“Always be ready to speak about the hope that is within you,” the professor of preaching paraphrased chapter 3, verse 15, of the first letter of Peter. Peter wrote to those who were facing or might be facing persecution for their faith and be called to defend themselves. What exactly was their hope? What is ours?
John's gospel offers these words from Jesus to his disciples about that hope: “If you love me (in Greek agape or self-giving love), you will keep my commandments. And I will ask the Father, and he will give you another Advocate, to be with you forever . . . I will not leave you orphaned, I am coming to you.”
Father Justin Monaghan of St. Mary's Roman Catholic Church was at home in the rectory last Sunday on a sunny afternoon in Joplin, Missouri. As we all know, that sunny afternoon became stormy very quickly, and the storm spawned a deadly tornado that struck the center of Joplin. One of the iconic pictures of that destruction showed St. Mary's tall metal cross still standing amidst the twisted wreckage of the church and the rectory. His parishioners rescued Fr. Monaghan, uninjured, from beneath the rubble.
He related the story of his survival to a reporter. He said that when he knew the tornado was imminent—the warning sirens had gone off—he went to the recommended spot of safety in the rectory, the bathtub. He told the reporter that as his home was being torn apart around him, he, expecting death, prayed: “Jesus you know I love you and always have.” Whether he died or whether he survived, Fr. Monaghan's hope rested in his loving relationship with God and, I imagine, with his parishioners as well.
Natural disasters are one thing. War is quite another. Human beings' choices lead to the horrors of war. Yet on this Sunday of Memorial Day weekend, we remember the sacrifices made by those sent to fight who did not return. We also think about those who were sent and now have returned. What is their hope? They have lived through those horrors and must now re-adjust. And we should not forget those whose countries and lives continue to be torn apart by the violence of war.
How can we understand Jesus' command to love God and love our neighbors in the midst of war? What does it mean to hope for God's presence in the midst of the horror?
The testimony of Fr. Bob Blessing, a military chaplain and an Episcopal priest, may help us understand. He described war's defining moments for him in an interview with Episcopal News Service reporter. I want to share parts of that interview with you as we explore how his reflections might help answer the questions about our hope for God’s presence.
Fr. Blessing emphasized that "Relationships count . . . ” As he prepared to observe the upcoming Memorial Day holiday, he said "I'm really dealing with life and resurrection. Remembering all the lives and how they served, to me, is crucial," he said.
He said he will remember his former battalion commander who died when his vehicle hit a land mine: "He was a good brother in Christ. I should have been there with him, but I was taking care of another situation. You just deal with those things as they come through, but it doesn't make it any easier."
He will remember an Iraqi translator: "Her name was Sarah, like my daughter. She was killed when a bomb went through her face, literally, and blew her apart. She kept our guys alive and gave the ultimate sacrifice, trying to keep peace for her people."
He said he'll also pause this Memorial Day to remember not only the dead but also the living, and their huge sacrifices.
He'll remember the Muslim imam "who helped us so much he had to flee Iraq. Thankfully, we got him out. He now lives in the Pacific Northwest. He is one of the wonderful brothers I love and cherish."
Fr. Blessing, as a chaplain, was a non-combatant who did not carry a weapon. He held the hand of dying soldiers, assuring them of God's presence and love. He ducked mortar fire, double-checked the contents of body bags and faced tough questions of faith — his own as well as those from others. "The suffering, the hardship, the discipline challenge you in your capacity as you are called to be a pastor," he said. "The thing I grieve is the loss, the death that comes with being in a war."
Like many of those with whom he served, he has also experienced post-traumatic stress disorder. "As much as I had prayed and sought God, as much as I had walked with God, as much as I had communicated with God, the violence still tweaks anybody who is susceptible to it.”
He feels blessed with both his family and his congregation in San Diego who have supported and stood by him. "Relationships are what count, not the size of your bank book, or your car, or the size of your church, or whatever it is one values. It's people. It's family.
"I knew that I was ready to meet Jesus, there's no question, but what became important was coming back for my family, my wife and kids, for my church, standing by them—that was the crucial thing. That was a gift of the violence."
I found his final words “the gift of the violence” challenging. People can sound glib sometimes when they survive something terrible. But they may also be showing us a deeper truth. What will be our only true hope when we encounter the natural and the human-caused troubles, the violence, in our lives?
Our true hope will be found our relationships of self-giving love with God and with each other. In love, we give ourselves to God to follow God’s will. In love, we give ourselves to those who share our lives. Through these relationships, we can discover the strength of the Advocate whom Jesus promised to send us. And in this strength we can discover the courage to act as Jesus taught us.
Jesus promised us: “I will not leave you orphaned, I am coming to you . . . because I live you also will live. On that day you will know that I am in my Father, and you in me, and I in you.” Our hope in difficult times rests in the being in union with Christ—he in us and we in him. Indeed, that is our sure and certain hope—in all circumstances.
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