Memorial Day

Right now, we Americans have a great pleasure. 

 

Our nation has set a day aside, during which it is our duty to honor the men and women of our military forces.  These men and women recognized a truth larger than their personal goals.  They sacrificed their time—sometimes their health or even their lives—for the maintenance of that truth.  That truth is our possession today because of their sacrifices. 

 

That truth is embodied in the brief documents by which our nation was founded, the Declaration of Independence, the U.S. Constitution, and the Bill of Rights. The men who forged these documents were all of them acquainted with the notion that something larger than themselves was active in their personal lives: most of them were committed Christian believers in the God of the Holy Bible.  As compared with an increasing number of secularists today, they believed that it was their duty—as well as their fulfillment—to work for the good of the Lord…which in turn would be for the good of all humans. 

 

I never met a Civil War veteran, although my father did, and General Washington, to me, seems so far away as to be marble.  But the General was not marble, nor were the underfed, under-clothed, and under-supported troops gathered together with him at Valley Forge.  Nor are our soldiers today.

 

Our founding documents created a unique nation.  We were founded out of the passions of eighteenth century enlightenment, tempered by wisdom gained from review of seventeenth century political struggles. Our founding population, principally, was made up of second (and later) sons and of others who needed to make it on their own.  Thanks to our geographical isolation from the European and other wider worlds, we gained some time to learn to make it on our own.  We built.  We invented.  We explored.  Then we fought to keep what we had built, invented, and explored.  We fought to keep it because we believed that our possession of it secured not only ourselves but anyone else from any spot on earth who might want to come here, to become one of us, and to be secured by what we had built, invented, and explored, too.    

 

Although we were continually torn between isolationism and interventionism, we always believed we have something to offer to the rest of the world: an idea, a hope. 

 

Today, we are a nation to which millions flock when they have no hope where they are.  Do millions risk their lives every year to cross into North Korea, Iran, Cuba, Mexico, China, and Libya?  No.  America is the melting pot, and so long as we remain so—and so long as we avoid the tendency to become hyphenated Americans—we will continue to benefit, and the world will continue to benefit, from our creativity. 

 

We are a religious nation which cares about Good and Evil.  We see ourselves as part of a long story, which, like any complex novel, has its subplots, its distractions, its heroes and villains, its ambiguities.  Yet the story we are part of is a grand one—even a holy one—and it is our privilege to be proud of it, and, right now, particularly it is our privilege to be proud of  our sons and daughters who wore—and who wear—its service uniforms.     

 

We thank them for their willingness to put their lives on the line, whether we agree or disagree with policy that put them in particular places at particular times. 

 

Would I have been at Valley Forge, virtually starving in the snow?  Would I have stood and given silent honor to my Confederate brothers, and former enemies, at Appomattox, as they lay down their arms?  Would I have charged up San Juan Hill?  As a doughboy landing with Black Jack Pershing in France in 1918, would I have done what Alvin York did and render unto Caesar?  Would I have been a young navy flier on patrol over Iwo Jima as Old Glory is raised below?  Would I have been scared and frozen and down to my last few rounds, crouching in the night on a hill in Korea, waiting for a communist attack at dawn?  Would I have leapt from a Huey in Vietnam, into the Broken Arrow battle, when the lid finally blew off the kettle?  And would I be a marine in Afghanistan today, right now, facing deadly intent by an implacable enemy desirous of doing my nation—and the idea behind it—deadly harm? 

 

Would you?

 

Any American reading this blog post has benefited that there are millions, during our years, who did these things.  And that there were many more of them, too, often hidden behind the lines. There were clandestine warriors, cold warriors, fifth columnists, spies, atom bomb designers, Rosie the Riveters, propagandists…and more.  These soldiers, too, helped the American story continue into its next chapter. 

 

There is glory, in our story.

 

For those who are nervous at such a term—glory, how antique!—I say enjoy the fact that you have the liberty to be offended. 

 

We are neither dispirited Old Europe, nor the angry and paranoid Middle East, nor the struggling and envious Third World, nor burgeoning and nervous China, nor the confused remnants of Sovietism in Central Asia, nor battered and victimized Africa, nor even the energetic but edgy Pacific Rim. 

 

Our military forces have given us 237 years of safety to create more—

 

o   growth,

o   invention,

o   goods,

o   services,

o   value,

o   security,

o   health,

o   fineness of living,

o   satisfaction, and

o   eagerness to give back

 

than has ever occurred on earth before, ever. 

 

Thank you, from our hearts. 

 

Copyright 2013 - Dikkon Eberhart 

 

 

 

Evil is like the Air we Breathe

            “Dikkon, there is no difference between you and I and Charles Manson.”  A startling comment from the man who was to become my pastor. 

            Before becoming an evangelical Christian, I knew the word evil, and I knew that evil was quite prevalent in the world…anyway among some poor unfortunate souls.  In moments of my deepest introspection, I could even point to actions in my life when there was no one or no thing to blame for what I had just done.  I was just plain cussedly wrong to have done it.  I had desired to hurt. 

            Of course, I hadn’t murdered people.  Goodness no.  Who would even think such a thing about me? 

            Now and then, if I were angry about something, I might just say something that would wound another, or I might just ignore another and not catch an eye, or I might just pass along a little piece of news to someone, about another, who would have no way to defend.  But that’s just what anyone would do under the circumstances. 

            You see, before I became an evangelical Christian, I knew the word evil, but evil didn’t have anything to do with me.  There were evil people—I knew that already, poor things—and then there were people like me.  People to whom evil might happen, but who were on the other side a great and a comfortable divide, away from evil.

            Then, in the process of my becoming an evangelical Christian, my to-be pastor said that there is no difference between him, and me, and Charles Manson.  I stumbled over that one for quite a long time…and I became an evangelical Christian anyway!

            Why in the world….? 

            Any sensible person would have turned tail and run straight away from a nutty group of God people who would make such a preposterous claim.  Charles Manson indeed!

            But here’s the thing…and you’ll just have to take my word for this if you aren’t an evangelical Christian yourself.  Knowing that my pastor, and I, and Charles Manson are not different from one another turns out to be more comforting than believing that there is a vast difference between my pastor and me, on the one side, and Charles Manson, on the other side. 

            I have come to believe that each and every one of us humans is a sinner and is therefore susceptible to being just, plain evil. Some of us allow our evil to flow more fully and more stunningly than others; good for those others among us who moderate many of our evil impulses! 

However, each of us can do what Charles Manson did.   

            When I thought that the Mansons of the world were on the other side of a great divide from the Dikkons of the world, there was a great deal of anxiety inherent in that thought process.  You see, one day I might feel the slightest twinge of a feeling inside me, a twinge that was just a little, tiny bit like what I imagine Manson felt.  Horrors!  Does that mean I would I take a carving fork to Sharon Tate? 

No, no, no, I would say to myself.  And then I—all by myself because this was a dark secret and not to be revealed to others—I would need to shove that horror back away somewhere in order to restore my comfortable conception that I was not someone from the other side. 

But my comforting conception that I was not someone from the other side was very precarious.  At any moment, I might feel a twinge.  Or even two twinges. 

Here’s why being an evangelical Christian is more comforting than not being one. 

Now, when I feel a twinge, I know everyone else feels them, too.

Now, when I fight to moderate my behavior, when under the influence of a twinge, I believe that all my companions, who are believers, are, right then, moderating theirs, too.

Now, when I fight to moderate my behavior, I am not alone—as I was before—but I am companioned, not only by my fellow human believers, but by Jesus Himself. 

I’m speaking of that same Jesus—the famous one—who, though He is God, is also man.  Though Jesus is God, the fact that he is also man means that, during those days when He was personally present among us, He felt, suffered, struggled, was tempted, and tried to get off of the sharp stick in the same way that I do. 

And, on the other hand, the fact that Jesus is not just man, but He is God—and therefore that He knows me and loves me—means that He can instruct me how to moderate any behavior and lead me in the right direction, each time, so I do actually get off the sharp stick each time. 

And then God Himself can unremember my sinfulness and take me back into his forgiving embrace, now on earth, and later in Heaven. 

            Ain’t that more better than having only myself to engineer myself out of yet another evil deed? 

…with no end of twinges—and of deeds—in sight? 

 

Copyright 2013 – Dikkon Eberhart

           

An Angel at a Funeral

             We Baptists are not so much involved with angels; that’s more of a Catholic thing.  But on the Saturday before Mother’s Day—as I say it, anyway—we had an angel at our church. There was a funeral, and there was a song. 

            A woman who was much admired in our congregation for her unconditional love of all of us—and of everyone else she ever met—died, suddenly.  Her death shook not only our congregation, but it shook our whole town also.  Diane was a vigorous seventy-one-year-old.  On the day she died, I am sure that she had not expected to walk out of her front door, stumble, and regain her balance only by a stepping into Heaven.   

Commonly, at our church services, there are sixty to eighty people in attendance.  On the Saturday before Mother’s Day, for Diane’s funeral, there may have been three hundred. 

Diane’s mother had been the Official Hugger of our church.  Upon her death—two years to the day before Diane’s—informally her post was passed to Diane.  Customarily, my family sits in the pew next to the pew in which Diane’s family sits.  During each Sunday service, there is a moment when our choir director instructs us to greet one another.  I have had hundreds of hugs from the daughter of our Official Hugger, and I have been moved by the genuineness of each one. 

                                                            *****

I know that this story of mothers is complicated, but there is yet one other mother involved.  Another mother of our congregation moved away from us about eighteen months ago.  Gail and her husband, in their seventies and eighties, became infirm.  They moved to Massachusetts to live with his son.  Their absence, too, was a wrench for our congregation.  Deeply loved by us, and deeply loving of us in return, Gail was a most gracious hostess when she lived among us.  Their home, built by the husband, had been the location of our Wednesday night prayer meetings.

When they moved away, our pastor and his wife bought their house.  During prayer meetings now, when we meet at our pastor’s house, we are repeating as guests in Gail’s home, too.    

Gail had been especially solicitous toward Channa and me as we were coming to Christ.  Her hugs were as genuine—though more delicate—than those of the other church mothers who hugged us.  

The final thing you should know about Gail is this: she has a profoundly beautiful singing voice.  Many in our choir have good voices, some have excellent ones.  But Gail’s voice is of another quality entirely.  It is a glory of God that humans are able to make such sounds, for the humans who make such sounds help us to anticipate what we shall hear in Heaven. 

The funeral.  I am a deacon, so I had chores and bustle as the hour approached.  Cars piled into our parking area and overflowed along the road.  One of our town’s policemen is a brother deacon.  He was outside directing traffic and wondering where to put it all.  A flood of mourners poured through our doors.  Channa—our pastor’s secretary—was busily printing more and more copies of the bulletin as the attendees doubled and tripled. 

A side door opened.  Gail and her husband made their slow way inside. 

That they had come! 

The service.  The order of service included three hymns.  Before the third hymn, our pastor announced a slight change in the detail from the bulletin.  Gail had agreed to sing the third hymn herself. 

Gail!

Hobbling on her walker, it took several minutes for Gail to reach the front of the church.  Utter silence.  Our choir director held the microphone.  Our pastor’s wife rippled quietly on the piano through the opening bars of the hymn.  Then Gail opened her mouth, and music ascended, as on the wings of an angel. 

                                                            *****

Here’s what I said to Gail afterwards.  “My dear, you made me cry.”

Here’s what she replied, twinkling, “Yes.  You cried because I can’t carry a tune anymore.  You poor old thing, you cried.” 

“No, Gail,” I said.  “You took us to Heaven, with Diane.”

 

 

Copyright, 2013 -- Dikkon Eberhart

 

The SODDI Defense

We have enjoyed bright days in early spring here on the coast of Maine.  The sun has punch for the first time in six months.  But the wind has its power, too.  A few days ago, a cold wind blew fiercely from the northeast.  My daffodils bent sideways and whipped back and forth, staggered by a very Euroclydon, the levanter which shipwrecked St. Paul. 

 

I took that day off from writing my book about my poet father and how his lyricism contributed to Channa’s and my conversions, and I drove the three miles to Popham Beach.  Popham is a swath of sand, miles long in both directions, rare for rocky-beach Maine.  Far out rock ledges cause the seas to blast up white furies.  Two-and-a-half miles out from the beach is Sequin Island, topped by Maine’s tallest and second commissioned lighthouse, commissioned by George Washington back in 1795.  For beach-goers, at least when it is low tide, there is a rocky islet, called Fox Island, which one can reach by foot, but you had better watch the tide carefully for it comes in fast, and people have been trapped on Fox.  Otherwise, the beach is bold to the open sea.

 

All through this past winter, surfacing only occasionally for deacon and trustee responsibilities at my church and to serve in my retirement, part-time sales job, I have been plunged into my father’s world, swimming strongly, re-living my living with him.  But on that day, I needed to be blown free from words.  I needed a break from my father. 

 

            As I drove, I put into the CD player the original cast disk of The Fantastiks, which my college had done the year before I arrived as a freshman, and which Dad and I had seen there together several nights in a row.  I opened my moon roof for the first time since winter, and I cranked up the music very loud.  I sang along with Try to Remember—I’m not a skillful singer—and when we got to It Depends on What You Pay, sung by Jerry Orbach as El Gallo, I sang that, too. 

 

            At the last note of that clever song, there is a rousing cheer by the two fathers and by El Gallo, who has sold the fathers on the idea of the abduction, which he calls a rape…”It’s short and businesslike.”  Stirred, I punched the air and cheered, too.  In that instant, suddenly, I was my father.  That song had tickled my father’s fancy, and he had punched the air and cheered, too, with exactly the gesture and the intonation I used.    

 

My cheer was so much his, I was him. 

 

            When I arrived at the beach, I shut down the music and sat quivering in my car.  Far from getting a break from Dad, I was still at least half him.  A thought blasted through me.  I had just been my father, because of a gesture…and he, long dead.  

 

Then another thought hit me.  Perhaps Dad had used that gesture and intonation because he had seen his father use it, too, back in his father’s day.  And I wondered: had Dad’s father used that same gesture and intonation because he had seen his father use it, too, in the even farther-back day? 

 

            Then there came a leap of a thought-blast. 

 

If a gesture can be so evocative as to take one, in an instant, back a generation, or even back several generations, then might a gesture take one back much farther than that?  Might a gesture take one back to one’s deepest known ancestor?  Could I trace that same gesture all the way back to Eberhart the Noble in 1281?  Might Eberhart the Noble have gestured that same way when he rose from his knees before the Holy Roman Emperor, and stepped backwards out of the throne room door?  Might he then have looked at the new ducal seal in his hand, which had just made him the first Duke of Württemberg at the age of fifteen?  He might have pumped his fist in the air in the same way as I had generations later, and used that same intonation…Yes!  

 

And we Eberharts have been doing so ever since.

 

            As I sat in the car before walking to the beach, my inhabitation of my father diminished, and so my mind came more into play than my heart.  Here’s what I pondered:  if a mere gesture can do this, then what about sin?  Can sin, too, do a snap-back? 

 

            I sin today.  I sin in a way that copies my father’s sin.  Did he sin in a way that copied his father’s sin…and so on backwards in time?  Adam lied to God, and he accused Eve, thereby disrespecting his wife.  I disrespect my wife at times, accusing her of faults which—truly—are my own, not hers.  When I disrespect my requirement to honor my wife’s need for true, straight-forward, and timely communication, along with direction of our spiritual passage, does this sin snap me back, in an instant, all the way to Adam, and to his hiding in the Garden, and to his lie? 

 

Could I be responsible for the Fall?   

 

No, no. 

 

Some Other Dude Did It. 

 

Not me. 

 

No.  Not me. 

 

 

Copyright 2013 -- Dikkon Eberhart