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 Lost and the Misled

     My church is having a memorial service for a fallen soldier.  He was from our town and only 20 years old.  The honor to have this at our church is humbling.  I wish we didn’t have to face the possibility of people coming to protest the funeral in the purported name of God.  Like terrorists, they make us worry about how to deal with them.  They know enough to demand their free speech and free assembly rights and I’ve heard they make a lot of money in litigation when those rights are denied. The irony of them invoking the constitution while horribly disrespecting those who are sworn to defend it is not lost on anyone.  In fact, so much about this seems wrong that I want to share a story.

     Imagine a meeting in the depths of hell where there are always meetings, subcommittees and portfolio facilitators. It goes like this:

      The mood in the meeting room was always the same.  Fear mixed with a lustful hate.  Desperation sounded in the voice of the speaker as the report was given.

      “We are gaining strength nearly everywhere,” the voice trembled.  “In the developed world, we have generations that are not loyal to… to the other.”

      There was a sound at the end of the table where light did not shine.  When the voice spoke from it, everyone in the room sank low.

      “As long as there are any loyal to Him,” came the hiss.  “We must assault them.” 

      “Popular culture makes loyalty to the other undesirable,” the first one spoke.

      “Popular culture is fleeting,” was the reply.  “There will always be those who resist its draw.  It has no real power.”

      There was silence for a time.  The fear rumbled softly like the ground quaking.

      A new, younger one slowly rose to speak. “So then master,” he said.  “We must have some real power.” 

      All eyes looked to the new one.

      “Yes,” said the master. “And what power do I have?”

      “Lies, master.”

      “Lies,” said the master. “More than lies.  Deception.  The truth, but with confusion and selfishness and things of the world distorting it.”

      “Yes, master,” came the reply. “So we should be like them.”

      There was a shudder from the others, but the master kept calm.

      “What would be the most damaging thing to the other side?” the new one continued.”  “For some to pose as their own followers to quote His Words.  But to do it in such a hateful way that the world looks upon all of them with a distorted viewpoint.  What a weapon we could have if the world believed them to be of Him, but all along they were doing your work?”

      The fear and hate in the room rose.

“Yes,” the master hissed.  “You will make this happen.  Go find some of His flock that is unsure, guilty, weak.  Begin to plant in them ideas of how they might serve their master.  Make them imagine themselves boldly doing His work and deserving great reward.  But give them ideas filled with fear and hate.  Have them invoke His Words so loudly that the unreached believe that is His way.  Many will stay away from him, yes.”

      The other sank down and bowed.  Pain and fear surrounded him as he departed. The master looked to the rest. One spoke up:

      “We will be victorious master,” he said.

      “No,” the master stated.  “In the end, we will lose.  All we can do is take as many of the flock away from Him.”

      The departing one found some with hearts that would hear.  When their work began, the effect was just what the master had desired.

      The effect didn’t last as long as though.  Some of those that truly belonged to Him prayed for the lost. And when the flock prayed, deception fell.  

           

     I won’t pretend to know what goes on in those meetings.  But what this group does seems so wrong that I think it was created there.  

     I want to remember that these protesters are God’s children also.  I wish that if they showed up, we could give them coffee and doughnuts or somehow minister to their closed hearts.  But they are in a cult.  What’s more, this isn’t their day.  This Friday, it’s about our hometown soldier and his family and loved ones.  There is nothing to do but pray for these lost people.