The Road Less Travelled

The day began uneventfully, as most do here. A couple soldiers asked if I would drive them over to the main part of Bagram since I have access to the chapel truck. Since I drive manual, I am often asked to drive. However, this was the first time that I had to drive AND navigate without someone in the truck who knew the way. “It’s just one big circle,” they all said. “Impossible to get lost..” These are famous last words. I should have realized that we would be in for a real adventure.

There are a few things that one doesn’t want to do accidentally while driving around a military base in Afghanistan. Find oneself on the wrong side of the fence or drive through an active mine field are the two that I plan to avoid, at least in the future. With all the money that we are spending over here, the least they could do is put up a few “detour” and/or “do not enter” signs when they open up a road that is not supposed to be accessed by just anyone.

My witnesses concur that I had no choice but to turn left since the right turn was blocked with orange cones. It didn’t feel right, but without “danger” spelled out, we just went with it. One of the soldiers in the car commented on how beautiful the scenery looked, so different than the rest of Bagram. That should have been the red flag. But, not knowing any better, we continued on. A few peaks and dips in the road later, it became apparent that we had made a very poor choice. Suddenly, we were surrounded by fields of mines. I was concentrating on staying on the road, so I didn’t notice the red, upside-down triangles which indicate active mines. Hardly a stone’s throw from the truck, individuals were dressed in special demining gear, using their probes and equipment to continue the process of clearing the fields of active mines.

It was hard to know exactly where we were, but when it became apparent that the fence was actually keeping us out rather than in, we all knew that the left turn had been the wrong way to go. Turning around seemed like a bad idea since we knew the road was safe. The other cars and military vehicles in front of us gave us that assurance. And, going a bit too far into the field to do a three point turn may have triggered some kind of explosion. So, we pressed on.

I cannot imagine de-mining fields every day as a job. Apparently, many of the de-miners that work on Bagram are from parts of Africa where land mines are prevalent. They come here to work for months at a time, in many cases making a very good wage compared to the work they might find a home. After watching them out in those fields and realizing just how dangerous their work is, if anyone gets a bonus this year, it should be them.

Eventually we found our way back to the road and to the “safety” of the t-walls. We actually were safe the whole time, and never truly left “the wire.” But I still maintain that a couple of simple signs would have made all the difference! It’s always something, but at least the adventure quells any monotony that we may be feeling on some days. Just take a ride with the Chaplain and you never know where the road will take you! I am sure there is a sermon in there… :)

No Darkness at all

1st Sunday in Advent

November 27, 2011

Isaiah 64:1-9

This week has been a little impossible when it comes to sermon writing. Instead of having writer’s block, I have had sermon block. And, unlike other weeks, I started early, reading the scripture verses and looking over the commentaries. But, no matter what I have done to prepare for this Sunday, nothing seems right. It hasn’t helped that I have had, you know, other work to do. Between counseling sessions and dressing up like a turkey to help celebrate Thanksgiving, this sermon has been a real thorn in my side.

I think part of my problem is that its hard to prepare for the first sunday of Advent when it doesn’t feel like Advent. It’s not quite cold enough, not that I am complaining about THAT. But there are other things that seem “off.” Yes, we had our turkey and some of us stayed up all night to football. But, besides the hour meal that we shared on thanksgiving, this holiday weekend has been no different than all the other days and weeks we have spent here. The mission comes first which means that there really is no break, no time to pause and prepare for this season which is now upon us.

In a way, though, our Advent here must be pretty similar to the very first Advent. Our text from Isaiah tells us that the world was holding its breath, waiting for God to make a move. In some ways the world in which Isaiah preached in wasn’t that different from the world that we know here. Mostly, it was dark. There wasn’t a lot of good news. In fact, more often than not the news was bad. It was a world where a leader, out of fear of one day being overthrown, would slay all of the baby boys under two. It was a world where corruption had spread like disease, so much so that the temple had toppled and no leadership could be trusted to keep true to their word. It was a world where people relied on themselves and their own devices and only after they found themselves in an impossible position, turned and remembered God. Does this world sound familiar to you?

Now, I have always loved Advent, even when I was very small. It is possible, back then, my love of Advent had something to do with the fact that I got a piece of chocolate from the Advent calendar every day or that I was making my Christmas list and checking it twice, to make sure I had included all of my toys and dolls so that Santa would not forget anything. As I have grown older, though, I have learned to appreciate a different gift present in Advent. Unlike any other part of the church calendar, Advent is the time where we specifically acknowledge that we are in a world covered in darkness. It is in these weeks that we do what we should be doing all the time, that is actively waiting and watching for the coming of our Lord. It is now that we cry out, “O Come, O Come Emmanuel,” and we really mean it or at least try to mean it.

I have a friend who once told me that she used to pray for some kind of tragedy to happen in her life. It’s not that she was a masochist, but she felt like everything had always worked out for her so easily. She never knew suffering or what it meant to cry out to God from a place of utter desperation. She was studying to be a pastor and through her studies, she had traveled to many countries in the developing world. In those places she had worshiped God with people who had lost family members to war and violence. She had shared meals with children who were orphaned from HIV and AIDS. She had celebrated communion with pastors who had buried many more people because of illness and poverty than they had ever married. She had visited some very dark places in the world, and she realized that where it was darkest, the light of Christ could shine brighter than anywhere else. This friend admitted that she didn’t really want something bad to happen. But, she experienced something almost remarkable when she worshiped God in the darkness.

This is the kind of fractured world from which Isaiah called out to God. “O that you would tear open the heavens and come down.” Isaiah is not singing a sweet Christmas carol, but he is demanding an audience with God. Because where Isaiah was, in exile, it was really dark. The temple was in ruins. The Israelites had been forced to walk through the desert in chains to a place of captivity. They had been defeated, and I am willing to bet that many them felt that God was no longer there with them. And, even worse to admit, they deserved it. After all God had done, freeing them from Egypt and setting them up in the land of milk and honey, the least they could have done was worship God alone and remember that it was because of God alone that they had their very lives. But, I think we understand how easy it is to forget about God when we have everything the we need. And this is just what my friend was getting at. It’s not the tragedy that she longed for. She just recognized that she needed help remembering how much she needed God.

In a way, this Advent is a unique experience for us. We are not ACTUALLY in exile, but we can’t leave either. Day after day, whether we are part of the guard force dealing with detainees, interrogators, working to garner information which could save lives from a terrible end or medical personnel, walking alongside of those who have deep wounds and trying to offer a salve which may bring relief, no matter where we are while in this place, we face an overwhelming darkness. There really is no escaping it. Yesterday, I went on a tour of the new Justice Center for Parwan and the new housing units that will be used by the Afghan Army to hold more detainees. We are in the process of building even more of these units which is enough to make even a hopeful person feel a little hopeless. Is this ever going to end? Even the good things that we think we can celebrate, new schools for kids to learn and true partnership being forged between all of us, seems to fade into the background with news of more IEDs and setbacks.

We know what Isaiah felt like when he said “You have hidden your face from us.” In other times and places, God moved mightily, with such power that mountains quaked and nations trembled. So, why isn’t God doing that now? Isaiah is asking and so are we. Some days we are at the end of our rope. Some days it is so dark that we can’t even see a hand reaching out to us. Yet, sometimes we need the darkness because it helps us remember the true meaning of hope. Someone once said, “Hope is what is left when your worst fears have been realized and you are no longer optimistic about the future. Hope is what comes with a broken heart willing to be mended(De Jong, Patricia. “Isaiah 64:1-9.” Feasting on the Word p. 4.)”

I often forget just how painful hope can be. In place like this hope is calling us to keep a space open for the impossible to become possible, for good to grow out of the ashes of war. On most days, I am just not interested in putting myself out there again, in risking the hurt and disappointment that hovers. But where we are afraid, God is there. Where we lack courage to believe, God is there. When we doubt that light, even the light of Christ, can make a difference, God is there too.

Into the mire and mess of our world, a child is born-- God with us. This is not really what Isaiah may have hoped for when he begged for God to show up and make a difference in the world. But, God is a God who continues to defy our expectations. God’s answer to the darkness is a child. It is not power and might, not quaking mountains and trembling nations, but a child. The light which cannot be overcome by the darkest, most terrible night is a new life. It didn’t make sense then and nor does it now, at least by the world’s logic. Yet, maybe this is the point. As dark as it feels, we still go on, stumbling along the way, and it doesn’t always make sense.

At the new Justice Center, a team of teachers are waiting for their pupils to arrive, the very first class of Afghan Forensic Scientists. On Thursday, a group of US service members are preparing to bring school supplies to over three hundred children who will be treated at the Egyptian hospital this week. Yes, it is a drop in the bucket, but the ocean is made up of many drops. We aren’t doing this on our own, but we are called and sent to be the hands and feet of Christ. “Yet O Lord, you are our Father. We are the clay, and you are our potter; we are all the work of your hand.” These are Isaiah’s words to us, reminding us that we are held and fashioned by God and alone. From God’s fount, we find our strength and our hope.

Today we light the first candle of our unconventional Advent wreath. Honestly, I waited to the end of the service to do this because if it is combustible and we need to get the fire department involved, at least the service will be almost over! The candle we light does not represent our own light, but God’s light--the light of the world. When we dare to hope, when we share God’s love one drop at a time, when we wait and watch for the coming of our Lord, we reflect the light of Christ and witness to the world that in Him there is no darkness at all. Amen.

Thanksgiving fun!!

For most of my childhood, Thanksgiving Day was spent with my father’s family at a farm about an hour from Pensacola. When I was young, that one hour felt more like four or five hours, particularly when I sat in the backseat, my brother and I separated by a sweet potato casserole. Even when we hit the dirt road which would bring us to the farm, I knew that the wait for the meal had only just begun. There were lots of good distractions at the farm, though, horses and dirt bikes to name two of my favorite. With my mother preoccupied by cooking responsibilities, I enjoyed unusual freedom from her watchful, sometimes overprotective, eye.

Most of my eleven cousins have “broken bone” and “stitches” stories which transpired in those hours of waiting for our turkey meal. The closest I have ever been to needing stitches happened right before thanksgiving dinner once when I was in high school. My cousin persuaded me to mount his skateboard. The road that had appeared flat all those years suddenly became mountainous. I ended up rolling down the road into a ditch. Considering some of “the cousin” injuries, I faired pretty well.

Though memories of Thanksgiving vary from family to family, there are a few markers of this special day which seem to be ubiquitous, eating too much and spending time with loved ones at the top of the list. No matter where I have been for Thanksgiving, even when this meal has not been shared with my parents and cousins, a have still known family on this day, passing the turkey and gravy around the table, taking a moment to count my blessings. This Thanksgiving was no exception. As members of my battalion, now Task Force Viper, gathered around tables, exclaimed aloud excitement over cranberry sauce or pumpkin pie, the feeling of family was undeniable. It may not have been what we would have hoped for, being so far away from loved ones, but it was good and rich and full nonetheless. As we ate our fill and regaled stories of our favorite Thanksgiving traditions, there was an unmistakable feeling of home.

Once everyone passed through the “chow” line, the room was called to attention, and I blessed our meal. I can’t say a blessing without thinking of my dad. His eloquent words of grace resound in my head whenever I am asked to pray over a meal. In recent years, I have noticed that he always blesses those present around the table as well as who those present represent. Those who are physically present and those who are with us in spirt, I guess in a way, they are one and the same.

Maybe I have noticed his blessings because I spend so much time away from my family’s table, not present with them. When I have heard his words in recent years, they have helped me to remember that our connection to one another extends beyond what meets the eye. Presence is as much a matter of the heart as it is a physical state of being. Whether or not my father said the grace this Thanksgiving, I know that for a moment my family, as well as the families of all of my soldiers, took time to recognize that the table reached across quite a few time zones today.

For those who we sit beside and for all the rest who are a part of our hearts, there is much to be thankful for. As we take the time to express gratitude for all the blessings that we have known, it seems fitting to remember that giving thanks, pausing to tell our family and friends just how much they mean to us, should be an every day thing, not just once a year. Sometimes it takes two hundred plus bags of homemade chex mix and a couple of bigger than life-sized turkeys to remind us of what we already know. Whatever it takes....

"Hope" tote!

Now that I have been “unpacked” for about a week, I have been able to walk around Camp Sabalu-Harrison toting my green “Hope” bag over my shoulder. PCCers should recognize this plastic grocery bag from last year’s Advent season. A year ago, all of the members of our church’s leadership were given a seasonal (and reusable) tote bag filled with barn hay. Throughout the weeks of Advent building up to Christmas Eve, we were encouraged to fill the nativity manager with handfuls of our hay whenever we served the God. Service was defined in a variety of ways from “doing” something for someone else, praying about the darkness of the world, or simply, being a witness to the Good News of the season. I remember dumping a whole bag of hay into the manager one day, on behalf of one of our members, who was fighting for his life in an intensive care unit in Baltimore. I figured struggling to live after days of painful, debilitating illness was definitely a testament to how we all should honor the life that we have been given, even when giving up would be a welcome relief.

Somehow, I have ended up with quite a few of these “Hope” bags. They are immensely useful because they don’t get dirty and can hold just about as much as I am able to carry over one shoulder. Of course, a bright green bag with “Hope” written across the side is not part of the Army uniform regulations. Though I am risking a scolding and have a perfectly acceptable black backpack that I could use alternatively, I can’t help myself from choosing my “Hope” bag whenever I need to ferry things from one place to another.

A few days ago, I got a wonderful shipment of cookies from my mother. Though I had a sermon to write and a Sunday bulletin to prepare, I knew that keeping those cookies in my office would only cause me trouble. The temptation to eat them was just too much. So, I packed my “Hope” tote full of peanut butter, chocolate chip, and oatmeal raisin cookies, and I headed for the detention center. It wasn’t until I was inside, walking down the long corridor where Afghan detainees as well as US soldiers and Afghan Army live and work, that I realized how radical this four letter word is, particularly in a facility that houses persons accused of terrorism.

Day after day, hearing stories about girls schools being targeted and bombed and getting news about more American and partnership soldiers (not to mention innocent civilians, too) being killed by IEDs, it’s easy to lose sight of hope. I am in the business of hope, and there are many days when I wonder if having hope is just plain foolish. With the news headlines ever dismal, hope seems far from smart or even practical. And, yet, as we prepare for this Advent season in Afghanistan and everywhere, hope is exactly what we need. It’s not the easy, cheap kind of hope that many like to toss around too carelessly, but it is the kind of hope that breaks open the heart. It challenges us to be open to the possibility that something good, something of God even, can emerge out of the ashes, even when nine times out of the ten or even ninety-nine times out of a hundred, we have been deeply disappointed and hurt. Hope helps us remember that even someone who has chosen a lot of bad and hurt a lot of people in the process, can still turn toward goodness.

As long as there are cookies to share and aging Halloween candy to pass out, I will continue to carry around my non-regulation "Hope" tote bag. If anything, it helps me remember who I am and what I am called to witness here. Some days there are plenty of things “to do.” Always there is reason to pray. And, holding on to my own version of “Hope,” and on some days, remembering to share it, I also bear witness to the Good News. After all, tIs the season!!

Another Sunday

For one reason or another, it has taken me a few days to sit down and reflect on this past week. As a pastor, marking time in “Sundays” comes naturally. The build up to Sunday is fairly consistent. Around Tuesday, I remind myself that I need to look at the lectionary for this next Sunday. This means actually reading the scripture for the week and then starting the process of looking at other people’s commentaries and reflections. Then, sometime on Thursday, I start looking at the bulletin. And, since I have the “hook up” from some seasoned pastor types, there is always help if I need it. By Friday night, I force myself to write something. I DO have a whole day to get the service ready, but we all know, whether we are stateside or in Afghanistan, life has a way of interrupting best laid plans.

Last Sunday I started my own worship service, the early service. Even my own mother would think twice before attending early church, especially if it is one’s day off. While there are quite a few Protestant services on our camp, none of them have, even loose ties, to traditional liturgy. Even though I knew that my audience would be small, possibly even non-existent, I wanted to offer weekly communion and prayers for worshipers who were seeking something a little different. Our first service was a little dicey. We didn’t have the right music, and I ended up having to lead the small group in an “A capella” hymn sing. When church finally ended, my only consolation was that I had to drink the rest of the communion wine we had prepared for about twenty people. It was throw it away or drink it up. I never waste… anything.

This Sunday went off without a hitch. We more than doubled our attendees and the music worked perfectly. In a way though, I have had some anxiety in the hours that followed our service. Why did I have to preach on Judgment Day the first Sunday that we actually had a critical mass? It serves me right for following the lectionary so faithfully. But preaching the Gospel is not always easy, for the preacher or the listener. After the service, one of the soldiers who looked a little suspicious as I preached God’s love, asked me if the upcoming Bible Study, based on Rob Bell’s book Love Wins about heaven, hell, and the fate of every person who ever lived, was going to take a particular position. I told him that the book definitely takes a position, but I was hoping to create an open forum for honest discussion about a subject that causes a lot of debate. I also told him I hoped he would join us.

Perhaps the best part of the day was when Fisch reminded me of something that I should have remembered, but that got lost in my own self-consciousness. “Ma’am,” he said. “I may not always agree with you, but don’t ever apologize for speaking the truth.” Amen.

Sermon for November 20, 2011

Chaplain (CPT) Mel Baars
Camp Sabalu-Harrison, Bagram
20 November 20, 2011
Matthew 25: 31-46

“Love Wins”

When I was in high school, our youth group put on a production of the Broadway musical Godspell. Basically, Godspell is straight out of the gospel of Matthew, alternating music and dramatization of the scripture. Admittedly, at that point in my life, I didn’t know very much about the Bible. But I thought I had the basics down. Creation and Adam and Ave, Noah, flood and rainbows, Joseph and his colorful coat, David, Goliath, and a slingshot, Mary on a donkey heading for Bethlehem, Jesus’ birth, miracles, the Last Supper, the cross and then resurrection. The end. Episcopalians are not known for their biblical knowledge.

So, in the play, whenever we got to the skit about the sheep and the goats, a parable on Judgment Day, I always got a little uncomfortable. This one kid in my youth group, who was a total ham, played “the King.” In grand gestures he would separate the sheep and the goats, who were “played by” other high school youth on their hands and knees, pretending to be four legged creatures. First he would give the sheep the good news. Guess what? Surprise! They were saved! “Sweet,” all the sheep would say, as they gave each other high fives and danced around the stage. Because they had given a cup of water and visited prisoners, they got to go into God’s kingdom. Then, the “king’s” whole demeanor would change. His face would get all contorted as he would turn toward the goats. Giving a little cackle, he would drop the bomb on the goats, who were sitting there, with such hopeful looks on their faces. “Eternal fire and damnation,” he would yell. And all the little goats would burst into fake tears, falling all over the stage. They would look so update and confused, wondering out loud how in the world this could have happen.

Every time this would happen in the play, I would think to myself, “Man, it really stinks to be a goat!” It just seemed so random. Neither group really knew what was coming because neither group really understood what it meant to love and serve in God’s name. Their questions to the king demonstrate just how confused they are. The sheep, happy of course that their news was good news, still pose the question, “Lord, when was it that we saw you hungry and gave you food, or thirsty and gave you something to drink? And when was it that we saw you sick or in prison and visited you?” They genuinely don’t understand how they gave this king food, water, shelter, clothing and care, because, even though they are sheep and their brains are small, they still know they would have remembered serving “the king.” Likewise, the goats, devastated by the news of eternal damnation, are also confused. “When,” they ask, “Did we see you hungry or thirsty or a stranger or naked or sick or in prison, and not take care of you?” The goats brains are also small, but they are pretty sure they would have remembered, snubbing a king. And, this is when the king reveals the big secret. “Just as you did or did not do to one of the least of these who are members of my family, you did to me.”

I used to feel so sorry for those goats. I mean, they didn’t really know what they were or were not doing, right? I mean, if they had KNOWN that eternal damnation would be the consequence of neglecting the poor, the marginalized, the imprisoned, and the rejected, don’t you think they would have changed their ways? I mean, I would, wouldn’t I? Wouldn’t I?

It doesn’t take much reflection of my own life for me to realize that I am actually one of the goats. Sure, I have rolled my window down a number of times to offer a dollar or an apple or granola bar to a beggar at a stop light. I have served food at soup kitchens and built houses for Habitat for Humanity. I have even gotten pooped on, not once, but twice by diaper-less toddlers in an orphanage while trying to play games and color. Surely, THAT counts for something. But, even still, I have a suspicion, if responding to the least of these wherever and whenever they cross my path is the standard, on most days, I simply fail. I can just think all the way back to yesterday and my walk down Main Street in the DFIP. How many detainees did I see being wheeled around? Even when they can’t see me, even when I am not allowed to visit them, at least formally, even when I have been ordered not to talk to them under any circumstance, somehow I know that those are not the kinds of excuses that this “king” of our gospel story would listen to. I know, even though I don’t want to admit it, that I am being called to more, called to step beyond my comfort zone, to stop hiding behind my fears. I am called, every day, again and again, to respond out of compassion and love, even to those who have hurt me those I love.

So, mostly, I am a big goat and unlike the goats in Matthew, I don’t have the excuse that I didn’t know. Cause I do know. After all, I was in the play! And, I have read this passage countless times, now that I am a preacher. So, really, there are no excuses. Sometimes, though, when we know something in our minds, it is hard to know how this translates into our every day lives. We may know what kind of life God is calling us to live, but we may not know how to actually live this life, day to day. And for this particular season of our lives, here in Camp Sabalu-Harrison, living and working in this detention facility, what does Jesus’ instruction, “What you do to prisoners, you do to me,” really mean for us?

Before I arrived here, I had all kinds of ideas about how I was going to love Jesus in this prison. But, the truth is, I struggle every day. It’s not a struggle about whether or not I think these detainees deserve to be here or not or if I believe that they have done wrong. In many cases they have done wrong. They have brought pain and harm to innocent people, and they need to be stopped. My struggle is more about how I feel about them, what goes on in my heart when I see them, or worse, when I feel nothing, when I am unwilling to even acknowledge them and how they are somehow a part of me. Jesus demands more of me than that. Jesus calls every one of us to see, to acknowledge, and then, to love. If we can’t rise to that, if that seems too hard, then we are at least called to pray about it. When we struggle to respond to the least of these because of our fears or our prejudices or our self-centeredness or even our legitimate pain, we can still pray for a more generous heart which has the capacity to let go and forgive, to embrace instead of throw away.

This reminds me of a story that I have heard told before. Back during the days of integration of the public school system, President Johnson called in US Marshals to protect children from angry hecklers as they walked into their new, desegregated schools. There was a little girl named Ruby Bridges. Grown ups, who didn’t think she belonged in a white school, would scream at her and call her names. Whenever she walked by the angry mob, she would whisper under her breath. When she was asked what she was saying, she said that she was praying for the people that were yelling at her because they didn’t know what they were doing. She was echoing the words that she had heard in church where she had learned that Jesus was given a whole lot of trouble, and he said about those who were causing this trouble, “Father, forgive them, for they do not know what they are doing.” When there is nothing else we can think of, we can still pray. When we feel we have nothing to give, nothing to offer, we can still pray.

Today, in our scripture, we are reminded that God is not a distant God, but God who is right here, in the midst of all of us. If you want to see God, you only have to look as far as your neighbor. To see the one who is in need, for whatever reason, the one who is vulnerable, the one who can’t stand alone, is to see God, face to face. “When you did it to one of the least of these, you did it to me.” The interesting thing is that there is nothing in the king’s judgment of sheep and goats that cites proper religion, attending church, following the rules or anything of that nature. It’s simpler than that. The only thing that seems to matter in this business of separating sheep and goats is whether or not love, care, kindness, and compassion was shared freely with those who needed it. That’s it. Deeds of love and mercy are the ways of God’s kingdom.

Recently, a friend of mine asked me if it was possible to do real good without a religious background. I can’t help but think about this passage. The righteous, the ones that were welcomed into God’s kingdom, were considered faithful, not because of a belief or a claim, not because of membership in a church or because of what they said, but they were called righteous because of how they lived, even when they didn’t realize it. If the goats had been clued in, they may have changed their ways, but all for the wrong reasons. You see, the sheep just shared, not because they were forced to or compelled by religious edict, but because they had love and compassion in their hearts, and it flowed freely. It seems this is what Jesus is getting at, a kind of love that flows, not out of calculation or duty or hope of “doing the right thing,” or even hope of being saved, but instead, because it naturally spills over.

Today we celebrate the Reign of Christ, God’s love made into flesh, teaching us, showing us, encouraging us along the way so that we might realize that it is only when we love that we truly live. And this is the thing about God’s love, the more you are willing to share it, the more you have to give away. This is the other thing about God’s love. It is for all of us. It fills in the gaps that we have not been able to fill. It makes us strong where we have been weak. It helps us transcend all that we cannot do on our own. This kind of love even takes us goats and transforms us into sheep. Because, in the very end, God’s love wins. Amen

Rise and Shine and Give God the Glory

Lately, I have noticed that I walk around camp singing songs under my breath, sometimes more audibly than I realize until I get an odd look from a passerby. Walking is my typical mode of transportation, unless I have to take the truck to the MAIN post, another story altogether.

Every time I put one foot in front of the next, heading off to a meeting in most cases, I find myself enveloped in song. As I concentrate on keeping good footing on the rocks, the song begins to play in my head. This is not a new phenomenon for me. In fact, the only way I got through many an Army march was by singing my way to the finish. I can’t really remember where I was marching or even in what year of my life, but I remember the words of the song that helped me to continue on, that kept my energy flowing.

These days I am singing a song I learned in Bible School some years ago. The refrain, pretty much all that I remember goes, “So rise and shine and give God the glory, glory… children of the Lord.” There is a noticeable pep to my step whenever I am singing it, even when I am headed to the “latrines.” I can’t help myself. It just comes to mind, all times of day, no matter how the day has unfolded. The only problem with this particular Bible School special is that it comes with hand motions. I have caught myself, on more than one occasion, perched for the choreography, jazz hands at the ready. I always stop my arms from shooting up, right at the last minute. And, then I laugh at how ridiculous it is that I am walking around a combat zone, singing songs about God that I learned more than two decades ago. Yet, on any given day, as crazy as it may sound, I can’t help myself.

It is truly a mystery, what is written into our fabric, even when we don’t realize it. Almost daily, I hear stories about earlier memories of church or spirituality which shed great light on a person’s experience of God. Sometimes, these stories are similar to my favorite ones from church, but sadly, sometimes these stories are painful and harsh and completely incongruous to what I have seen and known as a part of the church. When I hear these kinds of stories, I don’t blame them from walking away. I probably would have, too. Yet, sometimes I wish I could just give them a glimpse into the fullness of what a community of faith can be.

Whether I would share memories of the annual “mile” long ice cream Sunday reserved only for the church picnic, breaking Subway bread with a rag tag small group on a Thursday night, gathering in a manger on a cold Christmas Eve night, people and animals joined together to follow a star, or simply the weekly infusion of love, support, and grace I have known being a part of a church, the point is, after all this time, I can’t help but sing, even here. I don’t think it is possible to forget this kind of song, no matter how long it may be set aside. The song is a part of our very being, who we were when we were young and went a long with the music almost unquestionably, who we are now, even if the melody has become unfamiliar, and who we will be, when there is no breath left to sing.

“So, rise and shine and give God the glory, glory… children of the Lord.”