Other sermons.            Comments for Jim Sunday, May 27, 2001 Rev. James A. Todhunter "HYMNS AT MIDNIGHT" Psalm 47 Acts 16:16-34  Luke 24:44-53  In the 16th Chapter of the Book of the Acts of the Apostles, we find Paul and Silas in prison in the Greek town of Philippi. For having freed a slave girl of a spirit inhabiting her, they are beaten up and thrown into prison at the urging of the girl’s angry owners, who can no longer make money off her affliction. Paul and Silas are placed in maximum security – in the inner cell and in the stocks. And the scripture tells us: "About midnight Paul and Silas were praying and singing hymns to God,…" When you think about this, it is really remarkable. They were apparently not in despair, not seething with rage, not even in conflict with their captors. They were praying and singing hymns. In this most extreme of situations they prayed and sang. What, we can wonder, was the content of those prayers and hymns? Somehow I think they were prayers of praise and thanksgiving; prayers like those of Jonah in the belly of the whale. But the text doesn’t say. Perhaps they were laments and cries for help. We don’t know. But the text gives no indication that they had given up hope or lost their faith. In your own experiences of imprisonment – experiences of feeling oppressed and closed in – how do you pray and how do you sing? Does your spirit shrivel or does your heart open up? Today we observe Memorial Day and my sermon is a little different. On this day we remember those who gave their lives for their country. It seems to me that in doing so, it is important that we honor the courage and sacrifice of the many men and women who died to preserve our freedoms. One way to do this is to not so much talk about them, as to listen to their voices. I would like to have us listen to several poems – for poems are really hymns – hymns they lifted up at a midnight in their lives. I would like to share with you several poems. Some were written by patriotic soldiers, Wilfred Owen, Edward Thomas, Siegfried Sassoon. Owen and Thomas, in fact, died in World War I. The other poems are written by poets who had intimate involvement with war – Walt Whitman and Herman Melville, and one by an anonymous poet of the Vietnam time. Such poets speak with an authority and integrity that goes beyond familiar patriotic words. I would also add that you might want to look at an article in the Metro Section of today’s Washington Post, about Captain Rocky Versace, who died as a prisoner of war in Vietnam, and is now belatedly being considered for a Congressional Medal of Honor. It is a moving story of the courage and sacrifice of one man imprisoned in war. One of the last times he was seen alive, he was singing "God Bless America" from a prisoner’s cage. Vigil Strange I Kept on the Field One Night Walt Whitman Vigil strange I kept on the field one night; When you my son and my comrade dropt at my side that day, One look ! but gave which your dear eyes return'd with a look I shall never forget, One touch of your hand to mine O boy, reach'd up as you lay on the ground, Then onward I sped in the battle, the even-contested battle, Till late in the night reliev'd to the place at last again I made my way, Found you in death so cold dear comrade, found your body son of responding kisses, (never again on earth responding,) Bared your face in the starlight, curious the scene, cool blew the moderate night-wind, Long there and then in vigil I stood, dimly around me the battle-field spreading, Vigil wondrous and vigil sweet there in the fragrant silent night, But not a tear fell, not even a long-drawn sigh, long I gazed, Then on the earth partially reclining sat by your side leaning my chin in my  hands, Passing sweet hours, immortal and mystic hours with you dearest comrade- not a tear, not a word, Vigil of silence, love and death, vigil for you my son and my soldier, As onward silently stars aloft, eastward new ones upward stole, Vigil final for you brave boy, (I could not save you, swift was your death,  I faithfully loved you and cared for you living, I think we shall surely meet again, ) Till at latest lingering of the night, indeed just as the dawn appear'd, My comrade I wrapt in his blanket, envelop'd well his form, Folded the blanket well, tucking it carefully over head and carefully under feet, And there and then and bathed by the rising sun, my son in his grave, in his rude-dug grave I deposited, Ending my vigil strange with that, vigil of night and battle-field dim, Vigil for boy of responding kisses, (never again on earth responding,) Vigil for comrade swiftly slain, vigil I never forget, how as day brighten'd,  I rose from the chill ground and folded my soldier well in his blanket,  And buried him where he fell. 1867 Shiloh Hermann Melville A REQUIEM (April 1862) Skimming lightly, wheeling still, The swallows fly Iow Over the field in clouded days, The forest-field of Shiloh- Over the field where April rain Solaced the parched one stretched in pain Through the pause of night That followed the Sunday fight Around the church of Shiloh- The church so lone, the log-built one, That echoed to many a parting groan And natural prayer Of dying foemen mingled there- Foemen at morn, but friends at eve- Fame or country least their care:  (What like a bullet can undeceive!  But now they lie low, While over them the swallows skim, And all is hushed at Shiloh.   Apologia Pro Poemate Meo Wilfred Owen I, too, saw God through mud,-- The mud that cracked on cheeks when wretches smiled. War brought more glory to their eyes than blood, And gave their laughs more glee than shakes a child. Merry it was to laugh there-- Where death becomes absurd and life absurder. Not to feel sickness or remorse of murder. For power was on us as we slashed bones bare I, too, have dropped off fear-- Behind the barrage, dead as my platoon, Past the entanglement where hopes lay strewn; And sailed my spirit surging light and clear And witnessed exultation-- Faces that used to curse me, scowl for scowl, Seraphic for an hour; though they were foul. Shine and lift up with passion of oblation, I have made fellowships-- Untold of happy lovers in old song. With the soft silk of eyes that look and long, For love is not the binding of fair lips By Joy, whose ribbon slips,-- But wound with war's hard wire whose stakes are strong; Bound with the bandage of the arm that drips; Knit in the webbing of the rifle-thong. I  have perceived much beauty in the hoarse oaths that kept our courage straight; Heard music in the silentness of duty; Found peace where shell-storms spouted reddest spate. Nevertheless, except you share With them in hell the sorrowful dark of hell, Whose world is but the trembling of a flare, And heaven but as the highway for a shell, You shall not hear their mirth: You shall not come to think them well content By any jest of mine. These men are worth Your tears. You are not worth their merriment. November 1917. The Next War Wilfred Owen War's a joke for me and you, While we know such dreams are true. SIEGFRIED SASSOON Out there, we've walked quite friendly up to Death; Sat down and eaten with him, cool and bland,-- Pardoned his spilling mess-tins in our hand. We've sniffed the green thick odour of his breath,-- Our eyes wept, but our courage didn't writhe. He's spat at us with bullets and he's coughed Shrapnel. We chorussed when he sang aloft; We whistled while he shaved us with his scythe. Oh, Death was never enemy of ours! We laughed at him, we leagued with him, old chum. No soldier's paid to kick against his powers. We laughed, knowing that better men would come, And greater wars; when each proud fighter brags He wars on Death--for lives; not men--for flags. EDWARD THOMAS 1878-1917 The Owl  DOWNHILL I came, hungry, and yet not starved; Cold, yet had heat within me that was proof Against the North wind; tired, yet so that rest Had seemed the sweetest thing under a roof. Then at the inn I had food, fire, and rest, Knowing how hungry, cold, and tired was I. All of the night was quite barred out except An owl's cry, a most melancholy cry Shaken out long and clear upon the hill, No merry note, nor cause of merriment, But one telling me plain what I escaped And others could not, that night, as in I went. And salted was my food, and my repose, Salted and sobered, too, by the bird's voice Speaking for all who lay under the stars, Soldiers and poor, unable to rejoice. In Memoriam (Easter, 1915) The flowers left thick at nightfall in the wood This Eastertide call into mind the men, Now far from home, who, with their sweethearts, should Have gathered them and will do never again.   SIEGFRIED SASSOON 1886-1967 Everyone Sang EVERYONE suddenly burst out singing; And I was filled with such delight As prisoned birds must find in freedom, Winging wildly across the white Orchards and dark-green fields; on--on--and    out of sight. Everyone's voice was suddenly lifted; And beauty came like the setting sun: My heart was shaken with tears; and horror Drifted away... O, but Everyone Was a bird; and the song was wordless; the singing    will never be done. Attack At dawn the ridge emerges massed and dun In the wild purple of the glow'ring sun, Smouldering through spouts of drifting smoke that shroud The menacing scarred slope; and, one by one, Tanks creep and topple forward to the wire. The barrage roars and lifts. Then, clumsily bowed With bombs and guns and shovels and battle-gear, Men jostle and climb to meet the bristling fire. Lines of grey, muttering faces, masked with fear, They leave their trenches, going over the top, While time ticks blank and busy on their wrists, And hope, with furtive eyes and grappling fists, Flounders in mud. O Jesus, make it stop!   THE THINGS THEY CARRIED They carried P-38 can openers and heat tabs, watches and dog tags, insect repellent, gum, cigarettes, Zippo lighters, salt tablets, compress bandages, ponchos, Kool-Aid, two or three canteens of water, iodine tablets, sterno, LRRP-rations, and C-rations stuffed in socks. They carried standard fatigues, jungle boots, bush hats, flak jackets, and steel pots. They carried the M-16 assault rifle. They carried trip flares and Claymore mines, M-60 machine guns, the M-?O grenade launcher, M-14's, CR-15s, Stoners, Swedish K's, 66 mm Laws, shotguns, 45 caliber pistols, silencers, the sound of bullets, rockets, and choppers, and sometimes the sound of silence. They carried C-4 plastic explosives, an assortment of hand grenades, PRC-25 radios, knives and machetes. Some carried napalm, CBU's, and large bombs; some risked their lives to rescue others. Some escaped the fear, but dealt with the death and damages. Some made very hard decisions, and some just tried to survive. They carried malaria, dysentery, ringworm's, and leaches. They carried the land itself as it hardened on their boots. They carried stationery, pencils, and pictures of their loved ones real and imagined. They carried love for people in the real world, and love for one another. And sometimes they disguised that love: "Don't mean nothin'!" They carried memories! For the most part, they carried themselves with poise and a kind of dignity. Now and then, there were times when panic set in, and people squealed, or wanted to, but couldn't; when they twitched and made moaning sounds and covered their heads and said, "Dear God," and hugged the earth and fired their weapons blindly, and cringed and begged for the noise to stop, and went wild and made stupid promises to themselves and God and their parents, hoping not to die. They carried the traditions of the United States military, and memories and images of those who served before them. They carried grief, terror, longing, and their reputations. They carried the soldier's greatest fear, the embarrassment of dishonor. They crawled into tunnels, walked point, and advanced or flew into fire, so as not to die of embarrassment. They were afraid of dying, but too afraid to show it. They carried the emotional baggage of men and women who might die at any moment. They carried the weight of the world, and the weight of every free citizen of America. THEY CARRIED EACH OTHER.   Back to Table of Contents.