Ministry on both sides of the trigger

Last year, while deployed to the 548th Intelligence Group at Beale AFB in northern California, the commander asked an airman to show me a sample video of insurgents killed by our aerial drone. The combat video was "scrubbed" of classified data and wasn't much different than a YouTube video.

In a cubicle outside the commander's office, the airman clicked his keyboard and his screen filled with silhouettes that looked more like film negatives than real people. "Watch these bad guys planting a roadside bomb," the airman whispered, as if they might hear us.

With a forehead scrunch, I asked, "How do you know that's a bomb?"

"Classified, sir. Take my word for it."

"Oookay." I said. Then, I watched the ghosted figures plant something.

"Now, wait for it," he said in rising tones.

"Bang! Judgment Day!" he pronounced as one figure dissolved. The other one started running.

"It's a squirter," the airman said of the runner.

"A what?" I asked imagining the man erupting with hemorrhages.

"No, no." he said. "A squirter is a runner." Then in a chuckling afterthought he said, "Well, I suppose he might be hemorrhaging, too. Never thought of that."

Just then, the screen flashed again. "Got the other one too!"

I thanked the airman for the airpower demonstration and excused myself for a contemplative walk. As I wandered between buildings, I had conflicting thoughts. While grateful the insurgents were thwarted, I was painfully aware that I saw people remotely killed by airmen whom I serve as chaplain.

But as a chaplain, I'm also obliged to consider the pain on both sides and what it's like to be on the receiving end of that kind of hostility. And it just so happened that a few years previous, I was on the receiving end.
It happened one Saturday afternoon during my 2009 deployment to Balad Iraq. Our chapel staff was sitting around our big government desks joking about our slow day when an "Alarm Red" announced incoming indirect fire. It's called "indirect" because the fire is random. For all we knew, the enemy was shooting at the moon.

Nevertheless, the alarm sent our chapel staff into a flattened position on the chapel floor. If you'd seen us on the floor, you might have thought of the old jokes that start with "a Rabbi, a priest and Baptist pastor walk into a bar…"

Only we weren't in a bar. Rabbi Sarah Schechter, Father Hoang Nguyen, Technical Sergeant Franklin Castro and I were in a cozy spot under a desk. At first, the desks didn't seem so big and we cracked humor at our intimate arrangement.

And then we heard it. A boom rattled our chapel building as easily as if it were a child's erector set. Now, the fire didn't seem so indirect. The enemy hit inside our fence line and it felt very personal.

We were no longer joking — we were praying. Praying in our own faith traditions not to die. Praying just as I'm sure the insurgent in the Airman's video must of prayed. A few minutes later, the bombing stopped and we were grateful that we hadn't been judged by Jesus' statement "All who use swords are destroyed by swords."
As I compare the two incidents, I have a sense that watching the Airman's video was also a way of watching myself hiding under the chapel desk. And it makes me wonder if people of faith knew what it was like to be on both sides of that video screen, might we be more likely to assume the role of peacemaker?

War stress difficult to measure

If you were following my column in 2009, you'd remember that I wrote about my deployment as the chaplain for the Air Force field hospital in Balad, Iraq. If you missed them, allow me summarize .

In one, I mentioned counseling a soldier who was feeling guilty about killing people. When I tried to assure him that he was doing his job, he protested.

"You don't understand, Chaplain, I'm starting to enjoy the killing."

He was right. I didn't understand. His situation became a mental health referral.

Probably the most tragic incident occurred when a squad of three soldiers arrived in our ER. In a few moments of controlled chaos, our staff removed clothing and did chest compressions, but the more experienced doctors stepped back, staring at their bloody boots.

In that silent moment, I heard short sobs and the snapping sound of elastic gloves being removed in defeat. The soldiers were all dead on arrival. For many of the staff, this was the worst thing they'd ever witnessed.

The third story is one I didn't tell. It happened an hour later when my chaplain assistant interrupted the fist pounding I was giving my desk. The ER requested that I return to talk to a surviving sergeant who'd killed the insurgent responsible for the death of our three soldiers.

In our short conversation, the sergeant seemed unscathed . But he wasn't.

A few hours later, the staff reported that the sergeant was accosting Iraqi patients. Inside my office, he used graphic language to tell me how he wanted to kill Iraqis. The doctors sent him home for treatment.

The cost of PTSD is building. This month, an American soldier killed 16 civilians in Afghanistan. In January, another veteran killed a Mount Hood park ranger .

All three of these men returned from their combat service as changed men. And if these soldiers acted from their trauma, just think how much is stirring in the hearts and minds of those who have not acted.

In keeping with my New Year's resolution to write more authentically, let me borrow the words of Walter Cronkite when he described the war of the last generation:

"For it seems now more certain than ever that the bloody experience of Vietnam is to end in a stalemate. … For every means we have to escalate, the enemy can match us. … And with each escalation, the world comes closer to the brink of cosmic disaster."

We've exacted our revenge for 9/11 from Afghanistan, but these strategies are no longer a viable way to effect the change we desire. I am sure we need to withdraw.

So, to those readers who were wondering what this chaplain thinks about this war, now you know.

And to those who have insisted that I stick to religious subjects , I'm not sure where you'd find a more religious topic than the life and death of war.

Norris Burkes is a syndicated columnist, national speaker and author of "No Small Miracles." He also serves as an Air National Guard chaplain and is board-certified in the Association of Professional Chaplains. You can call him at 321-549-2500, email ask@thechaplain.net, visit website thechaplain.net or write him at P.O. Box 247, Elk Grove, CA 95759.

Pastors aren't just chaplains in private life

Whenever I'm asked what the difference is between a pastor and a chaplain, I often joke, "Chaplains are paid more." But, as I discovered this month when I returned to work as a part-time hospital chaplain, the truth is more complicated.

One key difference is that a chaplain serves at the location in which they are immediately needed. So, when a 53-year-old woman arrived in our emergency trauma room with the lights and sirens of Code 3, I was there because her priest could not be.

When 30 minutes of resuscitation attempts proved to a grieving family that we'd done our best, chaplains came to bring a hint of solace to a large family that had lost a mother and a wife from an unexpected heart attack. I say only a "hint of solace," because true solace is limited when offered by a stranger.

However, unlike pastors, I minister to everyone, no matter what his or her faith group is. As a hospital chaplain I've helped patients by taping healing crystals on their wrists, burning incense, reading the Bible as well as the Koran, putting a healing blanket on their bed or placing garlic under their bed. I do this because delivering quality pastoral care is about what the patient needs, not about my need to convert, baptize or proselytize.

Chaplains are involved in the decisions of life and death. For instance, this week, I sat in patient rooms with our palliative care committee. The committee is a small group consisting of a physician, nurse, chaplain, and social worker that formulate a care plan to relieve suffering. In many of these cases, patients admit that alcohol or tobacco bought about these premature conversations.

During one of those meetings, my thoughts exited the doctor's lengthy explanation and drifted through the very same hallways I visited 20 years ago as a local pastor. The differences between what I do now and what I did as a pastor became clear.

Pastoring was very personal because I was embedded into the lives of my church members. I'll never forget favorite parishioners like Susan Bradley who died in the hospital that now employs me. Losing her was like losing my favorite aunt.

June Ayers was another. We strolled the halls together during her cancer treatments and forged a friendship that couldn't be dissolved.

As a pastor, I walked as far as my parishioners walked, beyond the hospital and church walls to help people like "Al" through his alcoholism. I helped reclaim the marriages of people who called me "pastor" and I brought relevance to their journeys.

I've never felt the love from a rank or title more than I've felt from "Pastor."

Yes, pastoring is very personal. Pastor Norris can remember all these parishioners, but Chaplain Norris is having difficulty recalling the woman's surname who died on that trauma room gurney. Maybe that's why it's often said that hospital chaplaincy is like pastoring a parade.

But the truth is, both sides are need. I'm glad I've been both because God uses everyone who will allow themselves to be used for the sake of humanity. Whether you're a vocational religious specialist or a bank teller or corporate exec, God has a place for your caring voice.

If I learned anything at the end of the day from the pastorate or chaplaincy, I've learned this: give God your voice and he will find those who need to hear it.

It's best to focus on the positives

I was raised by a pastor-father who was fond of the verse "Abstain from all appearance of evil." (1 Thessalonians 5:22) The verse is a catchall for those who condemn what the Bible doesn't specifically oppose.

In my father's case, it was alcohol. No surprise given the fact that our church covenant asked members "to abstain from the sale and use of intoxicating drinks." The only problem we found was in teaching Jesus' water-into-wine miracle. The wine was purportedly "the most excellent grape juice."

My dad was so obsessed about appearance that our cars were banned from the local liquor store that also doubled as our small town convenience store. After all, he reasoned, a bag filled with milk and bread might be imagined by the town gossip as restocking our secret liquor cabinet.

To make matters worse, a Catholic family in town owned a van identical to our uniquely two-toned Dodge. When people asked my dad how our van came to be seen at the local bar and, of all things, Saturday night Mass, he humorously, but adamantly, claimed a case of mistaken identity. These inquisitors must have missed the line in our church covenant urging members to "avoid all gossip, backbiting and excessive anger."

Still the questions continued right up to the day my dad backed into another car while exiting his parking space. Fortunately sobriety bought a divine inspiration. He took the van to a body shop where it came out in three new tones -- a true reversal of colors.

His teachings were well ingrained in me when I was hired by Thrifty Drug as a clerk in my hometown's first strip mall. When I told the manager that I couldn't sell alcohol from my checkout stand, he apprized me that prohibition hadn't been regionally reinstated. No sale, no job.

As few parents would be, my parents were proud of my new unemployment. So, when the new Safeway opened next door to Thrifty Drug, our family went on a shopping spree. Overwhelmed by variety, each of us packed the cart with our choice of cereals, but when my dad tried to write a check for the whopping $100 total, the checker directed him to the manager standing behind the liquor counter for check approval.

Inspired by my Thrifty stand, my father announced that he'd not be seen at the liquor counter, while the manager kept his post in front of a wall of brown bottles. It was a contest of the wills and the loser was the poor clerk who had to restock our groceries while my father marched his empty-handed family from the store.

Given this upbringing, I was 19 before my Baylor roommate dared me to guzzle a beer. I hated the taste of it ... both coming, and a few seconds later, going. Ten years later I joined the Air Force reserves, where my priest colleagues taught me to enjoy a good wine.

I have few complaints that my father steered his children from alcohol. However, I suppose if I find some sadness around religious teaching, it's when it becomes too focused on what we are supposed to abstain from, rather than what we are supposed to be drawn toward.

Over the years I've found more value in verses that teach positive action, like Psalm 34:14: "do good; seek peace and pursue it." I suppose that means if you're looking for good, you don't have time for evil.

Now, 30 years later, I must say I still hate beer. However, I will drink wine -- but only in a darkened tavern with priests or poets.

Norris Burkes is a syndicated columnist, national speaker and author. Call him at 321-549-2500, email him at norris@thechaplain. net or write him at P.O. Box 247, Elk Grove, CA., 95759.

It's best to focus on the positives

I was raised by a pastor-father who was fond of the verse "Abstain from all appearance of evil." (1 Thessalonians 5:22) The verse is a catchall for those who condemn what the Bible doesn't specifically oppose.

In my father's case, it was alcohol. No surprise given the fact that our church covenant asked members "to abstain from the sale and use of intoxicating drinks." The only problem we found was in teaching Jesus' water-into-wine miracle. The wine was purportedly "the most excellent grape juice."

My dad was so obsessed about appearance that our cars were banned from the local liquor store that also doubled as our small town convenience store. After all, he reasoned, a bag filled with milk and bread might be imagined by the town gossip as restocking our secret liquor cabinet.

To make matters worse, a Catholic family in town owned a van identical to our uniquely two-toned Dodge. When people asked my dad how our van came to be seen at the local bar and, of all things, Saturday night Mass, he humorously, but adamantly, claimed a case of mistaken identity. These inquisitors must have missed the line in our church covenant urging members to "avoid all gossip, backbiting and excessive anger."

Still the questions continued right up to the day my dad backed into another car while exiting his parking space. Fortunately sobriety bought a divine inspiration. He took the van to a body shop where it came out in three new tones -- a true reversal of colors.

His teachings were well ingrained in me when I was hired by Thrifty Drug as a clerk in my hometown's first strip mall. When I told the manager that I couldn't sell alcohol from my checkout stand, he apprized me that prohibition hadn't been regionally reinstated. No sale, no job.

As few parents would be, my parents were proud of my new unemployment. So, when the new Safeway opened next door to Thrifty Drug, our family went on a shopping spree. Overwhelmed by variety, each of us packed the cart with our choice of cereals, but when my dad tried to write a check for the whopping $100 total, the checker directed him to the manager standing behind the liquor counter for check approval.

Inspired by my Thrifty stand, my father announced that he'd not be seen at the liquor counter, while the manager kept his post in front of a wall of brown bottles. It was a contest of the wills and the loser was the poor clerk who had to restock our groceries while my father marched his empty-handed family from the store.

Given this upbringing, I was 19 before my Baylor roommate dared me to guzzle a beer. I hated the taste of it ... both coming, and a few seconds later, going. Ten years later I joined the Air Force reserves, where my priest colleagues taught me to enjoy a good wine.

I have few complaints that my father steered his children from alcohol. However, I suppose if I find some sadness around religious teaching, it's when it becomes too focused on what we are supposed to abstain from, rather than what we are supposed to be drawn toward.

Over the years I've found more value in verses that teach positive action, like Psalm 34:14: "do good; seek peace and pursue it." I suppose that means if you're looking for good, you don't have time for evil.

Now, 30 years later, I must say I still hate beer. However, I will drink wine -- but only in a darkened tavern with priests or poets.

Norris Burkes is a syndicated columnist, national speaker and author. Call him at 321-549-2500, email him at norris@thechaplain. net or write him at P.O. Box 247, Elk Grove, CA., 95759.