The words of Frederick Buechner, contemplating Lady Liberty, are worth remembering as we move toward July, celebrating the birth of our country. He said:
“THE WORDS INSCRIBED on the Statue of Liberty where it stands on Bedloe's Island in New York harbor are familiar to all of us:
Give me your tired, your poor,
Your huddled masses yearning to be free,
The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.
Send these, the homeless, tempest-tossed, to me;
I lift my torch beside the golden door.
It is not great poetry, perhaps, and many a cynical word could be spoken about how the golden door that the goddess of liberty lights with her torch turned out for many to be the door to a wretchedness greater than any they had left behind on the teeming shores of their homelands. But nevertheless, I think the old words have power in them still, if we let them, to move us, to touch us close to where we live. And the reason they have such power, I believe, is that one way or another they are words about us. Whether we're rich or poor, whether our forebears came to this country on the Mayflower or a New England slave ship or a nineteenth-century clipper or in a twentieth-century jet, those huddled masses are part of who all of us are, both as individuals and as a people. They are our fathers and mothers. They are our common past. Yet it goes farther and deeper than that. They are our past, and yet they are also ourselves. In countless ways, both hidden and not so hidden, it is you and I who are the homeless and tempest-tossed, waiting on our own Ellis Islands for the great promise to be kept of a new world, a new life, which we haven't yet found. We are the ones who yearn to breathe free. We stand not merely like them but in a sense with them beside the golden door. To read the story of our immigrant forebears as it is summarized on the base of the old statue is to read our own story, and maybe it is only when we see that it is our own story that we can really understand either it or ourselves.”
My ancestors were immigrants here one side going back to Valentine Prentice, an English Puritan, who immigrated to Massachusetts in 1631 to escape religious persecution, and on the other side to Albert VonMoss, a young Swiss immigrant who came in 1910 because he had nothing better to do and because the woman he loved was sailing for America. Wherever we came from we came looking for more, for something better, and to a degree, found it but not fully. We are still looking. Don’t forget that. Don’t forget that as wonderful a place as America is it isn’t home. We’re Abraham looking for a city whose builder and maker is God. We’re Israel in Egypt’s Goshen, blessed and happy, but destined for a Promised Land. Since we are these things we must remember a couple of realities. We can never live the values of our adopted home. And we must remember it’s okay to be a little homesick.