New York Ave. Presbyterian Church

After speaking at the Christian Peace Witness for Iraq, I was invited to speak at the New York Avenue Presbyterian Church in Washington D.C.

I had a speech prepared for tonight. I had five minutes to get it in, and I spent about a week and a half getting it down to five minutes. When I got to the cathedral today, I just finished it — it was kind of sketchy, and I didn't really like it — and I was struck by something. I realized I'm not supposed to share it. There was a train of events that made me realize I'm not really a speaker, I'm not even really a writer, but I really like to be a storyteller. So tonight, hopefully I won't go too far over five minutes, but I'll share this story with you real quick.

I had just finished writing — or finishing up — that speech, and I was supposed to meet up [with the group] — I'd just spoken in the worship [service], you probably saw me — and I went into the chapel where all the other participants were getting ready to go, and I just wasn't comfortable. I walked out, tried to find some time. I hadn't eaten all day, and a lot of things were going on. I was wondering, maybe I should just speak from the heart instead. So I sat down in front of — I'm not sure what it's called — the stand of candles, and as I was walking in I saw some kind of fresco with Jesus standing there, and a soldier laying against the steps, from after he rose from the garden tomb. I was struck by the soldier.

I'd been dealing with just war and pacifism for a long time — how do I place myself in that, what do I do with it — and I remembered something, and this is what I hope to share with you. [The presentation right before mine — I don't know if they planned it this way — turned out to basically be my story too.]

The Conscientious Objector Packet

I had been in the Army for five, six years at the time. I went to Iraq in 2004, stayed all that year and into 2005. I came back and decided that if I was really going to be a Christian — not just a believer, but a follower — I couldn't kill someone, and that had been my job for six years. So I submitted my conscientious objector packet.

What caught a lot of people's attention was that I didn't request a discharge. I got some pushback from people who agreed with my position but felt I was supposed to get out. I told them: after five-plus years in the military, I've seen the life soldiers lead, back here in the States and at war. I joined before the USS Cole was bombed in Yemen, before the towers fell. I felt that Christ's call to love one another is stronger than his call to withdraw or separate, and that in the military I could actually provide that witness — real love. So I requested to be a non-combatant. But more than that, because of my own job, I also told them I wasn't going to carry a weapon anymore. I wanted to go to Iraq, but I believed the best way to wage peace wasn't with a weapon.

As a result, I was diagnosed with a mental disorder. I was "crazy," because I was ready to die for something — imagine that. After a long list of things I wish hadn't happened, they reassigned me and told me I was medically undeployable. That was crazy. I watched my unit leave, and that was one of the hardest days of my life, because I knew God was calling me to the Middle East — calling me back to war, but to wage it not as the world does, but a spiritual battle, without temporal weapons. I watched them leave, and I still had this real conviction to get back to the region.

Getting to Hebron

I'd known about CPT — Christian Peacemaker Teams — for some time, and I threw in an application. They weren't going to Iraq at that point, but Israel had just started bombing Lebanon, so I figured that would be a good place to go. I submitted my application, and amid a little confusion from some of the organizers — getting a request from an active-duty soldier — I finally got in. By any account of mine, I think it was a miracle that I got to go at all. But I got to Israel.

While I was in Hebron, in the South, I had a pretty striking revelation. Hebron is a heavily militarized city — one of the most occupied places you'll find, where you see more IDF [Israel Defense Forces] soldiers than almost anywhere. The more I saw these soldiers, the more I felt real contempt for them. I wanted to find every reason they were doing something wrong — their formations were loose, they weren't paying attention, whatever it was — I wanted to hate them.

We walked through one patrol and also saw quite a few Jewish settlers carrying weapons while pushing baby carriages — which reminded me of [patrols?] we did in the military. It struck me as especially strange, and yet here were these religious settlers who felt it necessary to carry a weapon in front of their child. I felt especially strange as we walked through that military patrol and a weapon was pointed at us, uncertainly. And I saw something in the soldiers' eyes I didn't recognize at first — but it was there. I knew something was there.

We got back to the CPT [house/team] in Hebron, and I was talking with a couple of team members, and almost out of my own mouth came a phrase I realized I'd already said in my heart, and had totally rejected. It was almost as if it had to leave my mouth for me to hear it with my heart. I said: "I see myself in them." And as soon as I said that, I realized I hadn't forgiven myself — that I hadn't taken the opportunity to really feel forgiveness, and to offer, or ask for, forgiveness.

I did a lot of crying that day. I wrote it down — there's a journal entry I'd love to share with you afterward, or a way to read it. I realized why God wanted me in Israel.

Still Called

I'm still trying to get back in — I'm in the Individual Ready Reserve [transcribed as "inactive ready Reserve" — likely IRR]. They're probably going to call me up at any moment to redeploy with the surge that's going back, and I'd go in a minute. I tell them the same thing: send me right now, as fast as you want — but you won't see a weapon in my hand.

Before I leave, I want to ask three things, because whenever I've shared this over the past months, people always ask about applicability — what do we do with this? What I've realized is: soldiers aren't the enemy. Our political adversaries aren't the enemy. Our war is never against people — it's against that estrangement, that rejection, the same rejection and uncertainty and fear and anxiety that I felt, and that I saw in that IDF soldier's eyes. That's what broke my heart, and that's why I still feel called to the military. If I can't be in it, I'll put myself as close to a military base as I can.

Closing

Just for applicability, I'll close quickly. I have all my journal entries posted, along with the documentation from my CO packet — if you want to find me, or my girlfriend Tracy, we have business cards, or whatever you want to call them — I call them "coward cards," kind of a fun story. Those will have my story, my thoughts, everything. I'll make sure to post this speech too. [The five-minute speech I'd originally prepared was apparently pretty good, by all accounts — I really wish I could have given it, but God was pretty clear that this was the story to share instead.]

I'd like to ask three things:

First — if you don't personally know someone in the military — reserves, National Guard, Marines, anyone — if you know someone in Iraq, Afghanistan, Somalia, wherever we have [GIs] right now, take the time to write them a letter. Handwritten, not typed. Offer them some kind of gift — not monetary, something personal, something you think they actually need. Not necessarily a Bible; they have plenty of those, they just don't always take the time to read them. Send them a letter and remind them: you're not against them, you're not against the Iraqis, you're not even really against the government — you are for human beings, and you want to offer your support, emotional, spiritual, whatever kind of support you can, to the human being that's there.

Second — include a second, unaddressed envelope inside that one, addressed to "an unnamed Iraqi," and ask the soldier to hand it to someone with that same message.

And third — wake up tomorrow and think of one more thing you can do to wage peace, instead of just waking up, having breakfast, and forgetting you came here tonight. [I know] a lot of you are getting arrested [tomorrow], so —

[Applause]