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N-400 ApplicationMarch 05, 2007 Second Sunday in Lent I’m guessing there are some in this room who have had to declare their assent to the following statement: “I hereby declare, on oath, 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.” This is part of the N-400 Application for Naturalization, Department of Homeland Security, United States Citizenship and Immigration Services. Rather bracing language, isn’t it? Bracing and severe. A statement renouncing all claims to a prior citizenship. After the service today, I hope several who have actually made this renunciation will say a brief word to me about your feelings when you did this. Is it ever possible to completely renounce one’s former associations? I suppose its hard to know how far and how deep such a renunciation could actually go. Some several generations ago, my forebears, mostly from Germany, made their own version of this renunciation, I imagine. They truly left the old behind; no attempt at hanging on to relatives or other associations from the old country were made so far as I know. No one ever spoke of it. They came in the latter half of the 19th century. Built a life in their new country. Created families and initiated a new history and a new citizenship. A common story, especially in this city hosting Lady Liberty in her harbor. Most everyone comes from genetic lines that have come from elsewhere. Apart from the natives who were sequestered into their euphemistically named “reservations,” this nation was built from the sweat of nomads – and slaves – also from somewhere else. All these have been amalgamated into citizens of a republic to which we learned as children to pledge our allegiance: now the most powerful nation – the colossus that bestrides the world – a magnet for untold millions who would come and stay if only they could affirm the N-400 application and renounce other citizenships in other lands. Citizenship is a potent identity marker. To be an American carries with it a certain freight. Those of you who travel internationally know this well. People in other lands have very specific ideas about what it means to be an American. Ten days ago, I sat at dinner next to a French national, a university professor of anthropology. She tried very hard not to go to a critical place in assessing the American situation, but she couldn’t help herself. She had to press my understanding of what she termed American imperialism and her disdain for our foreign involvements. Later, when she learned I was a minister, I became a fascinating specimen for study, although, as for that, it wasn’t entirely unpleasant research. The social setting wasn’t terribly conducive to her questions about the role of religion in American politics, but, being a religious skeptic herself and theologically unsophisticated despite her evident intelligence, she had almost no understanding of our religious scene. And she had absolutely no category in which to place me. I fell outside the bounds of her experience and scholarship. I attempted to explain the very complicated religious topography in the U.S., which is really a very hard thing to do under the very best of circumstances. I was struck by how easily even smart people can come to false constructs about others. But I recalled our conversation this week as I read through the lessons and landed on this phrase from Paul’s letter to the Philippians: “Our citizenship is in heaven.”[1] And it occurred to me that there is a brand of Christianity in this nation that confuses this heavenly citizenship with the earthly. Which isn’t to say there is no relationship between the two, but at the end of the day, one of these really does trump the other; sometimes, though, this trumping gets confused, to the point that for some it would seem they are near equivalents, or that the larger actually serves the smaller. And this can be quite dangerous. In Paul’s day, the Roman Emperor was the focus of religious devotion. Of course, there was a time that Paul claimed his Roman citizenship when he had been arrested for sedition. He did this because his citizenship conferred a certain set of privileges before the law. When he wrote his letter to the Philippians, however, he was sitting in a Roman prison, since that same law cut both ways. And, what he wrote about had nothing to do with his Roman passport and everything to do with his citizenship in heaven. That citizenship had its own equivalent of the N-400 application. It was called baptism. The baptismal questions required a combination of renunciations and affirmations: Do you renounce the spiritual forces of wickedness, and reject the evil powers of this world, and repent of your sin? Do you accept the freedom and power God gives you to resist evil, injustice and oppression in whatever forms they present themselves? A couple of weeks ago, I quoted Christ Church friend and theologian, Christopher Morse, who pointed out that baptism was as much a renunciation of what we disbelieve as it was an announcement of what we do believe. I referenced his book, Not Every Spirit, in which he suggests that the earliest Christian confession, “Jesus Christ is Lord,” was a subversive act, since only Caesar could be Lord. The pledge of allegiance in Paul’s day was “Kyrios Kaisar” (Caesar is Lord.) Baptism in such a context was a radically political act, clearly delineating one’s primary citizenship. [2] Paul stipulated to his friends in Philippi that they constituted an outpost of resident aliens in the midst of the Roman empire. That’s one way to understand the role of the church – citizen outposts of the kingdom of God. Thought of like this, the Lord’s prayer takes on added significance when we pray, “Our Father in heaven, hallowed be your name. Your kingdom come, your will be done on earth, as it is in heaven,” and then ending with the reiterative, “for yours is the kingdom, the power and the glory, forever.” We could call this one of the church’s constituting documents that is regularly repeated so as not to confuse one citizenship with another. Alas, some of our greatest tragedies have occurred because the church was all too willing to serve the purposes of the lesser allegiance. The Barmen Declaration of 1934 was a call to resistance against the theological claims of the Nazi state. Almost immediately after Hitler's seizure of power in 1933, Christians faced pressure to "aryanize" the Church, expel Jewish Christians from the ordained ministry and adopt the Nazi "Führer Principle" as the organizing principle of church government. In general, the churches succumbed to these pressures, and many Christians embraced them willingly. The pro-Nazi "German Christian" movement became a force in the church. They glorified Adolf Hitler as a "German prophet" and preached that racial consciousness was a source of revelation alongside the Bible. [4] Some did resist, like the great theologian Karl Barth, who wrote the Barmen Declaration, as well as Deitrich Bonhoeffer, who, like Paul, also wound up in prison – a concentration camp, to be exact – where he too wrote letters to his friends and family concerning the responsibilities of one’s citizenship in heaven. Also like Paul, he died for his loyalty to this primary allegiance. Interestingly, Christopher Morse, who I cited earlier, holds the Bonhoeffer chair of theology at Union Theological Seminary here in New York. One wonders how the 20th century would have evolved had the majority of German Christians not confused their citizenship in heaven with their citizenship on earth, actually inverting their priority, creating a ghastly perversion. But such were the stakes at the time. We see that clearly from the distance of seventy years and the bloodiest century in human history. Why does it take the distance of so much time to see such a thing? That’s a good Lenten question. Here’s another one: What are the ramifications of living the royal law as citizens of heaven today? Do you remember the royal law in the kingdom of God? We have it up there in our mosaics: “Love the Lord your God with all of your heart, with all of your soul and with all of your mind; love your neighbor as yourself.” [5] _________________________________ Previous sermon: Contending with the Powers • Next sermon: Drink for the Thirsty, Food for the Hungry All past sermons |
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