Transparent Christian Magazine

IN MY LAST ARTICLE, I reminded us that America—the ideal that is America, belongs to all tribes, all persuasions, those with whom we agree, and those with whom we don’t. The same is true of color. She is not a white America, black, yellow, tan, beige, magenta, fuchsia, or any other tincture. Hers is a compromise of shades, a fusion, a mingling, like a bleeding sky at sunset. That is who she is. And it gives her a beauty that distinguishes her among the nations. But there is more. With pride we have used phrases like “Melting Pot” to describe her. Give me your tired your poor . . . and yet, all the stew has rendered for generations is the same white, Anglo-Saxon, Protestant male.

When the fathers of this country signed their names to the Declaration of Independence, when they validated, with their own blood, ink, wealth, and foresight, the Constitution of the United States, when they crafted a bill of rights, a Barack Obama is what they were looking for. They didn’t know it at the time, nor could they see it coming, but it was in the very spirit of the moment, a moment much larger than themselves. Michael Jackson, who wished to pose as a cultural icon a few years back, had a similar spirit in mind, but it was all artifice, and effected by physical mutilation. Was he black? Was he white? Was he male? Was he female? Was he . . . Was he . . . He tried to make himself all things to all people, but it was all make-believe. Poor Michael. Neverland is as close as he got. And at best, it was just plain creepy. Still, it was a commendable effort. America was long looking for its true issue, the hybrid, its firstborn.

I could add that I grew up in Atlanta in the fifties and sixties, remembering with no small disgust, how I could only stare quietly at “colored” restrooms and “colored” water fountains with the ruined fascination of a child, how in my own town a black man or a black woman had to sit in the back of the bus. I could mention that, but I won’t. I could even tell you about Georgia governors, small-minded men like Lester Maddox who sold axe handles marked “Momma Size”, or “Papa Size”, even “Baby Size” from his all-white restaurant in downtown Atlanta in the early sixties—instruments of violence, not for trimming trees. I am not making this up. Even as a kid of seven or eight, it put a foul taste in my mouth. But I won’t mention that.

But more than believing in a man, much more, which is not what this is about anyway, America has shown us something true about herself. Like a prophecy matured. That from the bright prism of her heart she has decided on a color all her own, one of her own kind, of her own mixed blood, of her own recipe, of all religions, and none, of all colors, and of none. All the ingredients are her own. In the greater analysis, Barack Obama himself may be insignificant, but he does represent the quintessential American president. The child of a broken home, the boy with the un-American sounding name that is, in essence, so truly American in its very strangeness. This is not a riddle. It is America. I am sure our new president is what the fathers meant, though they didn’t know it at the time, or would have ever believed it. They had no idea what a spirit they had aroused.

So, be angry with me. It is your right. After all, the world around us is a sudden deluge of idiot commentary. What’s one more contribution? But maybe, be proud with me that America is come of age, that she is all grown up now. By the way, in spite of what you may have guessed, I reserve the right not to tell you whether I voted red or blue. As a believer, preach to me if it makes you feel better. We, as Christian-Americans, have a work of rediscovery before us. And thank God. Our illusions are a comfort to us no longer. Tell me the man may fail, and I will tell you, of course, he may fail. He is stepping into a perfect storm that has swollen out of all proportion. But that is not the point anyway. Because I am not one of those cataract souls who see in our new president the super hero, I will only say this: As for me and my house, we are going to be that wind that gathers beneath him, that prop that holds him up, that speaks his name in our prayers. As a man of faith I give myself no choice. As an American, I am honored to do so.
-

-

-