COMMENTARY: Dreaming of an America Ray Charles Couldn’t See

c. 2004 Religion News Service (Tom Ehrich is a writer and computer consultant, managing large-scale database implementations. An Episcopal priest, he lives in Durham, N.C. Visit his Web site at http://www.onajourney.org.) (UNDATED) I rarely thought about Ray Charles, who died June 10. I just assumed he would always be there. I remember Fourth of July, […]

c. 2004 Religion News Service

(Tom Ehrich is a writer and computer consultant, managing large-scale database implementations. An Episcopal priest, he lives in Durham, N.C. Visit his Web site at http://www.onajourney.org.)

(UNDATED) I rarely thought about Ray Charles, who died June 10. I just assumed he would always be there.


I remember Fourth of July, fireworks at the ballpark, the memory of 9/11 still fresh, and, above the rockets’ glare, the sweet sound of Ray Charles, sitting alone at the piano, singing a dream:

“O beautiful for spacious skies, for amber waves of grain,

“For purple mountain majesties above the fruited plain!

“America! America! God shed his grace on thee,

“And crown thy good with brotherhood from sea to shining sea.”

Whatever our loss, whatever our fears, whatever hatred was stirring in our hearts, whatever vengeance in our loins, Ray Charles would sing the dream of a good land gratefully received, of true heroes “proved in liberating strife,” of mercy shown and flaws mended. He would sing of “self-control” and “liberty in law.” And we would see beyond the groping and grasping, the photo-op patriotism and sly thefts of freedom.

Like Lincoln at Gettysburg, Ray Charles would sing to our noblest nature. We would remember who we were.

I am haunted by the news photo of an angry Southern Baptist wearing an American-flag shirt as she voted at a national convention to reject other Christians (in the Baptist World Alliance) _ a violation of both flag and faith. But in this free land she has that right.

I hear politicians concocting code phrases to harness such discontent or to make us fear it. But they, too, have that right.

For beyond the swagger and prideful passions, there lies a dream. That dream sees beyond the years and tears to a time when freedom, goodness and grace are known by all, not the few. That dream confers whatever greatness we have. That dream has nothing to do with economic supremacy, cultural warfare, bigotry parading as morality, or partisans waving crosses or wearing flags. That dream has everything to do with dying to self so that others might live.

On this summer’s day halfway between Father’s Day and Independence Day, on the eve of presidential nominating conventions promising ugly exploitation of our worries and demagogic images of patriotism, it is good to remember the dreams that form us.


On Father’s Day, many parents were serving overseas, well within harm’s reach. Despite triumphalist claims, they don’t serve so that the world will be receptive to Christian values. They serve so that the prideful, angry and religious back home are free to say hateful things.

On Father’s Day, dads struggled again to care for their families in difficult times. They worried about their children and their wives. They remembered being sons and tried to pass on whatever goodness and protection they received.

Some realized, as one middle-aged dad put it, “that we will probably never be famous, rich or revered, and the dreams of our youth will probably never be realized.” To many, entertainment words like “survivor” and “you’re fired” aren’t entertaining. But they press on.

At the ballpark, dads removed their caps during the National Anthem, for patriotism isn’t about jeering and defaming, it is about respect. They left their seats to take children to concession stands and departed early when the young grew weary, for faith isn’t about being right or superior, it is about serving others.

Sometimes the sacrifices of fatherhood are epic, and books are written about them. Most are unremarkable. In fact, most dying to self is quiet and unseen. It is duty done, tasks performed, plans set aside, sleep interrupted. It is a hand held, a mystery explained, a complaint heard, a check paid, a job endured.

Dying to self is a coal miner breathing poison so that his son can go to college. It is a Mexican immigrant doing lawn maintenance for the wealthy so that his daughter can have a better life. It is a black man putting aside the anger he has every right to feel and teaching his child to believe that this time “freedom’s holy light” will shine on all.


Perhaps our nation’s flags could stay a bit longer at half-mast, to honor a black father who couldn’t see but could sing the dream.

KRE/JL END EHRICH

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