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I grew up an Air Force brat raised on G.I. Joe at the tail end of Reagan’s America. By age four, I could look up into the sky and identify airplanes by their silhouettes. I was surrounded by the rites and rituals of patriotism and nation and performed the catechisms of duty, obligation, and service daily. The pledges of allegiance to the flag—not prayers for daily bread or forgiveness—echoed in chorus. I could see the discipline required for national discipleship in the way my father stood at attention, saluted, and listened to the anthem.I learned my first Latin not in the church but from the Air Force. Not the “e pluribus unum” found on our coins, but the “mors ab alto” from the patch on…
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