For a time, America looked like wheat. The young nation that rose from the improbable victory of independence carried the air of something chosen, something blessed. It grew swiftly, spreading its influence beyond its own borders, and came to be called the “leader of the free world.” To many, it appeared a field heavy with golden grain, ready to nourish not only its own people but also nations far beyond its shores.
But now, the field looks different. What once looked like wheat increasingly resembles tares. The noble stalks we thought would feed the world reveal weeds entwined among them—poisonous, deceptive, choking out the good. The nation that once inspired others to strive for liberty and justice seems now to be voluntarily giving up its place among the sisterhood of nations, ceding its moral authority in exchange for division, resentment, and short-sighted gains.
Do we know what we planted? Perhaps that is the wrong question, for the truth is that the seeds were given to us. America did not invent liberty. It did not create justice, nor did it fashion human dignity from nothing. These seeds were gifts—sown from English common law, from Enlightenment philosophy, from the lived faith of persecuted minorities, and from the wisdom of those who declared that “all men are created equal.” But mingled among these were other seeds: slavery, exploitation of the vulnerable, arrogance cloaked as destiny, and the compromise of principles for power. The field was never pure.
For a long season, the harvest looked good. America prospered, outpaced rivals, and seemed to embody the ideals others only spoke of. But wheat and tares look the same until the time of maturity. Only when they ripen do you see which feeds and which poisons. Now, as the world realigns and America stumbles under the weight of its contradictions, we begin to see clearly what was sown.
This is not cause for despair, but for reckoning. To ask what we planted is to remember that we were entrusted with seeds we did not own. They were given to us by Providence, by history, by generations past who believed enough in freedom to risk everything for it. What will we do with that trust? Will we allow tares to choke the field, or will we, with humility, labor to preserve the wheat?
The harvest is not yet complete. There is still time to distinguish, to protect, and to cultivate what is good. But the season is advancing, and the signs are visible. America must look again at its field and remember: the gift was never ours to squander.
For a time, America looked like wheat. The young nation that rose from the improbable victory of independence carried the air of something chosen, something blessed. It grew swiftly, spreading its influence beyond its own borders, and came to be called the “leader of the free world.” To many, it appeared a field heavy with golden grain, ready to nourish not only its own people but also nations far beyond its shores.
But now, the field looks different. What once looked like wheat increasingly resembles tares. The noble stalks we thought would feed the world reveal weeds entwined among them—poisonous, deceptive, choking out the good. The nation that once inspired others to strive for liberty and justice seems now to be voluntarily giving up its place among the sisterhood of nations, ceding its moral authority in exchange for division, resentment, and short-sighted gains.
Do we know what we planted? Perhaps that is the wrong question, for the truth is that the seeds were given to us. America did not invent liberty. It did not create justice, nor did it fashion human dignity from nothing. These seeds were gifts—sown from English common law, from Enlightenment philosophy, from the lived faith of persecuted minorities, and from the wisdom of those who declared that “all men are created equal.” But mingled among these were other seeds: slavery, exploitation of the vulnerable, arrogance cloaked as destiny, and the compromise of principles for power. The field was never pure.
For a long season, the harvest looked good. America prospered, outpaced rivals, and seemed to embody the ideals others only spoke of. But wheat and tares look the same until the time of maturity. Only when they ripen do you see which feeds and which poisons. Now, as the world realigns and America stumbles under the weight of its contradictions, we begin to see clearly what was sown.
This is not cause for despair, but for reckoning. To ask what we planted is to remember that we were entrusted with seeds we did not own. They were given to us by Providence, by history, by generations past who believed enough in freedom to risk everything for it. What will we do with that trust? Will we allow tares to choke the field, or will we, with humility, labor to preserve the wheat?
The harvest is not yet complete. There is still time to distinguish, to protect, and to cultivate what is good. But the season is advancing, and the signs are visible. America must look again at its field and remember: the gift was never ours to squander.
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