Homecoming May 6th

Readers,

I'll be coming back to Sacramento May 6th.

I'm planning a visits all across the country this summer and fall. If you know of any churches, community organizations, schools, colleges, or hospitals that might like to host me as a speaker, please let me know.

Blessings!





April 25, 2009


Good intentions, regardless of results, are rewarded

BY NORRIS BURKES
FLORIDA TODAY

The Iraqi patient held me in a blank stare as the doctor and I approached the teenager's bed carrying a stack of books.

The books were Qurans. The patient, like most of our Arabic-speaking patients, was Muslim.

The doctor is our bilingual adviser. He was a practicing radiologist for many years in Iraq, but fled during Sadam's regime. In the United States, he couldn't practice as a physician, so he took a job as an ultrasonographer.

A few years ago, at 57, he decided he wanted to do something for Iraq, so he returned to work here in the Air Force Theater Hospital at Joint Base Balad.

"This patient," the doctor whispered, about 30 feet from the bedside, "comes from a part of Iraq that has had a lot of violence." The 16-year-old had a bullet wound to his leg, "allegedly from playing with an AK-47," the doctor said, hinting that there was more to the story.

"This," he said, thumping on the Quran, "can be an important part of winning the hearts and minds of the people from this area."

At bedside, I met the teenager and his father, a local cleric. With the doctor's help, I introduced myself as a chaplain and offered the father and son an English/Arabic translation of the Quran.

The father smiled appreciatively and received the Quran with a kiss on its binding. He opened the Quran to a passage explaining that Christians are the closest religious relative to the Muslim.

"Find those who say, 'We are Christians,' " the Prophet declared, "because amongst these are men devoted to learning and men who have renounced the world, and they are not arrogant" (Surah 5:82).

I graciously accepted his teaching and moved to another room where we met a pregnant Iraqi woman who was visiting her husband. They were expecting their first child when insurgents shot the husband in the chest. He would recover, but without the ability to swallow or talk.

I repeated the gift of the Quran, but this time I offered to say a prayer or a Duaa. Under the doctor's coaching, I've learned the Duaa is more like the everyday prayer request of Christians.

"In this kind of prayer, you can request, 'May Allah heal you soon and return you to your family,' " the doctor said.

After a quick prayer, we walked down the hall as the doctor questioned the motives of the people who shot the patient.

"I don't know how insurgents justify what they are doing. It has nothing related to religion."

Between more Iraqi patient visits, the doctor referred to the book I wrote, "No Small Miracles," and added, "We see miracles with the Iraqi patients, too. Recently, a boy came to us with shrapnel in his brain. We didn't think he'd survive, but now he's doing fine -- walking, running and going to school."

But even without obvious miracles, Muslims ascribe a lot to intention.

"You remember the boy with 55 percent burns on his body?" the doctor asked.

"Yes," I said. "How could I forget? We sent him home to die."

"Yes," the doctor said. "He came to us four days after the accident, much too late to save him. But we showed our best intentions to save him. Muslims will praise the intentions of the Americans to care for every patient, regardless of religion. That's a unique care that will definitely cause change for the good."

The doctor described this Muslim teaching as "Works by Intention." It means God gives credit for the good intended, your motives, not the actual outcome.

In the form of a parable about motives, Jesus thanked his followers: "I was hungry and you fed me, thirsty and you gave me a drink . . shivering and you gave me clothes, sick and you stopped to visit."

Unable to recall such a single incident, the followers asked: "When did we do this?"

"Whenever you did one of these things to someone overlooked or ignored, that was me -- you did it to me."

Burkes is stationed at Joint Base Balad, Iraq, through April. E-mail him at norris@thechaplain.net web site www.thechaplain.net

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Homecoming May 6th

Readers,

I'll be coming back to Sacramento May 6th.

I'm planning a visits all across the country this summer and fall. If you know of any churches, community organizations, schools, colleges, or hospitals that might like to host me as a speaker, please let me know.

Blessings!





April 25, 2009


Good intentions, regardless of results, are rewarded

BY NORRIS BURKES
FLORIDA TODAY

The Iraqi patient held me in a blank stare as the doctor and I approached the teenager's bed carrying a stack of books.

The books were Qurans. The patient, like most of our Arabic-speaking patients, was Muslim.

The doctor is our bilingual adviser. He was a practicing radiologist for many years in Iraq, but fled during Sadam's regime. In the United States, he couldn't practice as a physician, so he took a job as an ultrasonographer.

A few years ago, at 57, he decided he wanted to do something for Iraq, so he returned to work here in the Air Force Theater Hospital at Joint Base Balad.

"This patient," the doctor whispered, about 30 feet from the bedside, "comes from a part of Iraq that has had a lot of violence." The 16-year-old had a bullet wound to his leg, "allegedly from playing with an AK-47," the doctor said, hinting that there was more to the story.

"This," he said, thumping on the Quran, "can be an important part of winning the hearts and minds of the people from this area."

At bedside, I met the teenager and his father, a local cleric. With the doctor's help, I introduced myself as a chaplain and offered the father and son an English/Arabic translation of the Quran.

The father smiled appreciatively and received the Quran with a kiss on its binding. He opened the Quran to a passage explaining that Christians are the closest religious relative to the Muslim.

"Find those who say, 'We are Christians,' " the Prophet declared, "because amongst these are men devoted to learning and men who have renounced the world, and they are not arrogant" (Surah 5:82).

I graciously accepted his teaching and moved to another room where we met a pregnant Iraqi woman who was visiting her husband. They were expecting their first child when insurgents shot the husband in the chest. He would recover, but without the ability to swallow or talk.

I repeated the gift of the Quran, but this time I offered to say a prayer or a Duaa. Under the doctor's coaching, I've learned the Duaa is more like the everyday prayer request of Christians.

"In this kind of prayer, you can request, 'May Allah heal you soon and return you to your family,' " the doctor said.

After a quick prayer, we walked down the hall as the doctor questioned the motives of the people who shot the patient.

"I don't know how insurgents justify what they are doing. It has nothing related to religion."

Between more Iraqi patient visits, the doctor referred to the book I wrote, "No Small Miracles," and added, "We see miracles with the Iraqi patients, too. Recently, a boy came to us with shrapnel in his brain. We didn't think he'd survive, but now he's doing fine -- walking, running and going to school."

But even without obvious miracles, Muslims ascribe a lot to intention.

"You remember the boy with 55 percent burns on his body?" the doctor asked.

"Yes," I said. "How could I forget? We sent him home to die."

"Yes," the doctor said. "He came to us four days after the accident, much too late to save him. But we showed our best intentions to save him. Muslims will praise the intentions of the Americans to care for every patient, regardless of religion. That's a unique care that will definitely cause change for the good."

The doctor described this Muslim teaching as "Works by Intention." It means God gives credit for the good intended, your motives, not the actual outcome.

In the form of a parable about motives, Jesus thanked his followers: "I was hungry and you fed me, thirsty and you gave me a drink . . shivering and you gave me clothes, sick and you stopped to visit."

Unable to recall such a single incident, the followers asked: "When did we do this?"

"Whenever you did one of these things to someone overlooked or ignored, that was me -- you did it to me."

Burkes is stationed at Joint Base Balad, Iraq, through April. E-mail him at norris@thechaplain.net web site www.thechaplain.net

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Finally, some tears were spilled

BY NORRIS BURKES
FLORIDA TODAY

Every day at the Air Force Theatre Hospital has been a little different for me.

I've had rewarding days. I've had boring days. I've had angry days. I've had indifferent days. I've even had a few happy days.

In the three months I've been here, however, I haven't really had a crying day.

Last week, I finally cried. There had been so many reasons to shed tears on this 120-day deployment, but as precious as water is in the desert, I suppose I thought I needed to conserve them until the end.

The tears started as I sat at my office desk. I think they caught my chaplain assistant off guard. What had brought the tears?

Both of us had a lot of guesses.

Perhaps my tears came while thinking of the soldier who recently lost his arms and legs. He and his battle buddy had been "med evac'd" out of the country so quickly, none of us really had time to cry for them.

As quickly as they left, another wounded squad arrived to replace them. They, too, had been blown apart by an IED.

Among them was a wounded medic who was tearfully asking whether she had done everything possible to save her battle buddy -- an expectant father. He had pled with her to save him even as he bled to death.

Or were my tears for her other battle buddy who lay in a nearby bed, begging me to explain God's purpose in all of this? His shoulders heaved as he asked for a new Bible to replace the one that had been blown up. Could I share with him a purpose?

Perhaps the tears were for the soldier who told me last month he was worried he'd grown used to killing insurgents. His eyes moistened as he told me how his parents saw him as a hero.

"They wouldn't call me a hero if they knew what I do," he declared.

"Is it normal to see killing as routine?" he asked. I assured him that he wasn't crazy, or he wouldn't have come to me.

While some of my tears were for him, I likely was thinking of my son, who joined the Marines two years ago.

"Dad, we're learning to kill from 500 yards," he wrote from boot camp, "Is it wrong to kill?"

I answered him with an ancient scripture: "There is a time to kill." Sometimes, we are compelled to eradicate evil with deadly force. In so doing, we run a risk of destroying our own moral fiber.

In the process, tears will come. They are a way of protecting our core being. If we didn't shed tears for such horrendous losses, we wouldn't be human. That's the simple difference between the good guys and the bad guys -- we cry when we are forced to use violence; they don't.

As I considered my tears, it occurred to me that maybe they were proud tears. We were asking so much of our young heroes. Most of them knew the price they'd pay, and many of them had overpaid.

"You going to be all right?" my chaplain assistant asked as the office phone rang.

It was the ICU. The soldier who asked about the purpose of all this wanted to see me again.

"I want you to pray, chaplain," he said. "I want you to pray for the insurgents that did this."

"What should I pray?" I asked.

The soldier responded by telling me to pray the prayer that Jesus prayed from the cross, "Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do."

I'm not sure I'm finished crying.

Chaplain Norris returns home next month and will be available to do community speaking. Feel free to contact him at Norris@thechaplain.net or write him at Norris Burkes, P.O. Box 19522, Sacramento, Calif. 95819-0522.

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Finally, some tears were spilled

BY NORRIS BURKES
FLORIDA TODAY

Every day at the Air Force Theatre Hospital has been a little different for me.

I've had rewarding days. I've had boring days. I've had angry days. I've had indifferent days. I've even had a few happy days.

In the three months I've been here, however, I haven't really had a crying day.

Last week, I finally cried. There had been so many reasons to shed tears on this 120-day deployment, but as precious as water is in the desert, I suppose I thought I needed to conserve them until the end.

The tears started as I sat at my office desk. I think they caught my chaplain assistant off guard. What had brought the tears?

Both of us had a lot of guesses.

Perhaps my tears came while thinking of the soldier who recently lost his arms and legs. He and his battle buddy had been "med evac'd" out of the country so quickly, none of us really had time to cry for them.

As quickly as they left, another wounded squad arrived to replace them. They, too, had been blown apart by an IED.

Among them was a wounded medic who was tearfully asking whether she had done everything possible to save her battle buddy -- an expectant father. He had pled with her to save him even as he bled to death.

Or were my tears for her other battle buddy who lay in a nearby bed, begging me to explain God's purpose in all of this? His shoulders heaved as he asked for a new Bible to replace the one that had been blown up. Could I share with him a purpose?

Perhaps the tears were for the soldier who told me last month he was worried he'd grown used to killing insurgents. His eyes moistened as he told me how his parents saw him as a hero.

"They wouldn't call me a hero if they knew what I do," he declared.

"Is it normal to see killing as routine?" he asked. I assured him that he wasn't crazy, or he wouldn't have come to me.

While some of my tears were for him, I likely was thinking of my son, who joined the Marines two years ago.

"Dad, we're learning to kill from 500 yards," he wrote from boot camp, "Is it wrong to kill?"

I answered him with an ancient scripture: "There is a time to kill." Sometimes, we are compelled to eradicate evil with deadly force. In so doing, we run a risk of destroying our own moral fiber.

In the process, tears will come. They are a way of protecting our core being. If we didn't shed tears for such horrendous losses, we wouldn't be human. That's the simple difference between the good guys and the bad guys -- we cry when we are forced to use violence; they don't.

As I considered my tears, it occurred to me that maybe they were proud tears. We were asking so much of our young heroes. Most of them knew the price they'd pay, and many of them had overpaid.

"You going to be all right?" my chaplain assistant asked as the office phone rang.

It was the ICU. The soldier who asked about the purpose of all this wanted to see me again.

"I want you to pray, chaplain," he said. "I want you to pray for the insurgents that did this."

"What should I pray?" I asked.

The soldier responded by telling me to pray the prayer that Jesus prayed from the cross, "Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do."

I'm not sure I'm finished crying.

Chaplain Norris returns home next month and will be available to do community speaking. Feel free to contact him at Norris@thechaplain.net or write him at Norris Burkes, P.O. Box 19522, Sacramento, Calif. 95819-0522.

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Like soldiers, chaplains are here to serve

Dear Readers,

Two items,

1) My editors are telling me that they will nominate my writings from Iraq for a Pulitzer. I'm pretty amazed. Of course it's just a nomination, but it means a lot coming from my editors. The story below prompted their idea to nominate me.

2)I'm planning speaking engagments when I return this summer. If you know of any speaking opportunites in churches, organizations, schools, health care etc, that would like to host me as a guest speaker, please let me know.

3. We are overwhlemed with donations for the soldiers here. If you have something you are ready to send, contact me for an alternate address.

Blessings!


April 4, 2009

Like soldiers, chaplains are here to serve

BY NORRIS BURKES
FLORIDA TODAY

As we pulled a family photo from the pocket of one the three soldiers described in my last column as killed-in-action, an airman said, "I can't imagine what it will be like for the people who will notify their families."

I could imagine all too well. In the next few moments, flashbacks filled my mind with the images of the near 25 times I've put on my dress uniform and met a sergeant I didn't know in the middle of a town I'd never visited to deliver the news I never want to hear.

In that moment, I could see the home where I prayed with a man who lost his daughter on Christmas Eve. In another home, I could hear an anguished father pound the kitchen table as he railed against the government policies he blamed for his son's death.

I could feel the darkness of the mobile home park where I waited for parents to return from a winning bingo game, only to find out they'd experienced the loss of a lifetime.

I shook as I recalled stopping a family in their driveway before they could leave to pick up their son at the airport. He wasn't coming home.

The soldier's photo evoked every memory imaginable, even some you can't imagine.

Like the time I raged at the landlord who wouldn't help us locate a father who had moved.

Or the time a stepfather was overly inquisitive about the soldier's life insurance.

Even the occasion where I rebuffed the advances of a slinky neighbor lady and retreated from
the home of a mentally ill mother.

On the occasions when we found no one home, we were instructed to inquire among the neighbors. A few neighbors asked if we were recruiters. I answered them with a blank stare that caused them to cover their mouths at the horror of their next guess.

I could imagine it all, because I've driven five hours one way to tell a father that there would be no miraculous recovery for his son who finally died of the brain injury he'd received in an IED explosion the prior year.

I remember standing in the darkness on the other side of a screen door and the chorus of screams that erupted as someone turned on the porch light to reveal our uniformed team.

But most all, it was the children in the dead soldier's photo who reminded me of the birthday party we interrupted, of the 9-year-old twins who exchanged vacant stares, and of the 4-year-old who just didn't understand.

As we stood saluting these soldiers for the last time in our morgue, I wasn't blessed with the innocence of ignorance. I could easily imagine delivering the unspeakable news to these families.

However, as I contemplated the airman's original concern for those notifying the family, I uncovered her unspoken question: "How can you do it?"

The answer to that question is simple.

I rely on the inspiration I find in the ultimate sacrifice this soldier was willing to risk. Yes, sometimes, I find my hand shaking as I knock on those doors, but I tell myself, "If these soldiers could do their job without flinching, then, by God's grace, I can do mine."

They did their jobs in a professional manner because they trusted that their comrades and their chaplains would also be professional as they did this unspeakable duty.

So, next month when I return home and I get a call requesting a chaplain for a death notification, I will answer that call with the same unflinching attitude these soldiers demonstrated, an attitude best conveyed by words of Samuel the Prophet: "Here am I, Lord. Send me."

Burkes is a former civilian hospital chaplain and an Air National Guard chaplain. Write norris@thechaplain.net or visit www.thechaplain.net.

Additional Facts
Donation info
Norris Burkes reports that Troy's Place is overwhelmed with the donations being made as result of a mention in this paper. Before you send anymore packages, contact Burkes at Norris@thechaplain.net or the Balad chapel at 332aew.hc@blab.afcent.af.mil for further updates.

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