Remembering

     The men raced against time. Staggering under their load, they rushed toward the aid station. A crimson trail marked their passage, indicating the urgency of their mission. A few minutes earlier a rocket had slammed into their position grievously wounding their comrade. Now the four of them labored; each at the corner of a poncho. Each one hoping to make it before time and blood ran out. Suddenly a rattly gasp slipped out of the depths of the poncho. The men redoubled their efforts, knowing all the while that, for their burden, time had run out. They arrived at the aid station, and trained personnel took over in a vain attempt to stay the hand of death. Looking at his shattered, bloody corpse I wondered what his wife and children would think. But not all soldiers die in the field.

     Everyone thought Raymond, Ray to his friends, looked haggard. But then, we all did. A year of duty in Iraq wears on you. By the end of your tour the eighteen and twenty hour days stack up. The endless stream of grave decisions weighs you down; do we kill this one or do we give them another chance? Does the intel support a raid? Is the gain worth the possible loss of life? Do I employ the 50 Cal. or will the S.A.W. suffice? No matter the level, a year of life and death burdens the soul and body. Ray, just like the rest of us, was running on fumes as the day of his departure approached. Soon, however, he would be ensconced in the warm embrace of his wife and children. But not for long. The first Sunday back, while singing with his church choir, Ray collapsed and died of a brain aneurysm. No Purple-Heart for Ray. But, he died due to the burden he carried in Iraq as surely as if he’d been swept away by an IED. For others the process takes longer.

     Bill personified the professional Army Officer. Erect, clear eyed, and decisive, he commanded his battalion with the ease of a seasoned man of arms. He was every bit as compassionate toward the wounded as he was ferocious in a fight. His men knew that he loved them and would follow him anywhere. He was everywhere on the battlefield always reassuring the fearful and directing the action appropriately. Between contacts he labored to care for his soldiers and bring some sort of normalcy to the Iraqis who lived in his AO (Area of Operations). He saw the best and the worst of life deployed. But no one knew about the rocks he put into his ruck-sack. He carried that load alone, silently. These rocks weighed him down. Eventually he sought relief in a bottle and eventually had to leave the Army he loved. Shortly afterwards, the internal battle caught up with him and he died of hemorrhage brought on by a fatal mixture of alcohol and prescription drugs.

     So on Memorial Day, originally known as Decoration Day, how do I honor these three men and the hundreds of thousands of men and women who have gone before? What is fitting for such a day? Is there salve for the wounds these three families bear? I think not. Time and life go on; but, some wounds remain, forever altering the trajectory of the lives of those left behind. So while fumbling for adequate actions, this came to mind. We all take an oath to protect and defend the Constitution. Unlike many militaries, American soldiers pledge to defend a body of ideas not a political leader or a geographic spot of dirt. Perhaps the preamble offers some direction in this matter.

“We the People of the United States, in Order to form a more perfect union, establish justice, insure domestic tranquility, provide for the common defense, promote the general welfare, and secure the blessings of liberty to ourselves and our posterity, do ordain and establish this Constitution for the United States of America.”

     We ought to lift our hands to bring about the things enumerated in the preamble. Soldiers work to forward these things. We live by them and in some cases die by them. I do not pretend to know what the last thoughts of my compatriots were. I do know that they sought to live out their lives in support of these ideals and I, as one who survived, ought to do the same. Another of our great documents gives further guidance and clarity to this question.

“And for the support of this Declaration, with a firm reliance on the protection of divine Providence, we mutually pledge to each other our Lives, our Fortunes and our sacred Honor.”

     In this era of burgeoning “patriotism” we ought to rethink what patriotism means. Patriotism requires more than flying a flag, singing the appropriate song with the appropriate hand of your heart. Saying pledges before the start of the school day does not equate to patriotism. Patriotism calls for more than voting for your preferred candidate. These things are fine and all citizens ought to engage in these and similar acts; however, for those who penned the declaration during that hot summer in Philadelphia in 1776, patriotism meant sacrifice and service. True patriots give of themselves for the good of the nation. For some in the military this may mean the ultimate sacrifice. So when I pause while barbequing with my family on Monday, I need to consider how I might work, might sacrifice to better things around me. Yet one more document speaks eloquently to this issue.

“With malice toward none, with charity for all, with firmness in the right as God gives us to see the right, let us strive on to finish the work we are in, to bind up the nation's wounds, to care for him who shall have borne the battle and for his widow and his orphan, to do all which may achieve and cherish a just and lasting peace among ourselves and with all nations."

     With great eloquence President Lincoln reminds us that this great experiment in democracy is not finished and that many hurdles remain for us to leap. He also reminds that we need to care for those who bear the wounds of war; those on the exterior as well as those interior. So on Memorial Day let us reflect for a moment on how we may engage in the patriotic duties that lie around us. How may we forward the cause and how may we bind up the wounds of the fallen? So as I tend the BBQ tomorrow, perhaps I might consider how to best remember my fallen comrades, how I might pick up the guidon and actively move it forward.

Grim Hard Faced Men

     Grim, hard-faced men faced each other across the table in the oven heat of a dark room, deep within a nameless warren in the printing district of Baghdad. All but one carried weapons, most, more than one. Sweating in the heat, they toiled, hoping to hammer out some sort of agreement to ease the constant threat of bombings and violence that so frequently rent the scorching afternoons. Outnumbered and far from support the American soldiers worked with an earnestness springing from the knowledge that they were in over their heads. The Iraqis sought support, physical and monetary, in publishing a newspaper. The Americans sought reassurances from the men; reassurances that they were not the enemy and would not foment violence with this publication. Looking out the window into a stuffy, debris filled airshaft, I wondered about the orders and intelligence that brought me into this dark remote place. Across the worn conference table two Iraqis argued.

     The older, larger heavily bearded man gesticulated wildly at younger man with sullen, hooded eyes. The younger man waited until the speaker wound down and then responded in a low, passionate voice. Seeking to contain himself, he fiddled with his weapon, a well-used, ancient, AK with much of the bluing worn off. Whatever he said displeased the older man who responded by increasing his volume and gesticulating even more wildly. So the side conversation went, in ever increasing volume. As their anger increased so did my concern for our safety. I was not entirely sure that I could recall the route out of the building. Coming in we’d taken numerous twists and turns going up and down several flights of stairs. While I was sure we currently sat on the ground floor the exact route out remained vague in my mind. I looked over at the NCO who’d come with me, and the nervous gunner standing behind him. If things went very badly I knew that we’d give a good account of ourselves. Upon hearing weapons fire the security force waiting outside would rush headlong into the building with guns blazing. The thought of such a disintegration of the situation made me physically ill. The responsibility for the NCO, young soldier, and those outside pressed in with a physical presence as strong as the heat radiating from the sunbaked walls. Plucking at the sleeve of my sweat soaked DCU top, Ali (not his real name), my translator sought my attention.

     “They don’t agree,” he intoned quietly.

     “Thanks,” I replied, though that bit of information was quite obvious. Ali would fill me in on the details later. He was an excellent translator and gatherer of intelligence. He knew how to do his job without intruding, often providing valuable insight on what was going on behind the scenes as it were. Our lengthy conversations over MRE’s at the end of the day illuminated the byzantine workings of Iraqi society. Ali did more than translate meetings and writings. He helped me understand Iraqis and their culture. Frequently centuries old tribal slights planted the seeds of disagreement, this time bearing fruit in the heated argument between two men as I waited. Without warning the bare light bulb hanging from the ceiling flared brightly, dimmed, flared again, and then died as the power failed.

     As the grimy fan slowly wound down, the older, larger Iraqi spewed a torrent of angry words at one of the heavily armed men standing in the shadows. He replied over his shoulder, leaving the room at a near sprint. Soon in a distant room we heard the cough and rumble of a large generator and the lights came back on as the fan resumed its slow sweep across the table. Pleased, the large Iraqi gestured across the table, making a short rumbling speech. “He says this is why he needs your help. American bombs destroyed the power system,” intoned Ali.

     “Remind him that Saddam and the Iraqi government failed to maintain the system and that they only gave power to their friends. So if they previously enjoyed power, perhaps they were close friends of Saddam,” I said, looking at the lead Iraqi, making sure I did not look at Ali. “And Ali, make sure you tell him exactly what I said. Ali rattled off a string of Modern Arabic and judging from the narrowing of the big man’s eyes and the open glare of his subordinates Ali had indeed translated accurately. And so the hot afternoon wore on. Eventually we came to an agreement that both of us could live with and the three of us returned to our Humvee’s for the trek back to BIAP (Baghdad International Airport).

     As the evening sun wound down across the city I sat on top of our hooch, looking out over the hazy city munching on an MRE listening to the oddly peaceful evening call to prayer. After a few minutes Ali joined me to discuss the day. The two of us sat there, Ali smoking his particularly pungent brand of cigarettes and me an indiscriminant cigar from Sumatra of all places. We made an incongruous pair; Ali a short slim Iraqi from Baghdad who’d fled during the Iraq-Iran war, and me, a career officer who’d always expected to fight the Soviets in Eastern Europe. We watched as the dark slowly settled across the sprawling city. A few lights gleamed out in the darkness. Off on the edge of the city tracers arced into the sky as belligerents engaged in a small gun-battle. Judging from the color of the tracers one group was American. Almost as frequently the colors indicated Iraqis engaged in fighting each other. Eventually the last few rays of sunlight stole away and Ali and I had to leave our rooftop perch. Previous experience had taught us that angry neighbors would shoot at the gleam of a cigarette or cigar draw. We clambered down, Ali to chat with the other interpreters and me to work a few more hours in the TOC (Tactical Operations Center), another day in Baghdad with 1AD (1^st Armored Division).

     Ali worked with me as interpreter for several months, eventually the G2 (Intelligence Section) dragooned him due to his excellent work and a man named Malik (not his actual name) replaced him. Like Ali, Malik had fled Iraq after serving in the Iraqi Army during the Iraq-Iran war; a war that devastated his country and decimated his generation. Now, he was back in Iraq toiling to help his country recover. Unlike Ali, Malik was large and quite boisterous. Eventually I would work with a crew of over forty different Iraqis, coming to know some of them very well.

     My personal translators shared my hooch, chow, and endured the same hardships and dangers. In every aspect their life was as mine, with one exception. They faced the dangers unarmed. A variety of regulations regarding civilians working with the Army prohibited them from bearing arms during their service. This was during my first tour when we invaded and secured the country. Eventually these rules would change, but during the early months they wore the uniform but went unarmed. They went into all the same dangerous places, ducked behind the same Humvees to avoid fire, and on one particularly grim day dove into the same puddle of feted sewer water while debris from an IED rained down. As Iraqis, working for the American Army, they truly were marked men. And in many ways they were men apart, neither free to roam in Iraqi society nor fully accepted in Army society. They were very brave. I have no way of knowing if they survived the cauldron of hate and violence that spilled across Iraq in the following years. But I often think of them and how they helped me survive those early days when we went into dark, dark places; places I would never go in later tours.

     It grieves me when I hear politicians and civilians giving way to fear and baser impulses, clamoring for some sort of blanket ban against Muslims, or endorsing an escalation of violence which would surely kill countless innocents. Some would lump all people from certain regions into one faceless mass, refusing to help those fleeing violence and oppression. Our nation was founded on the idea that those who were oppressed might find refuge on our shores, might find an opportunity for a new beginning, and might find a place to breath freely. As a soldier, I cannot forget those men, and women, who faced danger by my side, unarmed. We owe them more. I cannot in good conscience turn my back on comrades and support those who would freely close the door on, or build a wall against, them. We are better than this.

     ISIS and their ilk do not present an existential threat to the United States; our fear threatens our way of life. The bearded, glaring men who seek to destroy us cannot invade our shores, they cannot storm our gates. Our paranoia and anxieties can pull down our ideals, making us scurry about furtively glancing over our shoulder all the time wringing our hands about some unseen foe. Of course they may mount some isolated attack. And if you or a loved one perishes in such an incident it is not minor. But on a national scale such events do not threaten us. When we succumb to fear and suspicion we let them win. We hand them victory when we let mistrust guide us into supporting leaders and polices of isolation, bigotry, and prejudice. We give up an integral part of our national and cultural fabric when allow trepidation to urge us to turn our backs on those desperately needing an extended hand of help. In this time, when fear again threatens to overwhelm our better nature, we must, as it were, gird up our loins and do the right thing.

     More than once in our history fear has gibbered into our ears, urging us to suspect each other to round up those who are different, to put the other under the hot lights of public inquisition, and reign in freedom. Now is the time to shake off the shackles of fear, stand up, and breath deeply the clean bracing air of freedom. We must not let inarticulate unease dictate policies. Those who exploit fear as a source of power do not deserve our support. We must seek out leaders who will call us to our better, nobler, impulses. Ali, Malik, and others like them took great risk to help our nation and well as their own. We owe them. We owe them similar treatment.

     As a follower of Jesus, my master reminds me that I should welcome all those who labor and are heavy laden. Those of us who claim the name of Christ must remember that God did not give us a spirit of fear and that growing in love drives out fear. If we desire to somehow wrap ourselves in the mantle of being a “Christian” we must, at some level, attempt to embrace sacrificial love toward those who seek to do us ill. I know that such attitudes and beliefs drive choices which incur risk. I also know that God calls me to trust Him. If I ever hope to reach over to the Islamic community, I must do so with the love of Jesus. Ali, Malik, and all the others who shared hardship and dangers with me in Baghdad deserve such love.

   

   

 

Why?

5 

     The prophet scratched his beard, sighing in frustration. Sometimes, frequently, he found the Lord frustrating. It seemed as if the Lord never gave him the answer he sought. Habakkuk looked out across his nation in despair. So often it seemed that God did not care. Everywhere Habakkuk looked he saw wickedness and violence. Judah seemed beset by wanton iniquity within and powerful enemies without. Unremitting pressures from the powerful and wealthy ground the feeble into dust. It appeared that either God did not care or was too infirm to stay the hand of evil men; both of which the prophet could not accept. Perhaps; and this too seemed incomprehensible, God had retired from active work in the world, leaving it to unwind on its own. Yet, as he looked over the parchment, his most recent missive, he felt deep within that all of those did not represent God at all. Sighing, he collected his pen, ink, parchment, and thoughts. Soon the soft scratching of pen on velum filled the quiet room as Habakkuk’s chaotic thoughts and feelings coalesced into words.

5 “Look among the nations, and see;

    wonder and be astounded.

For I am doing a work in your days

    that you would not believe if told. Habakkuk 1:5 (ESV)

     Today we often look out into our world, wondering if God has schlepped off to the great “man-cave” in heaven to watch reruns of The Andy Griffith Show and Happy Days on the real big screen. Maybe, He, Jesus, and the Holy Spirit have their feet up and are munching on pizza, popcorn, and Doritos? Like Habakkuk we look out on a landscaped filled with sin and depravity. It seems as if powerful forces rage unchecked across the globe. Where is God, why does He not act? Sometimes we crave a Jobesque audience with God.

     Job, in the midst of great suffering and pain, demands a bit of face-time with God. And God shows up. He and Job engage in a bit of chit-chat with Job demanding an answer to the perplexing problems of his suffering. A careful reading reveals that God never truly answers Job. God says, “Shall a faultfinder contend with the Almighty? He who argues with God, let him answer it.”

     Job replies, “⁴Behold, I am of small account; what shall I answer you? I lay my hand on my mouth. ⁵ I have spoken once, and I will not answer; twice, but I will proceed no further.” Job 40:2-5

     God continues challenging Job and Job finally says, “⁵ I had heard of you by the hearing of the ear, but now my eye sees you; ⁶ therefore I despise myself, and repent in dust and ashes.” Job 42:5-6.

     So what am I, a twenty-first century American to make of these ancient men who grappled with God and His often inscrutable ways? How can the three of us relate? Do these two speak across millennia and miles to me, sitting at my kitchen table in West Texas? Yes, I believe they do.

     I need to put my faith and trust in God. We often speak of getting to see the big replay in heaven. I’m not so sure we do and I am even more convinced that we could not fully grasp the span, depth, and strategy of God. Both Habakkuk and Job seek an explanation from God and both get a different answer than they wanted. God responds to Job by revealing His creative might, asking Job where he was when God did all these things. God tells Habakkuk that he could not take it all in; it’s just too big for Habakkuk’s finite mind.

     As a child and partaker of our modern enlightenment influenced culture, I tend to place a great trust in my ability to think through any problem or quandary. If I study hard, get myself into a good quite place with some West-Coast Jazz in the background, and a good cup of coffee at hand I will uncover the solution to almost any problem. My life, personal and professional, has fully convinced me of this truth. No problem is without a solution. But God, through His prophets, teaches something else.

     While loving, compassionate, and caring, always seeking my best, God does not owe me an answer to all my questions. He reveals enough to bring me to faith, but periodically reminds me that His ways are not my ways and His thoughts are higher than mine. I do not believe this allows me to give a spiritual shrug and walk away from seemingly intractable problems. God still expects me to lift my hand to the task at hand, working to further His kingdom as I understand it. But, God’s purview is larger than mine and as He reminds us through Habakkuk, “For I am doing a work in your days that you would not believe if told.” He is great. He’s got many irons in the fire. And He says, as we say in the Army, “Watch your lanes.”

No Fear!

     “Mr. Robinson, don’t you think our country is corrupt?”

     “Mr. Robinson, I’m afraid of ISIS.”

     “Mr. Robinson, I’m afraid that Donald Trump will become president.”

     “Mr. Robinson, I don’t know what I’ll do if Hillary Clinton becomes president.”

     “Mr. Robinson, I’m afraid of ______________________.”

     I hear these and other such statements almost every day in my classroom, and it grieves my soul. Our current political campaign; perhaps our culture, breeds such needless anxiety. I have watched over the past decade or so as politicians and talking heads exploit fear. This despicable practice seeks to separate and divide, doing precious little to address the real, substantive problems we face. Both parties use this tactic, wielding fear as a cudgel to keep the faithful in line. This insidious practice worms its way into our Churches. Pause in almost any foyer and you will hear hand-wringing speech; often encouraged by the very shepherds who stand in pulpits.

     I hate to disappoint; but, this practice is wrong-headed. In our country we live in a time of unparalleled opportunity and abundance. Look at almost any metric you care to examine and you will find cause for rejoicing. In most places crime is down. Our economy improves monthly, admittedly at a slower rate than we would like, but growth nonetheless. We keep our enemies at bay. More Americans enjoy access to education and healthcare than before. Advances in various technologies provide a quality of life unseen in previous millennia. As whole, our nation enjoys great material blessing, yet we stoke the fires of dread.

     I have lived and worked in countries that face serious existential problems. I have had to work with truly corrupt governmental officials; men who I knew had killed to attain their position of power. I have seen places where fathers laid their children down to rest not knowing if their children would rise to see the next sunrise. In these same places wives send their men off to work praying for their safe return in the eve. In other locations people eke out an existence, toiling day by day in mind-numbing conditions with no hope of improvement. Millions on our globe rise up and exist only to sink back to dust after years of painful labor.

     In these places I understand a sense of despair, but not on our shores. I do not believe our best days lie in the past, they reside in our future. Our nation is not perfect. There are a variety of dark corners in our land that need the light of liberty and freedom. But rather than bewail them, we ought to roll up our sleeves and bend our arms to the task at hand. I believe we can leave our posterity a nation with ample resources and opportunities for education and creation.

     While I might understand those in the world slipping into this morass of gloom and doom, I find the Christian embrace of such thought-patterns mystifying. Of all people we ought to be the most positive, joyful, and hopeful. We need to remember that, “God has not given us a spirit of fear…” II Timothy 1:7. Of course we face challenges as a nation and a culture. We will always find problems to solve; but, they need not overwhelm us. We know the end. We can face troubles knowing that our fate is secure. God’s arm is not shortened; His grasp is not so feeble as to let His cherished ones slip through His fingers. When some politician calls, pandering to fear and peddling divisive distrust of the other, we should ignore the siren call. We want men and women who provide inclusive solutions. After all, God has blessed us immeasurably. Rather than spend our time complaining looking furtively over our shoulders, a spirit of thankfulness and joy should animate us. This thankfulness for God’s gracious provision should propel us into new arenas of endeavor and service. We have His promise to meet all our needs, perhaps we ought to spend ourselves joyfully working to better the portion of the globe we inhabit. 

The Enemy

     The campaign season rages on, roiling in newspapers, television, Facebook, and other forms of social media. In the halls of my school students recklessly hurl insults around blissfully ignorant of the issues at hand and the injury they may cause each other. Politicians and other leaders stoke the fires of fear and ignorance, hoping to gain ideological support for their party, continued employment, and positions of power and influence. This maelstrom sucks Christians of all types into the swirling chaos of contemporary culture. All too often we give into these forces letting them conform us to their shape. We search holy writ for some scrap of scripture that lends itself to our purpose. Somehow position trumps love. All the while God calls me to love my enemy. How can I love those who insult? How am I to love those who hate from far, far away? How do I maintain love in the face of continual encouragement to despise and demean? How do I love those who seem so different, so estranged, so opposed to what I consider best or normal? In I John 4:18-20, John, Jesus’ best friend, gives me some gentle and challenging pointers in my struggle to love.

     When fear motivates me, I’ve stepped out of love. Love takes up all the space in my heart, leaving no room for hatred. Apparently, in some spiritual way, this is an all or nothing prospect. I either love or hate with nothing in between. In Revelation 3, Jesus speaks to this, “¹⁵ “‘I know your works: you are neither cold nor hot. Would that you were cold or hot! ¹⁶ So, because you are lukewarm, and neither cold nor hot, I will spew you out of my mouth.” No matter how I try, I cannot mix love and hate. One or the other serves as my primary motivation. Hatred moves me to view those who are different with suspicion, consigning them to the status of, “the other.”

     Once I think of someone as, “the other,” I more easily dehumanize them, ridicule them, suspect them of ulterior motives, spread rumors about them, describe them as the enemy, and hate them. All of these are the antithesis of how God views them. God calls me to love my enemy, pray for them, seek the best for them, hope for their success, to see them as He sees them. I think I do well when I pray for my enemy. It is a start. However, I still fall woefully short of the mark. In my prayer life I do lift up my enemies, but I still consider them, “the enemy.” I am wrong. They are my brothers and sisters.

     God loves them just as much as He loves me. Jesus came, lived, and died for them as much as He did for me. God does not secretly rejoice when my enemy fails, or perishes lost, estranged from the loving embrace of God. He weeps. II Peter 3:8-20 reminds me that God wants all of His children to come home. It grieves Him that so many live in darkness. And when I treat my fellow man, fellow children of God, with disdain, He grieves. As a parent, it gives me great joy to see my children enjoy each other as adults. They still laugh together and rise up to defend each other. When one struggles, the others weep. They love each other and want the best for the other. Oh, that I would feel the same level of compassion for those I consider my enemy. I should not avoid the other; rather I should run to them. I must learn to stop praying for “my enemy” and instead lift up my brothers and sisters, earnestly seeking God’s favor for them, longing for the day when they enjoy the same outpouring of God’s grace that so enriches my life.

     If those of us who claim Christ could grow in this particular grace, perhaps our campaign season might pass more calmly. Perhaps we might find that the other side actually desires good for our nation. Perhaps, even, we might discover some better solution to the problems that vex us so. And most importantly, perhaps we might serves as better ambassadors for Christ, a more pleasing aroma.