It was the summer of 1976. Early in Tammuz. I was in bais medrash and the zeman was almost over. For the Philadelphia Yeshiva, it was the last “off Shabbos” before bein hazemanim. It was also one of the most celebrated weekends in America in the twentieth century. It was the July 4th weekend, 200 years after the Declaration of Independence was read, only a couple of miles from where I would now sweat over an Avnei Miluim. And we were not oblivious to the fact that the country was celebrating its 200th anniversary.

There were flags everywhere, from big cities like Philly to little shtetlach like my native Woodmere and Cedarhurst, where my home was nestled on the border of both of those Five Towns. There was talk of parades and marches, fireworks and celebrations. Patriotism was palpable. Everybody was cheering for the red, white and blue. America had defeated the evil Axis only 30 years earlier and was glad to finally have gotten out of Vietnam about a year earlier, but still loathed communism. The riots of the late 1960s were behind them, and Gerald Ford, the current president, was a voice of moderation after a turbulent Nixon resignation. It was 1976, and the entire country had essentially been drunk on its own birthday for the better part of two years.

The government was deeply invested in the celebration as well. Flags flew everywhere. Bunting draped storefronts and homes. The Post Office issued commemorative stamps honoring the Declaration of Independence, Revolutionary heroes, the Spirit of ‘76, state flags, and scenes from the founding of the Republic. The Mint redesigned the nation’s circulating coins with images of Independence Hall, the Liberty Bell, and the colonial drummer. There was a train that went across America where people could board and view the Declaration of Independence, Washington’s copy of the Constitution, a moon rock, and other historic treasures through forty-eight states. Tall ships from around the world filled New York Harbor. People painted their mailboxes red, white, and blue. There were Bicentennial beer cans with Revolutionary War imagery on them. Schools devoted months to the Bicentennial. Communities organized parades, historical reenactments, colonial fairs, concerts, and exhibitions. The Smithsonian mounted special displays, and the new National Air and Space Museum opened during the Bicentennial year.

I remember driving up to a bungalow colony in Monroe to visit my Uncle Avrohom and Tanta Ruthie, aleihem hashalom. We took a short detour into the newly established community of Kiryas Yoel, which was then still tiny. Homes were being built, infrastructure was minimal, and it remained largely a rural enclave adjacent to Monroe. But the Satmar Rebbe had a home there, and in front of it, an American flag waved proudly.

Fifty years later, the 250th anniversary of American independence is upon us. Maybe it’s because they gave it a long fancy name, the Semiquincentennial, or maybe it’s because idealism is dead. Maybe the country is too fractured and parochial to even believe in one common theme. Whatever the reason, to me it seems dead. You hardly hear about it or see anything celebratory. It’s a muffled hurrah said almost apologetically. It just seems like a big dud.

It’s no longer about freedom or the recognition of the liberties that soldiers died for. I went into the post office today and asked for the celebratory stamps produced in honor of the revolution. All I got for $10.14 was a sheet designed by the famous designer Ralph Lauren depicting what now represents America: a pickup truck, a baseball mitt, a teddy bear, and a cheeseburger.

My rebbi, Rav Mendel Kaplan, was unique. On his weekly drive from Philadelphia to Brooklyn and back, he would pick up hitchhikers and make conversation. Often, he would relay those conversations to us bochurim. He once told us that he picked up a backpacker and asked him if he was Jewish. The fellow replied, “Half and half.”

The rebbi sighed, lamenting that the situation of Yiddishkeit had boiled down to a soda. (“Half and Half” was a popular half-grapefruit, half lemon-lime soda by Cornell Beverages — some of you may remember it from seudah shlishis at your local shtiebel.)

I thought about what he said. Fifty years later, the national symbol of American Independence Day has become a pickup truck and a cheeseburger.

There is something worth pausing over here, though. The ephemeral things — the pride, the principles, the memory of what soldiers bled for — erode. Ideology fades. Sacrifice gets summarized. And eventually, you are left with a teddy bear on a postage stamp.

But we are different. We celebrate events that happened not 250 years ago but thousands of years ago, be it Pesach, Shavuos, or Sukkos, with no less fervor than the generations before us. Every Yom Tov is graced with new seforim, more mesibos, more learning, more avodah. Because they represent not history, but eternity. And eternity never fades into a cheeseburger.

The Three Weeks are upon us now. And yes, the raw pain of the churban is harder to feel with two thousand years of distance. But we don’t simply let it slip by. We don’t allow it to become symbolic. There are hundreds of shiurim, divrei chizuk, asifos, and calls to action, all ensuring that the wound stays open enough to heal. We feel the churban not because we remember it, but because we are still living it. The exile is not a historical footnote. It is the present tense.

America’s icons, fifty years from now, will probably be something even more forgettable than a cheeseburger. Because when the ikkar is gone and the founding principles are erased, all that remains is the tofel. The side dishes. Not even the burger. Just the French fries.There is an apocryphal story about Napoleon, who, while busy conquering Europe, stopped in a shul on a summer’s eve in August. His visit coincided with the night of Tisha B’Av and he walked into the shul while the kehillah was reciting Kinnos. As he entered the shul, he saw men without shoes on the floor lamenting while holding candles while crying over from books. The shul was dim, with only a few candles burning. The raw wood of the holy Aron was exposed, the paroches removed and set aside. The amud and bimah were bare, exposing the pockmarks, knotholes and splintered grain of wood that seemed to have absorbed the tears of many a supplicant. The only light came from a few candles stuck to the floor. The lamps on the wall were extinguished.

In his quest to grant equality to all his new subjects, he wondered what tragedy had befallen this

community and asked how he could rectify the situation. The rov explained that the mourning was not for a recent tragedy, but rather for one that occurred almost two thousand years prior. He explained that on this day centuries ago, in a land thousands of miles away, a Jewish Temple was destroyed and we were expelled from our land. He explained that every year on the anniversary of the destruction, we sit on the floor and we mourn. To which Napolean responded, “A nation that still cries and fasts for nearly 2,000 years after their Temple has been destroyed will surely be rewarded with their Temple.”

We do not have icons for the Bais Hamikdosh. We do not commemorate it with a pickup truck or a teddy bear or a collector’s stamp. The Bais Hamikdosh is not an icon. It is the makom of the Shechinah. It is the place and embodiment that we have not stopped trying to return to for nearly two thousand years.

America, sadly, has lost its direction. Klal Yisroel, however, will never forget where we came from and where we are headed. We will never diminish the significance of our past and we will never forget the focus of our yearning, and thus we will never diminish the ultimate celebration.

Yehi ratzon that we see the geulah sheleimah and that the only thing we’ll say about this long golus is that we never, not for a single Tisha B’Av, forgot where our home was.