One of the great joys of writing a daily newsletter is that there is room to wander.

Some days we dive into theology. Other days psychology. Sometimes science, current events, Church history, or just an ordinary moment from everyday life that somehow opens a window onto the Gospel.

Substack also gives me a glimpse into how many of you are actually reading these reflections each day, and I have to tell you, those numbers remain both staggering and deeply humbling. Thank you. It is an extraordinary privilege to spend a little time with you each morning.

Today, though, never really felt like a day for wandering.

There was one conversation that seemed to demand our attention.

Yesterday we talked about the heaviness so many of us have been carrying. Today is the eve of America’s 250th birthday, and for many people that presents a genuine emotional conflict. A day that is supposed to be celebratory has arrived at a moment when many hearts simply aren’t.

So I wanted to do what I always hope this little corner of the internet can do.

Have an adult conversation about a serious subject.

No outrage. No slogans. No pretending everything is fine. No pretending everything is hopeless either.

Just an honest attempt to ask, “What might the Gospel have to say about a moment like this?”

I don’t expect everyone to agree with every word. I never do. But I hope that by the end of our time together, we’ll all be breathing a little easier, carrying a little more perspective, and remembering that Christian hope has survived far darker chapters than the one we happen to be living through.

The work of building a thoughtful, compassionate, intellectually serious Christian community online has never felt more important to me than it does right now. And judging by the conversations we’re having together every day, I don’t think I’m the only one who feels that way.

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Now... let’s talk about birthdays, countries, and the strange grace of learning to hold grief and gratitude in the same heart.

When America’s Birthday Feels Complicated

Tomorrow, America turns 250.

And I know many of us are carrying complicated feelings about that.

I will not pretend these have not felt like dark times for our country. I will not pretend I am not often in that camp myself. I will not pretend we do not currently have people in office who seem determined to disrespect, disregard, and distort many of the very things that have made this country beautiful.

Many of you have told me, privately and publicly, that you do not plan to observe the holiday this year.

I understand. I really do.

There are days when I look at the news and feel a heaviness in my chest that I do not quite know what to do with. I love this country, and I am grieved by it. Both things are true.

There are years when celebration feels almost dishonest. The flags, fireworks, songs, and speeches can feel unbearable when the distance between what we say we are and what we are currently doing feels too wide.

But I wonder if part of the work before us, as Christians and as adults, is learning how to hold more than one truth at a time.

America has never been a perfect nation. No nation has.

If we look at nations much older than our own, we will find periods of darkness, violence, cruelty, and instability that lasted longer than the United States has even existed. That does not excuse anything. It gives us perspective.

We are a nation made of people, and people are complicated.

Every person, every family, every organization, every company, every church, and every government any of us has ever loved has been complicated. They have gotten some things right. They have gotten some things wrong. They have blessed us. They have disappointed us. They have made us proud. They have broken our hearts.

That is human nature.

It is also the nature of institutions built by human beings.

We do not love anything on this earth because it is flawless. If flawlessness were required, love would have nowhere to go.

We love while seeing clearly. Or at least we try.

That means refusing propaganda. It also means refusing despair.

Blind patriotism is not a Christian virtue. It can become idolatry very quickly. Nations are not eternal. The Kingdom of God is.

But despair is not a sacrament.

That idea has been sitting with me since we talked about it yesterday.

Despair is not a sacrament.

It may be understandable. It may be where many of us begin. It may be a real emotional response to real harm. God is not scandalized by our grief, our anger, or our exhaustion.

But despair is not where Christ asks us to build a home.

A thought occurred to me while I was brushing my teeth this morning, which is when the Holy Spirit often likes to come for a Chit Chat.

Perhaps we would do well to remember that the work of building civilization is always unfinished.

A civilization grows the way a child grows.

We do not expect a child to read Dostoevsky before they have finished Amelia Bedelia. We do not confuse their unfinishedness with failure. We teach them. We encourage them. We correct them when needed. We celebrate each new word, each new page, each sign that the world is getting a little larger inside them.

Then we hand them the next book.

Perhaps our responsibility toward civilization is not so different.

We tell the truth about what is still broken. We keep teaching. We keep correcting. We keep building. We keep making room for what is more just, more merciful, more human, more like the Kingdom Christ showed us.

And when something grows, even a little, we allow ourselves to give thanks.

Not because the work is finished.

Because growth is holy too.

Of course, it would be wonderful if humanity learned its lessons without anyone ever having to suffer.

It is a cause for grief that it so often takes a starving child to teach a society to feed the hungry.

It should never have to be that way.

But history suggests that much of humanity’s moral progress has been carried by people who bore burdens they never deserved.

Perhaps that is one of the reasons Jesus looks first toward the poor, the meek, those who mourn, and those who hunger and thirst for righteousness.

Not because suffering is good. It is not.

Not because injustice is holy. It is not.

But because God sees those who have carried history’s heaviest burdens.

The Beatitudes are God’s declaration that history does not get the final word about those who have suffered beneath it.

We who bear the trials and tribulations of our own age may not see every wrong made right in this life. Christians have never been promised that.

But we have been promised that nothing offered in love, no sacrifice for justice, no tear shed in faith, no act of mercy, no burden carried for another, is ever forgotten by God.

We will be made whole.

And in the Kingdom, we will finally see what all of this fumbling toward justice was always pointing toward.

One of the hardest things for us to remember is that there really is no instruction manual for building a just society.

Christ gave us the vision. Love God. Love your neighbor. Feed the hungry. Welcome the stranger. Forgive seventy-seven times. Care for the least among you. Wash one another’s feet.

But He did not hand us a divine constitutional convention in a three-ring binder.

He gave us the destination far more clearly than He gave us the map.

And so, generation after generation, human beings have been trying, failing, repenting, learning, and trying again.

That does not excuse cruelty. It does not excuse oppression. It does not excuse corruption, greed, racism, dehumanization, or the abuse of power.

But it does remind us that civilization is an unfinished project.

Human history is astonishingly young. It is easy to forget that because our own lives feel so long to us. But for most of human history there were no universities, no printing press, no representative democracies, no antibiotics, no electricity, no international human rights law, no internet, no artificial intelligence.

It was only yesterday, in historical terms, that most people could not read.

A blink of an eye ago, the first great networks of roads were being built. Today we launch rockets so regularly that some of us barely look up from our phones.

We have moved forward morally too, though never as cleanly or quickly as we wish.

The abolition of slavery was not inevitable. Universal suffrage was not inevitable. Child labor laws were not inevitable. Civil rights were not inevitable.

Every one of them required human beings to push civilization a little closer to the Kingdom Christ described.

And sometimes history has a sense of humor.

A thousand years ago, the Vikings were the terror of Europe.

Today they are leading cheerful rowing chants at Citi Field.

Things change.

They really do.

Just not always on the schedule our anxious hearts demand.

Part of what makes this moment so difficult is that our nervous systems have been trained to live on internet time.

Everything is immediate. Every outrage arrives in our pockets. Every headline becomes a crisis. Every crisis becomes a referendum on the fate of civilization. Our brains were not made to process the suffering of an entire nation before breakfast, and yet many of us try to do exactly that every morning with a cup of coffee in one hand and a glowing rectangle in the other.

The Church moves at a glacial pace. Sometimes maddeningly so.

Governments usually move faster than that, though still slowly enough to frustrate people who want justice yesterday.

Our nervous systems, meanwhile, want everything to just be right already.

I understand that cry.

But America’s present condition is giving us a crash course in what happens when a government suddenly figures out how to move quickly. Speaking only for myself, I would very much like to return to the slow, deliberate pace I once found so frustrating.

Dr. Martin Luther King Jr., himself a complicated human being, put it beautifully: “The arc of the moral universe is long, but it bends toward justice.”

Long is the part we resent.

Justice is the part we dare not stop believing in.

Maybe this is one of the skills adulthood forces us to develop.

Life does not pause the calendar simply because our hearts are heavy.

A wedding anniversary still comes in a marriage that is struggling.

A birthday still comes in a year marked by illness, grief, or disappointment.

Valentine’s Day still comes when loneliness feels especially sharp.

Christmas still comes during a season when God feels distant.

The Fourth of July still comes in a country that feels morally unsteady.

When we are children, if we are fortunate, the adults around us work so hard to preserve the holidays for us.

They know more than we do. They know about the unpaid bill, the argument in the kitchen, the medical test they are trying not to mention, the grief they are carrying through the grocery store while buying paper plates and hamburger buns.

But they let us be children.

They let the day feel like the day.

Then adulthood arrives, rather rudely, as it often does, and we discover that the calendar has absolutely no pastoral sensitivity.

The anniversary still comes.

The birthday still comes.

Christmas still comes.

The Fourth of July still comes.

And our hearts may be nowhere near ready for it.

So what do we do?

Sometimes the most faithful thing we can do is admit that we simply do not have the strength today. There is no shame in that. God does not need us to perform joy for the sake of appearances.

There are days when staying home, turning off the television, making a simple meal, saying a small prayer, and going to bed early may be the most honest and holy thing available to us.

But other times, we may be able to take one small step toward resurrection.

Not to pretend everything is wonderful.

Not to silence our grief.

Not to deny what is broken.

But to refuse to let sorrow have the only chair at the table.

So maybe tomorrow we light the sparkler.

Maybe we gather around the table.

Maybe we say the prayer.

Maybe we watch the fireworks.

Maybe we hug the people we love.

Maybe we let the children have their snaps, their watermelon, their red-white-and-blue popsicles, their memories of a day that felt joyful before they were old enough to understand how complicated joy can become.

Maybe we give thanks for what is still beautiful while asking God to heal what is not.

Because gratitude is not endorsement.

Lament is not betrayal.

And hope is not denial.

Christians should understand this better than anyone. Our faith is built around the mystery that Good Friday and Easter belong to the same story. We do not rush past the cross. We do not pretend the tomb is empty before it is. But we also do not allow the tomb to define the whole horizon.

So tomorrow, I will probably feel more than one thing.

I will grieve what is broken.

I will give thanks for what is still good.

I will pray for repentance where we have failed.

I will remember those who sacrificed to expand liberty to people who were once denied it.

And I will remember that there are teachers, nurses, parents, neighbors, veterans, immigrants, volunteers, public servants, organizers, artists, and ordinary citizens who still pour goodness into this country every day.

That is America too.

The neighbor who shows up with a casserole.

The firefighter running toward danger.

The teacher buying school supplies with her own money.

The immigrant family opening a small business and betting their future on hope.

The church basement full of donated clothes.

The exhausted parent still packing lunches.

The stranger who stops to help after an accident.

The people who keep loving, serving, building, repairing, feeding, teaching, and praying.

That goodness does not erase the evil.

But the evil does not get to erase the goodness either.

As Dr. King reminded us, “Darkness cannot drive out darkness; only light can do that.”

So we keep looking for the light.

We keep protecting it.

We keep becoming it where we can.

America is still becoming.

So are we.

Maybe that is the honest way to move through this birthday. Not with naïve celebration. Not with bitter withdrawal. But with sober gratitude, moral clarity, and Christian hope.

We can love what is beautiful without lying about what is broken.

We can grieve what has been betrayed without surrendering what is still worth protecting.

We can refuse to worship the nation while still praying for its healing.

And yes, if our conscience allows, we can celebrate tomorrow.

Not because everything is fine.

Not because our concerns were exaggerated.

Not because the work is finished.

But because there is still goodness here.

There is still beauty here.

There are still people worth gathering with, freedoms worth cherishing, neighbors worth loving, children worth delighting, and a future worth helping into being.

So light the grill if you can.

Watch the fireworks if you can.

Say the prayer.

Tell the truth.

Hold the grief.

Receive the joy.

And trust that God is still at work in the long arc we cannot yet see.

And Now It's Your Turn…

I’d love to hear from you.

Has your relationship with the Fourth of July changed over the years?

How are you holding gratitude and grief together this Independence Day? Is there a family tradition, a memory, or even a simple moment that still helps you see the goodness worth preserving?

As always, let’s keep this conversation thoughtful, compassionate, and generous with one another. One of the things I treasure most about this community is that people with very different experiences and perspectives can gather around the same table and genuinely listen.

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Prayer

Heavenly Father,

Tomorrow many of us will gather with family and friends. We will hear laughter, smell food on the grill, watch children chase sparklers across the yard, and look up as fireworks light the night sky.

Some of us will do so with uncomplicated joy.

Others will carry heavy hearts.

You know us well enough to hold both.

Today we thank You for every good gift You have poured into this nation. For the freedoms we enjoy, for those who have sacrificed to protect them, for neighbors who care for one another, for communities that lift one another up, and for the countless ordinary people whose quiet acts of love make this country more beautiful than the headlines often suggest.

At the same time, Lord, we confess that we have fallen short. As a nation and as individuals, we have often failed to love our neighbors as ourselves. We have tolerated injustice, ignored suffering, and sometimes chosen fear over compassion. Forgive us. Give us the courage to keep growing into the people You created us to be.

Teach us to love our country without making it an idol. Teach us to seek justice without surrendering to despair. Teach us to celebrate what is good while never turning away from what still needs healing.

Help us remember that Your Kingdom is the destination toward which all history moves. Make us faithful travelers along that road. Give us wisdom to know when to speak, humility to know when to listen, courage to do what is right, and patience to trust that You are still at work, even when progress feels painfully slow.

As we celebrate tomorrow, fill our hearts with gratitude for every glimpse of goodness we encounter. Bless our families, our friends, our neighbors, and even those with whom we disagree. Protect those who serve our communities and our nation. Comfort those who grieve. Strengthen those who are weary. Draw all of us a little closer to one another, and a great deal closer to You.

We ask all of this through Jesus Christ our Lord, who is our peace, our hope, and our true King.

Amen.

Pfew… that was a lot. Thank you so much for reading until the end.
I wrote today’s essay because tomorrow I am going to speak in praise of our nation.

Not because everything is perfect.

Not because every grief has been resolved.

Not because every concern has disappeared.

But because sometimes, I think, we have to make a conscious effort to receive joy when joy is available to us.

You would not stand up at a child’s birthday party and begin listing the child’s failures. You would bless the child. You would give thanks for their life. You would celebrate what is good, while still knowing there will be plenty of time for correction, growth, and guidance in the days ahead.

Perhaps tomorrow can be something like that.

My hope is that today’s essay has freed up a little emotional space for you to enter tomorrow with a lighter heart.

Wave a sparkler if you can.

Enjoy the fireworks if you can.

Sing “God Bless America” if it rises honestly from your heart.

And if this reflection helped you breathe a little easier, I’d love to invite you to become a supporting member.

The ask is small, about the price of a hot dog at the ballpark, and even less if you’re able to subscribe annually. But what I promise you is that I will keep doing my best to nurture, support, challenge, and encourage you through whatever difficult days may be ahead.

Thank you for being here.

Thank you for helping make this community possible.

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