Most of all, I think of how America opened its arms to my family in the late-nineteenth century. It’s a timeless story. Unless you’re 100% American Indian, you exist today in America because someone in your family immigrated here. It’s one of the most amazing stories in the history of the world.

A week ago, my family and I stopped at the geographic center of the 48 continental United States. There’s a small park commemorating the spot just northwest of Lebanon, Kansas, slightly south of the Nebraska border. At the spot, there are a couple of posts and signs as well as a small chapel. To be sure, the landscape is simply gorgeous: high-rolling Great Plains; big sky country. Walking into the chapel is a bit disturbing, however, as upon the wall behind the lectern is an American flag with a cross sitting atop it. Please don’t get me wrong. I love America, and I love Christianity. But, the mixing of symbols rattled me, and I came away from seeing it confused. Was America superior and subsuming the cross, or was the cross subsuming the flag. Neither option seems ideal to me. After all, Jesus told us to render unto Ceasar what is Ceasar’s and render unto God what is God’s.

The moment also reminded me of my college years at the University of Notre Dame. Walking into the eastern-most entrance of the basilica, one immediately notes the gothic script above the door: “God, country, and Notre Dame.” As a student, I loved this, and it was one of my favorite spots on campus. To make it even nicer, when one walks into the eastern side of the church, one is met with a chandelier made from a World War I doughboy helmet. Yet, if I really think about God, country, and Notre Dame, and if I imagine Notre Dame as Our Lady, that is the Virgin Mary, I would have to say God, Notre Dame, and country. I’m exactly the kind of Catholic that nineteenth-century Protestant Americans would have feared: someone who holds greater loyalty to the Church than to the country.

And, yet, what exactly do I think of America? Immediately, I am reminded of Ronald Reagan (one of my three favorite presidents) and his gorgeous Farewell Address, delivered in January of 1989, really signaling the end of a glorious decade. Let me quote him at length:

And that’s about all I have to say tonight, except for one thing. The past few days when I’ve been at that window upstairs, I’ve thought a bit of the “shining city upon a hill.” The phrase comes from John Winthrop, who wrote it to describe the America he imagined. What he imagined was important because he was an early Pilgrim, an early freedom man. He journeyed here on what today we’d call a little wooden boat; and like the other Pilgrims, he was looking for a home that would be free.

I’ve spoken of the shining city all my political life, but I don’t know if I ever quite communicated what I saw when I said it. But in my mind it was a tall, proud city built on rocks stronger than oceans, wind-swept, God-blessed, and teeming with people of all kinds living in harmony and peace; a city with free ports that hummed with commerce and creativity. And if there had to be city walls, the walls had doors and the doors were open to anyone with the will and the heart to get here. That’s how I saw it, and see it still.

And how stands the city on this winter night? More prosperous, more secure, and happier than it was eight years ago. But more than that: After 200 years, two centuries, she still stands strong and true on the granite ridge, and her glow has held steady no matter what storm. And she’s still a beacon, still a magnet for all who must have freedom, for all the pilgrims from all the lost places who are hurtling through the darkness, toward home.

Has anyone ever better described America? Granted, it’s mythic, but it’s not untrue. It’s very true as well as being good and beautiful.

Again, don’t get me wrong. America has committed horrible crimes, especially against peoples from Africa as well as against American Indians. We decimated two civilian cities in World War II—Dresden and Nagasaki. We deprived Japanese Americans of all their property and interned them in camps in that same war. In the 1960s, U.S. soldiers massacred a village in Vietnam. So, we’re not perfect, nor should we ever fool ourselves that we are.

But, we’re also the country that declared all men equal in our founding document, we abolished slavery after a brutal civil war (and have attempted to secure civil rights ever since), we allied with the British and defeated the Nazis as well as the Soviets, and we remain the single most charitable people the world has ever seen. Is there a natural disaster in southeast Asia or in Africa? We’re there, and we’re doing our best to make the place better, healthier, and more secure.

I can honestly say that I’ve never been a nationalist, but I have always considered myself a patriot. As far back as I remember, I loved America even while being skeptical of our government (I was born in 1967, and I very clearly remember Nixon resigning). But, even as a child, playing in my backyard on 30^th Street in Hutchinson, Kansas, my GI-Joes and army men were successfully taking out the Viet Cong and the NVA.

As I grew older, I realized how many of the prominent men in my hometown had fought in World War II. I not only mowed their yards, but I talked with them. I remember Mr. Huey who had survived the landing at Normandy, though with machine gun bullets that razored his back (he proudly showed us the scars, and we were quite impressed). I remember Jack Clouse, one of the most dignified men I’ve ever met, who talked about how he got into serious trouble in the army because he openly argued against the alliance with Communist Russia. I remember Mr. Reinhart, who was stationed in Hiroshima after the dropping of the atomic bomb. Three times, he fought cancer, losing only at age 94. I best remember my grandfather, who was in army intelligence throughout the war. These men were my heroes, and I took it for granted that American communities would always be led by such men.

I was only nine in 1976, but I so clearly remember how the entire community rose up to celebrate America’s 200^th birthday. All the kids were invited to paint all the fire hydrants in town. We painted them as patriots, and my fire hydrant was of Betsy Ross. I also remember one of my neighbors, Mr. Mundhanke, walking around the neighborhood, reciting the Declaration of Independence. I also remember the fireworks display at the Kansas State Fairgrounds that year—with the soundtrack of Kansas’s “Song for America” (though, a skeptical song) and Styx’s “Madam Blue.”

And, here we are in 2025. Over the last year, we’ve celebrated the 250^th anniversaries of the First Continental Congress, the Battle of Lexington and Concord, the Second Continental Congress, the creation of the Continental Army, and the commissioning of George Washington as Commander in Chief. As I type this, we’re celebrating the 249^th anniversary of America declaring its independence, on July 2, 1776.

Most of all, though, I think of how America opened its arms to my family in the late-nineteenth century. My mom’s family were Germans from the Volga region of Russia, and they came to western Kansas—fleeing the misguided liberal reforms of Tzar Alexander II—in 1876.  My dad’s side were Bavarians from the Bohemian border, and they came to west-central Kansas in 1888. Amazingly, my maternal grandmother didn’t even speak English until she was in her 30s, the communities were so tight-knit and Germanic. But, in Kansas, both sides of my family were successful wheat farmers and, then, starting with my maternal grandfather, teachers. All of them were free to practice their Roman Catholicism, raise their families according to their own lights, and pursue their own happiness.

It’s a timeless story. Unless you’re 100% American Indian, you exist today in America because someone in your family immigrated here. It’s one of the most amazing stories in the history of the world. Again, think about Reagan’s words: “But in my mind it was a tall, proud city built on rocks stronger than oceans, wind-swept, God-blessed, and teeming with people of all kinds living in harmony and peace; a city with free ports that hummed with commerce and creativity. And if there had to be city walls, the walls had doors and the doors were open to anyone with the will and the heart to get here.”

I would never ask that we too easily forgive or forget what we’ve done wrong. But, it would be equally ridiculous to forget or dismiss what we’ve done right. As far as I’m concerned, we have learned from the former, and we have succeeded mightily with the latter.

Happy birthday, America.

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