The Flag Draped Coffin

     I work as a custodian at a medium sized church in a medium sized town.  When I heard that we would be holding the memorial service for Tyler Davis, a young man killed in Afghanistan, my first concern was that half the town might turn up.  My second concern was that we might get the group of people infamous for protesting soldier’s funerals.  I am not proud that my sorrow at the loss of this young man didn’t occupy the front of my mind.  

 I tried not to forget that as we prepared for the Friday service, but I stayed busy with other things. I set an overflow room and the church put the local police in charge of the parking.  The police were prepared to handle any protestors.  Their free speech and assembly would not be denied.  But they would not be allowed to pass onto the property.  Then the media, social and public, got wind of the rumor of protestors.  The nets came alive with incredulity and rage at the thought of this young man’s honor being disrespected in such a way. 

Friday came.  The service was scheduled for one p.m. and before 10 a.m. there were people.  I went up to have a look and there were people with lawn-chairs and American flags.  There was a police chaplain prepared to talk to any protestor.  News trucks from Los Angeles arrived.  One reporter managed to find our senior pastor and ask him some questions.  They had more to do with the potential protestors and less to do with the fallen soldier.  More people arrived.  I wondered how many were there to honor Tyler Davis and how many were hoping for fireworks.

The local police arrived before 10 and began to control traffic entering the parking lot.  I stayed with them to direct parents arriving to pick up kids from camp.  Shortly after that, the Patriot Guard arrived.  From the south, between 40 and 50 Harley Davidson Motorcycles ridden by several different clubs/gangs rumbled up, circled, and backed up to the sidewalk in front of the church. Cheers went up.  Motors roared.  The police looked a little nervous.  I found myself caught up in the circus show.  Then the hearse arrived.

I’ve seen several memorial services at my church.  This was the first time I had seen a coffin brought in.  While most people stayed out at the street, several veterans with flags stood lining the way from the curb to the church’s front doors.  The pastor asked me to open the double doors, and I never imagined there would be such honor in unlocking and blocking open two doors I clean every week.  I stood back.  It got very quiet. Moments later a call was given and the veterans lining the path raised their flags.  Young men in smart dress uniforms slowly walked through the line carrying a flag-draped coffin.

Very few of the huge crowd were there to see that.  But I saw it.  And at that moment, it was no longer about the circus, protestors, TV trucks or motorcycles.  I remembered what the day was about.  This was a day for a family that had lost a boy.

I don’t know how many people showed up at the church in order to counter-protest.  The word had gotten out that there would be protestors, but they never showed.  I kept wondering, how much of the town would have been there if there had never been the threat?  It may not have been a very positive thought.  I was just as guilty of forgetting what the day was about.  And yes, there was cheering outside the funeral for the show of American muscle.  But regardless of the reason, people were there.  And if they were there to show up protestors, they were still there in numbers, still waving flags as the procession left through town.  They were supporting their hometown hero, regardless of motives.  

And look at what the empty threat of the abhorrent protestors did.  This so-called church that I thought did nothing but evil managed to bring more people out in a show of encouragement.  

None of this, however, takes away from this simple fact:  A mother lost her son.  As much as I want to support our troops and my country, seeing the soldiers carry the flag draped coffin moved me like nothing ever has before.  I won’t go any further there.  Just this last point: thank you to all the soldiers.  I hope… I wish you can come home alive.

    

           

The Cool Rock of Truth

I don’t know if this year it’s more than ever. It probably grows every year and my being out of touch with mainstream media makes it seem to grow in long strides. Maybe it’s the little things on Facebook that I have stumbled across that have added to this. What I can say for certain is that this year I feel more nettled than I can remember with the secular humanist views on Christmas and my Christian faith. Things are up stating how the early church hijacked the date from the pagan winter holiday. Christian faith becomes an excuse to laugh or even a punchline when talking about some people. Advertisements tell us forget about The Bible’s moral code and to be good for goodness’s sake. And this year, progressive thinking groups in Santa Monica have exercised their free speech to take up what was traditionally nativity scene space to denounce Christianity. I could go on. But it gets me in even higher dudgeon.


I know some people who would say that the enemy is gaining ground. Statements like that can stir up trouble and panic. Well now, isn’t chaos, panic and disorder the norm in December?  I wish it wasn’t. If I’m going to mention the enemy I think I should say I think one of its tools is confusion, disarray, and distraction from what God wants.


But I wonder what Jesus would do if he was in Santa Monica. He might blend right in with the Bohemian culture there. But I think that he would blend in wherever he went. What would be his reaction to signs saying he isn’t real? Would he have some righteous indignation like at the temple in Jerusalem? I don’t know. It’s a beach walk being tainted, not His Father’s house. But I can say this: The coolest people I know don’t feel like they have anything to prove. They are unaffected by little attacks because they are secure in their knowledge of who they are. I wonder if Jesus would be too cool to get all bent out of shape. He might look a little disappointed. Then maybe he would go to one of the abundant soup kitchens in the area, regardless of who was running it and help out.


When Jesus was humbly born, probably on a summer night, the plan was to show us God in Him. I am not showing what Jesus is like to anyone if I’m blustering on about waves of infuriating dogma. I’m showing my human condition there, not my Lord. The attacks on our faith happened yes, but The Truth still stands like The Rock that He is. No amount of contradiction can take away that He is not only the reason for the season, but for all the truth in the world.