Flags in the Sanctuary: History

The significance and propriety of the American flag in Christian worship brings up such deep currents of sentiment that I think it best to wade into the matter by the shores of history. Allow me to lay out some of the background to flags appearing in American Christian sanctuaries.

The United States didn't seem to have a strong attachment to a flag until Francis Scott Key's composition of "The Star-Spangled Banner" in the War of 1812. Then the American Civil War seems to have caused a good number of flags to appear in Church sanctuaries. But the real expansiveness of this practice, according to the documentation I found, took hold in the beginning of the 20th century.

During World War I, the placing of the flag in the sanctuary became a signal that the American Church was on the right side. While never mandated by law, the cultural tide flowed with great power. German immigrant churches may have felt it most strongly; there were incidents of pastors of those churches being required to genuflect before and kiss the flag. Painful consequences befell pastors who would not fly a sanctuary flag. In wartime, it seems that American society wanted a clear symbolic recognition that American Christians were all loyal patriots.

The practice seems to have continued into and through World War II--another moment in which American citizens were expected to show unanimous support for the United States. A similar surge in flag presentation by the Church happened during the Korean War. And after that time, folks began to forget why the flag was placed there. In my own experience of talking with Church leaders, almost everyone assumed that "the flag was always there."

Absent any secular law or denominational instruction to display the national flag in the sanctuary, we are left to infer the purpose of doing so. Wars--moments when the survival of the nation is at stake--seem to inspire the flag's display. I think there is an important clue here.

What congregations place in their sanctuaries announces something about their core values or core identity. Congregations don't (typically) put portraits of their past pastors or priests on the sanctuary walls. The identity of those persons does not matter to the ongoing identity of the congregation. I have not yet seen a state flag in a church sanctuary, perhaps for the same reason. Baptismal fonts, altars, and tables do get central positioning in the sanctuary: baptism is a God-given mark of membership in the kingdom, Jesus' death is central to our faith, and the sacramental table is a core symbol of how the Spirit unites Christians. And of course we have the cross, a nearly-ubiquitous symbol in Christian worship space. (Though, it's worth noting here, not present in every sanctuary.)

Thus to some degree congregations have revealed that either the support for or survival of the United States connects to their core identity. When that identity is threatened or when a singular national effort requires the broadest level of support--as in wartime--it seems natural that we will press toward center stage the symbol of that core identity. So we did with the flag.

So much for some broad history. In laying out this sequence I have thrown about the word "symbol." It is to that strange idea that we will turn next.

Thanks for thinking intentionally with me about things that matter. Some places from which I garnered useful information are cited below.

~ emrys

https://concordiahistoricalinstitute.org/wp-content/uploads/2019/06/HF62_2_American_Flag_LCMS_Churches.pdf

https://www.thegospelcoalition.org/blogs/evangelical-history/the-church-and-the-american-flag/

https://www.umcdiscipleship.org/articles/the-american-flag-in-methodist-worship-a-historical-look-at-practice

https://progressivechristianity.org/resource/american-flags-in-the-sanctuary/

The Flag in the Sanctuary

Most of the congregations in which I have served have an American flag in the sanctuary. (Most of them have at least one other flag, too.) And in all of those congregations a question has always been raised about the presence of that flag. Sometimes it's a more neutral query: "Why do we have an American flag in the sanctuary?" Sometimes it's more pointed and critical: "Should we really have an American flag in the sanctuary?"

I think this question is an important one, not just because I happen to have a strong opinion on the matter but also because it addresses symbolic power in sacred space. Most worshiping Christians have some beliefs about symbolic power--whether we have articulated them or not--and about sacred space. And for most of us who worship an invisible deity symbols serve as an essential means by which we access the presence of that deity.

Thus symbols are of critical importance.

One symptom of that importance may be your visceral reaction when you read a question like, "Should we really have an American flag in the sanctuary?" If the appearance of that question--not the "answer," but just the asking--makes you feel righteous, defensive, offended, troubled, proud, or fearful then we have evidence of the power of symbols in our lives.

I have been thinking about the power of this symbol in the Christian worship space for some time. And now I have been asked the question again about the American flag's propriety there. So I plan to take some time to dive into the circumstances that give rise to this question. If you join me, perhaps we'll be equipped to think well about our responses.

And maybe we will better fulfill our calling to love God and our neighbor.

~ emrys

The Three Musketeers, the Constitution, and Jesus (part deux)

What about Jesus?

You may have noted the conspicuous absence of Jesus in my previous post, though the ancient Galilean’s name appeared in the title. It’s time.

Our common political life in the United States is founded precisely on the absence of a monarch, substituting in a democracy (“rule by the people”) and a republic (“thing of the people”).

In the Christian faith we have a weird thing. We have a library of ancient documents (the “bible”) that in some way or another we consider authoritative for faith and ethics. But these documents also point Christians toward a monarch, Jesus the Christ, whose person forms the essential object of faith and life.

Most Christian congregations would not say that someone’s life with God depends on their confessing faith in the bible. They would say that faith in Jesus Christ confirms one’s life with God. But just as many would say that the bible is somehow essential to the Christian faith: that it is impossible to know or follow Christ as king without the bible.

In many discussions I listen to regarding the outworking of faith, I see a clear parallel between Americans working out how to interpret and follow the Constitution and Christians working out how to interpret and follow the bible. Folks want rules, and those rules must be based on some agreed-upon words. But agreeing on the words does not predict agreement on how those words will be interpreted.

When we claim the lordship of Jesus, though, we are going beyond the written words to a person. Discerning the relationship between the person of Christ (the second person of the Trinity) and the written words of the bible gives rise to the expansive literature we have on the inspiration and authority of the bible. We live in a tension between constitutionalism and monarchy.

It is interesting to me that many Americans in their political life are embracing a similar tension, perhaps for the first time in their lives. We love the Constitution, but we really want it to point us toward a single person who can fulfill our political dreams—someone who “alone can save you.” Texts do a great job of telling us what to do, but they don’t get anything done for us.

I really crave a snappy and proverbial ending to this thought. But I don’t have one. The cultural and political moment feels unfinished and uncertain, which may rob me of pithiness. Perhaps I am only called to issue a challenge to pay attention and see if these tensions are a reality for you. And if they are, test the spirits to see which are from God.

~ emrys

The Three Musketeers, the Constitution, and Jesus

 I just finished reading the last book in Alexandre Dumas’ series that begins with The Three Musketeers and ends with The Man in the Iron Mask. Though American films focus on the swashbuckling and daring-do exploits of Athos, Porthos, Aramis, and D’Artagnan, the first and last novels about these four heroes spend very little time on “action scenes.” The books are about political intrigue, shifting alliances, and obscure courtly conversations.

 What keeps the plots churning in Dumas’ work? Loyalty. Who is really loyal to the king? Who will gain the king’s favor by loyalty, and who might have his fierce loyalty undercut by deception? In courts, countries, and economies overseen by royals, loyalty is the sole currency that matters. The Man in the Iron Mask ends with nobility of extreme wealth falling into disgrace by a single word from the king, and another of little means gaining glory by dedication to the same king.

 For someone like me, who grew up living in a nation governed by a Constitution and written laws, the world of Dumas’ novels seems like a fantasy. We don’t need to worry about our accounts getting drained by our state Senator because the political winds have shifted. We know the rules, and we know that there are layers of courts and judges to interpret those rules. This makes the country I live in a relatively reliable and predictable place because we have a system of governance based on a written document.

 There is a problem, of course. Working under a constitution means that change is slow. Committees, boards, or congresses of elected officials make interpretive decisions, which means adaptation comes only after long argument and compromise. If we want change fast, it is easier to allow someone to rule by fiat. When one person runs the whole system, things get done. We are in a political moment now in which Americans want things done faster at the higher levels—even if the system is not designed to allow them that kind of power.

 What comes hand-in-hand with this kind of leadership is the power of loyalty. Like Dumas’ King Louis XIII and XIV, rule by fiat also allows destruction of opponents. When we accept people in power who “get things done,” we invite the possibility that we shall be done away with.

 There is a trade-off inherent in these two political systems. If we invest our political capital in a document that describes a system of laws, then our political process will be one of continuing debate in which everyone is welcome. And change will be slow. If we invest that capital in leaders, changes will come fast and dissenting voices will be removed or destroyed.

 Because we tend to believe strongly that we’re right, our politics inevitably moves toward having a king, a monarch, an executive director. Keeping a deliberative system of government that embraces both majority rule and minority voice takes constant effort. Will we put in that effort?