On the Fate of Nations

THERE IS A CHURCH DOWNTOWN ST. PAUL, Minnesota, on the corner of Cedar and Tenth Streets. It is a small church, and looks rather insignificant when one passes it. This may be because of its location. The church is very near the State Capitol building, whose dome seems to defy any building near it to look imposing, and is directly in front of the large Great American History Theater, which stretches its shadow across the block. To make matters worse, the church is on an intersection that leads to St. Paul's freeways, and is adjacent to a larger Presbyterian church, both of which seem further to mute its presence. And yet the church on Tenth Street is a striking one. It is dedicated to St. Louis, King of France.

One of the startling things about the church, aside from the gold-embossed fleur-de-lys that grace its doors, its walls, and its vaults, are its stained glass windows. There is one that depicts Joan of Arc bearing her sword and her standard and bears the inscription Jeanne d'Arc et la France--Joan of Arc and France. There is one that depicts Bernadette Soubirous and bears the inscription Lourdes et la France. There is one that depicts Marguerite-Marie Alacoque and bears the inscription Le Sacré Coeur et la France. There is one that depicts the baptism of Clovis, king of the Franks, and bears the inscription Le Baptême de la France. There is one that depicts the martyrdom of Pierre Chanel and bears the inscription La France Missionnaire. To be brief: every large pane in the church, with the exception of one, is dedicated to a French saint, and every inscription on every stained-glass window, with the exception of that one, links the mission of that saint with the life of France herself. The message to be read in the decorative elements of the church is a clear and distinct one: France is a sacred nation.

This is not an original message. France has been convinced of her sacredness for centuries. But it is a startling one, especially for contemporary ears. It is a startling one in a century in which both Western and non-Western powers have drawn Middle-Eastern and African borders to suit their needs, rather than those of the peoples who populate those lands. It is a startling one in a century in which "imperialism" and wars have made us wary of emphatic patriotism. It is a startling one in an age in which globalization, the European community, national elections, and the Internet seem to make nationhood look not only like a thing of the past, but like a thing well forgotten as well. For the simple truth of the matter is that the sacredness of nations and twentieth-century perceptions of nationhood are at odds with one another.

If nations are sacred, then there is no warranting our having drawn the map of the Middle East to suit our needs rather than those of the peoples who populate those lands. If we have the right to draw world maps to suit our needs rather than those of the peoples who populate those lands, on the other hand, then there is no warranting the claim that nations are sacred. If patriotism is love of one's nation, then patriotism's being a dangerous thing makes nations a dangerous thing. And if nations are a dangerous thing it would seem impossible to warrant the claim that they are sacred. But if nations are a sacred thing, then there would seem no warranting the claim that patriotism is a dangerous thing. If nations are things of the past, then there is no claiming that they are sacred, and if nations are sacred there is no claiming that they are things of the past. So the little church on Cedar Street begs...