Memorial Day Sunday Sermon

Tomorrow is Memorial Day

Memorial Day used to be called Decoration Day- because people would travel to the grave sides of fallen service members and decorate and clean their graves. And even have picnics at the grave side.

Memorial Day is one of those National days of Remembrance. We are invited to Remember! We are invited to remember the names and faces, and lives of those who offered themselves; whether selflessly or not, whether angrily, bitterly, dutifully, honorably, or not, gave up their lives while in Uniform.

Maybe we might no one or two names of people killed in combat – maybe 1 or 2 lives that touched ours – maybe 1 or 2 faces we remember.

Why ought we remember? Well, there certainly is an obvious patriotic element to this. There’s the theme of selfless duty in service to the greater good.

Certainly it is an honorable theme indeed. But we should also remember they were men and women just like you and I – like our brothers and sisters. In a way, like our family.

I didn’t think I would be “preaching” on the significance of Memorial Day. At least not in a civilian parish. There is not one word here about Jesus or God or the Holy Spirit – and yet what I am saying here is indeed sacred to me!

I want you to know a few people, just a few of many, worth remembering:

U S Army Specialist Lori Piestewa was killed in the same Iraqi Army attack in which fellow soldiers Shoshana Johnson, and Jessica Lynch sustained injuries. A member of the Hopi tribe,

Piestewa was the first woman in the United States Armed Forces killed in the 2003 invasion of Iraq and the first Native American woman in history to die in combat while serving in the United States Military.

This comes from the prologue of the book We Were Soldiers Once, And Young, by Harold Moore, the Bn Commander of the 7^th Cavalry, who led the attack in the battle of Ia Drang Valley, November 1965,

and the co-author, Joseph Galloway, the combat photographer that accompanied them in the battle:

So once, just this once, this is how it all began, what it was really like, what it meant to us and what we meant to each other. It was no movie. When it was over the dead did not get up and dust

themselves off and walk away. The wounded did not wash away the red and go on with life unhurt. Those who were, miraculously, unscratched were by no means untouched. Not one of us left Vietnam

the same young man he was when he arrived.

This story, then, is our testament, and our tribute to 234 young Americans who died beside us during four days in Landing Zone X-Ray and Landing Zone Albany in the Valley of Death, 1965. That is

more Americans than were killed in any regiment, north or south, at the Battle of Gettysburg, and far more than were killed in combat in the entire Persian Gulf War. Seventy more of our comrades died

in the Ia Drang in desperate skirmishes before and after the big battles at X-Ray and Albany. All the names, 305 of them, are engraved on the third panel to the right of the apex, Panel 3-East, of the

Vietnam Veterans Memorial in Washington, D.C., and on our hearts. This is also the story of the suffering of families whose lives were forever shattered by the death of a father, a son, a husband, a brother in that Valley.

While those who have never known war may fail to see the logic, this story also stands as tribute to the hundreds of young men of the 320th, 33rd and 66th Regiments of the Peoples Army of Vietnam

who died by our hand in that place. They, too, fought and died bravely. They were a worthy enemy. We who killed them pray that their bones were recovered from that wild, desolate place where we left them,

and taken home for decent and honorable burial. This is our story and theirs. For we were soldiers once, and young.

Another story of a fallen hero comes from the journal entry of LtCol Michael Strobl. He escorted the body of Marine Lance Corporal Chance Phelps, of the 3^rd Battalion, 11^th Marine Regiment, killed in action in mahmudiya Iraq on 9 April 2004.

Taking Chance

By U.S. Marine Corps Lieutenant Colonel Michael Strobl

When we arrived at Billings, I was the first off the plane. The funeral director had driven five hours up from Riverton, Wyoming, to meet us. He shook my hand as if I had personally lost a brother.

I picked up my rental car and followed Chance for the five hours back to Riverton. During the long trip I imagined how my meeting with Chance's parents would go. I didn't know anything about Chance Phelps;

not even what he looked like. I wondered about his family and what it would be like to meet them. I was very nervous about that.

When we finally arrived at the funeral home, I felt I needed to inspect Chance's uniform to ensure everything was proper.

Earlier in the day I wasn't sure how I'd handle this moment. Suddenly, the casket was open and I got my first look at Chance Phelps. His uniform was immaculate—a tribute to the professionalism

of the Marines at Dover. I noticed that he wore six ribbons over his marksmanship badge; the senior one was his Purple Heart. I had been in the Corps for more than seventeen years, including a combat

tour, and was wearing eight ribbons. This private first class, with less than a year in the Corps, had already earned six.

The next morning, I wore my dress blues and followed the hearse for the trip up to Dubois, population about 900, some ninety miles away. This was the most difficult leg of our trip for me.

I was bracing for the moment when I would meet his parents and hoping I would find the right words as I presented them with Chance's personal effects. We got to the high school about four

hours before the service was to begin.

In short order I met Chance's step-mom and father, followed by his step-dad and, at last, his mom.

I told them about our trip. I told them how, at every step, Chance was treated with respect, dignity, and honor. I didn't know how to express to these people my sympathy for their loss and my

gratitude for their sacrifice. Now, however, they were repeatedly thanking me for bringing their son home and for my service. I was humbled beyond words.

The service was a fitting tribute to this hero. When it was over, we stood as the casket was wheeled out with the family following. The casket was placed onto a horse-drawn carriage for the

mile-long trip from the gym, down the main street, then up the steep hill to the cemetery. I stood alone and saluted as the carriage departed the high school.

All along the route, people had lined the street and were waving small American flags. The flags that were otherwise posted were all at half-staff. For the last quarter mile up the hill, local boy scouts,

spaced about twenty feet apart, all in uniform, held large flags. At the foot of the hill, I could look up and back and see how enormous the procession was. I wondered how many people would be at this

funeral if it were in, say, Detroit or Los Angeles—probably not as many as were here in little Dubois, Wyoming.

The carriage stopped about fifteen yards from the grave. Once the entire crowd was in place, the pallbearers came to attention and began to remove the casket from the caisson. As I had done all week,

I came to attention and executed a slow ceremonial salute as Chance was being transferred from one mode of transport to another.

From Dover to Philadelphia, Philadelphia to Minneapolis, Minneapolis to Billings, Billings to Riverton, and Riverton to Dubois, we had been together. Now, as I watched them carry him the final fifteen yards,

I was choking up. I felt that, as long as he was still moving, he was somehow still alive. Then they positioned him over his grave. He had stopped moving.

Now, he was home to stay and I suddenly felt at once sad, relieved, and useless. It had been my honor to take Chance Phelps to his final post. Now he is on the high ground overlooking his town.

I miss him.

In one of my past lives in the Army, as a Chaplain, I had the real honor of laying a fellow soldier to rest. As I knelt down on one knee, looking into the eyes of his widow and presenting her with the folded flag, I spoke these words – solemn, holy words – words spoken by many, many, officers before me:

“On behalf of the President of the United States and the people of a grateful nation, may I present this flag as a token of appreciation for the honorable and faithful service your loved one rendered this nation.”

In 2009 I ran the Marine Corps Marathon. It finished just steps away from the Iwo Jima Memorial. In the memorial there are the figures of six men raising a pole with an American flag on it.

This commemorates the raising of the second American flag on Mount Suribachi, during the battle of Iwo Jima in 1945. Of the six men pictured in the famous photograph, and subsequent statue,

three were killed in action. Sergeant Michael Strank was killed six days later by a shell, likely fired from an offshore American destroyer. Corporal Harlan Block was killed a few hours later by a mortar shell.

And Private First Class Franklin Sousley was killed by an enemy sniper on March 21^st, a few days before the island was declared secure.

And a way in which the fallen are honored by some of their own:

The Tomb of the Unknowns in Arlington, where the bodies of some unidentified warriors from a few of our wars are guarded - honorably - remembered not for who they were, but for what they did.

The tomb of the Unknowns has been guarded continuously, 24 hours a day, 7 days a week, since July 2, 1937. Inclement weather does not cause the watch to cease. The tomb Guards are part of a special platoon within the 3rd Infantry Regiment (The Old Guard). It is considered one of the highest honors to serve as a ceremonial guard at the Tomb of the Unknowns. Fewer than 20% of all volunteers are accepted for training, and of those only a fraction pass training to become full-fledged Tomb Guards. "The Sentinels", as they are called, do not wear rank insignia on their uniforms so they do not out-rank the unknowns, whatever rank they might have been.

There is a meticulous ritual the Guard follows when watching over the graves:

1. The soldier walks 21 steps across the tomb. This alludes to the 21 gun salute, which is the highest honor given to any military or foreign dignitary in America. Their weapon is always on the shoulder opposite the tomb.
2. On the 21st step, the soldier turns and faces the tomb for 21 seconds.
3. The soldier then turns and faces the other way, across the tomb, and changes his or her weapon to the outside shoulder.
4. After 21 seconds, the first step is repeated.

This is ritual is repeated until the soldier is relieved of duty at the changing of the guard.

They do this to honor the dead soldier, sailor, airman or marine who died in combat in service to their country. They do this as a fellow brother in arms.

Why do we honor these dead soldiers, sailors, airmen, and marines? Why do people commemorate battles with huge blocks of marble, or shape rock in the form of famous generals on horse-back? Or build statues- like the ones in Gettysburg, or paint scenes of battles, or chisel names in granite like the one on the Mall in DC commemorating the soldiers who died in Vietnam? Why do we do this?

We do this, because the lives of those men and women meant something to someone. We do this because we want to honor their memory and their lives, no matter who they might have been, or how they might have lived their lives.

We have a few of these collective national days of remembrance that come around year after year. But they seem to be drowned out by the freedom we have to go shopping, or to enjoy the day in the

company of friends and family, or watch TV. These things aren’t bad. But to never remember… because we’re out there shopping or having fun or watching TV… is not good.

To never remember those who have given of themselves for the greater good does not do justice to their lives and deaths.

I have heard it said that today, in these wars we find ourselves in, the military is at war… but the country is not. During this time of war the military men and women are often asked to go up to their

psychological, spiritual, and emotional limits… and sometimes beyond. Frankly, there is a lot asked of these brave men and women. Throughout our history they have answered the call of duty for

patriotic reasons, for personal reasons, for financial reason, or who knows how many other reasons. And thousands upon thousands have died in answer to that call. Would that our country faced

no more wars, so our men and women would no longer die in this way. And yet they still serve, and they still die!

The least we can do is remember!