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This has been an
interesting week. The movie Letters from Iwo Jima was
released on DVD, and on the same Tuesday, the Wall Street
Journal reported that “Iwo Jima Letters of a Young
Japanese are Home at Last.” The story is of a
19-year-old sailor, Victor Voegelin, who, when searching for
the wounded on Iwo Jima, saw a piece of thread poking out of
the ground. He found the thread was attached to a pack of
letters, which languished in a file. Spurred by the movie,
he found that the letters had belonged to Tadashi Matsukawa,
a Japanese sailor, age 23 when he died. After some research
they were returned to his brother, Masaji, age 80—the same
age as Mr. Voegelin. And here, 62 years after the ending of
hostilities, we have an act of reconciliation.
The movie’s most
poignant moment for me was when Sam, the wounded American,
dies and his captors discover on his person a letter from
his mother which reads: “Always do what is right, because it
is right.” The Japanese soldier who found the letter says
these words are the same ones his mother said to him. Our
humanity is connected. Another line that grabbed me was: “I
don’t know anything about the enemy.” And therein is one of
the root causes of conflicts and their resolution.
Clint Eastwood’s two
movies, Flags of Our Fathers and Letters
from Iwo Jima, help us do the hard work of
reconciliation in the face of memories of war and slaughter
by highlighting our mutual humanity. The two movies raise
the issues: What is duty? To whom? God, country, family?
What is valor? What is honor? My grandfather “Pop” went to
war in 1917 at the age of forty-something, volunteering in
the “War to End All Wars,” leaving his family of two young
daughters, ages eleven and nine. He chose country over
family. Was it a wise choice? The family has been discussing
that for generations.
Memorial Day’s
origins are attributed to the Civil War. Some say it began
in Columbus, Mississippi where, in 1868, women of the town
and widows of the slain soldiers came to place flowers on
the graves of the fallen children of the Confederacy. They
noted the unmarked graves of the Union soldiers nearby and
they placed flowers on their graves, as well. This act of
humanity demonstrated a Christian love for enemies, the men
who had killed their loved ones. They saw through God’s eyes
and decorated the graves, hence the early designation of
Memorial Day as Decoration Day.
Memorial Day is
about remembering our common humanity. As these stories
demonstrate, it might also be called Reconciliation Day.
What does it mean to be a reconciling people? One of Paul’s
favorite themes is reconciliation, so if we are to move
beyond poppies, we need to heed the words from Romans 5:10:
For if while we were enemies, we were
reconciled to God through the death of his Son, much more
surely, having been reconciled, will we be saved by his
life.
Through the pain of
death, we have seen families reconciled, nations reconciled,
races reconciled. John Claypool has written in his book,
God the Ingenious Alchemist, that God can make all
things work for good. Hear again these words from Paul, 2
Corinthians 5:18-19:
All this is from God, who reconciled us
to himself through Christ, and has given us the ministry of
reconciliation; that is, in Christ, God was reconciling the
world to himself, not counting their trespasses against
them, and entrusting the message of reconciliation to us.
That is our charge
this Memorial Day: not to forget, but to get on with the
business of reconciliation God has given us.
One of my first
memories of World War II was being puzzled that my favorite
teacher, who had served in the Royal Air Force, had married
his brother’s wife after his brother was killed while flying
a mission over Germany. It was only years later that I
learned that this was a Levirate marriage straight out of
the Old Testament. The Levirate law as specified in
Deuteronomy 25:5-10 designates that the brother of a man who
dies without a son has an obligation to marry the wife who
was left, and “the first son whom she bears shall succeed to
the name of his brother who is dead.”
A story many of you
have heard before is about one joyous day on the deck of the
USS Mars AFS-1, steaming off the coast of Danang, Vietnam.
As Aide and Flag Lieutenant to the Commander Service Group
Three, Admiral Norvell G. “Bub” Ward, I had arranged a
shipboard rendezvous with his eldest son to celebrate the
Admiral’s birthday. His son, a Marine major and graduate of
the U.S. Naval Academy like his father, was serving
“in-country.” On a beautiful, hot, clear day, we dispatched
a helicopter to an open space in the jungle near Danang to
pick up his son for the rendezvous. It was a wonderful,
intimate moment of father-son connection.
After the birthday
celebration, we flew back, skimming the treetops above the
dense green sea of tropical jungle, swooping down into a
clearing that appeared as though miraculous. As Admiral
Ward’s son—arrayed in full combat camouflage gear, machine
gun and bandoleer of ammunition—stepped off the helicopter,
he turned to his father and offered him a crisp salute,
which was returned. It was a special moment of respect
between two professional career military officers. Pride was
most evident on the faces of both men, and an unspoken love
was communicated in this standard gesture of military
courtesy. As we lifted off, we saw his son swiftly stride
into the jungle, disappearing into the dark foliage to
reconnect with his unit. What a privilege it was to see the
proud father and son salute each other.
Several days later,
the telex cable came in, reporting that his son had been
killed in action. I realized I had been present at one of
those “God moments,” the last time a father and son were
together as they said goodbye. I had the honor/privilege to
deliver the news in what, in retrospect, was my first
pastoral visit. This image of a proud father and son has
never left me. I was privileged to be with Admiral Ward as
he grieved the loss of his son, who had left two children
and a pregnant wife back in San Diego. In the months and
years ahead, I witnessed the family grieve and support the
widow as she met another man who became her husband, and who
was then welcomed into the Ward family unconditionally. I
never heard an ugly word against the enemy from Admiral
Ward’s mouth. Hate was never in his vocabulary. He had lost
his son who was doing his duty to family and country, and
that was honor enough.
Perhaps the most
important story for me, which many of you have also heard
before but I believe bears repeating, is another Admiral
Ward story. As was the customary protocol, Admiral Ward was
paying a courtesy visit to the newly-installed Admiral
commanding officer of the Sasebo Naval Base, which we shared
with the Japanese. After the usual pleasantries and the many
obligatory cups of green tea, the conversation veered to
questions such as where they had served during the war.
Admiral Ward, who was highly decorated, talked about the
command of his submarine during a battle in the Philippine
Sea. The Japanese Admiral told that he served as Destroyer
captain during the war, and he too served during a naval
battle in the Philippine Sea. As the conversation
progressed, it became clear they were the hunter and the
hunted in the same battle. I had witnessed two professionals
share their memories as enemies without recrimination in an
environment of respect, honor and reconciliation. Here were
two old professionals respecting each other. What a lesson
for this young lieutenant.
I also remember one
night being on the flight deck of the USS Enterprise CVN-65,
watching the return of a squadron from a bombing run over
North Vietnam. I can still hear the roar of the planes as
they caught the restraining hook when they hit the deck.
That night, one plane did not return, and you could feel the
anguish and sadness experienced by the crew.
Mine are not the
only stories. As told to the Arbon Dennis men’s group,
another story of reconciliation comes from Duane and Deanna
Ralston about her Uncle Shirl Best. On February 9, 1945, he
was the navigator on a B-17 which was involved in a
collision with another B-17 while on a bombing raid. After
the collision—with bombs still on board—the aircraft, which
lost its tail, went down toward the center of the village of
Eisenberg, Germany. Just before it crashed into the village,
the pilot managed to straighten out the aircraft and drop
its bombs in a field outside of the village. The aircraft
then crashed into the woods and exploded. Eight of the crew
members were killed.
The crash site was
found in 1991 by a man using a metal detector. In his
search, he came across a wedding ring. He would not turn the
ring over to the government, but only to a family member. So
after doing his research, the ring was returned to Deanna’s
Aunt Leone Ruth. Deanna’s aunt has the ring in her
possession where all the relatives live near Rockford,
Illinois. It was returned in an act of reconciliation. The
villagers also wanted to build a memorial dedicated to the
crew members who gave their lives to save the lives of
hundreds of villagers. An act of compassion in a war.
You may remember
that when John McCutcheon was here for his March 11 Live at
First concert, he sang a song which accompanied his book
about the World War I 1914 Christmas truce. The war had been
raging for only four months, and soldiers on both sides were
trapped in trenches, exposed to the cold and wet winter
weather, covered in mud and fearful of sniper shots if they
moved out of their trenches. Machine guns had upped the
slaughter ante in this war. But in this place of carnage and
bloodshed, something surprising occurred. In one of the
truest acts of the Christmas spirit of goodwill toward men,
soldiers from both sides began to meet in the middle “no
man’s land.” Along with the revelry, they buried the dead.
Many soldiers enjoyed meeting the unseen enemy and were
surprised to discover that they were more alike than they
had thought. Courage on the part of soldiers, risk-taking
for a cease fire, brought brotherhood if only for a brief
day of reconciliation. They talked, shared pictures, and
exchanged items such as buttons for food stuffs. In one
small moment of time, peace on earth and goodwill towards
men reigned.
The message in all
these stories is that when we focus on the humanity of each
other, miracles can happen. Recently, a book entitled
Grace Under Fire: Letters of Faith in Times of War,
edited by Andrew Carroll, came to my attention. The book
gathers letters from the front in every war since the War
for Independence. While one can see the worst of human
nature in a war situation, you can also witness the best.
Lt. Ray Stubbe, a Navy Chaplain during the Vietnam War,
wrote in his correspondence: “People benefit spiritually
when they face the loss of all the trivia of modern-day
society.” Perhaps the most significant was that in the midst
of nightmarish conditions, soldiers would demonstrate
sacrificial concern for others. As the jacket cover states,
the book contains words of wisdom, hope, humor and strength
from those tested by fire and yet who maintained their
faith. That is the message of Memorial Day. John Claypool
again:
If God can make the things that are
out of things that are not, and can make dead
things come to life again, who are we to set limits on what
that kind of potency might yet do with what we have done? I
invite you to image the Holy as One who in the worst of
times can do the best of things.
(God the Ingenious Alchemist,
p.21)
These stories I have
recounted this morning grew out of the worst of times,
whether personal for Admiral Ward or tragic for nations.
Returning to our scripture for the morning, which frames my
comments, listen once again:
Some of them have left behind a name, so
that others declare their praise. But of others there is no
memory…but these were godly men whose righteous deeds have
not been forgotten…their bodies are buried in peace but
their name lives on generation after generation.
What can we learn by
remembering that war is hell? In spite of its horrors,
humanity can shine through if we take time to understand the
other and reach out from the trenches of our fears, hate and
malevolence towards the trenches of our enemies, to enter
not “no man’s land” but God’s land, where the vision of
Isaiah that the wolf and the lamb will lie down together in
the peaceable kingdom is the reality of God’s “kingdom come,
thy will be done.” Amen. May today truly be a Day for
Reconciliation.
In Flanders Field
by John McCrae
In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky,
The larks, still bravely, singing fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.
We are the Dead. Short days ago,
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved and now we lie
In Flanders fields.
Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die,
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow,
In Flanders fields.
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