20 September 2010
I'LL BE OFF THE NET. . .
. . . but just while I recuperate from shoulder surgery. See you on the back sided.
14 September 2010
FLAG BURNERS BEWARE!
Since at least the mid-1960’s, the liberal left has taken for granted that certain acts, e.g., burning an American flag, during a protest are “protected speech” under the First Amendment to the Constitution.
In the past few weeks, however, the loony left has gone berserk over the possibility that a pastor in Florida might burn a Koran. To do something so disrespectful of a another culture runs contrary to their views of diversity and apparently cannot have First Amendment ramifications. The President, the Secretaries of Defense and State, and General David Petraeus, Commander, International Security Assistance Force (ISAF) and Commander, U.S. Forces Afghanistan (USFOR-A), either spoke to or otherwise directed comments to this lone citizen, asserting in language that is eerily reminiscent of the Espionage Act of 1917, that he was endangering US troops. The pastor was even allowed to have coffee with a bunch of FBI agents who dropped in at the behest of the Attorney General.
Ever since now-Vice President Biden took to task Judge Robert Bork for his scholarly writing, asserting that his comments in such writings disqualified him for confirmation as an Associate Justice of the Supreme, candidates for the Court have asserted a “principle” that candidates and serving Justices ought not comment on cases that might come before the Court. They routinely do so in order to avoid being “borked” by the Senate.
In a recent interview with ABC's George Stephanopolous, Associate Justice Stephen Breyer, appears to have departed from that principle. Breyer, a Clinton appointee to the Supreme Court, said that it is likely that the First Amendment to the Constitution does not protect persons from being arrested and tried for burning the Koran. In so doing, he misquotes one of the landmark decisions of the Supreme Court, Schenck v. United States, 249 U.S. 47 (1919).
Schenck was the Secretary of the Socialist Party during World War I. A “war protester”, he had printed and then distributed or mailed 15,000 leaflets to men eligible for the draft. The leaflets advocated opposition to the draft. They suggested that the draft was identical to slavery, outlawed by the 13th Amendment, and contained statements such as: "Do not submit to intimidation", "Assert your rights", "If you do not assert and support your rights, you are helping to deny or disparage rights which it is the solemn duty of all citizens and residents of the United States to retain." 249 U. S. at 51.
Schenck was tried under the Espionage Act of 1917 which prohibited any attempt to interfere with military operations, to support America's enemies during wartime, to promote insubordination in the military, or to interfere with military recruitment. He was convicted and sentenced to six months in prison.
On appeal, Schenck asserted, inter alia, that his actions were protected by the free speech clause of the First Amendment. Writing for a unanimous Court, Justice Oliver Wendell Holmes, Jr., a Civil War veteran, wrote that “when a nation is at war many things that might be said in time of peace are such a hindrance to its effort that their utterance will not be endured so long as men fight, and that no Court could regard them as protected by any constitutional right." 249 US at 52.
Because Schenck was later watered down in a series of cases, including Brandenburg v. Ohio, 395 U.S. 444 (1969)(government cannot punish inflammatory speech unless it is directed to inciting and likely to incite imminent lawless action), it is primarily remembered for the quote that Breyer botched.
Justice Holmes wrote that "the most stringent protection of free speech would not protect a man in falsely shouting fire in a theatre and causing a panic." 249 US at 52 (emphasis added). The resulting test announced by the Court was stated thusly: “The question in every case is whether the words used are used in such circumstances and are of such a nature as to create a clear and present danger that they will bring about the substantive evils that Congress has a right to prevent. It is a question of proximity and degree.” Id. (emphasis added).
So Breyer—and this is surprising for a man of his judicial experience and intellect—left out an important word. If the theater is, in fact, burning, it is quite permissible to shout “fire.”
In the interview, Breyer suggested that any “speech”, which now apparently includes burning some books or flags or ROTC buildings, can be suppressed if it would upset people in other parts of the world. (Stephanopolous posed his question on the ability of modern media to instantaneously spread around the globe the happenings in a kooky little congregation in Florida.)
So, protesters beware. It looks as if Breyer, for one, would return to Schenck and might allow prosecutions under the Espionage Act of 1917 for acts that would impede military operations or give support to America’s enemies during wartime (something that the President who appointed him had fun doing while your reporter was getting shot at on a daily basis). At least one man in the current government recognizes that Iraq and Afghanistan are wars!
Justice Breyer, can you spell "recusal"?
In the past few weeks, however, the loony left has gone berserk over the possibility that a pastor in Florida might burn a Koran. To do something so disrespectful of a another culture runs contrary to their views of diversity and apparently cannot have First Amendment ramifications. The President, the Secretaries of Defense and State, and General David Petraeus, Commander, International Security Assistance Force (ISAF) and Commander, U.S. Forces Afghanistan (USFOR-A), either spoke to or otherwise directed comments to this lone citizen, asserting in language that is eerily reminiscent of the Espionage Act of 1917, that he was endangering US troops. The pastor was even allowed to have coffee with a bunch of FBI agents who dropped in at the behest of the Attorney General.
Ever since now-Vice President Biden took to task Judge Robert Bork for his scholarly writing, asserting that his comments in such writings disqualified him for confirmation as an Associate Justice of the Supreme, candidates for the Court have asserted a “principle” that candidates and serving Justices ought not comment on cases that might come before the Court. They routinely do so in order to avoid being “borked” by the Senate.
In a recent interview with ABC's George Stephanopolous, Associate Justice Stephen Breyer, appears to have departed from that principle. Breyer, a Clinton appointee to the Supreme Court, said that it is likely that the First Amendment to the Constitution does not protect persons from being arrested and tried for burning the Koran. In so doing, he misquotes one of the landmark decisions of the Supreme Court, Schenck v. United States, 249 U.S. 47 (1919).
Schenck was the Secretary of the Socialist Party during World War I. A “war protester”, he had printed and then distributed or mailed 15,000 leaflets to men eligible for the draft. The leaflets advocated opposition to the draft. They suggested that the draft was identical to slavery, outlawed by the 13th Amendment, and contained statements such as: "Do not submit to intimidation", "Assert your rights", "If you do not assert and support your rights, you are helping to deny or disparage rights which it is the solemn duty of all citizens and residents of the United States to retain." 249 U. S. at 51.
Schenck was tried under the Espionage Act of 1917 which prohibited any attempt to interfere with military operations, to support America's enemies during wartime, to promote insubordination in the military, or to interfere with military recruitment. He was convicted and sentenced to six months in prison.
On appeal, Schenck asserted, inter alia, that his actions were protected by the free speech clause of the First Amendment. Writing for a unanimous Court, Justice Oliver Wendell Holmes, Jr., a Civil War veteran, wrote that “when a nation is at war many things that might be said in time of peace are such a hindrance to its effort that their utterance will not be endured so long as men fight, and that no Court could regard them as protected by any constitutional right." 249 US at 52.
Because Schenck was later watered down in a series of cases, including Brandenburg v. Ohio, 395 U.S. 444 (1969)(government cannot punish inflammatory speech unless it is directed to inciting and likely to incite imminent lawless action), it is primarily remembered for the quote that Breyer botched.
Justice Holmes wrote that "the most stringent protection of free speech would not protect a man in falsely shouting fire in a theatre and causing a panic." 249 US at 52 (emphasis added). The resulting test announced by the Court was stated thusly: “The question in every case is whether the words used are used in such circumstances and are of such a nature as to create a clear and present danger that they will bring about the substantive evils that Congress has a right to prevent. It is a question of proximity and degree.” Id. (emphasis added).
So Breyer—and this is surprising for a man of his judicial experience and intellect—left out an important word. If the theater is, in fact, burning, it is quite permissible to shout “fire.”
In the interview, Breyer suggested that any “speech”, which now apparently includes burning some books or flags or ROTC buildings, can be suppressed if it would upset people in other parts of the world. (Stephanopolous posed his question on the ability of modern media to instantaneously spread around the globe the happenings in a kooky little congregation in Florida.)
So, protesters beware. It looks as if Breyer, for one, would return to Schenck and might allow prosecutions under the Espionage Act of 1917 for acts that would impede military operations or give support to America’s enemies during wartime (something that the President who appointed him had fun doing while your reporter was getting shot at on a daily basis). At least one man in the current government recognizes that Iraq and Afghanistan are wars!
Justice Breyer, can you spell "recusal"?
11 September 2010
LEST WE FORGET
Today marks the ninth anniversary of the attack on America by radical Islam. Not all Muslims, mind you, but the attack was conceived, planned, executed and celebrated by huge numbers of Muslims around the world.
Now I don’t hold with burning books, whether they be Christian Bibles burned by Hamas (an Islamic theocracy)or by the American government. Likewise, I don’t agree with burning works of philosophy such as the Koran, Mao's Little Red Book, or Mein Kampf. They may be of great interest to historians, students of comparative theology, and political scientists, and should be preserved for study. Just because I don’t think a book has any application to my life does not require me to seek its destruction. The destruction of the written word is dangerous, because it is the first tumble down a slippery slope.
So the morons in Kansas and Florida who have decided that a book burning is really good way to spend a Saturday, should be ignored, not raised to international stature. But the useful idiots who loudly attempt to separate Islam from the attack should be equally ignored.
There is an entire stream of Islam, not just a few isolated, theologically ignorant dopes, that intends to do us in and impose their theocracy upon us. Anyone who thinks differently is living in Fantasy Land.
Now I don’t hold with burning books, whether they be Christian Bibles burned by Hamas (an Islamic theocracy)or by the American government. Likewise, I don’t agree with burning works of philosophy such as the Koran, Mao's Little Red Book, or Mein Kampf. They may be of great interest to historians, students of comparative theology, and political scientists, and should be preserved for study. Just because I don’t think a book has any application to my life does not require me to seek its destruction. The destruction of the written word is dangerous, because it is the first tumble down a slippery slope.
So the morons in Kansas and Florida who have decided that a book burning is really good way to spend a Saturday, should be ignored, not raised to international stature. But the useful idiots who loudly attempt to separate Islam from the attack should be equally ignored.
There is an entire stream of Islam, not just a few isolated, theologically ignorant dopes, that intends to do us in and impose their theocracy upon us. Anyone who thinks differently is living in Fantasy Land.
07 September 2010
IS SOLA SCRIPTURA DEAD?
Jody Harrington is a Presbyterian Church (USA) Ruling Elder and former Moderator the PC(USA)’s New Covenant Presbytery, located in south Texas. She is the author of a nationally known blog, Quotidian Grace. For any who have never read Jody’s thoughtful and entertaining blog—where she covers everything from dogs and Texas recipes to deep theological discussion and trenchant book reviews—I suggest that you give her a read. You’ll be hooked within a few sentences. (She is also running for the “Mom of Congress.” They need one! See her platform on her blog page.)
A few weeks ago, she wrote a blog entry entitled Sola Kerfuffle, where she reported that
They are:
Sola Scriptura (by scripture alone)
Sola fide (by faith alone)
Sola gratia (by grace alone)
Solus Christus (through Christ alone)
Soli Deo Gloria (Glory to God alone)
One of Jody's readers, Jessi commented on Sola Kerfuffle with a really good, succinct explanation of the five solas. She said
In Sola Kerfuffle, QG (as she is affectionately known in the blogosphere) commented, probably correctly, that many (most?) Ruling Elders in the PC(USA) today might not know about the Five Solas. She recommended that they be included in elder training, a wonderful idea in my opinion. And in the Sunday School curriculum, too.
This morning, she followed up with a new blog, Sola Kerfuffle: The Podcast with the Moderators!
She reports that she was contacted by GA Moderator Cynthia Bolbach, who asked her to participate with Rev. Whitsett and Moderator Bolbach in a podcast discussion about the authority of Scripture. The podcast can be found here.
I listened to the discussion with fascination. If I understood Rev. Whitsett correctly, I am glad that God led us out of the PC(USA) and to our new home in the EPC. If I understood him correctly, his position is central to the troubles that continue to afflict the PC(USA), a denomination that many of us feel has lost its bearings.
I’ll start with one picky little comment about the format. I noticed that the podcast did not open with prayer. In the EPC, frequent prayer is an integral part of every meeting. In the GA, the Committee reports are invariably shorter than the prayers that mark the start of each such report. As a result, I have seen that opening with prayer in even the smallest, most informal endeavors adds to the discussions that follow.
Rev. Whitsett spoke first. He “likes”, even “reveres” the Bible, but cannot say what is its “level of authority.” He is “tired of hearing people use Scripture as a trump card.” I think I heard him say that the Bible is not the Word of God—only Jesus can claim that title.
True, he conceded that the only way to find out about Jesus is to go to Scripture, but Scripture “is not a foundational truth.” He implied that Scripture needs to be interpreted in a context, PC(USA)-speak for “we are oh so much smarter than those 1st Century fishermen and peasants.” Because he is unsure of what level of authority the Bible has, he suggests that we should also consider “history and traditions” to make Scripture “fit into the community.”
That’s a problem: The Reformation came about because the Roman Catholic Church had allowed man-made stuff to become co-equal to, or even trump, Scripture, hence the Reformation adoption of Sola Scriptura.
Moreover, that is exactly why many of us had to leave the PC(USA): we were told that when reading the Bible, we should “listen for the Word of God” (maybe it is there, maybe not) rather than “listen to the Word of God.” We were condemned for being too conservative rather than bending the Word to the world. We were told that sin is an out-moded concept and just because some sins are now acceptable in our “community,” i.e., adultery, homosexual practice, and perjury, we were bigots for insisting that sin is sin.
QG stood her ground. She was “troubled” by Rev. Whitsett’s opening remarks. She rightly said that we must struggle with Scripture to understand it. She agreed that simple proof-texting is not enough, but said that we must do the really hard work of delving into and prayerfully immersing ourselves in Scripture in order to understand God’s will for us.
I suggest that we often avoid that struggle because we know that the result of our study may, and probably will, lead us to do things that God wants, but we don’t.
A Time For Every Purpose Under Heaven, the report of the NWAC Strategy Team to the New Wineskins Association of Churches,identified two faithful options for members of the PC(USA)struggling with the drift of the PC(USA)'s national leadership. When Rev. Dr. Rick Wolling and I wrote the introductory chapter of that report, we summarized the findings in this way:
We said one other thing: “That being said, we implore all to whom this report shall come: there must be a new thing, wherever it may occur. To simply stand fast. . .” is not a faithful option. See A Time For Every Purpose Under Heaven at pp 15-16.
QG is clearly a prophetic witness. I envision her, toolbelt strapped in place, hammering and sawing and painting at the old home place.
We who left the PC(USA) felt that no one in the presbyteries and the GA were listening to us. In taking on the role of a spokesperson for the many in the PC(USA) who feel that they are never heard, QG has once again witnessed to the power of the servant-leader.
Bravo Zulu, QG.
A few weeks ago, she wrote a blog entry entitled Sola Kerfuffle, where she reported that
The newly-installed Vice Moderator of the PCUSA, Landon Whitsett, was recently quoted in an interview saying:For those of you who are not Reformation scholars, the "Five Solas" are five Latin phrases that summarize the theological distinctions between the Protestant Reformers and the Roman Catholic Church of the Reformation era.
Sola Scriptura is dead most places and dying rapidly in others. So where do we lodge the authority of our faith? That's the real battle we see fought in the church.
They are:
Sola Scriptura (by scripture alone)
Sola fide (by faith alone)
Sola gratia (by grace alone)
Solus Christus (through Christ alone)
Soli Deo Gloria (Glory to God alone)
One of Jody's readers, Jessi commented on Sola Kerfuffle with a really good, succinct explanation of the five solas. She said
They are explaining different aspects of salvation.
Who/what is the authority on knowing God and having salvation: Scripture alone. (We can't add/subtract from it.)
How do we come to have salvation: Faith alone. (Faith, and not works.)
How does one acquire faith: Grace alone. (For by grace you have been saved through faith. And this is not your own doing; it is the gift of God. Eph 2:8)
What/who is the object of our faith: Christ alone!
Why: For God's glory alone, [which] means that God's own glory is why he chose to create us and then save us!! It is nothing in us, but his love for us. It is not me being kind, so God grants me faith through grace. No, grace is unmerited!!! I did nothing. I wasn't nice, I was mean. I was God's enemy!! But it brings him glory to make beauty out of rubble. I was worthless. I did not earn his love. "He loved us while we were yet sinners!"
Since we have lost a lot of the history with the solas, and other truths discovered during the reformation, I thought I should explain the God's glory part. Not that it'd be wrong for God to be interested in glorifying himself--he is God--but that is not exactly what Glory alone means. It means that we bring glory to God when we come to him--but not because we are these glorious creatures. Rather it's because it shows what God does with sinful man!!
In Sola Kerfuffle, QG (as she is affectionately known in the blogosphere) commented, probably correctly, that many (most?) Ruling Elders in the PC(USA) today might not know about the Five Solas. She recommended that they be included in elder training, a wonderful idea in my opinion. And in the Sunday School curriculum, too.
This morning, she followed up with a new blog, Sola Kerfuffle: The Podcast with the Moderators!
She reports that she was contacted by GA Moderator Cynthia Bolbach, who asked her to participate with Rev. Whitsett and Moderator Bolbach in a podcast discussion about the authority of Scripture. The podcast can be found here.
I listened to the discussion with fascination. If I understood Rev. Whitsett correctly, I am glad that God led us out of the PC(USA) and to our new home in the EPC. If I understood him correctly, his position is central to the troubles that continue to afflict the PC(USA), a denomination that many of us feel has lost its bearings.
I’ll start with one picky little comment about the format. I noticed that the podcast did not open with prayer. In the EPC, frequent prayer is an integral part of every meeting. In the GA, the Committee reports are invariably shorter than the prayers that mark the start of each such report. As a result, I have seen that opening with prayer in even the smallest, most informal endeavors adds to the discussions that follow.
Rev. Whitsett spoke first. He “likes”, even “reveres” the Bible, but cannot say what is its “level of authority.” He is “tired of hearing people use Scripture as a trump card.” I think I heard him say that the Bible is not the Word of God—only Jesus can claim that title.
True, he conceded that the only way to find out about Jesus is to go to Scripture, but Scripture “is not a foundational truth.” He implied that Scripture needs to be interpreted in a context, PC(USA)-speak for “we are oh so much smarter than those 1st Century fishermen and peasants.” Because he is unsure of what level of authority the Bible has, he suggests that we should also consider “history and traditions” to make Scripture “fit into the community.”
That’s a problem: The Reformation came about because the Roman Catholic Church had allowed man-made stuff to become co-equal to, or even trump, Scripture, hence the Reformation adoption of Sola Scriptura.
Moreover, that is exactly why many of us had to leave the PC(USA): we were told that when reading the Bible, we should “listen for the Word of God” (maybe it is there, maybe not) rather than “listen to the Word of God.” We were condemned for being too conservative rather than bending the Word to the world. We were told that sin is an out-moded concept and just because some sins are now acceptable in our “community,” i.e., adultery, homosexual practice, and perjury, we were bigots for insisting that sin is sin.
QG stood her ground. She was “troubled” by Rev. Whitsett’s opening remarks. She rightly said that we must struggle with Scripture to understand it. She agreed that simple proof-texting is not enough, but said that we must do the really hard work of delving into and prayerfully immersing ourselves in Scripture in order to understand God’s will for us.
I suggest that we often avoid that struggle because we know that the result of our study may, and probably will, lead us to do things that God wants, but we don’t.
A Time For Every Purpose Under Heaven, the report of the NWAC Strategy Team to the New Wineskins Association of Churches,identified two faithful options for members of the PC(USA)struggling with the drift of the PC(USA)'s national leadership. When Rev. Dr. Rick Wolling and I wrote the introductory chapter of that report, we summarized the findings in this way:
•Those who were called by God to leave the PC(USA) could faithfully do so.
•Those who were called by God “stay where they are and be a prophetic witness” and “to strive to reform, renew and repair the old homestead so that it can once again be a vibrant and welcoming lodging for those who are lost and hungry for the Word” could also do so faithfully.
We said one other thing: “That being said, we implore all to whom this report shall come: there must be a new thing, wherever it may occur. To simply stand fast. . .” is not a faithful option. See A Time For Every Purpose Under Heaven at pp 15-16.
QG is clearly a prophetic witness. I envision her, toolbelt strapped in place, hammering and sawing and painting at the old home place.
We who left the PC(USA) felt that no one in the presbyteries and the GA were listening to us. In taking on the role of a spokesperson for the many in the PC(USA) who feel that they are never heard, QG has once again witnessed to the power of the servant-leader.
Bravo Zulu, QG.
05 September 2010
LET THE GAMES BEGIN
Labor Day has traditionally marked the beginning America’s oldest full-contact sport season. Election Day 2010 is now 56 days and a wake up away. And what a season it looks to be, reminiscent of the Roman Coliseum in its heyday. There will be sacrificial rites, comedic plays, and enough blood and gore to satisfy the hardest cynic.
First, the Democratic Party, having nearly bankrupted the Country, finally sees the wolves (or as many call them, the electorate) nipping at their heels. Hoping to save the hides of their leadership, the Democratic Congressional Campaign Committee intends to toss many of its own from the chariot. Members of the caucus who polls and “other data” show are about to be trounced because of their support for Pelosi and Reid will be abandoned. As reported here, they refer to their actions as “triage.” That’s what happens when Representatives in Congress forget just who it is that they are representing.
In one entertaining ad run by Representative Stephanie Herseth Sandlin (D-S.D.), she compares Congress to her toddler. They are messy eaters who need potty training, have no concept of money, and “don’t listen.” Then she runs away from her party, reminding South Dakotans that she voted against Obamacare and the bailouts. We’ll see if that works, because the Chair of the DNC says any Democrat who denies President Barack Obama, Nancy Pelosi or Harry Reid is “foolish.”
As reported here, Democratic National Committee Chairman Tim Kaine has a message for Democrats trying to run from President Barack Obama, Nancy Pelosi or Harry Reid.
"If you run away from who you are and you're a Democrat, it's foolish," Kaine said on "Fox News Sunday." "It's foolish because you've got a lot to be proud of." All that is missing is a cock crowing in the distance.
Now Party discipline is a necessary vice, but the chief disciplinarian needs to watch his own metaphors. A Gallup Poll released last week puts the Democratic Party 10 points down in a “generic ballot.” The so-called "Summer of Recovery" has been a bust, with a net loss of over a quarter of a million jobs. But Kaine doesn’t see it that way. "Here's what I say: We are climbing out of attic (sic), we are climbing out ... and the Democrats have built the ladder."
The last time I checked, climbing out of an attic was a downward trip. Maybe Tim needs to be triaged.
First, the Democratic Party, having nearly bankrupted the Country, finally sees the wolves (or as many call them, the electorate) nipping at their heels. Hoping to save the hides of their leadership, the Democratic Congressional Campaign Committee intends to toss many of its own from the chariot. Members of the caucus who polls and “other data” show are about to be trounced because of their support for Pelosi and Reid will be abandoned. As reported here, they refer to their actions as “triage.” That’s what happens when Representatives in Congress forget just who it is that they are representing.
In one entertaining ad run by Representative Stephanie Herseth Sandlin (D-S.D.), she compares Congress to her toddler. They are messy eaters who need potty training, have no concept of money, and “don’t listen.” Then she runs away from her party, reminding South Dakotans that she voted against Obamacare and the bailouts. We’ll see if that works, because the Chair of the DNC says any Democrat who denies President Barack Obama, Nancy Pelosi or Harry Reid is “foolish.”
As reported here, Democratic National Committee Chairman Tim Kaine has a message for Democrats trying to run from President Barack Obama, Nancy Pelosi or Harry Reid.
"If you run away from who you are and you're a Democrat, it's foolish," Kaine said on "Fox News Sunday." "It's foolish because you've got a lot to be proud of." All that is missing is a cock crowing in the distance.
Now Party discipline is a necessary vice, but the chief disciplinarian needs to watch his own metaphors. A Gallup Poll released last week puts the Democratic Party 10 points down in a “generic ballot.” The so-called "Summer of Recovery" has been a bust, with a net loss of over a quarter of a million jobs. But Kaine doesn’t see it that way. "Here's what I say: We are climbing out of attic (sic), we are climbing out ... and the Democrats have built the ladder."
The last time I checked, climbing out of an attic was a downward trip. Maybe Tim needs to be triaged.
03 September 2010
AN HISTORIC MONTH
This will be an historic month for our church—Forks of the Brandywine Evangelical Presbyterian Church in Glen Moore, Pennsylvania. On September 17, we celebrate the 275th anniversary of the founding of the congregation. Our fourth building, erected in 1875, is located on the same land—purchased from William Penn’s sons--as the very first log sanctuary. There are 13 veterans of the Revolutionary War resting in the church yard.
In its 275 years, the Forks has been through the Old Side-New Side era (as evidenced by our two cemeteries). It has sent its sons to 10 wars starting with the French and Indian War and culminating in the current wars in the Middle East. Dwight L. Moody and J. Gresham Machen have preached from our pulpit. We have seen the two great awakenings, as well as tragic deviations from the Reformed traditions, including the debacle of the 1924 General Assembly of the PCUSA and the steady worldly drift of the PC(USA). In 2007, we were one of the 4 original members of the New Wineskins Presbytery of the EPC.
We will also receive our new pastor, Rev. Wil Snyder, who will begin his pastorate as the 17th pastor of our congregation.
At the end of the month, we will be received into the EPC’s Presbytery of the East, finishing a journey that began 10 years ago.
Throughout the past two and three-quarters centuries, our people have maintained a vibrant and energetic faith in God and have gratefully declared the Lordship of His son, Jesus Christ, and the infallibility and inerrancy of His word set forth in the Holy Bible. We look forward with joy, excitement and confidence to the next 25 years.
In its 275 years, the Forks has been through the Old Side-New Side era (as evidenced by our two cemeteries). It has sent its sons to 10 wars starting with the French and Indian War and culminating in the current wars in the Middle East. Dwight L. Moody and J. Gresham Machen have preached from our pulpit. We have seen the two great awakenings, as well as tragic deviations from the Reformed traditions, including the debacle of the 1924 General Assembly of the PCUSA and the steady worldly drift of the PC(USA). In 2007, we were one of the 4 original members of the New Wineskins Presbytery of the EPC.
We will also receive our new pastor, Rev. Wil Snyder, who will begin his pastorate as the 17th pastor of our congregation.
At the end of the month, we will be received into the EPC’s Presbytery of the East, finishing a journey that began 10 years ago.
Throughout the past two and three-quarters centuries, our people have maintained a vibrant and energetic faith in God and have gratefully declared the Lordship of His son, Jesus Christ, and the infallibility and inerrancy of His word set forth in the Holy Bible. We look forward with joy, excitement and confidence to the next 25 years.
24 August 2010
“NOW YOU HAVE TAXATION WITH REPRESENTATION. DO YOU LIKE IT ANY BETTER?”
One episode of the TV series Maude centered around a British woman who was studying for her US citizenship exam. Maude was helping her study.
“Why did the colonists revolt against England,” Maude asked?
“I have never understood that,” her friend replied.
“We didn’t like taxation without representation.”
“Well, “ her friend observed, “now you have taxation with representation. Do you like it any better?”
Those of us who were taught American history, before the politically correct bunch decided to rewrite the curriculum, learned about the many taxes that Parliament attempted to impose on our ancestors. The Sugar Act, Stamp Act, the Townshend Acts, and so many others, culminating with the Tea Act, led the people to rise up and demand their independence. So repugnant to the Founding Fathers were taxes that the Constitution as originally written (pre-16th Amendment) provided that “No capitation, or other direct, Tax shall be laid, unless in Proportion to the Census or Enumeration herein before directed to be taken.” Art I, sec 9, cl 4 In other words, a flat or head tax on the citizenry was the only permissible tax on the people.
And history may be repeating itself.
Government at every level is out of control. Ignoring the economic facts, the federal government has spent trillions it doesn’t have on a health care plan that will never work. After the Democrats spent months assuring the American people that a massive expansion of government would result in huge savings, we now learn that they lied.
In the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania, Governor Rendell is seeking additional taxes and significant increases from the largest and most expensive state legislature in the Nation. School Boards are kowtowing to the unions and increasing budgets, salaries and taxes on a population that has seen income—and often jobs—dwindle.
Now, the City of Philadelphia is planning to tax bloggers!
According to the Mayor, the City just learned that some bloggers who allow advertising to appear on their blogs have reported the resulting income to the IRS. Deeming such blogs to be “businesses,” the City plans to require bloggers to obtain a business privilege license.
At some point in time, the people are going to wake up. I wonder if November 2 may be reveille?
“Why did the colonists revolt against England,” Maude asked?
“I have never understood that,” her friend replied.
“We didn’t like taxation without representation.”
“Well, “ her friend observed, “now you have taxation with representation. Do you like it any better?”
Those of us who were taught American history, before the politically correct bunch decided to rewrite the curriculum, learned about the many taxes that Parliament attempted to impose on our ancestors. The Sugar Act, Stamp Act, the Townshend Acts, and so many others, culminating with the Tea Act, led the people to rise up and demand their independence. So repugnant to the Founding Fathers were taxes that the Constitution as originally written (pre-16th Amendment) provided that “No capitation, or other direct, Tax shall be laid, unless in Proportion to the Census or Enumeration herein before directed to be taken.” Art I, sec 9, cl 4 In other words, a flat or head tax on the citizenry was the only permissible tax on the people.
And history may be repeating itself.
Government at every level is out of control. Ignoring the economic facts, the federal government has spent trillions it doesn’t have on a health care plan that will never work. After the Democrats spent months assuring the American people that a massive expansion of government would result in huge savings, we now learn that they lied.
In the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania, Governor Rendell is seeking additional taxes and significant increases from the largest and most expensive state legislature in the Nation. School Boards are kowtowing to the unions and increasing budgets, salaries and taxes on a population that has seen income—and often jobs—dwindle.
Now, the City of Philadelphia is planning to tax bloggers!
According to the Mayor, the City just learned that some bloggers who allow advertising to appear on their blogs have reported the resulting income to the IRS. Deeming such blogs to be “businesses,” the City plans to require bloggers to obtain a business privilege license.
At some point in time, the people are going to wake up. I wonder if November 2 may be reveille?
30 July 2010
COMING HOME
On the evening of May 10, 2010, if I had been asked, “Are you planning to hurt yourself?”, I would have answered “No.” A few hours later, I awoke from “the dream” to the thought that “I cannot do this anymore!”
I got up—as I had in nearly every other night for the past 41 years to walk through the house, “checking lines.” This time, I dressed haphazardly, put a shotgun in my truck, went back in the house to get my helmet, and drove to a field, where I was surrounded by repeated intermittent visions of North Vietnamese Army soldiers and the ghosts of my Marines. For two and a half hours, I sat there with a loaded shotgun, muzzle against my chest, thumb on the trigger, safety off. Had you asked me, “What in God’s Name are you doing?”, I would have answered, “I don’t think God knows where I am.”
Of course, I was wrong—He had His arms firmly around me.
By 7:00 am the next morning, I was in the VA Hospital in Coatesville, Pennsylvania. After spending seven days on the psychiatric ward, I was accepted in the combat-related post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD) unit at Coatesville. The program, which was started in 1981, a year after PTSD was first recognized by the American Psychiatric Association as an anxiety disorder, is recognized as one of the finest PTSD programs in the Nation.
Combat-related PTSD is a tricky bastard: It is marked by flashbacks (in which the traumatic event(s) are re-experienced as if they were occurring in the present, rather than as memories), nightmares, and a negative emotional and/or physical response to reminders of the traumatic event(s), such as, in my case, fireworks, sounds of helicopters or sounds replicating mortars being fired, and certain landscapes. As a result, I followed the norm and began to avoid behaviors, places, or people that might lead to distressing memories. For me, that included seeking to avoid conflict, uncertainty, and decision-making. This led me to self-isolate and refrain, in an ever-smaller personal world, from activities in my profession, community, church, and family. There was many a day that, after SWMBO and the kids left for school, I sat in a dark closet. I became emotionally numb and began to see the future as just an ever smaller and ever darker place.
In addition to experiencing difficulty staying asleep, my concentration and mental focus went to Hell. There were many days in which I lost hours of my time.
At the same time, I became hyper-vigilant. I dove for cover at the sound of a balloon popping right behind me--to the amused consternation of my fellow passengers on a commuter train. I heard mortars in the distance and dreamt of the in-coming short round that almost got us in the Arizona.
And my anger became unmanageable. Imagine, if you can, the look on a little boy’s face when he is braced up for not immediately putting his dishes in the sink. “Dammit! People die when orders are not followed.” Really?, he must have thought.
Thankfully, I did not succumb to self-medication with drugs and alcohol, a major recourse sought by many combat-related PTSD sufferers.
Finally, the guilt I felt for surviving when my Marines did not had become overwhelming.
After an intense 11 week hospitalization, I am home. The therapists and staff at VA, Coatesville, are the best. The work they do with vets from Vietnam, Beirut, Desert Storm. Bosnia, Somalia, Iraq and Afghanistan is something to see.
As we worked through my memory of “that night”, I told my therapist “I want the pain to go away, but I don’t want to lose the gallantry of my Marines ‘that night.’”
“Mac,” she replied, “there is not a therapist on earth that could do that, or who would want to.”
Last week, just before I came home, I told Wandro’s story in one of our groups. For the first time in 41 years, I did not cry during the re-telling—that came later and as a relief. I was sad, but it was something that happened in the past, not in the here and now.
There is a slogan that is almost a mantra in the PTSD unit: “It takes the courage of a warrior to seek help.” For the past 11 weeks, I have lived, laughed, cried, studied, and bonded with some courageous warriors. Each one is battling his or her own demons, while becoming re-assured that he is not the Lone Ranger.
They are as special to me as are the Marines of Charlie Company and I will never forget them.
I still have a long, long way to go (on the walk to my truck, I heard a whirrrrrring sound and ducked reflexively), but I’ve made a start.
I got up—as I had in nearly every other night for the past 41 years to walk through the house, “checking lines.” This time, I dressed haphazardly, put a shotgun in my truck, went back in the house to get my helmet, and drove to a field, where I was surrounded by repeated intermittent visions of North Vietnamese Army soldiers and the ghosts of my Marines. For two and a half hours, I sat there with a loaded shotgun, muzzle against my chest, thumb on the trigger, safety off. Had you asked me, “What in God’s Name are you doing?”, I would have answered, “I don’t think God knows where I am.”
Of course, I was wrong—He had His arms firmly around me.
By 7:00 am the next morning, I was in the VA Hospital in Coatesville, Pennsylvania. After spending seven days on the psychiatric ward, I was accepted in the combat-related post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD) unit at Coatesville. The program, which was started in 1981, a year after PTSD was first recognized by the American Psychiatric Association as an anxiety disorder, is recognized as one of the finest PTSD programs in the Nation.
Combat-related PTSD is a tricky bastard: It is marked by flashbacks (in which the traumatic event(s) are re-experienced as if they were occurring in the present, rather than as memories), nightmares, and a negative emotional and/or physical response to reminders of the traumatic event(s), such as, in my case, fireworks, sounds of helicopters or sounds replicating mortars being fired, and certain landscapes. As a result, I followed the norm and began to avoid behaviors, places, or people that might lead to distressing memories. For me, that included seeking to avoid conflict, uncertainty, and decision-making. This led me to self-isolate and refrain, in an ever-smaller personal world, from activities in my profession, community, church, and family. There was many a day that, after SWMBO and the kids left for school, I sat in a dark closet. I became emotionally numb and began to see the future as just an ever smaller and ever darker place.
In addition to experiencing difficulty staying asleep, my concentration and mental focus went to Hell. There were many days in which I lost hours of my time.
At the same time, I became hyper-vigilant. I dove for cover at the sound of a balloon popping right behind me--to the amused consternation of my fellow passengers on a commuter train. I heard mortars in the distance and dreamt of the in-coming short round that almost got us in the Arizona.
And my anger became unmanageable. Imagine, if you can, the look on a little boy’s face when he is braced up for not immediately putting his dishes in the sink. “Dammit! People die when orders are not followed.” Really?, he must have thought.
Thankfully, I did not succumb to self-medication with drugs and alcohol, a major recourse sought by many combat-related PTSD sufferers.
Finally, the guilt I felt for surviving when my Marines did not had become overwhelming.
After an intense 11 week hospitalization, I am home. The therapists and staff at VA, Coatesville, are the best. The work they do with vets from Vietnam, Beirut, Desert Storm. Bosnia, Somalia, Iraq and Afghanistan is something to see.
As we worked through my memory of “that night”, I told my therapist “I want the pain to go away, but I don’t want to lose the gallantry of my Marines ‘that night.’”
“Mac,” she replied, “there is not a therapist on earth that could do that, or who would want to.”
Last week, just before I came home, I told Wandro’s story in one of our groups. For the first time in 41 years, I did not cry during the re-telling—that came later and as a relief. I was sad, but it was something that happened in the past, not in the here and now.
There is a slogan that is almost a mantra in the PTSD unit: “It takes the courage of a warrior to seek help.” For the past 11 weeks, I have lived, laughed, cried, studied, and bonded with some courageous warriors. Each one is battling his or her own demons, while becoming re-assured that he is not the Lone Ranger.
They are as special to me as are the Marines of Charlie Company and I will never forget them.
I still have a long, long way to go (on the walk to my truck, I heard a whirrrrrring sound and ducked reflexively), but I’ve made a start.
10 April 2010
HOME IS THE SAILOR, HOME FROM THE SEA. . .
The plane landed in St. Louis at about 0600. I quickly collected my gear and grabbed a cab. The driver quoted a fare across the river and we were off. He was a 1/5 vet of Korea, who kept up a running commentary about his experiences in “a real war.” When we arrived, I threw my sea bag over my shoulder and walked up the drive to the front door. It was about 0645. On a whim, I knocked and stood there. Mom opened the door having apparently just gotten out of bed. She did not have her glasses on.
“Merry Christmas, lady.”
“Oh, just a minute let me get my glasses.” She turned to go back into the house.
Well, this isn’t what I expected. “Uh, Mom?”
She spun, screamed “Michael?” and then started yelling “Mary. Mary. Michael’s home.” Turning to me, she said “Oh, my. I thought you were the mailman.” (For our younger readers who are about to face Saturdays without home delivery—as if the generation of twitter and texting and e-mail will even notice—there was a time when, during the Christmas holidays, mail was regularly delivered twice a day.)
I was still standing on the porch. My Sister came running into the room and ushered me into the house . We had a quick breakfast as Mom and Sis readied to go to school. After they left, I showered and shaved and hit the rack, with the two cats nestled together on my chest. I slept the clock around.
The next day, I borrowed a car and drove up to ISU to see Maryann. I had talked to her and knew that she was in class until 2:00 pm. We planned to meet at the University Union.
I parked and walked across the campus. I was in uniform, and began to get a lot of looks—curious, then cautious, then disdainful. Suddenly, a scruffy looking co-ed stepped into my path. She grabbed me by the lapels, and screamed “How many innocent people did you kill, you mother f-----g pig ? You should rot in Hell!” The only reaction from the students was smirks and laughter.
I took her wrists and pulled them away. She laughed in my face.
When I finally met Maryann, and after a warm reception, she said, “Oh, I should have warned you not to wear your Marine costume. It’s best not to let anyone know what you do for a living.”
Costume? The Service is “what I do for a living?”
I drove her to Chicago the next afternoon for a reunion with her family. She did some last minute shopping for the wedding and I tried to ease back into life in the World. But I felt out of place. No one asked about my year in Vietnam or even alluded to the fact that less than a week before, I had been at An Hoa. I drove her back to the University on Sunday and then on to Granite City.
The next morning, I went downtown to shop for a car. I knew what I wanted and within 15 minutes had ordered a brand spanking new 1970 Chevrolet Nova, to be picked up the next morning. It cost me $1,978. 62, including tax, title and tags. Those were the days, my friends.
I next headed to the credit union to arrange for an auto loan. My folks had been members for years and I had gotten a loan two years before when I bought my VW Beetle. The President of the credit union, who was also our insurance agent, worked through the paperwork.
“Now, your Mother will need to co-sign this loan.”
“Really? She didn’t co-sign the last time.”
“Yes, but now you’re in the Army. We need a guarantee on the loan.” I bristled.
His son (and the VP of both the credit union and the insurance agency) looked up. “He’s a Marine, Dad. They don’t like being mistaken for the Army.”
“Oh,” Harry muttered. “Well, in any case, we need a co-signor when one of them wants a loan.”
One of them? “Really? Even though the last time I was just a college student and now I am a career officer?”
“You’re not a ‘career officer’ until you have 15 years in the service.”
His son, who had just gotten out of the Army, looked up again. “I know that is what the credit union has decided, Dad, but I don’t want to be here the day you tell some Major that he is not a career soldier.”
I had had enough. “Look, forget it. Just get the insurance papers put together. I’m picking up the car tomorrow.” He agreed.
I quickly drove out to the Granite City Army Engineer Depot and headed for the disbursing office. Luckily, I had brought my pay records with me, assuming I would need them at the credit union. I had already gotten cash back at An Hoa for my leave, including the honeymoon, but now I needed to buy a car.
A civilian disbursing clerk saw me coming. I handed her my ID card and pay record and said “I need to get some of the cash I have on the books.”
“No problem, Sir. How much?”
“$1,978. 62.” She looked up with a quizzical smile. “I’m buying a car,” I explained.
Ten minutes later, she was back. I signed for the cash and she handed me my pay jacket. “Do you have anything to carry your money in?” Damn. She saw my face and smiled again. “Here, I have my lunch bag. Will that do?” I walked out with the cash in a mayonnaise-stained brown paper bag.
I was really unsettled by this time. That night, I decided to take care of one other little piece of business. I drove to the local American Legion Post. It was Monday night and I suspected that the weekly ham and beans dinner would soon be underway. One of the Legionnaires at the front desk looked up. “What can I do for you?”
“I’m just home from Vietnam. Thought I’d join up,” I replied.
He looked at another guy at the desk, turned back to me, and snorted. “Another one of them, eh. Look, Sonny, why don’t you come back when you’ve won a goddam war?” They both laughed.
I spun on my heel and marched out. “How many innocent people did you kill?” Marine “costume?” One of them? Come back when you’ve won one? It dawned on me that no one—no one—had said “Welcome Home.”
Am I welcome? I had the strangest longing to be back with 1/5, in a place that I understood.
That was 40 years ago. Since then we, as a Nation, have had our ups and downs.
We've gone through the terrible years of the early 70s when we almost tore the Country apart and planted the seeds of political polarization that are still bearing fruit today. We have seen bad presidents—Nixon and the worst of all, Jimmy Carter(who delayed the raid to bring our hostages home until he could be assured that no Iranians would be hurt!), and a great president, Ronald Reagan. We have elected a draft dodger, who protested on foreign soil while my Marines were taking the battle to the enemy, and the first black American who is still writing his record on the slate of history.
We have fought and won one war using tactics based on the lessons of Vietnam. In General Powell's words when he spoke to the Naval Institute, we learned that when we go to war, we need to "gang up." But we are also in danger of forgetting that lesson of the need for overwhelming force as a new generation tries to ignore a war that is being fought by its best.
The Veteran’s Administration of the 1970s, with its hell hole hospitals and inadequate budgets, has been replaced by a VA that is a refuge to those of us who are still dealing with Vietnam, the gift that keeps on giving.
It was not until the 1980s that the American Legion really began to reach out to Vietnam vets—and then, mainly, as a matter of survival. The Vietnam War Memorial, a black hole in the ground designed by a college kid from an Ivy League college that did not want the ROTC on its campus, has now become the most visited site in Washington, DC. With the flag and statues that Jim Webb and others demanded and received, it is now a place of honor. I go there every time I am in the Capital, to talk with the names on Panels 35 W to 22 W.
We go to reunions, we Marines of Charlie 1/5, where we are fast becoming the old men of the 1st Marine Division. In 2007, I introduced Mike Tonkyn to the Division Commander as a Navy Cross recipient. The General shook Mike’s hand and said, “It is a real honor to meet you, Sir.”
Later, Mike said to me, “You know, Mac, never in this Lance Corporal’s wildest imagination did the Division Commander call me, ‘Sir.’”
“Ah, that’s all right,” I responded. “ He’s younger than you.” We both almost fell to the ground laughing.
The first time I was welcomed home as a Vietnam vet was in the parking lot of the Spectrum before a Philadelphia Wings game in December 1988, 19 years later! The local Vietnam Veterans of America unit was handing out little paper American flags and asking for donations as a fundraiser for their scholarship fund. The vet saw my Marine Corps decal on my car and asked “When did you serve.” I told him. He shook my hand and said, “Welcome Home, brother.”
I broke down and started crying. He just held me, and kept saying, “It’s OK, buddy. You’re home now. It’s OK. Welcome home. Welcome home.”
But in the dark hours of the night, I am still there. As I walk my dog in a foggy park, the tree line across the field is not in Pennsylvania--it is in the Arizona Territory. I wake up, checking lines or listening for mortars in the distance. Many nights--most nights--are in part or in whole just another re-telling of "that night."
And always they are with me. "At the going down of the sun and in the morning, I remember them:" Lucas and Zimmerman, Tews and Phipps and Unfried, and always, Chip and Jimmy Wandro.
I think often of Robert Louis Stevenson's Requiem. "Here he is where he longs to be. Home is the sailor, home from the sea, and the hunter home from the hill."
I'm still not really home, but I long to be. It has been a long voyage. Maybe we'll dock tonight.
© 2010 Michael R. McCarty. All rights reserved.
“Merry Christmas, lady.”
“Oh, just a minute let me get my glasses.” She turned to go back into the house.
Well, this isn’t what I expected. “Uh, Mom?”
She spun, screamed “Michael?” and then started yelling “Mary. Mary. Michael’s home.” Turning to me, she said “Oh, my. I thought you were the mailman.” (For our younger readers who are about to face Saturdays without home delivery—as if the generation of twitter and texting and e-mail will even notice—there was a time when, during the Christmas holidays, mail was regularly delivered twice a day.)
I was still standing on the porch. My Sister came running into the room and ushered me into the house . We had a quick breakfast as Mom and Sis readied to go to school. After they left, I showered and shaved and hit the rack, with the two cats nestled together on my chest. I slept the clock around.
The next day, I borrowed a car and drove up to ISU to see Maryann. I had talked to her and knew that she was in class until 2:00 pm. We planned to meet at the University Union.
I parked and walked across the campus. I was in uniform, and began to get a lot of looks—curious, then cautious, then disdainful. Suddenly, a scruffy looking co-ed stepped into my path. She grabbed me by the lapels, and screamed “How many innocent people did you kill, you mother f-----g pig ? You should rot in Hell!” The only reaction from the students was smirks and laughter.
I took her wrists and pulled them away. She laughed in my face.
When I finally met Maryann, and after a warm reception, she said, “Oh, I should have warned you not to wear your Marine costume. It’s best not to let anyone know what you do for a living.”
Costume? The Service is “what I do for a living?”
I drove her to Chicago the next afternoon for a reunion with her family. She did some last minute shopping for the wedding and I tried to ease back into life in the World. But I felt out of place. No one asked about my year in Vietnam or even alluded to the fact that less than a week before, I had been at An Hoa. I drove her back to the University on Sunday and then on to Granite City.
The next morning, I went downtown to shop for a car. I knew what I wanted and within 15 minutes had ordered a brand spanking new 1970 Chevrolet Nova, to be picked up the next morning. It cost me $1,978. 62, including tax, title and tags. Those were the days, my friends.
I next headed to the credit union to arrange for an auto loan. My folks had been members for years and I had gotten a loan two years before when I bought my VW Beetle. The President of the credit union, who was also our insurance agent, worked through the paperwork.
“Now, your Mother will need to co-sign this loan.”
“Really? She didn’t co-sign the last time.”
“Yes, but now you’re in the Army. We need a guarantee on the loan.” I bristled.
His son (and the VP of both the credit union and the insurance agency) looked up. “He’s a Marine, Dad. They don’t like being mistaken for the Army.”
“Oh,” Harry muttered. “Well, in any case, we need a co-signor when one of them wants a loan.”
One of them? “Really? Even though the last time I was just a college student and now I am a career officer?”
“You’re not a ‘career officer’ until you have 15 years in the service.”
His son, who had just gotten out of the Army, looked up again. “I know that is what the credit union has decided, Dad, but I don’t want to be here the day you tell some Major that he is not a career soldier.”
I had had enough. “Look, forget it. Just get the insurance papers put together. I’m picking up the car tomorrow.” He agreed.
I quickly drove out to the Granite City Army Engineer Depot and headed for the disbursing office. Luckily, I had brought my pay records with me, assuming I would need them at the credit union. I had already gotten cash back at An Hoa for my leave, including the honeymoon, but now I needed to buy a car.
A civilian disbursing clerk saw me coming. I handed her my ID card and pay record and said “I need to get some of the cash I have on the books.”
“No problem, Sir. How much?”
“$1,978. 62.” She looked up with a quizzical smile. “I’m buying a car,” I explained.
Ten minutes later, she was back. I signed for the cash and she handed me my pay jacket. “Do you have anything to carry your money in?” Damn. She saw my face and smiled again. “Here, I have my lunch bag. Will that do?” I walked out with the cash in a mayonnaise-stained brown paper bag.
I was really unsettled by this time. That night, I decided to take care of one other little piece of business. I drove to the local American Legion Post. It was Monday night and I suspected that the weekly ham and beans dinner would soon be underway. One of the Legionnaires at the front desk looked up. “What can I do for you?”
“I’m just home from Vietnam. Thought I’d join up,” I replied.
He looked at another guy at the desk, turned back to me, and snorted. “Another one of them, eh. Look, Sonny, why don’t you come back when you’ve won a goddam war?” They both laughed.
I spun on my heel and marched out. “How many innocent people did you kill?” Marine “costume?” One of them? Come back when you’ve won one? It dawned on me that no one—no one—had said “Welcome Home.”
Am I welcome? I had the strangest longing to be back with 1/5, in a place that I understood.
That was 40 years ago. Since then we, as a Nation, have had our ups and downs.
We've gone through the terrible years of the early 70s when we almost tore the Country apart and planted the seeds of political polarization that are still bearing fruit today. We have seen bad presidents—Nixon and the worst of all, Jimmy Carter(who delayed the raid to bring our hostages home until he could be assured that no Iranians would be hurt!), and a great president, Ronald Reagan. We have elected a draft dodger, who protested on foreign soil while my Marines were taking the battle to the enemy, and the first black American who is still writing his record on the slate of history.
We have fought and won one war using tactics based on the lessons of Vietnam. In General Powell's words when he spoke to the Naval Institute, we learned that when we go to war, we need to "gang up." But we are also in danger of forgetting that lesson of the need for overwhelming force as a new generation tries to ignore a war that is being fought by its best.
The Veteran’s Administration of the 1970s, with its hell hole hospitals and inadequate budgets, has been replaced by a VA that is a refuge to those of us who are still dealing with Vietnam, the gift that keeps on giving.
It was not until the 1980s that the American Legion really began to reach out to Vietnam vets—and then, mainly, as a matter of survival. The Vietnam War Memorial, a black hole in the ground designed by a college kid from an Ivy League college that did not want the ROTC on its campus, has now become the most visited site in Washington, DC. With the flag and statues that Jim Webb and others demanded and received, it is now a place of honor. I go there every time I am in the Capital, to talk with the names on Panels 35 W to 22 W.
We go to reunions, we Marines of Charlie 1/5, where we are fast becoming the old men of the 1st Marine Division. In 2007, I introduced Mike Tonkyn to the Division Commander as a Navy Cross recipient. The General shook Mike’s hand and said, “It is a real honor to meet you, Sir.”
Later, Mike said to me, “You know, Mac, never in this Lance Corporal’s wildest imagination did the Division Commander call me, ‘Sir.’”
“Ah, that’s all right,” I responded. “ He’s younger than you.” We both almost fell to the ground laughing.
The first time I was welcomed home as a Vietnam vet was in the parking lot of the Spectrum before a Philadelphia Wings game in December 1988, 19 years later! The local Vietnam Veterans of America unit was handing out little paper American flags and asking for donations as a fundraiser for their scholarship fund. The vet saw my Marine Corps decal on my car and asked “When did you serve.” I told him. He shook my hand and said, “Welcome Home, brother.”
I broke down and started crying. He just held me, and kept saying, “It’s OK, buddy. You’re home now. It’s OK. Welcome home. Welcome home.”
But in the dark hours of the night, I am still there. As I walk my dog in a foggy park, the tree line across the field is not in Pennsylvania--it is in the Arizona Territory. I wake up, checking lines or listening for mortars in the distance. Many nights--most nights--are in part or in whole just another re-telling of "that night."
And always they are with me. "At the going down of the sun and in the morning, I remember them:" Lucas and Zimmerman, Tews and Phipps and Unfried, and always, Chip and Jimmy Wandro.
I think often of Robert Louis Stevenson's Requiem. "Here he is where he longs to be. Home is the sailor, home from the sea, and the hunter home from the hill."
I'm still not really home, but I long to be. It has been a long voyage. Maybe we'll dock tonight.
© 2010 Michael R. McCarty. All rights reserved.
09 April 2010
A CALIFORNIA GODDESS AWAITS
The next day, Thursday, 11 December, we reported to the Transient Facility at Danang Air base to begin processing for our trip home. After the fun that we had had at the DOOM Club, I hit the rack early. This was one flight that I did not want to miss.
On Friday morning, we mustered. About 150 of us then moved to a C-130 for the trip to Kadena Air Force Base on Okinawa. Take off was routine, and about 10 minutes later, the crew chief announced that we had just left Vietnamese air space. There was a cheer, but it was almost anticlimactic. The aircraft was a standard C-130, with canvas bench seats along each side of the aircraft and a back-to-back arrangement of canvas bench seats down the centerline of the aircraft. I dozed for most of the trip.
We landed at Kadena in early afternoon and were trucked to Camp Hague to be processed. Our orders were collected and stamped and busses ran us over to 3d Force Service Regiment to collect the baggage we had stored the year before. We were billeted in Quonset hut barracks for the night.
A few of our TBS classmates who were still on Okinawa formed up with us and led us to a genuine Kobi beef restaurant for dinner. Afterwards, we decided to visit a steam bath. The guys who had been on Oki knew just where to take us.
It was a little hole in the wall place. We paid our tab and were ushered into a locker room and handed towels. After stripping down, we were led into a room holding perhaps a dozen old-fashioned steam cabinets. After being locked in, the steam was turned on and we sat for 15 or 20 minutes. When the cabinets were opened, we were streaked with dirt that had been steamed out of our pores. We were then led into a Japanese style bath and soaked for another 20 minutes or so.
Next came the massage tables—in private rooms. The masseuse initially gave me a rub down and ended with the traditional walk on my back. Then she asked if I was interested in the “special.” When it dawned on me just what the “special” entailed, I declined. I was getting married in two weeks, for crying out loud!
On Saturday, I went to the barbershop to get a haircut, to the MCX to get the proper ribbons, pressed out the uniform I would wear to California, polished leather and brass, and just relaxed. We were wearing the Winter Service “A” uniform: green blouse and trousers with khaki shirt and field scarf. We were also wearing the fourragère earned by the Fifth Marines in France in WWI. It was our only opportunity to wear it, and it was a big deal.
We ate off base that night, but ended up in the Officers Club for a late night. The next morning, I got up early to go to Mass and then packed away my utilities and waited for the time to return to Kadena. Finally, we were on the bus and heading home.
At Kadena, we checked in and at about 2200 on Sunday night. We mustered and then walked out to the plane that would take us home, taking off at 2300. I sat with Tom Pottenger and Mike and Jerry were across the aisle from us. The flight was uneventful. Because we were headed east, we had the advantage of the jet stream and the earth’s rotation working for us. We flew non-stop from Kadena to Travis Air Force Base outside of San Francisco. There the plane refueled and flew on down to Marine Corps Air Station, El Toro, where we landed at about 1800 on Sunday. Thanks to the International Date Line, we landed about five hours before we left Okinawa!
Tom walked out onto the aircraft steps in front of me. Suddenly, he stopped.
“I don’t understand,” he said. “Where are the bands? Where are the flags?”
“Not that kind of war, Tommy,” I replied. “Let’s go home.”
We picked up our bags and headed into the terminal at El Toro. A Lance Corporal was waiting for us. He collected our orders, officers, then Staff NCOs, then NCOs, then non-rated men. A few minutes later, my orders were returned and I was directed to pass through customs. A PFC was the Customs inspector.
“You got anything to declare, Lieutenant,” he asked?
“I do declare I am glad to be home in one piece!”
“Yessir. See you next time.”
I headed through a glass door into a lobby which was dominated by a ticket office. Mike, Tom, and Jerry were already inside. I found a ticket agent and bought a ticket from LA to Saint Louis. I had two choices: there was a TWA flight to St. Louis that left at 2230 and another to Cincinnati via St. Louis that left at 2245. I knew that Tom would be on the Cincinnati flight, but I wasn’t going to “waste” 15 minutes waiting for him.
It was now 1845. As I came out of the ticket office, Tom, Mike, and Jerry were headed out the door to the taxi stand. Pot waved for me to doubletime. “Jerry has a flight out of LA in an hour. Last one until tomorrow morning. We gotta move.”
Jerry and Mike were at the curb. The taxi driver was a grizzled old gal.
“Can you get us to the Northwest Air Lines terminal at LA by 7:45,” Jerry asked?
“Fifty bucks a head,” she replied. We paid up.
“Well, get in. Get in. What are we waiting for? Time’s a-wasting,” she shouted. We dumped our bags in the trunk, jumped in the cab, and took off. I don’t think we ever flew more than 5 feet above the roadway, but it was scary. For the second time in three days, I feared that I was going to die in an accident before I got home. We got to LAX at 7:42 pm.
Jerry grabbed his bags, shook our hands and ran for his 8:10 flight. (He made it.) Tom, Mike and I took our bags and stood there in the street looking at one another.
“I’m on United to Chicago, over there,” Mike said. Tom and I were headed for the TWA terminal, so once again we shook hands. “I’ll see you at the wedding, Mac.” And he was gone.
Tom and I grabbed our gear and headed to the TWA building. As we entered, we were greeted by a golden California goddess, dressed in a bright red TWA uniform. She had long legs that stretched from the floor all the way to….., well, let’s just say she was exquisite.
“Good evening, gentlemen. What can I do for you this evening?” Her smile was dazzling.
“Oh, my dear, so many things,” Pot replied. "But I just don’t have the time.” The goddess blushed!
“Please pardon the lieutenant,” I interjected. “Is there a bar in the airport?”
She gave us directions and I led Pot towards the TWA check in counter where we dropped our bags. Then we found the bar. It being Sunday, we took our anti-malaria horse pills as we would have to do for six weeks. They went down a lot easier with cold draft beer.
We headed for our respective gates at about 9:30. Tom’s was right next to mine. I boarded at about 10:00 pm, and had just settled in when the Captain spoke over the PA system. “We’ve had a little problem with the plane and we are going to have to shift you to another aircraft that is also headed for St. Louis. The good news is that it is parked at the very next gate.”
We disembarked and moved to the next gate. When I boarded the airplane, I was looking for Pot. (These were the days before boarding passes and assigned seating.) I spotted him in a window seat, already asleep. His seat mate was a little old lady. The aisle seat across from her was empty and I dropped my awol bag on it.
“Excuse me, Ma’am, but I have been sitting next to the Lieutenant all the way from Vietnam. Is there any chance we could swap seats?”
“Of course, Dear.” She moved into the new seat.
I sat down and smacked Pot on top of the head. “Sorry, Leatherneck, but you’re still stuck with me.”
The aircraft took a long roll down the runway and we were headed home.
© 2010 Michael R. McCarty. All rights reserved.
On Friday morning, we mustered. About 150 of us then moved to a C-130 for the trip to Kadena Air Force Base on Okinawa. Take off was routine, and about 10 minutes later, the crew chief announced that we had just left Vietnamese air space. There was a cheer, but it was almost anticlimactic. The aircraft was a standard C-130, with canvas bench seats along each side of the aircraft and a back-to-back arrangement of canvas bench seats down the centerline of the aircraft. I dozed for most of the trip.
We landed at Kadena in early afternoon and were trucked to Camp Hague to be processed. Our orders were collected and stamped and busses ran us over to 3d Force Service Regiment to collect the baggage we had stored the year before. We were billeted in Quonset hut barracks for the night.
A few of our TBS classmates who were still on Okinawa formed up with us and led us to a genuine Kobi beef restaurant for dinner. Afterwards, we decided to visit a steam bath. The guys who had been on Oki knew just where to take us.
It was a little hole in the wall place. We paid our tab and were ushered into a locker room and handed towels. After stripping down, we were led into a room holding perhaps a dozen old-fashioned steam cabinets. After being locked in, the steam was turned on and we sat for 15 or 20 minutes. When the cabinets were opened, we were streaked with dirt that had been steamed out of our pores. We were then led into a Japanese style bath and soaked for another 20 minutes or so.
Next came the massage tables—in private rooms. The masseuse initially gave me a rub down and ended with the traditional walk on my back. Then she asked if I was interested in the “special.” When it dawned on me just what the “special” entailed, I declined. I was getting married in two weeks, for crying out loud!
On Saturday, I went to the barbershop to get a haircut, to the MCX to get the proper ribbons, pressed out the uniform I would wear to California, polished leather and brass, and just relaxed. We were wearing the Winter Service “A” uniform: green blouse and trousers with khaki shirt and field scarf. We were also wearing the fourragère earned by the Fifth Marines in France in WWI. It was our only opportunity to wear it, and it was a big deal.
We ate off base that night, but ended up in the Officers Club for a late night. The next morning, I got up early to go to Mass and then packed away my utilities and waited for the time to return to Kadena. Finally, we were on the bus and heading home.
At Kadena, we checked in and at about 2200 on Sunday night. We mustered and then walked out to the plane that would take us home, taking off at 2300. I sat with Tom Pottenger and Mike and Jerry were across the aisle from us. The flight was uneventful. Because we were headed east, we had the advantage of the jet stream and the earth’s rotation working for us. We flew non-stop from Kadena to Travis Air Force Base outside of San Francisco. There the plane refueled and flew on down to Marine Corps Air Station, El Toro, where we landed at about 1800 on Sunday. Thanks to the International Date Line, we landed about five hours before we left Okinawa!
Tom walked out onto the aircraft steps in front of me. Suddenly, he stopped.
“I don’t understand,” he said. “Where are the bands? Where are the flags?”
“Not that kind of war, Tommy,” I replied. “Let’s go home.”
We picked up our bags and headed into the terminal at El Toro. A Lance Corporal was waiting for us. He collected our orders, officers, then Staff NCOs, then NCOs, then non-rated men. A few minutes later, my orders were returned and I was directed to pass through customs. A PFC was the Customs inspector.
“You got anything to declare, Lieutenant,” he asked?
“I do declare I am glad to be home in one piece!”
“Yessir. See you next time.”
I headed through a glass door into a lobby which was dominated by a ticket office. Mike, Tom, and Jerry were already inside. I found a ticket agent and bought a ticket from LA to Saint Louis. I had two choices: there was a TWA flight to St. Louis that left at 2230 and another to Cincinnati via St. Louis that left at 2245. I knew that Tom would be on the Cincinnati flight, but I wasn’t going to “waste” 15 minutes waiting for him.
It was now 1845. As I came out of the ticket office, Tom, Mike, and Jerry were headed out the door to the taxi stand. Pot waved for me to doubletime. “Jerry has a flight out of LA in an hour. Last one until tomorrow morning. We gotta move.”
Jerry and Mike were at the curb. The taxi driver was a grizzled old gal.
“Can you get us to the Northwest Air Lines terminal at LA by 7:45,” Jerry asked?
“Fifty bucks a head,” she replied. We paid up.
“Well, get in. Get in. What are we waiting for? Time’s a-wasting,” she shouted. We dumped our bags in the trunk, jumped in the cab, and took off. I don’t think we ever flew more than 5 feet above the roadway, but it was scary. For the second time in three days, I feared that I was going to die in an accident before I got home. We got to LAX at 7:42 pm.
Jerry grabbed his bags, shook our hands and ran for his 8:10 flight. (He made it.) Tom, Mike and I took our bags and stood there in the street looking at one another.
“I’m on United to Chicago, over there,” Mike said. Tom and I were headed for the TWA terminal, so once again we shook hands. “I’ll see you at the wedding, Mac.” And he was gone.
Tom and I grabbed our gear and headed to the TWA building. As we entered, we were greeted by a golden California goddess, dressed in a bright red TWA uniform. She had long legs that stretched from the floor all the way to….., well, let’s just say she was exquisite.
“Good evening, gentlemen. What can I do for you this evening?” Her smile was dazzling.
“Oh, my dear, so many things,” Pot replied. "But I just don’t have the time.” The goddess blushed!
“Please pardon the lieutenant,” I interjected. “Is there a bar in the airport?”
She gave us directions and I led Pot towards the TWA check in counter where we dropped our bags. Then we found the bar. It being Sunday, we took our anti-malaria horse pills as we would have to do for six weeks. They went down a lot easier with cold draft beer.
We headed for our respective gates at about 9:30. Tom’s was right next to mine. I boarded at about 10:00 pm, and had just settled in when the Captain spoke over the PA system. “We’ve had a little problem with the plane and we are going to have to shift you to another aircraft that is also headed for St. Louis. The good news is that it is parked at the very next gate.”
We disembarked and moved to the next gate. When I boarded the airplane, I was looking for Pot. (These were the days before boarding passes and assigned seating.) I spotted him in a window seat, already asleep. His seat mate was a little old lady. The aisle seat across from her was empty and I dropped my awol bag on it.
“Excuse me, Ma’am, but I have been sitting next to the Lieutenant all the way from Vietnam. Is there any chance we could swap seats?”
“Of course, Dear.” She moved into the new seat.
I sat down and smacked Pot on top of the head. “Sorry, Leatherneck, but you’re still stuck with me.”
The aircraft took a long roll down the runway and we were headed home.
© 2010 Michael R. McCarty. All rights reserved.
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