religion were becoming too intermingled?

My question was answered a moment later when two riders came by with a specially-made American flag spread between them. Across the middle of the flag, between the red and white stripes, in large blue letters . . . was the name, "Jesus."