The Truth? We Can’t Handle It

The courtroom is silent as the old military man gathers himself. Every eye is on him. He is either a courageous hero or a misguided fool.

The courtroom is silent as the young lawyer stands waiting. Every eye is on him. He is either a courageous hero or a misguided fool.

Finally, the old military man speaks.

"Have I made myself clear?"

“Son, we live in a world that has walls, and those walls have to be guarded by men with guns. Who’s gonna do it? You? You, Lieutenant Weinberg? I have a greater responsibility than you can possibly fathom. You weep for Santiago and you curse the marines. You have that luxury. You have the luxury of not knowing what I know: that Santiago’s death, while tragic, probably saved lives. And my existence, while grotesque and incomprehensible to you, saves lives.

“You don’t want the truth because, deep down in places you don’t talk about at parties, you want me on that wall, you need me on that wall. We use words like honor, code, loyalty. We use these words as the backbone of a life spent defending something. You use them as a punchline. I have neither the time nor the inclination to explain myself to a man who rises and sleeps under the blanket of the very freedom that I provide and then questions the manner in which I provide it. I would rather you just said “thank you” and went on your way. Otherwise, I suggest you pick up a weapon and stand at post.

“Either way, I don’t give a damn what you think you are entitled to.”

If you’ve seen the film A Few Good Men, or read the exceptional play by Aaron Sorkin upon which the film is based, you know that in the end Col. Nathan Jessup is not only a misguided fool but a pernicious bully, and we cheer when he is removed from the courtroom, guilty of an innocent man’s blood. In the end, he is the villain – the straw man that represents our government and its blind ambition, greed and callousness.

But the question, as I sit here typing before Memorial Day, is are we right to cheer for Jessup’s downfall?

Sure, in the movie, he’s an arrogant jerk who thinks he owns the world. Even in the speech I’ve quoted above, he references his belief that he provides “the blanket of freedom” under which we all live. We’re set up from the get-go to dislike this man – in fact, it reminds me of something David Foster Wallace wrote in his essay on David Lynch. Wallace said, and I’m paraphrasing, that most movies come with a built-in morality that’s designed to mirror the audiences perceptions. The more accurately a movie diagnoses the audiences moral convictions and panders to them, the more popular the movie will turn out to be.

Wallace’s point is that the movies we love best are the ones that manipulate us the most. And in A Few Good Men, Rob Reiner and Aaron Sorkin manipulate us with the best of them, most compellingly so in our disgust for Col. Jessup.

Now, I won’t bother to parse the politics of either Mr. Reiner or Mr. Sorkin, because I don’t believe they are the issue here. What I guess is bothering me this Friday of the Memorial Day weekend, is that we as the American audience can ever be swayed to dislike a solider at all.

Sure, there are those who enter into our voluntary military out of a misguided notion that they’ll be able to make better use of their socio- or psychopathic tendencies, but those soldiers are, I’ve been told more than once, quickly identified and rendered unfit for service. And while I’m aware that any large bureaucracy will have its inherent corruptions, I believe sincerely that the majority of the U.S. Armed Forces membership is comprised of good and noble men and women who sign their lives away a piece at a time to do those things which keep us free.

Those things which neither you nor I as civilians have the wherewithal to do.

In A Few Good Men we are led to revile Col. Jessup because he lives by the idea that his existence is meant to keep the American people free, and that means blood sometimes has to be shed. While the blood shed in the movie is the blood of an innocent Marine, we’re led to revile Jessup for being willing to shed blood at all. We’re led to the pacifistic notion that we can solve our problems without guns.

And while I wish that were true, all I need do is head on over to and read the latest story from Kandahar or Kabul to realize that we do indeed live in a world that requires men with guns to protect us. We, the homebound many, are dependent upon the armed few. We, the clean civilians, are made free by the blood-covered soldiers who serve at our behest, which is the ultimate irony of A Few Good Men:

We hate Nathan Jessup for being willing to kill, but he’s only willing to kill because we the people have commissioned him to do so on our own behalf. Our dislike for Jessup is really a perverse self-loathing projected onto him, an unconscious rejection of the cost of our self-righteous contentedness.

I remember the first time I really thought about the relationship between the American people and the American soldier. I was in fifth grade, and we took a FOCUS trip to Washington D.C., a bunch of geeky intellectual kids cut loose on the nation’s capitol. One of our stops was the National Mall, and I somehow ended up at the Vietnam Memorial. Something about those thousands of tiny names cut deeply into the black granite made me stand still. While other memorials were to individuals, or were oblique statues meant to represent many people, this monument stood out because of the stunning care it took to display each and every name to the seeing eye.

I didn’t know how to articulate this of course, but it resonated with me: here, for all to see, was the human cost of war. Not abstractions or slogans or jargon, but the actual flesh and blood price for freedom. I remember just standing there, moved to tears, looking for a name I might recognize. I didn’t know anyone on the wall, but I felt as if I should.

And when I came across a man, dressed in tattered Army greens, who just stared at a single panel of the wall, at a single name, I knew that whatever price the men and women on that wall paid was far greater than any I was willing to pay. I knew, in my heart, that what they had seen and done and felt and remembered was burden that should be mine to carry, but one which I willingly shifted to their shoulders, not caring if the weight was too much.

It’s sort of like how a lot of people see the Cross of Christ. But I’ll leave that for another time.

I guess I just want us all to remember, as we grill out this weekend, or whenever we feel compelled to make smart remarks when we read of some military exercise gone wrong (or in the case of Osama Bin Laden, gone right), that we are not talking about abstractions. We’re not even talking about the fictional “bad guys” like Nathan Jessup, whom we can pretentiously hate without having to really think about it.

We’re discussing men and women, sons and daughters, who are willing to bear the price of bloodshed so that we may be free. They bear by proxy the blood that is on our hands.

Let’s make sure we take some time this weekend to be grateful.

And if we can’t be grateful, then let’s at least agree to shut up and give honor by not spewing dishonor.

It’s the very least we can do.

From One End To The Other

In my life, I've found myself at both ends of the church: in the pew and on the platform. Both perspectives have taught me a lot.

From time to time you get to reflect on life, usually because your life brings you a moment – an event – that forces you to stop and really consider what’s before you. The calendar holds two annual times for this sort of reflection: the graduation/wedding season (May-June) and the Christmas holidays.

This past weekend, I went attended the wedding of a former student of mine. It was beautiful.

Of course, it’s not just those moments on the calendar that count; there are other, unscheduled moments that offer us the same opportunity. Things like births, or birthday parties, or family reunions, or class reunions.

Or funerals.

I went to a funeral Mass today for the grandfather of my childhood best friend. It was beautiful.

As a minister, I’ve done my fair share of both services – weddings and funerals – and while it is always an honor to be the official, the kind of reflection offered is limited. You have a sacred duty to discharge when you’re a minister, to offer both hope and comfort, to provide constancy and peace. As such, you spend a lot of time thinking about other people, how they relate, how they connect, how they help one another cope with the immensity of these two very different, yet similar occasions. You spend a lot of time, as it were, being a detached observer and caregiver.

But when you’re merely part of the gallery, when you’re there as a friend, it’s a whole different experience.

I stood beside two families over the past three days, two families that are markedly different in their customs and traditions, but remarkably the same in their love and devotion to one another. One family celebrated the joining of a husband and wife til death do them part, while the other grieved a husband and wife being parted. There was music at both – the balm of the human soul must be music, because we sing it in good times and sad – and also much laughter. There were tears at each, as well as knowing looks, emotional hugs, and the sharing of wisdom between friends.

Each ceremony had tables lined with food, and friends and family seated to reminisce and review the common experience we’d just shared. People were dressed their best out of respect for those being honored, and though the final partings were ultimately opposite in both tone and finality, they were no less filled with the longing that we all feel when we watch someone beloved begin a new journey, a new chapter, one that we cannot really comprehend.

I watched the Sosebee family and the Newman families these past few days, and saw the love they had for their respective moms and dads, sons and daughters, grandkids and cousins and assorted friends. I saw my former student kiss his wife and lovingly take her by the hand to lead her to the dance floor. I saw my childhood friend hold his infant daughter in his arms and kiss her tiny little head as he greeted people sorry for his loss.

I got to be a part of the moment instead of being a part of the service, and the perspective that it afforded me was this:

There are some people, no matter how far the miles or the years may take you, who will always be in your heart, good times and bad. You meet them and love them and keep on loving them until, as the saying goes, death separates you. While the circumstances of your relationship will inevitably change, while you may not be as close to them as you once were, you will still do whatever it takes to stand with them in these moments, to be there when they need only just a friendly face to help them gain perspective.

There are some people with whom you are bonded and you will go with them through life, from one end to the other. Such is the power and privilege of being human.

A Love-Letter to My Life – Or, Reflections on Entering Middle Age

Without a doubt, the best part of my life.

On his Prairie Home Companion radio program, Garrison Keillor once referred to middle age as “like January.” Gray. Dull. Bitter. Cold. Bereft of natural life. The reference was buried inside “The News From Lake Wobegon”, a short segment of Keillor’s program where he tells of life in his fictional hometown on the Minnesotan tundra. The particular newscast was entitled “The Sorrows of January” and the humorist’s persistent theme was that life advances, we march steadily and endlessly toward our natural destiny of death, burial and a slow fade from memory, and we find the perfect metaphor for this in the unyielding suck that is January.

Why do I bring this up? Because today I take my first official steps into middle age, and my birthday happens to be in January. So if anyone can find some cultural ore to mine within Keillor’s metaphor, it is me.

It is interesting that Keillor’s choice of January – of slow, intractable winter – doesn’t resonate so well with me precisely because I happen to be January-born. I experience January as a blink, a star shot, a subconscious flicker that wafts up and away before fully grasped. But another reason for the disconnect could be generational. The Gen X population truly saw the world speed up, loose the brakes, and rocket past the edges of perception and imagination. Perhaps my generation could be best summarized by the illustration of the telephone’s evolution. When we were born, the phone was large and sat on an end table. Eventually they became sleek enough to hang on the kitchen wall, though they still required the cord. My generation has seen the advent of portable phones that were just like the ones you had in your house, curly cord and everything. We saw the arrival of phones without cords, both in the house and in the car, phones the size and weight of a literal brick, phones capable of only local calling. My generation has watched those phones shrink to the size of micron and do everything except actually send or receive phone calls.

It is an odd piece of reflection that my generation – like every generation – was in such a hurry to speed up time, to get older faster, to see things move with the same pace as our thought, but my generation was the first to actually have it happen. We saw life accelerate right as we left home: just as we graduated this weird thing called the Internet became popular. It caught on while we were in college, and transformed the world before many of us even knew what the hell it was. But unlike so many Baby Boomers who saw the shift into middle age as an invitation to lament the good old days, my generation embraced the change and celebrated the fulfillment of our wish to have life at the speed of life. We’ve grown with and despite this wish, often finding ourselves better prepared to deal with the physical exigencies of an emergency, but not so much the emotional ones; in other words, when the doo-doo hits the fan, we’ve got our cell phones to help us and little else. Continue reading “A Love-Letter to My Life – Or, Reflections on Entering Middle Age”