Tomorrow in church one of my reflections on Affirmation 11 of the Phoenix Affirmations will be based on this blog post.  I’m also going to show this video to illustrate another reflection.  So if you’re reading this before Sunday, be forewarned!

A Fourth of July Remembrance

I grew up on Mercer Island, near Seattle, in the middle of Lake Washington.  Each year on the Fourth of July, I looked forward to a particular family tradition, which was to pack a picnic dinner and head to the back yard of the Mercer Island Presbyterian Church.  We weren’t members, but the church had the advantage of being perched atop a hill that overlooked the downtown fireworks display, so lots of the Island community would gather there.

The fireworks wouldn’t get going until around ten in the evening, and if you wanted to get a good spot, you had to get there early – hence the picnic dinner.  We’d spread out a big, pink blanket that embarrassed the heck out of me.  Then my parents and whatever of their friends happened to show up would sit down and enjoy a glass of wine or soda while my brother and I ran off to the playground looking for our friends.

We could usually count on a handful or so to show up.  God help us on years they didn’t.  Hanging out with just adults was NO FUN!  But when friends came, we would play Frisbee or tag.  We also would wind each other tight on the swings, spinning around at what seemed like a million miles an hour, then jumping off fast and try to run without falling on our faces.  We’d look for garter snakes to terrorize in the grass at the edge of the playground.  We’d play in the sand box – at least until the year we found cat feces buried in it. And as we grew older, we’d “casually” eye the girls.

At some point, a parent would call us for dinner.  Usually we were so wrapped up in play that one of us would yell “Okay!” and then we’d get right back to our games until a parent would come stomping up to the playground to march us back to the blanket.

According to the book of Deuteronomy, the ancient Hebrews, like us, celebrated their origins as a people each year.  They were commanded – by God they believed – to bring to the party copious amounts of food and drink, including wine and beer.  The goal, according to Deuteronomy, was to “feast in the Presence of God, your God, and have a good time.” (Deut 26:26).

There wasn’t a grill in the church’s back yard, so often our fare was fried chicken, potato salad, deviled eggs, pitted black olives, celery sticks lined with Velveeta “cheese,” watermelon, and Hershey’s chocolate bars.  It may not have been the feast of the ancient Hebrews, but there was something about eating outside on the grass under the heavens, with friends around and excitement in the air, that made the food taste like a royal banquet.  I always liked to grab a handful of the olives, insert one on the tip of each finger, and eat them one by one like Caesar being fed grapes by an attendant.  I’d try to eat them slowly, but usually they’d be gone in a matter of moments and I’d have to reload a couple of times.  If my parents caught me reloading, they’d get after me, so I’d have to exercise greater degrees of stealth as the evening wore on.

Eventually, the meal would end and we’d have a half hour or so to let it all settle before the fireworks began. Actually seeing fireworks was considered somewhat of a lucky thing for us residents of the rain-soaked Pacific Northwest.  We rarely knew whether or not we’d be seeing fireworks for sure until late in the day, if not just before they began – like this year in Omaha.  When the weather cooperated, there would always be a healthy measure of gratitude (and relief) mixed in with the spectacle.  You could almost hear people around you thinking, “We are so fortunate this year …”

Once I remember one of the nearby parents (thank goodness no one we knew)  singing “America the Beautiful” to his little girl as the fireworks began.  He was totally singing the wrong words and had no idea.  My brother and I tried not to blow Coca Cola through our noses as we struggled to suppress our laughter.

Another year, I remember asking someone why there were fireworks on the Fourth of July to begin with.  I was told that they were made to imitate explosions from bombs and missiles on a battlefield.  I thought it rather strange that something so beautiful and awe-inspiring could find its origin in death and destruction.  Little did I know that I would, in later years, find this same commingling of wonder and death in the central symbol of Christian faith.

Although we gathered on the grounds of a church, focusing our gaze on joy bursting in the heavens, I do not remember being particularly cognizant of being “in the Presence of God” as the ancient Hebrews understood it.  I just remember being in the company of family and good friends, playing outside, laughing until we were out of breath, and feeling as satiated by gratitude and joy as I was by chicken and chocolate.

Is it possible to experience God’s presence without being aware of that presence?  The only thing I can say for sure is that those July 4th celebrations of my youth were experiences I’d want to be a part of if I were God.