09 Oct 2005

RICHMOND – The greatest ministry impact I am having on Soldiers continues to be over the internet.  Stephen Mansfield, in his new book The Faith of the American Soldier, notes how the internet and email have changed the way Soldiers maintain their faith in Iraq.  They gather in small groups, pairs, or just alone, and read what they can from emails and websites.  They share what’s challenging them, what’s hurting, but most of all they try to understand how to get God on their side.  The radical individualism of our common age has impacted our Soldiers.  Rather than gather in worship and sharing burdens with one another, pursuing God on a common course, they look simply for ways that God can fit their need and protect them in battle.  Who can blame them?  I send an email called the “Sunday Bulletin” every week.  They read it alone at the computer, or they print it out and read it in their quarters.  But they don’t do what I had hoped—they don’t gather together in Bible Study groups to go over it together.  The isolation worries me.

I continue to work in Richmond.  The Soldiers are overseas in Iraq.  I hear from them every day.  Ramadan has begun.  The grim reality is that this means heightened threat levels.  The Muslim insurgents feel empowered by the holy month, certain that Allah is pleased with their extra efforts at holiness.  Attacks increase.  Mosques are safe houses from which to launch attacks.  I wonder how that’s affecting my guys—I haven’t been able to talk to any of them openly about that topic.  Are they differentiating between “Muslim” and “insurgent”?  I hope so.

Two experiences gave me a sense of deep privilege this last week.  Those moments where you wonder why you’re there.  The vague sense of inadequacy Why did God put me here? is matched simultaneously by the overwhelming sense of privilege. 

One was the funeral of the mother of one of our Soldiers.  I had never attended a Black Pentecostal funeral before.  Having participated in thirty-two funerals over the thirty-six months I worked as an associate pastor at my upper-middle class Presbyterian Church in New Jersey, I thought I knew what I was doing in a funeral home.  I had no idea.  I arrived and asked for the family.  A hostess embarrassingly pulled me aside, “Sir, the family won’t arrive for some time.”  At the appointed hour, the family rolled up in a train of limousines.  The remembrances lasted over an hour.  The service lasted over two.  The preacher let fly with a John 3 call to be born again.  “I won’t speak for Ernestine,” he said, “either she was or she wasn’t, and only Jesus knows.  But I speak to you today, while you live, before it’s too late.  BE BORN AGAIN IN CHRIST.”  I was.  Ernestine traveled from the funeral home to the grave on a horse-drawn caisson.  Butterflies were released as she passed by her humble, well-kept house.  And I was humbled by the privilege.  I wasn’t the only Caucasian there—there was one other among the hundred or so gathered.  Privilege.

The other privilege was a visit to Walter Reed Army Hospital.  My Chaplain’s Assistant and I drove up there on Friday to visit with a Soldier.  His injuries were not physical, but I won’t say any more than that here.  Matt and I walked into the hospital and up to an information desk.  Immediately behind me was a man in a wheelchair.  A fresh white bandage formed a ball at his knee, where the rest of his leg recently was.  Gone now.  I smiled quickly at him.  You don’t want to make a huge deal out of it.  You don’t want him to feel inhuman, different, special—or maybe you do.  Maybe I should have stopped and thanked him.  Shook his hand.  Given him my wallet.  Kissed him and prayed for him and asked him what I could do for him.  My response was probably less than it should have been, I think now.  Looking back, I think he may have even thought that the glance I shot him was glib, uncaring.  I imagine sitting where he was sitting, and what thoughts would go through my mind.  Matt and I saw many of these heroes in Walter Reed, at various stages of learning to be whole again despite the loss of a limb.  It is a rare privilege to be their Chaplain.  A humbling privilege.

It occurred to me as well that few Soldiers visit Walter Reed just before heading off to a battlefield.  My Chaplain Assistant, Matt, and I are still awaiting final word that we are heading over to Iraq.  I know we’re needed over there.  There are places of privilege there too.  And places of great despair and need.  Pray for peace.