When it came up on Spotify, I knew I had to listen to it—Fall Out Boy’s updated version of Billy Joel’s hit single “We Didn’t Start the Fire.” And it’s well done. The update picks up where Joel left off in 1989. Like the original, the lyrics highlight current events and personalities, albethey from the past 30+ years. The Arab Spring, Michael Jackson, Kanye West, the Chicago Cubs, and the rise of YouTube all get mentions.
The chorus of the new version is the same as the old: We didn't start the fire / It was always burning since the world's been turning / We didn't start the fire / No, we didn't light it, but we're trying to fight it. It’s catchy and it invites listeners to belt it out at the top of their lungs as they drive down the expressway. But it’s also a musical representation of the hopeless humanistic worldview, because when your starting point is that there is no God and therefore no meaning or order to life, then time has no terminus. For such people, the course of human events is nothing more than a meaningless dumpster fire that has been raging chaotically since the beginning of time—whenever that was—and all we can do is try to fight it. I pity those who cling to such a philosophy. What drudgery it must be to get up every morning, thinking that it’s all pointless. How lackluster must be golden sunsets, Christmas mornings, and the first cries of new life! I emphatically do not subscribe to such a view. And it’s not because I choose to be a Polly Anna or a mindless optimist. It’s because I choose to trust God’s explanation of things. As Andree Seu Peterson once wrote, "I've always wanted to be an optimist because they are fun to be around. Instead I became a Christian. Which is an optimist but with good reasons." Yes, and darn good reasons they are. The Bible offers an entirely different interpretation of the events found in “We Didn’t Start the Fire.” It does not assert that the fire has always been “burning since the world’s been turning.” Rather, after God created the world, He pronounced it all “very good.” Where did the world go wrong, then? The Bible says it happened the moment Adam chose to rebel against God by breaking the one command he was given.That single act resulted in the fall of the entire human race, ushering in a dark and evil world, full of pain, thorns, trouble in the Suez and Starkweather homicide. Yes, there’s a fire. And we started it. Thankfully, God has not tasked us with “trying to fight it.” He took care of the problem for us by taking on human flesh, taking on the sin of mankind, and taking on the penalty of sin for us. All those who trust in that sacrifice, alone, are forgiven. The human story, then, with all its drama and confusion, is not meaningless. History has a purpose and a goal: the return of the rightful King. When He comes, there will no longer be any sad lyrical litanies of our broken course of human events, no Red China, H-bombs, or children of thalidomide. The fire will be out. In its place will be the righteous reign of the Alpha and the Omega, the first and the last, the beginning and the end. And that’s a conclusion I look forward to.
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Although I have been told that a visit to Arlington National Cemetery is a moving experience, I find it difficult to believe that the goosebumps on my arms could be any larger there than they are at Elkland Township Cemetery on Memorial Day.
The sight of the Avenue of Flags, each one coupled with a set of plaques honoring a departed veteran, sends a shiver down the spine and a lump into the throat of even the most stoic among us. I have commemorated Memorial Day in other cities. Some host large parades, while others feature ceremonies with all the pomp and circumstance of Washington, D.C. But for me, Memorial Day will forever be connected to a small cemetery in Michigan’s Thumb, where the whole town gathers beneath the pines to reflect and to remember. The rhythmic snap of the marching band drum, coming slowly down the drive, quickly disabuses us of thoughts of cookouts and furniture sales, at least for now. We are here to do something sacred, to inculcate in the hearts of our children and in ourselves a deep sense of the gravity of freedom’s price; to remember that there is a reason for cliches like “freedom is not free,” and that that reason is that such statements are true. Men — mostly men with gray hair and creased faces — stand at attention. They wear uniforms...some too tight, some too loose, but it doesn’t matter. Their eyes are not on themselves. They face the flag, the same colors they followed into war what seems like a lifetime ago. And they remember. Mercifully, there are no politicians on the dais. The only ones there are veterans and a preacher — the guardians of a nation and the shepherd of hearts. And they are there because here we still believe, at least in part, that freedom from tyranny and freedom from sin are interrelated and are the gravest of matters. In my memory, Jack Esau, a man the late-Bill Kritzman called “a father to Cass City,” is ever present on that platform. For nearly 50 years, it was Jack — standing tall, campaign hat perched jauntily atop his head— who welcomed the community and served as the event’s master of ceremonies. There are the opening remarks and the short sermon. There are arms around loved ones as a list of names is read. “Not present, sir!” comes the shout, identifying each veteran who fell from the ranks in the past year. There is the volley of rifle shots that brings surprised cries from youngsters and the playing of Taps that causes adults’ eyes to well up for a different reason. In that moment, the gravity of the occasion settles on the assembled. Political rancor and the controversies of the day seem petty and insignificant, at least for the moment. Thoughts far more significant occupy our minds as we are confronted by the high price of American freedom. The ceremony closes and the mood changes markedly. Neighbors, long separated by winter’s gloom, greet each other with handshakes and claps on the back. Families thoughtfully wander the grounds in search of loved ones’ graves. Plans for lunch and outdoor projects are discussed, while children clad in Little League uniforms chase after one another. And it is perfect. You can see it on the faces of the veterans. Their memories of the past, often dark, give way to the joy of seeing a community at peace, another generation enjoying the fruit of their predecessors’ hard-fought, often bloody, battles. It is the proper blend of ceremony and celebration, reverence and recreation. As we gather, again, this year to honor those who paid the ultimate price on our behalf, may we come together to remember the cost of our freedom, then depart, grateful and ready to enjoy it. In November 2021, New York City government officials voted to remove a statue of Thomas Jefferson from city hall, because he was a slaveholder.
Similar attempts to expunge the memory of notable statesmen have been made throughout the Union. From monuments of Christopher Columbus and Abraham Lincoln to those of Francis Scott Key and George Washington, none of the greats of our past, it seems, can escape the merciless crosshairs of wokeism. British historian Andrew Roberts, in a 2022 interview, noted that “there has been, in recent years, a new viciousness toward national heroes. Almost, there’s the sense that there’s no such thing as a hero, that everyone is much more feet of clay than …statue of stone.” Of course, we should refrain from whitewashing historical personages, celebrating loudly their triumphs while remaining silent about their faults. But surely today’s trend of searching for our heroes’ warts and, in turn, crucifying them for having them is no less heinous. Call me a Bible-thumper if you must, but I trace the inability of our people to celebrate flawed human beings back to our warped view of human nature. The scriptures make it plain that we are a conflicted bunch. Though made in the image of God Himself, we also possess a sin nature, capable of enacting genocides, carrying out terrorist attacks, and holding grudges for generations. King David was an adulterous murderer, and yet also a man after God’s own heart. The people who put up the statues we are now tearing down possessed such a worldview. They never thought that those they were honoring were sinless. Far from it. They understood that the individuals they were memorializing were worthy of honor in spite of their flaws. In our own generation, though, we have rejected biblical revelation and, with it, have lost the ability to grapple with both the complexities of human nature and the reality of nuance. People like Jefferson or Washington, then, may have worked to create a nation where the experiment of a constitutional republic could thrive; but because their lives were inconsistent with their principles and our modern worldview, they are mercilessly discarded to the ash heap of history. As far as I know, the process of canceling heroic figures had not yet fully begun when I was a teenager, at least not on a macro scale. And I am glad for that. My heroes were people of conviction, people whose lives I sought to emulate in one way or another. Chief among my boyhood heroes was Winston Churchill. Though early in wokeism’s advance, he was laughably labeled “worse than Hitler” by some enlightened academics, Churchill was the model of tenacity and grit. He was a man with many vices and objectionable qualities, to be sure; but he was also the man—the only man—who had the foresight and bravery required to save Western civilization from Nazi totalitarianism. Another Brit, William Wilberforce served, for me, as an example of a Christian who put his beliefs into action. Though unpopular, Wilberforce fought against the Atlantic Slave Trade for much of his life, eventually bringing an end to the Trade and the abolition of slavery itself. He was also a tireless champion for the alleviation of cruelty to animals and the betterment of his fellow man, inspiring one biographer to label him a “hero for humanity.” Back in the United States, a modern historical hero is Clarence Thomas, an associate justice of the Supreme Court. The descendent of slaves, he was raised by his grandparents in the Jim Crow South, where he experienced injustice and discrimination firsthand. Still, in spite of significant challenges, he worked hard, graduated from Yale Law School and, in 1991, became the second black Supreme Court justice in America’s history. Kids need heroes. We all need heroes. I shudder to think of a world where heroes do not exist. To what are we to aspire if we have no examples of fallen people who did great things in flawed ways? How, in a world where every hero of our past is literally being pushed from their pedestal, is there any hope of curbing evil or pursuing justice or making peace with our neighbors? In one of his many books, C.S. Lewis wrote of children: “Since it is so likely that they will meet cruel enemies, let them at least have heard of brave knights and heroic courage. Otherwise you are making their destiny not brighter but darker.” The influencers of our day, from educators to political leaders, would do well to drop the woke narrative of a heroless world, and instead tell the stories of the men and women who lived their flawed lives to accomplish great things. I was a fourth-grader at Willis Campbell Elementary School, and I remember that Tuesday morning as clearly as if it happened yesterday.
My class made its way from Mrs. Sherman’s classroom, down the hall, into Mr. Hobbs’ music class. Upon entering, it was evident that something was different. At the back of the room, the T.V. was on. But we were not watching “Fiddler On the Roof,” as we had the previous week. Instead of Tevye the dairyman, the screen was filled with the astonished faces of newscasters. Mr. Hobbs directed us to sit down, then explained that a tragedy had taken place in New York City, a place most of us knew only from shows on the Disney Channel. An airplane had accidentally crashed into the side of a building called the World Trade Center. Then, it happened. As we sat, our eyes fixed on the screen before us, another plane appeared out of nowhere, bursting the side of the second tower and making it clear that this was no mistake. Though our group of nine- and 10-year-olds had no context for what had just happened, we knew it was bad. Mr. Hobbs looked at the screen in disbelief. “This will be remembered as the Kennedy assassination of your generation,” he told us. Even then, I thought what he did next was noble. He walked to the front of the classroom, sat down in front of his keyboard, and led us, tearfully, in singing the “Star-Spangled Banner,” “God Bless America” and “God Bless the USA”. Though we did not yet know who had done these horrid things, nor why, Mr. Hobbs intuitively knew that the best response was a defiant patriotism, lyrical reminders of who we were and what we stood for. Just three days later, President George W. Bush would strike a similar tone in his remarks to New York rescue workers when he shouted through a bullhorn: “I can hear you. The rest of the world hears you. And the people who knocked these buildings down will hear all of us soon.” For those who were alive to remember it, the memories of that day, and of the weeks that followed, are as fresh as ever. Everyone, it seems, knows exactly what they were doing and what they felt when they heard— and saw — the news that changed history. There was a national cohesion then that, sadly, seems to be a thing of the past. Democrats and Republicans stood side-by-side on the steps of the U.S. Capitol that night. American flags flew proudly from stately flagpoles and modest front porches, alike. Churches were packed with people, many of whom had not set foot in such places in years. It was an era of paradoxes, a time when Americans were both humiliated and proud; shaken, yet possessed by a steely resolve to forge ahead. The nation will soon commemorate that horrific day. There will be speeches and ceremonies. There will be posts on social media and reflections, like this one. What there will assuredly not be, however, is unity. As far as I can tell, America is in the midst of a cold civil war, one marked by social media propaganda, extreme ideologies, and general vindictiveness in virtually every sphere. We are doing to ourselves things of which our enemies could only dream. That the American experiment possesses the power to self-destruct was alluded to by Benjamin Franklin. In his journal, James McHenry, a Maryland delegate to the 1787 Constitutional Convention, writes that, following the adjournment of the Convention, “A lady asked Dr. Franklin, ‘Well, doctor, what have we got, a republic or a monarchy —A republic, replied the doctor, if you can keep it’.” “If you can keep it.” There’s the rub. It seems that the only thing all Americans agree on today is the general feeling that that cherished republic is quickly slipping through our fingers, and the problem is us. As we pause to remember the events of that fateful day, it would be good for us to examine ourselves, nationally; not to blame the left or the right, but to consider what we have become and what we are willing to do to regain what we have lost. There is no simple solution to the problems we have created, and I am not certain that recovery is possible at this point. But a dose of self-reflection, paired with some of Mr. Hobbs’ defiant patriotism, certainly would not hurt. |
AuthorTy Perry is a writer based in metro-Detroit. Archives
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