Joseph R. Odell's Blog, page 4

On Killing

How much is a child's life worth?  In Eastern Afghanistan, about $170.

Before the deployment, I talked to a number of soldiers who were concerned about being able to kill someone, even someone who was trying to kill them.  They recognized that it's not a video game.  They knew that people who were very different from them in some ways were also just like them in others.   However, when the shooting started, basically everyone shot back.  

Part of the reason was the distance.  As my former psychology professor, David Grossman, wrote in his book, "On Killing", shooting at someone far away is not too morally difficult - though it is harder than dropping bombs on them.  It isn't until the enemy gets into hand grenade range that we get really uncomfortable.  They look too human when they get that close. 

The hardest is knife-range, what Grossman refers to as the "sexual intimacy range" of body-to-body.  While those "hands-on" fights did occur in Afghanistan, they were rare.  Most were at crew-served weapon range - heavy machine guns, rockets, mortars.  Many of the targeting systems used an infrared camera, so the targets were just human shaped blobs on the screen.  

Even so, I distinctly remember talking to one of the young men who engaged an enemy with his infrared-slaved machine gun.  He wounded the enemy combatant, and then engaged again to finish him off as he crawled away.  His gaze was distant as he talked about it.  I guarantee he still remembers that. 

Of course, once we were there, everyone played off as if it wasn't a big deal.  With your buddies getting killed and wounded around you, the obvious trauma was far more pressing, at least in public, than the moral injury of killing.

Unfortunately, there were unwanted casualties.  Most of the time they were people wounded in the crossfire, and since we would be near the civilians, they were shot by the enemy (accidentally, as a rule).  However, we're the "good guys", so it was our leadership that paid off the families for their losses - and the payments they accepted for those losses didn't endear the people to the American soldiers.

We had two incidents I can recall in which we were responsible for civilian injuries and/or death.  One was when a forward observer called for mortar fire, gave the wrong numbers, and the mortars dropped in a village.  It was a "bad guy" village by reputation, but anyone who wasn't supporting the Taliban already...probably was after that.  Another occasion was when a commander cleared attack helicopters to engage a group of people based upon what the pilots reported.  Apparently, what was reported wasn't what was there.

But, of course, in war there is always deception, and the war isn't just the gunfights.  It's the public relations battle, the propaganda battle, the battle for "hearts and minds" - in theater and at home.  Were those "funerals" really funerals?  Were the kids killed by helicopters actually being used to carry the rocket shells always fired from that area?  The uncertainty wasn't just hard then - it remains with soldiers and leaders far after the deployment was over.

That uncertainty is part of why we need a faith grounded in truth - not just something our grandparents told us, but something rooted in the entirety of human experience.  A God who just makes us feel good in hard times can't stand up to the pain, rush, and regrets of combat. 

But, knowing a God who orchestrates all things, who makes our failures and successes both meaningful and consequential, and also part of a divine plan in his hands, is one that gives us a foundation to stand upon.  The "what if's" have no resolution that satisfies, but the God who saves, who is making all thing new, fills a need beyond knowledge - and gives a life worth living.

Sex in Combat

I had never seen a "blow-up doll" before.  My infantrymen made sure that shortcoming was fixed.

Being a chaplain in an essentially all-male unit is guaranteed to put you in a tight spot.  Yes, you are officially the commander's advisor for moral and ethical issues, which isn't a problem.  It is the unofficial element, the "man of the cloth" part, that makes you a walking representative of morality.  While there are, of course, those chaplains for whom simply being a moral person is a problem, the real issue is how to balance that perception with approachability - yeah, you're the God guy, but are you a prude, too?

I remember my first chaplain when I was an aviation officer.  He decided the best way to manage that tension was to smoke, swear, and look at the soldier's pornographic magazines right with them.  You know, he's "one of the guys", non-threatening.  This is the route some chaplains take - even though those elements may seem like "not a big deal", the chaplain leaves his moral authority behind in an effort to be cool.  Other chaplains think they are the morality police, stirring up the chain of command because they found pornography somewhere.

But, if you're going to spend a year in combat with a bunch of infantrymen, neither of those are what they need.  They have no sexual outlet, and we aren't talking about committed religious people, as a rule.  Some of them had significant others who sent them racy pictures, but, generally, porn is everywhere, their conversations about what they wish they were doing back home is loaded with sex talk, and their horseplay even has sexual elements to it, as some guy is invariably "raped" in an impromptu (clothed) wrestling match in the dirt.  There is a curious blend of Venus with Mars.

I tried to walk the line.  I didn't let anyone know about the wall of Playboy centerfolds behind the American Flag at one combat outpost (COP), and couldn't help but laugh at the "sex toys" accidentally left in view when men had to roll out the door in a hurry.  One of the men at the same COP even had a girlfriend who sent him a blow-up doll, which they dressed (seen above).  The guys knew I wasn't ok with porn, as evidenced by the smiling yell of, "put the damn porn away, the chaplain's here!" often given by a sergeant upon my arrival.  As often as their lives were threatened, I didn't think demanding purity was my role.

So, there is very little actual sex happening in combat, unsurprisingly.  Unlike common assumptions, most of the men didn't project misogynistic views of women, and they missed their wives and girlfriends as people, not objects - their conversations I overheard proved it.  They never talked about local women in a disrespectful way - they actually expressed compassion for their condition (as one soldier said to me, "All a daughter has to look forward to in this place is getting beat and married off at age 12").

Despite Maslow's "hierarchy" claim, they all survived with no sex.  They didn't "need" sex, but the sure would have liked to have it.  Thankfully, in our area, there were plenty of outlets for aggressive energy release, and when they visited "safer" locations that had women permanently located there, they stayed well within the bounds of the law.  Sex wasn't a problem in a hot zone. 

But, killing, the subject of my next blog article, was an issue.

** The photo above is a photoshop - originally I was pranked by the men who ambushed me with a camera right after they presented me this doll.  I made this image for a joke briefing a couple of weeks later.  I didn't think it was a good idea for a picture of me holding a blow-up doll to be on INTERNETS.

Then, Everything Unravels

The hardest times aren't always in the midst of the fury.  Sometimes, they are when you are nowhere near it.  When your brothers need you most, in the worst possible circumstances, and you aren't there for them - what do you do?

I missed the birth of my daughter, Claire.  This was a deliberate decision by my wife and me.  Claire was scheduled to arrive about a month into our deployment.  I could have stayed at home and left late, or come home the week she was due.  However, that would have meant going 11 months apart, which we wanted to avoid.  So, on July 6th, my wife brought baby Claire into the world with her mom in the room, and me on the other end of the phone.  I can't imagine I was particularly helpful for that.  Thankfully, I've been present for most of the other kids' arrivals into the family!

Anyway, my leave period was scheduled for halfway through the tour.  By that time, we had lost four of our warriors to enemy fire in five months.  In the weeks before my departure, our unit launched two large-scale missions into hostile territory.  I asked to go on both, and was told "No" in both cases.  So, I was stuck praying and listening to the radio in the command post for each.  

Both missions went very similarly.  A night movement into the valley (the Chapadara Valley and the Korengal Valley), followed soon afterward by sustained enemy fire for hours on end.  Incredibly - supernaturally, it seemed - we had no one killed on these missions.  As I recall, we didn't even have a serious injury in those battles (though we had a serious injury back at one of the other combat outposts (COPs) while most of the soldiers were away on the mission).  

On paper, they never should have played out that way.  Both were known insurgent strongholds.  Both times it was hot and heavy.  Yet, the team came back, mission accomplished, with heads held high and no losses.  Though we had another, similar, mission planned, I headed out for leave without any real worries.

But then, a call came at home.  We had lost one to enemy fire on one of the COPs.  Then, another call - this one for a medic lost in the early stages of that planned mission.  Horrifyingly, another call came in.  We had lost FIVE more of my brothers to enemy fire as that mission continued.  Then, in a strange, frustrating wrinkle of bureaucracy, my return flight was denied on the appointed date.  After two more days of trying to get the system to work, I just bought my ticket to Atlanta so I could hop on the daily flight back to theater.  

But, of course, I was too late.  Seven men died in the time I was gone, which was more men from our unit than we lost the entire time I was with them, before and after.  I never wanted the guys to think I was a good luck charm, and I knew that their lives didn't depend upon my presence - but the facts stared me in the face.  In their time of greatest need, I wasn't there for them.  My tears at home didn't help them.  My prayers from afar seemed empty.  While a good friend handled the chaplain duties for my stunned unit, I was half a globe away, in peace and security, and didn't even get back for the memorial ceremonies.

Why would God do that?  Why would He make it look like I WAS a good luck charm?  Why would he prevent me from helping them in their grief?  Does God only show up when his special agents (clergy) are around, and we are left to fend for ourselves otherwise?  Does a man's failure to see the future clearly curse not only himself, but his fellow man with him?

I still don't have all of those answers.  But, when I made it back to the war, I was able to see something I needed to know - I wasn't the only chaplain, or the only man, who could help my brothers in grief.  My friend stepped up and made a real difference in their lives.  Other men, many who were solid in their faith, filled the gap in ways that still make me proud to know them.  And, of course, the damage of those days did not end within 72 hours.  I still get calls, years after the fact, from men who struggle with the losses of those days.  It's an honor to walk with them when days are dark.

The truth is, that faith isn't given just to help you through a moment.  It is a gift to be given to others, through relationships and hardships, in the flames of battle and in the simmer of memory.  It proves itself real as time and life progress.  It not only helps you to see reality, it helps others see what is real as well.  And, as the year in the Pech Valley continued, I would have plenty more opportunities to see that reality.

V is for Victory

People think that the scariest thing about war is the shooting and explosions as people are trying to kill you.   Actually, that's the most exciting part.

It's hard to qualify what is "winning" in war when you are a chaplain.  I never shoot at anyone.  I never was in charge of soldiers on cordon and search missions, on guard, or the interactions with locals.  Unlike the story the Chaplain Corps tried to sell us, I never was really part of a "key leader engagement" with an Afghan mullah.   When it came to things the commanders could measure, I  was pretty much an oxygen thief.  When rounds came in, my job was to stay out of the way and maybe help move people and stuff as appropriate.  I would run to the aid station as the volume of fire allowed, but otherwise I wasn't helping the team.

Of course, not getting hit DOES help the team.  A battalion only has one chaplain, and if I was wounded, no one would replace me.  Some chaplains liked to go running around in predictably  hot missions.  Some even carried weapons to "help".  However, I only went on missions intended to be low key, even though they all didn't turn out that way.  Even so, with our unit averaging four fights per day, I "avoided getting hit" A LOT.  After my first two weeks in country, I started keeping a record of the incidents. 

Most entries are tame:  "RPGs & SAF @ Location*." "107mm Rocket hits 50m from chapel."

Others have more details: "2xIDF, @ Location. 1 strikes building roof I am in (blew a hole in the concrete roof)." "while at Location, COP takes accurate SAF. AK-47 or Dragunov round strikes the wall 3 feet from where I am standing. No BDA."  "Recoilless hits wall near mortar pit and ignites a bunch of stuff around the mortar."

Some are comical: "AGS-17 & SAF @ Location. Bullet whizzes by my head as I am foolishly looking over the HESCOs. Whoops."  "82mm@Location, hits 30m from chapel. This place is getting dangerous." "SAF & RPG @ Location. Stupid war interrupts my evangelistic service!"

There are some longer ones I'll include in future posts, but the one where I actually contributed something to the fight just said: "IED, enroute, on my vehicle. Vehicle inop, no casualties."

I was on my usual rotation between combat outposts (COPs).  We had been warned by locals that an IED had been emplaced.  We stopped twice to look for it, but didn't find anything.  A 20 minute drive had taken almost two hours - after all, you don't want to stumble on an IED.  We were well past the area it was supposed to be in, and the staff sergeant in the vehicle turned around to me and said, "sir, this one time in Iraq, they put anoth-" WHOOMP!!!!!!!

I felt something slam into my left leg.  Dust was everywhere, and I heard bullets hitting our vehicle and other explosions.  I asked the guy in the truck to my left if he was ok - he didn't answer, and I started yelling at him, and when I smacked his arm, he turned and looked at me - the intercom broke in the blast, but he was fine.  The turret gunner had a Mark-19, an automatic 40mm grenade launcher.  He fired a couple of rounds, and then it jammed.  He started flipping out and chaos reigned around us.  I decided I'd better do something.

"Get your alternate weapon.  Get your alternate weapon.  No, I don't HAVE a weapon, you need to grab YOUR alternate weapon.  Yes, that (his M203 combination rifle and grenade launcher).  Now return fire.  (after a couple of shots).  Ok, now try to clear the jam.    Good, now return fire with that.  Here is another box of ammo..."  

The damage was enough to disable the truck, but none of us was really hurt.  Just ringing ears - the thing that hit my leg was just a small clergy kit I kept in my cargo pocket, but the shock of the blast made it bounce off me surprisingly hard.  Our return fire was enough to slow down the attack, and a second truck pulled around us, hooked up the tow bar, and pulled us forward to the next COP.

During the battle, I didn't pray once, though I did pray in thankfulness afterward.  In fact, during my entire deployment, while I did pray many times for the men in the battle, I only prayed for my own survival once (another story for another day).  When the bullets hit and explosions rain, you don't do a lot of cognitive thinking.  You just act.  The adrenaline fires up, and you do what you have been trained to do, and act on instinct.  When the shooting stops, and everyone has survived, you say - that's a victory.

Nothing back home compares to that.  We have lost brothers who survived the Pech Valley, but went thrill seeking, perhaps trying to replicate the thrill of combat - and their recklessness was their undoing.  In contrast, faith settles the soul.  It tells you what's important, where to find purpose, and your place in the story of yourself and those around you.  It helps you see, because faith is not blind, that you survived so you could be someone who makes a difference in the lives of those around you, those who count on you most...and that's the real victory.
 

* For some reason I'm really hesitant to list locations and names.  If you were there, you know.  if you weren't, it doesn't matter.

When Death Comes Calling

And I looked, and behold, a pale horse! And its rider’s name was Death, and Hell followed him. ~ Revelation 6:8

The men looked at me as a good luck charm.  You don't want that as a chaplain - you can't guarantee anything, after all.  Things just don't work that way.  That said, I have to admit that our unit never lost a member to combat on whatever outpost or convoy I happened to be.  Even so, with all the flying lead, fragmenting steel, and explosions directed toward us, even I couldn't escape the face of death.

Every week I held a service at each combat outpost (COP), with two at Camp Blessing on Sundays.  Attendance varied from 5 to 25, with some guys showing up every week, and others dropping in on occasion.  I never had someone who only came once.

One Tuesday, as I was getting ready to move to the next COP, one of the regulars walked by.  He said, "sorry I missed the service yesterday, chap - I'll catch you next week!"  I really liked him.  Chaplains do a lot of marriage counseling, normally for "issues", but he and his wife had come in to see me one day, "just to get better".  That's the kind of marriage counseling a chaplain dreams of!  I waved at him and smiled, and headed out to join my convoy, which was headed the opposite direction from his.

When I had a choice, I always rode in the front vehicle (of a four-six vehicle convoy).  It's the most likely to get hit by an IED, and it was important to me that they knew I wasn't scared.  Well, looked like I wasn't scared, at least.

We rolled out the gate and headed east.  As we approached a town, there was a huge explosion in front of our vehicle - they had missed, blowing the explosive too early.  At nearly exactly the same time, we started getting radio reports that the convoy going the other way had also been hit.  We turned our convoy around to go provide security and assistance.  When we arrived, they had already told us that there were two dead and one seriously wounded.  

We stopped about 80 yards short of the other vehicles (my truck was last on the route back).  Over the objections of the sergeant in the truck, I jumped out and ran toward the disabled truck, saying, "yeah, ok, cover me" before I disconnected from the intercom wire.  As I came nearer to the blast site, I saw that the truck had somehow been flipped 180 degrees from its original direction and was on its side, with chunks of metal, concrete, and dust all over.  There was no fire.

Someone stopped me on the way to the truck - the medic.  I could hear the MEDEVAC helicopter already approaching.  The medic said, "Sir, he's hurt really bad, you've gotta pray for him."  The man was strapped down to the stretcher already, prepped for evacuation, and I knelt down next to him and prayed - yelling to try to be heard over the helicopter noise.

Why was I yelling?  Was God unable to hear over the sound of a Blackhawk?  I yelled for the injured man, for the medic, and anyone close enough to hear.  They needed to know that I was praying, and what I was praying.  I wasn't there for me, and I wasn't even there for God.  I was there for them.

As they picked him up and moved him toward the landing zone, I walked to the truck.  I knew they were dead - no hurry.  One man was halfway out the door on the driver's side, pinned to the ground crushed beneath the vehicle.  His skin was completely green.  GREEN.  Not like the green crayon, but a grey-green covering that made him look...unhuman.  As I knelt down next to him, crucifix in one hand, mace of holy water in the other, I realized why - he wasn't human anymore.  The bond between body and spirit had been ripped apart, the most unnatural thing that can happen to a person.  After praying for his soul and his family, I stood and went to the turret, where I knew I would find my "regular" who had missed that week's service.

All I could see was his waist, from the back.   He was covered in all kind of war debris - ammunition, boxes, and I don't even know what else.  I tried to pull him out by his waist, but couldn't budge him.  I tried for a while to dig him out, throwing items out of the truck, but the distribution of debris and mangled armored truck parts was beyond my ability to move.  The senior man in the group told me they would need to put the truck upright in order to remove him.  So, after a moment to bless my brother's body and spirit, separated until the Last Day, I walked back to my convoy.

We found out later that his wife was pregnant with his child, conceived shortly before he left for the deployment.  Was that the answer to my prayers?  It certainly didn't feel like enough.  A widow and a fatherless child left behind, while those who killed him didn't even have the decency to fight it out with us.  His teammate dead, his sergeant wounded in body and soul.  If my faith was based only upon what my parents told me, or what I came up with on my own, or even what I shared with a group of peers in school, an event like this would have broken it.  But a God who is real doesn't only speak through life and good times.  In many ways, his voice is easier to hear in the despair and in the valley of the shadow of death.  And, in the midst of this violence, He was calling us to Himself.
 

(Photo Credit: Jonathan Springer)

That Hideous Strength

Not many people get to see the Hulk smash through walls.  However, it happened on my base in Afghanistan, on one of those days I'll never forget.
 

I was sitting down in the chapel, a plywood "B-Hut" with a worship space, an office for me, an office for my assistant, and my sleep quarters.  We used the chapel for more than just Sunday services.  Apart from my regular counseling, we used it for movie night, sports event viewings, making videos for troops to send home to their kids, and, my favorite, cigar night.  Everyone knew where the chapel was, so while I made morning and evening rounds on the days I was there, people always found me in the chapel while I worked on service preparation or staff work.
 

PEW-BOOM!!!!! The all-too familiar sound of an incoming and impacting round generated my typical dive onto the floor (of course, it's too late by then, but you don't think, you just act).  After a minute or two, I threw on my helmet and vest and dashed outside to run up to the command post so I could find out where it landed.  I never got there - the round had hit the staff barracks directly across from the command post, about 30 yards from the chapel.  The wall and doorway was a disaster - in the few moments before I had arrived, one of our officers, nicknamed "Bear" had smashed down the remaining interior and exterior structure in his way, just like Hulk, to pull out one of his fellow officers who was wounded by the blast.  He was a dust and debris monster, with bloody knuckles.  Another officer, who was walking outside the staff barracks when the rocket hit, was also seriously wounded.

I ran down to the aid station and moved to my spot at the head of the more visibly seriously wounded of my friends.  I will never forget what looked like a hook from a huge shower curtain protruding from his back, like he was a fish that had been hooked through the gills.  Both men were in pain and shock, and the medical team scrambled to address their wounds.  I talked to my friend with pretty standard platitudes - "it's gonna be ok"; "you'll be back with us in no time", as well as the jokes that a man needs at a time like this: "at least you've still got your family jewels!"  I kept my hand on his head or neck as the team worked, talking in a controlled tone, while occasionally handing the medical team supplies that were near me.

We strapped my friends down and evacuated them on a Blackhawk helicopter.  Neither of them returned to our combat zone - one was eventually returned to duty back at our home station, the other's rehab took much longer than we realized it would.  Good men, doing their best, hurt and humbled, while I sat in a plywood box, unprotected, but safe from that particular attack.

Why them, and not me?  Why wasn't I lying there with chunks of wood, brick, and metal protruding from my body?  I wasn't doing anything particularly holy at the time, and I certainly wasn't a better person than either of those men. Why does God allow men with evil intent to kill or wound those who are just trying to help those around them?  Did my faith have room for these questions?

I'm thankful it did - because I knew what I believed, why I believed it, and where that faith came from.  With some questions we have to be content with no answer.  For the rest, we must strive to get those answers right, because life will demand it.

So, I was able to be a friend, a leader, a confidant, a comforter, and someone who bore the burdens of those who surrounded me.  Because they saw that I was real, and I didn't pretend to have all the answers, they knew I could be trusted, and to this day still reach out to me.  No man deserves the honor and privilege of the time and trust these men gave me - so I must thank God for this "Blessing" of war and what it has given me. 

Keyboard Warriors, Cowardice, and It Just Got Real

You know those guys.  After a full day of playing Call of Duty from their mother’s basement, they splatter all over the INTERNETS how they would do such-and-such in combat, brag about their guns, post pics of them with their subdued US flag, OAF Nation, camouflage hats.  But, they’ve never seen a shot fired in anger.  As they say, everybody want to be a tough guy until it’s time to do tough guy stuff.

But I was aware of my lack of combat experience.  While interviewing for a special operations unit, I was asked to rank order 16 character traits.  For #16, I put, “courage”.  When the interviewer asked me why I did that, I said, “I have never been under hostile fire.  I like to think that I would do what was right, no matter what, but I don’t think anyone really knows what they will do until they are in the middle of it.”

45 days later, I was on a CH-47 Chinook helicopter with 35 other men, flying down the Pech River Valley at midnight.  As we landed at FOB Blessing in the pitch dark, the co-pilot said, “you have three minutes to get off of the LZ before mortar rounds will start landing.”  Let’s just say, something tightened up immediately.

We were off the LZ quickly, and the mortar fire didn’t happen (the enemy rarely attacked at night in that part of the country).  However, the daily attacks, on and off the bases, began right away.  But, despite all of the flying lead and explosions, there was very little in the way of casualties that first month.  My first “firefight” wasn’t a big deal.  I was in an armored truck that came under fire , and the bullets just bounced off of the vehicle.  It probably only lasted three minutes, and there were no casualties.  There were other times of more intense fire, bullets and explosions, with similarly little damage to people. 

One day, the commander’s security detachment had a short firefight with the enemy and a wounded soldier came in.  It turned out that he had a gun jam, and then grabbed his secondary weapon, but in the heat of battle one of the rounds he fired hit the inside of his own turret – it fragmented and cut his face in a couple of places.  Standing in my customary place at the head of the surgical table, I joked, “I’m sorry, private, but you’re not gonna make it.  Are you ready to meet your maker?”  He cracked back at me, “F- you, chaplain!”  We all laughed.

However, a week later, that same group came under intense fire from heavy machine guns and RPGs.  I wasn’t with them, but was in the command post (CP) listening to the radio.  The news was coming in – out of four trucks, two were disabled.  There was one KIA, several wounded, one of them badly.  I stood in the CP, helpless.  As men fought for their lives, one of whom ran 150 yards under intense fire to get to one of the disabled vehicles to help that team, all I could do was pray for them. 

The same young man I joked with on the table was the one who was badly wounded, and the medic at the combat outpost couldn’t save him.  My praying didn’t save him, and my morning prayers didn’t save the driver who was killed by an RPG to his head.  Did my prayers matter?  Was it somehow my fault for not praying enough, for not believing enough, for not doing enough? 

What did I believe about God?  Why did I think those beliefs were true?  Where did those beliefs come from?  Moments like this force us into answering these questions.  Just like Call of Duty Warrior who can talk a big game, when we think our faith is real, we can talk a big game – until it gets real. 

I Miss War

I spent May of 2010-April 2011 in the Pech River Valley of Afghanistan.  Our area of operations included the Waygal, Chapadara, Shuryak, Korengal, and Watapur Valleys.  There have been several books and movies written about that area – because it was a shooting gallery.

My battalion was involved in over 1200 “TICs” (Troops in Contact, involving direct and/or indirect fire) in less than a year.  Three of our four combat outposts (COPs) were in the Top 5 of all of Afghanistan for number of TICs.  We had exactly two 24-hour periods in the entire year that didn’t involve a gunfight.  It was a crazy time.  We endured a casualty rate of about 1/8 of the unit, losing 17 total men to death and around total 150 wounded.

Every week I would travel by road between the COPs.  Sunday at Blessing, Monday at Michigan, Tuesday at Able Main, Wednesday at Honaker-Miracle, and back to Blessing on Thursday.  I typically would be on the receiving end of gunfire and RPGs on at least one of those transits each week.  One platoon playfully called me a “bullet magnet”.  My vehicle was attacked with IEDs three times (though only one was successful), and I had countless near misses on the road and on foot from RPGs, rockets, recoilless rifle rounds, mortars, and small arms.  Mind you, as a chaplain, I did not carry a weapon.  It was a crazy life. 

And, I miss it.  I miss the camaraderie.  I miss the guys who were happy to see me – some because they liked me, some because they felt better when a chaplain was around, and some who just knew another week had passed because I had arrived.  I miss hanging out with the infantrymen, the supply guys, the medics, the mortar team, the cooks, the leaders, the radio operators, the mechanics.  I miss chilling over coffee, sprinting to the aid station during an attack, leading field services, and holding the hand of a wounded warrior.  I miss the thrill of knowing I just escaped death again.  I miss Call of Duty with guys who were doing it for real 4 hours ago.  I miss helping guys through tough times.

I just finished Sebastian Junger’s “Tribes”, which took me by surprise.  On the one hand, it’s encouraging to know my reaction is pretty normal.  On the other, it’s hard to hear how difficult it has been for those who had similar experiences.  No, it isn’t PTSD trauma itself that has been biting my brothers and sisters, it is the lack of community in these divided states. 

We’ve lost more than a half-dozen men to suicide since we returned.  They all had people they could have called, but they didn’t.  Some did identify as Christian, some didn’t.  But, none of them had real community they felt a part of, at least not like they did in war.  None of them had a vibrant faith centered on the One who made all things, and who is making all things new.  When things looked worst in their lives, they didn’t feel like they had anything to live for, even when they had wives, children, parents, and brothers-in-arms who loved them and needed them. 

So, while my book is aimed at growing in faith, the goal isn’t merely people who know more.  It’s people who are part of the community of faith – living, growing, loving, supporting, sacrificing – for themselves and for each other.  A life dedicated to the one who gave his life so that we could have new life is one that looks like this.  It’s one that gives meaning, hope, focus, and purpose…and those are things we all need to survive this world.

 

(Photo Credit: J.J. McCool, http://jjmccool.net/, taken at COP Michigan with a bunch of men I love)

Words Mean Something

I'll never forget that one question on the quiz -

Briefly explain the following passage:  "Remove not the ancient landmarks which your fathers have set (Proverbs 22:28)."

The following options were available:

a) Do not take down an old monument

b) Keep established tradition

c) Do not steal

Without hesitation, I chose the answer that I was certain was right - B.  After all, I had heard this passage used, more than once, in this very way.  (Here is an example)

And, like many occasions, I was wrong in my certainty.  The right answer is C.

I'll put the explanation at the end, for those who are interested, but the right understanding of this verse isn't the point.  I was WRONG about what the verse meant, because I believed a very reasonable explanation by people I trusted.  I had never before been given a reason to doubt that understanding.  I had never been given a reason to doubt the preparation of those people who told me the wrong meaning.  I never questioned what I believed, why I believed it, and where that came from in the first place.  I believed there was a God-breathed prohibition against changing "that old time religion".

What do you believe?  Why do you believe it?  Where did that belief originate?  And, once you have answered those questions - are those answers good enough?

Soli Deo Gloria,

Joey

***Why I was wrong***

Because I didn't understand the 17th century meaning of "landmark" (since the King James Version of 1611 is where most current versions begin their translation verbiage, for reader familiarity), which meant "boundary line", not "monument"...which is why answer isn't "A".

Because I didn't know the Hebrew word translated there also means "territorial boundary" or "structure marking that boundary".

Because I didn't realize the original context, which can also be seen in Deuteronomy 19:14 and 27:17, is that people would move these property markers slowly, over time, to claim their neighbor's land for themselves.

Because, the preachers who used the verse in this way used it in a modern context of resisting "liberal" encroachment against established doctrines or practices, it makes sense that it could mean that.  After all, that's a message that is Biblical in some applications.

Because, even giving them the benefit of the doubt that they did their homework, those leaders would say that keeping "old, sound doctrine" would still be "in the spirit" of Proverbs 22:28.  However, when we understand that it is condemning a specific practice against stealing, we know it can't be about foolishly accepting novel doctrines or practices.  

There are verses that talk about that sort of thing, but this isn't one of them.  Using it in this way undermines the messenger and the message.  

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Liturgy, Liberty, and a Ragamuffin Band

Liturgy, Liberty, and a Ragamuffin Band

I love Rich Mullins, writer of “Awesome God”, and a dozen other songs popular in the 90’s in church circles.  I love his music, his lyrics, and his story – he was a weird guy, but in an endearing way.  One of his songs, “Creed” is essentially the apostle’s creed set to music, but with a chorus that goes like this:

I believe what I believe

It’s what makes me what I am

I did not make it, no it is making me

It is the very truth of God and not the invention of any man.

 I did not make it – no, it is making me.  There is something about submitting ourselves to beliefs and practices that are external to our own minds that shapes us in ways we would not have otherwise chosen.  In that same vein, recently, I was reading JRH Moorman’s “History of the Church in England”, and I came across this blurb:

The Puritan party was active, self-confident, and aggressive.  On the ecclesiastical side it represented those who wished to advance from the restrained conservatism of the Elizabethan Settlement to much greater liberty in both worship and in church government.  It disliked both the Prayer Book and the episcopacy because each put a curb on the liberty of the individual.

Liberty!  As Americans, we like that.  But what did they dislike?  Submitting their worship to the prayer book (incidentally, this wasn’t the case for all Puritans, just those who wanted out of the Church of England altogether) and submitting to the authority of the bishops.  The Puritans believed that each individual clergyman, should be able to determine what was right for their church to believe and do.

This sounds great – but at what cost?  Those faith traditions with formal liturgy are familiar with the Latin phrase, “lex orandi, lex credendi, lex vivendi” – the law of prayer is the law of belief is the law of living.  What you pray and how you worship shapes your beliefs, which shape your behavior.

There is something…freeing about submitting to liturgy, a liturgy that has existed for centuries, spoken and moved by the communion of saints in the church over that time and global space.  There is a unity in practice, in worship, and in belief that cannot be achieved in a whim of liturgy that flows from the preferences and ideas of individual ministers.  An insistence that we MUST be “free” to choose our individual churches’ worship methods on our own is chronological and individual snobbery, an insistence that I know better than those who have walked before me, and even those who walk with me.  It is an insistence that the Holy Spirit wrote the Scriptures and speaks to me, and everyone in between had never been in communion with the Spirit of God.

There may be things about a historic liturgy that need changing, but there is a way to do it that keep that unbroken unity of faith, worship, and practice…and it isn’t each church doing what it wants.