I caught sight of my neighbor Frank in the
rearview mirror as I was driving out of the Wawa parking lot with my morning
coffee. Frank is an incredibly charming guy. I’ve seen pictures of him when he
was young, and he was dashingly handsome in his day. Today he’s rounder and
bald, but he still has a gallant panache. I watched as he held the door for an
elderly lady. In his elegant fashion, he made a deep bow as she passed by him. I’m
certain this must’ve brought a smile to her face—a display of courtesy from the
Sir Walter Raleigh of the Wawa.
I’ll bet that lady never suspected that,
almost half a century before, that same polite man at the convenience store was
bleeding to death on a hilltop in Vietnam.
Frank fought with 101st
Airborne Division on a hill called Firebase Ripcord. Most of us never heard
about Ripcord. After the carnage of “Hamburger Hill,” the Department of Defense
decided to blackout all news of this battle. I’m sure they felt that the number
of American casualties reported would depress the folks back home watching the
war on the nightly news. The survivors of the Ripcord don’t like to talk about,
either. For decades their fear, pain, suffering, and loss went unknown, and
they went among us, carrying it all inside themselves, strangers in their own
country.
The First Lesson for Pentecost 22, Year C
(Job19:23-27a) seems rather insignificant for the Sunday before Veterans’ Day unless
we wind the reading back to the beginning of chapter 19 and read Job’s eviscerating
lament in its entirety. Job’s anguish, like the anguish of those who bear the
psychic avulsions of any trauma—war, domestic abuse, bereavement—requires near-Shakespearean
poetry to express the loneliness and outrage of one whose suffering goes unseen
and misunderstood by others.
As America honors her veterans this
weekend, it’s appropriate that we consider their heroism. As an Army Dad, I
feel that any kid who puts on the uniform is a hero since, peace time or war,
every member of our military faces some
kind of risk to life or limb. But it’s also appropriate that we try to see
beyond the uniform to the hidden pain. Not every vet suffers from PTSD, but so
many have seen things they can’t un-see or have done things they can’t undo. So
many of them know loss. So may have had relationships break up, have developed
dependencies on drugs or alcohol, have been sexually assaulted, or have faced
financial hardships simply because they have chosen to give back to a country
that has given to them. Perhaps too few of us civilians are willing to see the
tear hidden beneath the salute.
Veterans’ Day in the United States is
observed on the Monday closest to November 11th. It was November 11,
1918 when the First World War—supposedly the “war to end wars”—ended with an
armistice. The promised peace didn’t last long, so Armistice Day became
Veterans’ Day. I think the date is appropriate as we in the Church celebrate it
as the feast of St. Martin of Tours, the patron saint of soldiers.[i] Legend has it that Martin,
a Christian cavalryman of the Roman army in the fourth century, came across a
nearly naked beggar. Having no money to give the man, the soldier took his
sword and cut his own cape in half, giving half to help keep the beggar from
the cold. That night Martin saw the person of Jesus Christ in a dream. Christ
was wearing the half-cape and praising Martin for his kindness.[ii] Martin was moved to
resign from the army and take up religious life, ultimately founding monastic
communities and becoming one of the early bishops of France.
Besides Martin’s military background, what
I like about his story is his ability to see Christ’s sufferings in the
sufferings of the beggar. This, I think illustrates Job’s lament. The pain we
suffer which makes us feel so alienated from others and makes them shun us in
spite of their better inclinations is not invisible to God’s eyes. We know that
the one who justifies us lives, and that we shall see him one day.
I would hope that, as we consider our
military veterans, we will try to look, as Martin did, a little deeper into the
eyes of those around us. Maybe we can consider their inner pain and the
memories they carry with them. Perhaps we will learn to see them with great
empathy, patience, and respect.
A happy Veterans’ Day to you all. Glad you
stopped by.
[i] Fun
Fact: Medieval Catholic tradition had children named for the saint on whose
feast day they were born. On November 11, 1483 when the wife of a Saxon
copper miner named Hans Luther gave birth to a bouncing baby boy, they
naturally named him Martin.
[ii]
See Matthew 25:36 and following. Fun Fact: Martin’s “little cape,” is, in Medieval
Latin a capella. From this comes our English
words “chapel” and “chaplain.”
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