There was a time when one generation would look to their forebears for wisdom. That time is largely past, which is an utter shame. While I could write about the need to for young people to listen anew to their elders, I cannot do so in good conscience without making a number of qualifications.
The reality that young people face today is that most older people are not worthy founts of wisdom. Young people today have largely been raised by a generation "liberated" from tradition and moral norms. I have counseled/listened to a great number of young adults who had to make a definitive moral stand in defiance of the parents' wisdom.
For example, while it may be rare, some ten percent of men and a slightly larger percentage of women will choose to remain abstinent until marriage. This fact (the self-discipline of some, not the percentages) would have once been a source of pride for parents, who would fret over whether their child would maintain his/her virtue in the face of peer pressure.
Nowadays, a child in need of moral advice is just as like to here thoughtless cliches regarding sexuality from his/her parents as from friends. A young man who announces to his parents his decision to abstain might be met with "You should try the milk before you buy the cow," or "You should take the car for a test drive." How these petty sentiments survived adolescence is beyond me.
There is also the key piece of social wisdom offered for those looking to get married: "Wait." My wife and I received this unsolicited advice quite a bit as we diligent prepared for marriage. Many seem to think that early marriage is the key contributor to divorce, despite the likely reality that marriage attrition is far worse in the metropolitan areas of America, despite the fact that people marry later in these areas.
But the million dollar question awaits those who would foist their marital wisdom on young people: Why should they listen to marriage advice from a generation in which half of all couples are divorced? Not exactly the type of thing that the purveyors of such advice would hang on a plaque on their wall.
Now, as soon as someone gets married, the child-rearing barrage begins. Boiling down the predominant wisdom in this regard, it comes down to "Wait." Supposedly, there is a whole lot of fun to be had, or a theoretical (but never specified) financial foundation to be laid, before one can have kids. I guess that one is then supposed to have kids when the funds are plentiful and the fun runs out. It is then that we can follow in our parents' footsteps and bring our afterthought infants into a world where the precedent has already been established that they're secondary to other considerations.
Then there's the sexist advice. My wife was reminded quite a few times prior to and during our marriage that the physical side of marriage is "not just about him." Many people are taught that men are merely walking sexual appendages and that women must browbeat their neanderthal men into humble submission.
I do not mean this as an attack upon the moral vacuity of the prior generation, but a critique of the intellectual vacuity that accompanies it. I may think Camille Paglia is way off in her conception of morality, but she is at least thoughtful in her approach. Her line of feminist thinking at least prepares the way for discussion and critical thinking.
Young people, the truth is that you cannot fully trust the wisdom of most of your elders, and any wisdom that commends a trial and error approach to life is not wisdom worth remembering. Demands moral clarity and intellectual credibility from all of your elders. Knowing that many will not provide either, seek out those adults who you trust and adhere to a standard you desire to emulate. My wife and I were mentored by a married couple of several decades who not only were surviving, but thriving in their marriage.
Feel free to get married quickly. You don't need to truly "know" someone before you get married. Marriage is a lifelong process of accumulating knowledge on the person you love. Once married, if you have already received pre-marital counseling and are willing to always go back, have children as soon as you want. They are not a burden. They do not inhibit fun. They sanctify and teach you how to truly love, by God's grace.
In sum, contemporary social wisdom is not wise at all. It is vague, thoughtless, and the proof of its ineptitude is found in the pudding of its devastating social consequences. The authority of the Christian is Jesus Christ as He speaks through His Word. Hold all "wisdom" to the light of God's Word to test its truth. For God's Word is a light unto our feet (Ps. 119), and that Word of truth, beauty, and power--as shared to us by our elders who live by it in God's grace--will make us wise unto salvation, fully prepared for every good work (2 Tim. 3:15-17).
15.11.13
These Ol' Boots
I was looking at my old pair of boots last night and considering their history.
They were given to by my older brother, a vet from the 82nd Airborne, when I joined the Army. Not sure if he had warn them, but probably a decent chance that they had since they had inserts inside.
In early 2009, I refused to buy any more pairs of boots (money was very tight) and I wore this pair through the entire three months of my Chaplain Basic Officer Leadership Course.
In April of 2010, when I was finally assigned to my beloved unit, I dusted off the same old pair. My brother subsequently gave me another couple of pairs that he had--all unused, I believe--but I stuck with the tried and true rather than lace up another pair.
Every so often, someone will notice my boots and say "Wow, those look like the pair I wore in OIF a decade ago!" Yep. Probably the same boots.
In these same boots, I attended monthly drills for three years, and three ATs (annual training)--two in southern Virginia and one in the California desert.
I wore these boots to my promotion ceremony in early 2012 and to my Chaplain's Captain Career Course later that spring.
On top of the extra pairs given me from my brother, I also was given two new pairs of all-purpose boots down in Texas as we mobilized for this deployment. I finally took those pairs out of my ruck sack last night...and put them in my locker.
I am not sure if my brother wore these boots for the brief time he was in Iraq, before his time there was cut short due to the malfeasance of another (which also likely took a toll on his military career).
But by the time these boots come home, they will have finally tread the arid landscape they were meant for and made their way through a deployment.
And I hope that there is something symbolic in all this. My brother came to this part of the world in a time when things were much more dangerous and uncertain. His service paved the way for my own.
By the time I come home, my family will have completed one deployment in the Middle East.
And just as I am proud of my brother's service (and now my cousin in Korea as well), I will be proud if one day, one of my children laces up a pair of boots and continues this tradition of service.
They were given to by my older brother, a vet from the 82nd Airborne, when I joined the Army. Not sure if he had warn them, but probably a decent chance that they had since they had inserts inside.
In early 2009, I refused to buy any more pairs of boots (money was very tight) and I wore this pair through the entire three months of my Chaplain Basic Officer Leadership Course.
In April of 2010, when I was finally assigned to my beloved unit, I dusted off the same old pair. My brother subsequently gave me another couple of pairs that he had--all unused, I believe--but I stuck with the tried and true rather than lace up another pair.
Every so often, someone will notice my boots and say "Wow, those look like the pair I wore in OIF a decade ago!" Yep. Probably the same boots.
In these same boots, I attended monthly drills for three years, and three ATs (annual training)--two in southern Virginia and one in the California desert.
I wore these boots to my promotion ceremony in early 2012 and to my Chaplain's Captain Career Course later that spring.
On top of the extra pairs given me from my brother, I also was given two new pairs of all-purpose boots down in Texas as we mobilized for this deployment. I finally took those pairs out of my ruck sack last night...and put them in my locker.
I am not sure if my brother wore these boots for the brief time he was in Iraq, before his time there was cut short due to the malfeasance of another (which also likely took a toll on his military career).
But by the time these boots come home, they will have finally tread the arid landscape they were meant for and made their way through a deployment.
And I hope that there is something symbolic in all this. My brother came to this part of the world in a time when things were much more dangerous and uncertain. His service paved the way for my own.
By the time I come home, my family will have completed one deployment in the Middle East.
And just as I am proud of my brother's service (and now my cousin in Korea as well), I will be proud if one day, one of my children laces up a pair of boots and continues this tradition of service.
14.11.13
Pride and Piety
I remember a debate we had in my senior seminar class at WSC on the importance of attending two services on the Lord's Day each week. One student argued that we shouldn't stress attendance at both services. Another retorted that if someone really loved the Lord, he would attend both. Such a retort earned the latter student a "Brother, we need to talk" talk from the former student.
(I took a sick sort of amusement in the post-class talk between the two because I was tired of always being the recipient of the "Brother, we need to talk" talks.)
What was the offense of the latter student? Pride disguised as piety. The latter student may have been correct in his position, but his use of it as a point of judgment was in very poor taste. In fact, it was such an attitude that kept me from being a two service guy until after seminary. By condemning my conscience with something that was not clearly laid out in Scripture, rather than alluring my conscience with broader, biblical considerations (book-ending the Lord's DAY, having God directly address me twice, being reminded of my heavenly citizenship, etc)--I made myself intentionally stubborn on the matter.
Pride disguised as piety. This most ugly of characteristics is found throughout the church (and my own heart!). I heard of it second-hand a few months ago when a number of believers out here were discussing topics for a potential small group. One suggested sexual purity, which was quickly dismissed by another because mature believers should not struggle with such matters. Pride disguised as piety.
I saw an email chain recently where one person questioned the wisdom of an hour and a half long Christmas Eve service, considering the demands on the time of soldiers. Another person responded "1.5 hours is not too long for a Christmas program. After all it is a celebration of Christ's birth." Such petty pietistic snarkiness digs under my skin (though again, I am certainly guilty of it in other instances). Where does the Scripture mandate a minimum time limit for a service, let alone a Christmas or Christmas Eve service at all? This imposition of extra-biblical standards upon a believer's conscience seems to be stark violation of Scripture (Col. 2).
Here is a general rule for preaching that can be extended to believers as well: Where the Word the God does not speak, the minister of God must shut up. This is not an absolute, but as Pharisees by nature, we must always guard ourselves against binding our conscience or that of another with regulations that are not in Scripture. We have freedom in Christ (Galatians 5), and this especially includes freedom from the conscience-binding commandments of men (1 Cor. 10).
As Peter argued at Presbytery (the Council of Jerusalem) in Acts 15, we should not place a yoke around the neck of others that we cannot bear. In reality, we often judge others in order to acquit ourselves of our sin and exalt ourselves in our supposed righteousness. Mired in the quicksand of sin, we forsake the cross of Christ stretched forth for us and instead grab hold of the head of the next man, pushing his head under in order to propel ourselves further.
But why go to such lengths when Christ has gone to much greater lengths for our sake? Why resort to such petty pretenses of piety when Christ perfectly fulfilled the law with His own life of righteousness? Why try to acquit ourselves before God and man by leveraging ourselves against others when Christ has imputed His own righteousness to our accounts and forever reconciled us to God?
Brothers and sisters, let us forsake this "pridety" and own the righteousness already given us, going forth in the riches of Christ rather than the rags of our self-righteousness.
(I took a sick sort of amusement in the post-class talk between the two because I was tired of always being the recipient of the "Brother, we need to talk" talks.)
What was the offense of the latter student? Pride disguised as piety. The latter student may have been correct in his position, but his use of it as a point of judgment was in very poor taste. In fact, it was such an attitude that kept me from being a two service guy until after seminary. By condemning my conscience with something that was not clearly laid out in Scripture, rather than alluring my conscience with broader, biblical considerations (book-ending the Lord's DAY, having God directly address me twice, being reminded of my heavenly citizenship, etc)--I made myself intentionally stubborn on the matter.
Pride disguised as piety. This most ugly of characteristics is found throughout the church (and my own heart!). I heard of it second-hand a few months ago when a number of believers out here were discussing topics for a potential small group. One suggested sexual purity, which was quickly dismissed by another because mature believers should not struggle with such matters. Pride disguised as piety.
I saw an email chain recently where one person questioned the wisdom of an hour and a half long Christmas Eve service, considering the demands on the time of soldiers. Another person responded "1.5 hours is not too long for a Christmas program. After all it is a celebration of Christ's birth." Such petty pietistic snarkiness digs under my skin (though again, I am certainly guilty of it in other instances). Where does the Scripture mandate a minimum time limit for a service, let alone a Christmas or Christmas Eve service at all? This imposition of extra-biblical standards upon a believer's conscience seems to be stark violation of Scripture (Col. 2).
Here is a general rule for preaching that can be extended to believers as well: Where the Word the God does not speak, the minister of God must shut up. This is not an absolute, but as Pharisees by nature, we must always guard ourselves against binding our conscience or that of another with regulations that are not in Scripture. We have freedom in Christ (Galatians 5), and this especially includes freedom from the conscience-binding commandments of men (1 Cor. 10).
As Peter argued at Presbytery (the Council of Jerusalem) in Acts 15, we should not place a yoke around the neck of others that we cannot bear. In reality, we often judge others in order to acquit ourselves of our sin and exalt ourselves in our supposed righteousness. Mired in the quicksand of sin, we forsake the cross of Christ stretched forth for us and instead grab hold of the head of the next man, pushing his head under in order to propel ourselves further.
But why go to such lengths when Christ has gone to much greater lengths for our sake? Why resort to such petty pretenses of piety when Christ perfectly fulfilled the law with His own life of righteousness? Why try to acquit ourselves before God and man by leveraging ourselves against others when Christ has imputed His own righteousness to our accounts and forever reconciled us to God?
Brothers and sisters, let us forsake this "pridety" and own the righteousness already given us, going forth in the riches of Christ rather than the rags of our self-righteousness.
13.11.13
The Giants Win the Pennant!
What I mean is, my team somehow pulled out an eight minute victory in the Ragnar Relay. Team Greff came in a 28 hours and 35 minutes. The last team came across at 29 hours and 43 minutes. For a race of that duration, an eight minute separation between the first two teams and an hour separation between first and last is pretty remarkable!
I am back at my post after several eventful days out and about. I was able to do coffee with my old Reformed buddy and say farewell to many of my friends who are soon to depart.
Trust all of you gracious readers are well and blessed!
I am back at my post after several eventful days out and about. I was able to do coffee with my old Reformed buddy and say farewell to many of my friends who are soon to depart.
Trust all of you gracious readers are well and blessed!
12.11.13
The Changing of Seasons
At least for a day, everything on this deployment has come full circle. I am back at my original post, where I just gave the invocation and benediction for an end of tour ceremony for a dozen of our soldiers who are heading home.
Between the conclusion of the Ragnar (still yet to learn the results), my trip up north, and today's ceremony, I think I have found my definitive marking point in transitioning from my last phase (movement and beginning of work at new post) to the next one (build on new work at begin thinking of life post-deployment).
Two of the soldiers that I am saying "bye" to here are my two designated battle buddies from the start of the deployment. One is a fellow believer who has been my intellectual sparring partner and best friend in the unit over the past several years. The other was my roommate for my first two months out here and also a very good friend and whose wife is now friends with my wife.
They will be leaving along with ten more of my soldiers from this post, joined by another dozen or so from my current post. Among those soldiers will be my chaplain's assistant. In God's providence, I grew quite a bit closer to him over this recent trip north. In part, this greater enjoyment of him arose from not being confined to a broom closet with him for hours on end each day. In part, I trust that God made me less judgmental toward perceived flaws that were likely reflections upon my own sin struggles. Ultimately, I will miss all of these gentlemen.
I am certainly not left friendless. Many old friends still remain, including my accountabilly-buddy. In addition, my old Reformed friend from early in the deployment, who subsequently went home and visited my home church, has just returned for another month (and I hope to see her here today or tomorrow). I am sure that she will carry good tidings from home, even as she carried good tidings back with her when she first left.
The changing of seasons. Of course, this isn't only a metaphor, but an atmospheric reality. It seemed as though summer was rapidly melting into a cold winter's ice, but a few days of an autumn respite are now coursing through the air. In fairly quick sequence, the man in the turret will go from being drenched in sweat to being bundled in layers to fight off the chill.
As for Veteran's Day, I am particularly grateful to those who served our country in Vietnam. Many volunteered out of duty, not for political reasons. Many more were drafted and had choice in the matter. Many parts of the planning and execution of the war were certainly ill-advised. But the fear of Soviet expansion was valid, and the war was indeed winnable. The day that Grandpa Cronkite declared the war was over (in the aftermath of the Tet Offensive) was the day we should've been celebrating the crushing of a most desperate VC offensive. And if Watergate hadn't occurred, we may have won the war yet.
All that said, our soldiers--the most noble and sacrificial of men--were made the scapegoats for the missteps of our politicians by many of our citizens. Soldiers could not go off post without changing into civilian clothes. They got off planes to survey a landscape at home that they never thought they'd see again, and there was no one there to meet them and express gratitude and love. If someone found out who things heroes were, they were as liable to spit on them as shake their hand. America's greatest monsters in those days were certainly not our soldiers, and not even our politicians, but us--the people. We betrayed those who risked everything for us. May we always remember this fact, that we might never turn on our guardians again.
To you, Vietnam veterans, who served in those dark years when both the war front and home front were a place of hostility, we owe the greatest debt of gratitude. Those who don the uniform now do so in the light because you first did so in the dark. I love our WWII veterans, but the greatest heroes are those whose work goes unrecognized--who embrace the mantle of obscurity with the knowledge that right was done by conscience and by country. You are our greatest generation and we, the soldiers of today's wars, stand upon the shoulders of giants.
Between the conclusion of the Ragnar (still yet to learn the results), my trip up north, and today's ceremony, I think I have found my definitive marking point in transitioning from my last phase (movement and beginning of work at new post) to the next one (build on new work at begin thinking of life post-deployment).
Two of the soldiers that I am saying "bye" to here are my two designated battle buddies from the start of the deployment. One is a fellow believer who has been my intellectual sparring partner and best friend in the unit over the past several years. The other was my roommate for my first two months out here and also a very good friend and whose wife is now friends with my wife.
They will be leaving along with ten more of my soldiers from this post, joined by another dozen or so from my current post. Among those soldiers will be my chaplain's assistant. In God's providence, I grew quite a bit closer to him over this recent trip north. In part, this greater enjoyment of him arose from not being confined to a broom closet with him for hours on end each day. In part, I trust that God made me less judgmental toward perceived flaws that were likely reflections upon my own sin struggles. Ultimately, I will miss all of these gentlemen.
I am certainly not left friendless. Many old friends still remain, including my accountabilly-buddy. In addition, my old Reformed friend from early in the deployment, who subsequently went home and visited my home church, has just returned for another month (and I hope to see her here today or tomorrow). I am sure that she will carry good tidings from home, even as she carried good tidings back with her when she first left.
The changing of seasons. Of course, this isn't only a metaphor, but an atmospheric reality. It seemed as though summer was rapidly melting into a cold winter's ice, but a few days of an autumn respite are now coursing through the air. In fairly quick sequence, the man in the turret will go from being drenched in sweat to being bundled in layers to fight off the chill.
As for Veteran's Day, I am particularly grateful to those who served our country in Vietnam. Many volunteered out of duty, not for political reasons. Many more were drafted and had choice in the matter. Many parts of the planning and execution of the war were certainly ill-advised. But the fear of Soviet expansion was valid, and the war was indeed winnable. The day that Grandpa Cronkite declared the war was over (in the aftermath of the Tet Offensive) was the day we should've been celebrating the crushing of a most desperate VC offensive. And if Watergate hadn't occurred, we may have won the war yet.
All that said, our soldiers--the most noble and sacrificial of men--were made the scapegoats for the missteps of our politicians by many of our citizens. Soldiers could not go off post without changing into civilian clothes. They got off planes to survey a landscape at home that they never thought they'd see again, and there was no one there to meet them and express gratitude and love. If someone found out who things heroes were, they were as liable to spit on them as shake their hand. America's greatest monsters in those days were certainly not our soldiers, and not even our politicians, but us--the people. We betrayed those who risked everything for us. May we always remember this fact, that we might never turn on our guardians again.
To you, Vietnam veterans, who served in those dark years when both the war front and home front were a place of hostility, we owe the greatest debt of gratitude. Those who don the uniform now do so in the light because you first did so in the dark. I love our WWII veterans, but the greatest heroes are those whose work goes unrecognized--who embrace the mantle of obscurity with the knowledge that right was done by conscience and by country. You are our greatest generation and we, the soldiers of today's wars, stand upon the shoulders of giants.
11.11.13
Amidst the Fun, A Sobering Reality Check
http://www.deseretnews.com/article/865590328/Soldiers-run-their-own-race-to-remember-the-fallen-while-reminding-us-all-of-the-costs-of-war.html
The link above was another article that was put out regarding our Ragnar shadow run. As I was reading the comments next to a Ragnar Facebook post on the race, I saw this comment:
Dan Evans I lost my little brother exactly 1 year ago this Friday night. He was a Navy Corpsman serving with the Marines. He always yelled "FINISH STRONG" at our races. This race will have extra meaning for me, knowing I am running in his honor, and all those who have and continue to serve our wonderful country! So yes, when you think of quitting...FINISH STRONG!
What a sobering reminder of what has been lost for so many--beyond what mere races and monuments can memorialize. I remembered this comment as I prayed at our joint American-Canadian Memorial Day ceremony here in the north. Soldiers from both forces stood at attention. A wreath was laid before memorial markers of soldiers lost at that post. The story of two of them (including a great deal of heroism) can be found at this link:
http://www.cnn.com/2011/11/08/us/cnnheroes-war-widower/
I talked to a number of veterans-turned-contractors after the event. One was a member of the New Zealand army and fought alongside our soldiers in Vietnam. (Don't forget that the South Koreans, Australians, and New Zealanders stood by us in those dark days. They too had to change out of their uniforms before they went out in public.)
My prayer was only structured in my head, but it went something like this:
O Lord our God,
Maker of heaven and earth,
Who permits war,
And brings about peace.
On this solemn day of remembrance,
we consider the blood that was spilt by so so many of our countrymen
in service of freedom and the peace of of our free peoples.
We remember those who fought and fell together on the Italian peninsula,
on the beaches at Normandy, along the Korean DMZ, and here in Afghanistan.
We remember these names through names more recent,
like MCpl Byrom Greff, the last Canadian to die here in Afghanistan,
and by names like Flores and Alguin,
two of our Task Force Guam friends who were lost six months ago.
As we consider the great sacrifices of soldiers like these,
we also consider the great brokenness of a world that necessitated these sacrifices.
With the Psalmist, we are left to cry out:
I lift my eyes up to the mountains. Where does my help come from?
My help comes from You, maker of heaven and earth.
In our pain, give us purpose.
Amidst the chaos, give us hope.
As we train our hands for war, fit our hearts for peace.
And as each of these soldiers pray in accordance with their own traditions,
I pray in the name of my Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ. Amen.
The link above was another article that was put out regarding our Ragnar shadow run. As I was reading the comments next to a Ragnar Facebook post on the race, I saw this comment:
Dan Evans I lost my little brother exactly 1 year ago this Friday night. He was a Navy Corpsman serving with the Marines. He always yelled "FINISH STRONG" at our races. This race will have extra meaning for me, knowing I am running in his honor, and all those who have and continue to serve our wonderful country! So yes, when you think of quitting...FINISH STRONG!
What a sobering reminder of what has been lost for so many--beyond what mere races and monuments can memorialize. I remembered this comment as I prayed at our joint American-Canadian Memorial Day ceremony here in the north. Soldiers from both forces stood at attention. A wreath was laid before memorial markers of soldiers lost at that post. The story of two of them (including a great deal of heroism) can be found at this link:
http://www.cnn.com/2011/11/08/us/cnnheroes-war-widower/
I talked to a number of veterans-turned-contractors after the event. One was a member of the New Zealand army and fought alongside our soldiers in Vietnam. (Don't forget that the South Koreans, Australians, and New Zealanders stood by us in those dark days. They too had to change out of their uniforms before they went out in public.)
My prayer was only structured in my head, but it went something like this:
O Lord our God,
Maker of heaven and earth,
Who permits war,
And brings about peace.
On this solemn day of remembrance,
we consider the blood that was spilt by so so many of our countrymen
in service of freedom and the peace of of our free peoples.
We remember those who fought and fell together on the Italian peninsula,
on the beaches at Normandy, along the Korean DMZ, and here in Afghanistan.
We remember these names through names more recent,
like MCpl Byrom Greff, the last Canadian to die here in Afghanistan,
and by names like Flores and Alguin,
two of our Task Force Guam friends who were lost six months ago.
As we consider the great sacrifices of soldiers like these,
we also consider the great brokenness of a world that necessitated these sacrifices.
With the Psalmist, we are left to cry out:
I lift my eyes up to the mountains. Where does my help come from?
My help comes from You, maker of heaven and earth.
In our pain, give us purpose.
Amidst the chaos, give us hope.
As we train our hands for war, fit our hearts for peace.
And as each of these soldiers pray in accordance with their own traditions,
I pray in the name of my Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ. Amen.
10.11.13
A Jaunt Up North
In my more quiet surroundings in the north, there are just as many Germans as Americans and the familiar Australian faces are replaced by soldiers from a bevy of Scandinavian and Balkan countries.
The change of faces is accompanied by a modest (and pleasant) change in temperature and a small community that lends itself to more collegial relationships (the Canada house hosts a good many cigar functions).
I am up here to visit several of my soldiers, lead a chapel service, and give the invocation for a joint American-Canadian Memorial Day ceremony. In the run to this trip, life was incredibly hectic due to a variety of tasks and the omnipresent challenge that was the Ragnar. But the strenuous lifestyle dissipated into relative leisure.
After sleeping on every available surface yesterday, I arrive somewhat refreshed to visit with my soldiers. It was a happy reunion, followed by a brief refresher tour and dinner at a former DFAC-turned-pizza place. My salt deprived body enjoyed most of a very salty pizza, but my smaller waistline couldn't polish the ol' gal off.
While my soldiers worked, I enjoyed a game of pool with my chaplain assistant and teaching him ping pong through several fun rounds. I also enjoyed good conversations with soldiers throughout the post. In the late afternoon, we rehearsed our ceremony, and soon afterward, I led an informal chapel service. The presence of Protestant chaplains here is quite rare, so the soldiers who came were glad to see me.
One attendee is a gal in her early-twenties with a fascinating history. She has both Native American blood and roots from the slave-holding South (she is black). Her family was part of the slave migration to the African country of Liberia long ago. When the gal was six, her family escaped the rampant strife of Liberia by returning to the States.
When this gal was 19, someone sent her a You Tube video of a message by a pastor. This small act and modest tool became the practical instrument of her salvation. God took a hold of her life and she began to drink deeply of God's Word, His Spirit illuminating it for her for the first time. By God's grace, she was also equipped with discernment to withstand those falsehoods of those who believe you need to speak in tongues in order to be saved, and she came to cling more closely to the Gospel of grace.
Following links attached to this pastor's video, she began watching/listening to sermons by John MacArthur. From there, she stumbled upon John Piper and a number of others in the resurgent Reformed movement speaking across evangelical Christianity. She has developed a great love for the dear women oppressed and exploited by the modern sex slave trade. She asked me about a good biblical counseling program. I told her about Westminster Philly. She had already stumbled upon them online as well and has read some stuff by Paul Tripp.
She will soon be leaving the Army to pursue an undergrad degree in psychology, followed by a Masters in biblical counseling. I plan to remain in contact with her, and knowing the extent of God's grace, expect to see her counseling "the least of these" in the days to come--bringing not only the hope and joy of freedom from the bonds of slavery, but life, and life to the full through the freedom from sin's guilt granted by grace through faith in Jesus Christ. And in God's providence, it all started with someone sharing a You Tube clip...
The change of faces is accompanied by a modest (and pleasant) change in temperature and a small community that lends itself to more collegial relationships (the Canada house hosts a good many cigar functions).
I am up here to visit several of my soldiers, lead a chapel service, and give the invocation for a joint American-Canadian Memorial Day ceremony. In the run to this trip, life was incredibly hectic due to a variety of tasks and the omnipresent challenge that was the Ragnar. But the strenuous lifestyle dissipated into relative leisure.
After sleeping on every available surface yesterday, I arrive somewhat refreshed to visit with my soldiers. It was a happy reunion, followed by a brief refresher tour and dinner at a former DFAC-turned-pizza place. My salt deprived body enjoyed most of a very salty pizza, but my smaller waistline couldn't polish the ol' gal off.
While my soldiers worked, I enjoyed a game of pool with my chaplain assistant and teaching him ping pong through several fun rounds. I also enjoyed good conversations with soldiers throughout the post. In the late afternoon, we rehearsed our ceremony, and soon afterward, I led an informal chapel service. The presence of Protestant chaplains here is quite rare, so the soldiers who came were glad to see me.
One attendee is a gal in her early-twenties with a fascinating history. She has both Native American blood and roots from the slave-holding South (she is black). Her family was part of the slave migration to the African country of Liberia long ago. When the gal was six, her family escaped the rampant strife of Liberia by returning to the States.
When this gal was 19, someone sent her a You Tube video of a message by a pastor. This small act and modest tool became the practical instrument of her salvation. God took a hold of her life and she began to drink deeply of God's Word, His Spirit illuminating it for her for the first time. By God's grace, she was also equipped with discernment to withstand those falsehoods of those who believe you need to speak in tongues in order to be saved, and she came to cling more closely to the Gospel of grace.
Following links attached to this pastor's video, she began watching/listening to sermons by John MacArthur. From there, she stumbled upon John Piper and a number of others in the resurgent Reformed movement speaking across evangelical Christianity. She has developed a great love for the dear women oppressed and exploited by the modern sex slave trade. She asked me about a good biblical counseling program. I told her about Westminster Philly. She had already stumbled upon them online as well and has read some stuff by Paul Tripp.
She will soon be leaving the Army to pursue an undergrad degree in psychology, followed by a Masters in biblical counseling. I plan to remain in contact with her, and knowing the extent of God's grace, expect to see her counseling "the least of these" in the days to come--bringing not only the hope and joy of freedom from the bonds of slavery, but life, and life to the full through the freedom from sin's guilt granted by grace through faith in Jesus Christ. And in God's providence, it all started with someone sharing a You Tube clip...
Oot and Aboot
In honor of the Canadians I have recently spent time with, I have spelled my title in accordance with their dysfunctional manner of pronunciation.
Before I could see the thrilling conclusion of the Ragnar, I was whisked away to my new location in the north to see several of my soldiers. I continued my childhood legacy of being able to sleep anywhere, resting my eyes in several terminals, an airplane, and a chopper. I was also able to make executive decisions for me and my assistant when details of the journey started to get funky and I had to help us get around without our normal assistance from people on the ground.
Before I left, the Ragnar was about two dozen miles from its conclusion. I am still not sure who won. I am sure of my pride in the runners who took part. After their first leg, our Indiana Guard runners (about ten people spread across four teams) were whisked away for a mission. That left each team, which had all already suffered a lost runner or two to injury or mission, with an additional 4-6 legs to fill. Only two of us planned on running 25+ miles. I imagine that number was more in the neighborhood of half a dozen. Several other runners who were planning on running about 12 miles ended up with something in the high teens.
The night was cold and bitter. A fog swept across the post, accompanied by an incredible amount of condensation that soaked everything. The darkness was penetrating at several points of the course, which made the increasingly chilled puddles an even more unavoidable and daunting obstacle. I saw one Canadian team captain, forced into ultra-type mileage, sitting upright in his chair at the start line, sleeping in a sleeping bag. I'm not sure he ever left that place during the night.
Most of our runners, thought fit, were utterly unprepared for this type of event. We expected that. We also expected that they would persevere, and we were not disappointed. Runners, old and slow, male and female, refused to walk at any point, even if they adopted a painful survivor-stride. You could see the pain on many a face, but they were willingly awoken from their bits of merciful sleep to get back out there and help carry their team to the finish. This is the mettle that you would expect from our soldiers. I will provide a bit more in individual bios later.
As for me, I gradually gutted out 27 painful miles, having done 3.5 miles of ruck running in addition earlier in the day. I bonked big time. After almost puking during my first six miles due to my large breakfast, I improved greatly over my next couple of short legs (5k at a 7 minute pace; 2.1 at a 7:30 pace; 5k at an 8 minute pace). At the end of the last short leg, I could feel my body start to sag under the week-long illness I had experienced just prior to the run. Several days of barely eating and extreme dehydration sapped whatever energy came with my returning health. I did a late night 8 mile leg, starting at an under 8 minute pace, but eventually climbing to 11. I was cold, sore, and miserable from the third lap on.
After I got through it, I hobbled over to our DFAC (dining facility) and downed a cup of hot chocolate and a cup of instant oatmeal. The sugar and heat helped, though they did little to improve my hydration. I caught an hour of sleep before being painfully awoken for my last four mile leg. I was utterly dehydrated at this point and was unable to sweat, though I was wearing a wool stocking cap. I crept along at about a 10 minute pace and was passed going into my last lap my an energetic-looking star basketball player from our post. I upped my pace into the 9's, knowing that this was my last hoorah. I kept the baller in my sights, keeping within about 50 yards of him, figuring he'd eventually shake me. In the home stretch (about 100 yards), I shook my legs out and sprinted with everything I had left. I beat him at the finish line (and he had run a shorter distance than me). In that closing stretch, I had hit a 5:30 pace, which was somewhat close to what I normally do at the close of races (usually hitting about 4:30 in the final sprint).
For the next half an hour, I weakly cheered on my teammate whenever she passed and encouraged our next runner--another star basketball player on post who joined our team the preceding week. A compassionate Canadian gave me his hefty sweatshirt to help me warm up. Without any more eating or drinking, I collapsed in bed and caught another two hours or so of sleep before getting up to leave for the north. More on my experience here to follow...
Before I could see the thrilling conclusion of the Ragnar, I was whisked away to my new location in the north to see several of my soldiers. I continued my childhood legacy of being able to sleep anywhere, resting my eyes in several terminals, an airplane, and a chopper. I was also able to make executive decisions for me and my assistant when details of the journey started to get funky and I had to help us get around without our normal assistance from people on the ground.
Before I left, the Ragnar was about two dozen miles from its conclusion. I am still not sure who won. I am sure of my pride in the runners who took part. After their first leg, our Indiana Guard runners (about ten people spread across four teams) were whisked away for a mission. That left each team, which had all already suffered a lost runner or two to injury or mission, with an additional 4-6 legs to fill. Only two of us planned on running 25+ miles. I imagine that number was more in the neighborhood of half a dozen. Several other runners who were planning on running about 12 miles ended up with something in the high teens.
The night was cold and bitter. A fog swept across the post, accompanied by an incredible amount of condensation that soaked everything. The darkness was penetrating at several points of the course, which made the increasingly chilled puddles an even more unavoidable and daunting obstacle. I saw one Canadian team captain, forced into ultra-type mileage, sitting upright in his chair at the start line, sleeping in a sleeping bag. I'm not sure he ever left that place during the night.
Most of our runners, thought fit, were utterly unprepared for this type of event. We expected that. We also expected that they would persevere, and we were not disappointed. Runners, old and slow, male and female, refused to walk at any point, even if they adopted a painful survivor-stride. You could see the pain on many a face, but they were willingly awoken from their bits of merciful sleep to get back out there and help carry their team to the finish. This is the mettle that you would expect from our soldiers. I will provide a bit more in individual bios later.
As for me, I gradually gutted out 27 painful miles, having done 3.5 miles of ruck running in addition earlier in the day. I bonked big time. After almost puking during my first six miles due to my large breakfast, I improved greatly over my next couple of short legs (5k at a 7 minute pace; 2.1 at a 7:30 pace; 5k at an 8 minute pace). At the end of the last short leg, I could feel my body start to sag under the week-long illness I had experienced just prior to the run. Several days of barely eating and extreme dehydration sapped whatever energy came with my returning health. I did a late night 8 mile leg, starting at an under 8 minute pace, but eventually climbing to 11. I was cold, sore, and miserable from the third lap on.
After I got through it, I hobbled over to our DFAC (dining facility) and downed a cup of hot chocolate and a cup of instant oatmeal. The sugar and heat helped, though they did little to improve my hydration. I caught an hour of sleep before being painfully awoken for my last four mile leg. I was utterly dehydrated at this point and was unable to sweat, though I was wearing a wool stocking cap. I crept along at about a 10 minute pace and was passed going into my last lap my an energetic-looking star basketball player from our post. I upped my pace into the 9's, knowing that this was my last hoorah. I kept the baller in my sights, keeping within about 50 yards of him, figuring he'd eventually shake me. In the home stretch (about 100 yards), I shook my legs out and sprinted with everything I had left. I beat him at the finish line (and he had run a shorter distance than me). In that closing stretch, I had hit a 5:30 pace, which was somewhat close to what I normally do at the close of races (usually hitting about 4:30 in the final sprint).
For the next half an hour, I weakly cheered on my teammate whenever she passed and encouraged our next runner--another star basketball player on post who joined our team the preceding week. A compassionate Canadian gave me his hefty sweatshirt to help me warm up. Without any more eating or drinking, I collapsed in bed and caught another two hours or so of sleep before getting up to leave for the north. More on my experience here to follow...
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