In the course of CH-BOLC, we have written lots of papers on the topics of our instruction. This is one paper I recently submitted, on the subject, "The Professional Ethic Of an Army Chaplain." Our directions were to answer certain questions, and reference certain external readings. So it wasn't exactly written with a blog in mind. But I thought it might be helpful if someone wanted to know what was the big deal about being an Army chaplain. Enjoy the read. Or at least print it out and use as a cure for insomnia!
The Professional Ethic Of an Army Chaplain
By CH (CPT) Jeff Peppers
An Army chaplain is a unique specimen; to what shall we liken him? A chaplain is at once an officer and a clergyman/woman. It is tempting to describe the relationship between the two qualities in one person as something akin to a hybrid, like say a mule. Of course, a mule is a cross between a female horse and a male donkey, displaying the strength of its mom, and its dad’s surefootedness. The problem with this model is that a mule is neither fully horse, nor fully human. It has characteristics of each, but both traits have been compromised.
Another possible model for Army chaplain is the hybrid gas-electric vehicle. A Prius changes from combustion-based to power cell-based engine, effortlessly and without cue, based on the conditions. But in that model, the vehicle essentially ceases to be one type of engine, to become the other type.
While they come close functionally, both mule and Prius fail to illustrate the unique relationship between officer and clergyman that constitutes an Army chaplain. The Army chaplain embodies all the characteristics of a professional staff officer and a clergy person. These qualities exist without competition, and without compromise. The Army chaplain does not “change hats” continually to vacillate between officer and clergy, but remains a consistent and true embodiment of officer and clergy.
The only model (of which I am aware) that can adequate illustrate this dualism is found in the Christian understanding of the incarnation of Jesus Christ. For the first couple of centuries of the Church, the question of the exact nature of Christ’s divinity and humanity mattered comparatively little to Christian followers and leaders. But when Constantine formally ended the persecution and Christianity became a legitimate religion, leaders began to grapple with the question: how could Jesus Christ be God (or god) and human at once?
The Councils of Nicea eventually settled on what is generally considered to be the historic, orthodox interpretation of the incarnation: that in Jesus, Christ was both fully divine, as well as fully human. This is the nature of the professional ethic of the Army chaplain: fully an officer in the Army, and also fully a clergy member in the service of God. Neither aspect of person is diminished by the reality of the other. The Army chaplain may emphasize one aspect of his ministry over the other from time to time, but does not disengage from being an officer so that he may be more pastoral, and vice versa.
The dual role of the Army chaplain, while hard to enunciate, is easier seen by example. From the earliest days of the Army, chaplains have understood their role. John Gano, a Baptist minister in colonial America, served as chaplain in the Revolutionary War. He was known for his bravery under fire, appearing out near the fighting even through a hail of musket balls. But he was foremost a pastor, preaching to and nurturing the Christian faith among the Soldiers of the upstart American army.
One of the greatest examples of this Soldier-pastor role as chaplain was Father Francis P. Duffy, immortalized as the chaplain of New York’s Fighting 69th and later senior chaplain of the 42nd Division. Father Duffy was a Soldier, through and through, but a pastor as well. He lived by the advice of Chaplain Leslie Groves: “It is the one who lives with the men, enduring the hardships and encouraging the same dangers, who is ruled not by selfishness, but by love for all men … who can speak when the time comes the words that will be listened to.”
The Soldier nature of the pastor simply means that the Army chaplain does his or her duty to promote the moral and spiritual well-being of the unit and its Soldiers, in support of the mission. This does not render the chaplain combatant. Doing one’s duty as a chaplain is akin to doing one’s duty as a commander; positioning oneself at the critical place of the battlefield, the chaplain gives hope and encouragement to Soldiers when they most need it. Chaplains Poling, Fox, Goode and Washington [see blog "Pray That I Might Be Adequate."] placed themselves at the critical place on the battlefield, praying for the men and guiding them to safety as the Dorchester sank under the icy waters of the North Atlantic. Their duty as Soldiers and as pastors melded on the railing of the ship as they escorted the Soldiers under their charge to the last full measure of devotion.
Father Duffy, John Gano, and the chaplains of the Dorchester never gave up being pastors in order to be Soldiers. I consider them to be akin to the Great Soldier, who, “although He existed in the form of God, did not regard equality with God a thing to be grasped, but emptied Himself, taking the form of a bond-servant, and being made in the likeness of men. Being found in appearance as a man, He humbled Himself by becoming obedient to the point of death, even death on a cross.”
Another dichotomy inherent to the nature of the Army chaplain resides within the pastoral component of military chaplaincy. An Army chaplain is a pastor, but a pastor is not necessarily an Army chaplain. In the earliest days of Army chaplaincy, there was no particular training of the chaplain.
The rigors of military life require the presence of chaplains within the ranks. In 1791, Congress authorized the commissioning of a chaplain for the Army, which was at that time the size of two regiments. No rank attended the commission, and the stipend was slightly more than that of a captain.
The nature of ministry in combat, however, requires additional qualities. The Army chaplain today carries the rank of an officer; this is consistent with the chaplain’s duty as adviser to the unit commander on matters of spirituality and morality. In order to advise the commander, and for the sake of credibility among the troops, the Army chaplain must be immersed enough in the Army culture to speak with authority—not only as a messenger of God, but as the combat multiplier he or she is.
Chaplain Milton Haney, of the 55th Illinois Infantry Regiment, received no special training in being a Chaplain in the Union Army. Yet he went about his task as one who knew what had to be done. He freely used his influence with senior commanders to ensure that the wounded were properly cared for, even prevailing upon General Sherman himself for the authority to order doctors to their task on a hospital steamboat. These are qualities of a pastor of action, regardless of military or civil environment.
Being an Army chaplain requires a mindset, as well as technical skills and training, which simply do not apply to clergy in a civilian setting. Chaplains in the Vietnam conflict monitored their command nets, hopped helicopter flights, moved out with their units and dug foxholes with them. Their altar was often the hood of a jeep and they soldiered alongside the Soldiers. Living the life of the Soldier earned the chaplains the respect and love from the men, so needed to bring to them the Word during a moment when they desperately needed it. One Soldier, when asked about his chaplain, replied, “I can’t talk about him. You just wouldn’t understand. You haven’t been with us.”
Chaplains in Desert Storm were assigned to all sorts of units, combat arms, combat support and combat service support. Chaplain Timothy Kikkert of the 4-66th Armored Battalion, while not maneuvering tanks to engage the enemy, understood the general plan and how his unit played in the overall mission of defending Kuwait. The same can be said (or at least, should be said) for chaplains operating in all theatres of war, particularly since World War II. There are military-specific tasks, such as conducting memorial services, ministering in a triage of casualties, and preparing the hearts and minds of Soldiers for combat, for which a civilian pastor need not be concerned.
Fully Soldier and fully clergy, military not civilian, born in seminary and baptized in the fire of combat, the Army chaplain embodies a professional ethic unlike any other. I am proud and humbled to be numbered among them.
Wednesday, December 3, 2008
Monday, December 1, 2008
Pray That God Will Make Me Adequate
A young chaplain named Clark Poling wrote his to his father, “I know I shall have your prayers, but please don’t pray simply that God will keep me safe. War is dangerous business. Pray that God will make me adequate!”
As he wrote those words, the young RCA (Reformed Church in America) pastor and Army chaplain was being deployed with his unit. Aboard the ship, Clark became friends with fellow first lieutenant chaplains George Fox, a Methodist; Rabbi Alexander Goode; and Roman Catholic Father John Washington. The four found themselves in a fruitful ministry aboard the transport ship Dorchester, serving the spiritual needs of American soldiers headed to the uncertainties of a violent battlefield.
On February 3, 1943, the Dorchester was torpedoed, and rapidly began to sink. Clark Poling and his three fellow chaplains assisted in the evacuation of the ship, calmed the fearful, and guided the wounded to safety. Even with life jackets, the chances of survival were small in the frigid water. But without life jackets the chances of survival were zero. The four chaplains gave their own life vests to others, remaining behind until the ship sank below the surface. One survivor recalled what he saw from the water:
“The last thing I saw, the Four Chaplains were up there praying for the safety of the men. They had done everything they could. I did not see them again. They themselves did not have a chance without their life jackets.”
Of the 940 men aboard the Dorchester, only 230 survived. Many of those who did, at least four perhaps, owed their lives to four clergymen who were found to be adequate for the task.
The Iraqi theater of operations is not exactly Normandy. In five years (+) of fighting, there have been less than one third the casualties of the Battle of the Bulge. The heroes of this war are those who went in early on, and have made it a safer place. Nonetheless, there are still people there who live only to see another American soldier die, so it is not exactly a safe place. Just safer.
As you pray for me and the soldiers of the 779th Engineer Battalion, I ask you to go back to the top and read Chaplain Poling’s request to his father. Pray that God will make me adequate.
As he wrote those words, the young RCA (Reformed Church in America) pastor and Army chaplain was being deployed with his unit. Aboard the ship, Clark became friends with fellow first lieutenant chaplains George Fox, a Methodist; Rabbi Alexander Goode; and Roman Catholic Father John Washington. The four found themselves in a fruitful ministry aboard the transport ship Dorchester, serving the spiritual needs of American soldiers headed to the uncertainties of a violent battlefield.
On February 3, 1943, the Dorchester was torpedoed, and rapidly began to sink. Clark Poling and his three fellow chaplains assisted in the evacuation of the ship, calmed the fearful, and guided the wounded to safety. Even with life jackets, the chances of survival were small in the frigid water. But without life jackets the chances of survival were zero. The four chaplains gave their own life vests to others, remaining behind until the ship sank below the surface. One survivor recalled what he saw from the water:
“The last thing I saw, the Four Chaplains were up there praying for the safety of the men. They had done everything they could. I did not see them again. They themselves did not have a chance without their life jackets.”
Of the 940 men aboard the Dorchester, only 230 survived. Many of those who did, at least four perhaps, owed their lives to four clergymen who were found to be adequate for the task.
The Iraqi theater of operations is not exactly Normandy. In five years (+) of fighting, there have been less than one third the casualties of the Battle of the Bulge. The heroes of this war are those who went in early on, and have made it a safer place. Nonetheless, there are still people there who live only to see another American soldier die, so it is not exactly a safe place. Just safer.
As you pray for me and the soldiers of the 779th Engineer Battalion, I ask you to go back to the top and read Chaplain Poling’s request to his father. Pray that God will make me adequate.
Friday, November 7, 2008
Update on Achilles Injury
First, I want to apologize for taking so long to update this blog. I will endeavor to bring this current every couple of weeks.
The Achilles heel injury is healing nicely. About every two weeks, I go to see ortho. The surgeon is a Lieutenant Colonel, but he seems so young. And yet, there is a confidence about him that I would not trade for the world. When he comes through, he always seems to have an intern in tow. I don’t know this, but I think he is particularly proud of his work on my ankle. He shows them how well the five-inch incision is healing up now. And then he talks about reconstructing the shredded tendons, reattaching the tendons and calf muscle and tucking everything back inside the incision and closing up. Then he quizzes the interns on other options, such as non-surgical treatment, which has a very long recovery rate and a high rate of re-ruptures.
We’re working on an accelerated rehabilitation; I’m already a month ahead of schedule. I told Dr. Eslava even before surgery that my number one priority was getting on my feet and running as soon as possible. At this rate, it looks like I will be running about the beginning of the year.
I wear a “moon boot” cast—a Velcro adjustable boot that provides a rigid sole and two vertical rods on the side. Every two weeks or so, ortho would ratchet up the angle of the sole, to gradually stretch the tendons back into place. Earlier this week, the doc skipped the final angle and set my foot to neutral (90 degrees). That was good. I also started physical therapy the same day. That was bad.
Physical therapy, many people already know, is the realm of medical practice reserved for a special type of specialist. These people give every appearance of being just like you and I. They are courteous; they smile and open the door for you; they appear to be gentle, caring health care workers whose primary concern is the well-being of the patient.
Don’t believe it! Inside each of these gentle, pleasant charlatans is a heart as cold and dark as a Dakota coffin. Up until now, the experience has been relatively pain free. (Except for getting the IV block before surgery … see earlier blog.) Thanks to the good folks in Physical Therapy, the party is over. Of course, the joke about physical therapists is nothing new; I’ve fallen into a bit of stereotype bigotry. In truth, the health professionals at physical therapy do dish out pain. But with the understanding that it is the only path to healing.
Bottom line is, my Achilles tendon is healing as well as humanly possible. The doc said to me this week, “There are two things that determine how fast you will rehab: your motivation and your age.” After a brief pause, he added, “Well, I can see you’re motivated.”
The Achilles heel injury is healing nicely. About every two weeks, I go to see ortho. The surgeon is a Lieutenant Colonel, but he seems so young. And yet, there is a confidence about him that I would not trade for the world. When he comes through, he always seems to have an intern in tow. I don’t know this, but I think he is particularly proud of his work on my ankle. He shows them how well the five-inch incision is healing up now. And then he talks about reconstructing the shredded tendons, reattaching the tendons and calf muscle and tucking everything back inside the incision and closing up. Then he quizzes the interns on other options, such as non-surgical treatment, which has a very long recovery rate and a high rate of re-ruptures.
We’re working on an accelerated rehabilitation; I’m already a month ahead of schedule. I told Dr. Eslava even before surgery that my number one priority was getting on my feet and running as soon as possible. At this rate, it looks like I will be running about the beginning of the year.
I wear a “moon boot” cast—a Velcro adjustable boot that provides a rigid sole and two vertical rods on the side. Every two weeks or so, ortho would ratchet up the angle of the sole, to gradually stretch the tendons back into place. Earlier this week, the doc skipped the final angle and set my foot to neutral (90 degrees). That was good. I also started physical therapy the same day. That was bad.
Physical therapy, many people already know, is the realm of medical practice reserved for a special type of specialist. These people give every appearance of being just like you and I. They are courteous; they smile and open the door for you; they appear to be gentle, caring health care workers whose primary concern is the well-being of the patient.
Don’t believe it! Inside each of these gentle, pleasant charlatans is a heart as cold and dark as a Dakota coffin. Up until now, the experience has been relatively pain free. (Except for getting the IV block before surgery … see earlier blog.) Thanks to the good folks in Physical Therapy, the party is over. Of course, the joke about physical therapists is nothing new; I’ve fallen into a bit of stereotype bigotry. In truth, the health professionals at physical therapy do dish out pain. But with the understanding that it is the only path to healing.
Bottom line is, my Achilles tendon is healing as well as humanly possible. The doc said to me this week, “There are two things that determine how fast you will rehab: your motivation and your age.” After a brief pause, he added, “Well, I can see you’re motivated.”
Monday, September 29, 2008
The Busiest 24 Hours Of My Life
“You know, the last time I did this was in Ranger School,” I remarked to one of my fellow chaplains. We were all standing in line, waiting (something we do quite well, along with hurrying up) to go up the rappel tower. “That was 16 years ago, and I felt too old then.” After a (polite, perhaps) chuckle, I just had to add, “Oh well, what could possibly happen?” 24 hours later, I was coming to after emergency surgery. My first words to the nurse were, “Hey, guess what? I’m a grandfather.”
It all started at about 1530 (3:30 pm) on Monday, 22 September. I hooked up to the line, found the ledge over the side and leaned back, away from the platform of Victory Tower. I thought I might be a bit apprehensive, having been so long since my last rappel. But Victory Tower is only 40 feet, not exactly the most intimidating structure from which to rappel. Plus, I loved every second of it. I loved hooking up, then leaning back with legs straight, until I got that “perfect L-shape” and the instructor’s okay to jump. I pushed off vigorously, throwing out my right hand for the slack to play through, and then braking by pressing my right fist into the small of my back. I did okay on that bound, but it was nothing to write home about. (Mental note: brush up on meaningless clichés and euphemisms.) The second bound was much better. The only sound was the rope, zzzzznnnnnnnggging through the clip. A hard brake, and the wall came toward me. Feet out, I touched down with the balls of my feet, ready to push off again.
But when I hit the wall, it was as if my ankle exploded. I could feel the tendons behind my heel stretching, straining, shuddering. I later described it as if you were to grasp a glass rod tightly and squeege your fingers down its length. I was most of the way down the tower, and I pushed out with my good foot, easing down as best I could.
Back at the holding area I took my boot off. If the Achilles tendon was torn, I expected that there would be bruising immediately, and also disfiguration. A couple of the cadre stopped by and took a look as well. I have to admit, it was remarkably unremarkable. There was very slight swelling, and perhaps the faintest tinge of brown (or was that just dirt? Sorry, mom). But I expected that if the Achilles was torn, as opposed to just strained a bit, it would be black and blue, swollen and hurt like the dickens. It did neither. Aside from the initial wince of pain, it only hurt when I walked on the ball of my left foot. As long as I splayed that foot out to the side, I was able to hobble around nicely.
I rode in a vehicle, while the class marched back to our formation area. There are 77 chaplains and chaplain candidates in the class, broken down into four platoons. The previous weekend I think there might have been a little resentment about some extra training I felt was needed, as the platoon leader. Now only a few days removed, the only thing expressed was concern. They laid hands on me and prayed for my healing. Now, THAT is something I have never encountered in another Army school. Praise God!
At about 1800, I went to the Urgent Care Clinic, seeing the doctor about 2000. He diagnosed it as a possible tear, gave me Percocet, scheduled an MRI and suggested I follow up with TMC (Troop Medical Clinic, or sick call) in the morning. While I was waiting for Urgent Care, Lori called to tell me Jeri was in labor. I don’t know if I was as excited when any of our three boys were born. I was so happy. By the time I got back to the dorm, it was time for bed. Somehow, I didn’t see the text message that her water broke at 11 pm. I’m sure Lori appreciated my 0500 wake up call (she had been up several times during the night with updates) but I needed to know. I met the platoon for formation at 0600 and announced to them that I was a grandfather, as of ninety minutes ago. We didn’t do cigars because, well, because we are in Initial Entry Training (boot camp … loosely speaking) and not allowed to use tobacco. Besides, how many chaplains smoke cigars? At 6 in the morning anyway?
After the class marched off to another training area, I reported to TMC. By the time I was referred to Physical Therapy, it was close to 0900. The PT doc had me lay face down, and prodded. “Ow!” I yelled.
“That hurt?”
“No, sir. I’m just practicing.”
Then the doc called over two others, both for confirmation and also to tutor the intern about how to tell if the Achilles is severed, and how severely. There were lots of “Ooo”s and “Mmm”s. Interestingly, the only real pain was a little soreness in my calf.
“Completely severed. Just a little of the sheath left, perhaps.”
"Oh, is that bad,” I asked. Duh.
The whole medical record is electronic now, which is a HUGE improvement, in my book. Besides that, the doctor always looked off into space as he prodded around my ankle—as if he was viewing my x-ray on an invisible teleprompter or something. “Okay, I want you to go right away to Ortho, on the seventh floor. They’ll be waiting for you.”
Just as this was sinking in, he said, “Have you had breakfast?” (For the benefit of any readers who have enjoyed such healthy lives that you might be unaware, this is asked before surgery, as a person under general anesthesia will sometimes vomit.)
I walked in the door to Ortho at about 0945 or so, and went to the sign-in counter. “I’m Chaplain Peppers, and –”
“Captain Peppers? I’ll take him. Right this way, sir! You eat breakfast this morning?” An all-business sergeant first class materialized and escorted me back to a gurney. “We’ll be with you in a few, sir.”
About an hour later (well, that’s a few … quite a few, but they were busy. Really busy. If the ortho clinic was a wings and beer joint, they’d be opening another franchise next week.), the sergeant and the doc came by. The doc spent about one minute with me, and I was fine with that. He had a calm confidence, like this is something he has seen hundreds of times before, but my case was still special enough to warrant his undivided attention. He initialed my left (hurt) ankle, and then drew on the other heel to show where the incision was going to be. Any questions? Okay, seeya when you come to.
Jeri sent me a picture message of little Nathan Thomas Peppers, about the time I walked in to ortho. But everyone who passed by my gurney seemed on a life-or-death mission, so I didn’t get to show it to anyone. He looked just like Justin, when he was a newborn.
The last time I saw a clock it was about 1130. I guess they figured enough time passed since I ate breakfast. And then came the pain. Such an incredible, sharp burning torture. But I knew I must withstand, and be strong. Endure like a man. Face set against the tyrannical pain, with steely resolve I stood up to the agony. “There! All done. See, now all we have to do when you need meds or fluids is just to hook it up to this little catheter. We call this an IV block. Wasn’t so bad, was it?” Speak for yourself, fella.
Another half dozen people asked if I had anything to eat today. I think maybe they had a pool going on whether I would heave or not. I thought maybe I should try to get in on it. Then they wheeled me in to a cold, all-tile room. Floor, walls, ceiling, I think even the vents were made of tile. It seemed eerily and strikingly similar to the cold, all-tile room they brought me to at Fort Gordon, before my back surgery. I met the anesthesiologist again. He was quite … zzzzzzzzzz.
It was 1530 when I came to in my room. “Hey, guess what? I’m a grandfather,” I boasted groggily.
“Well, congratulations. Haven’t you had a busy day.”
She had no idea.
It all started at about 1530 (3:30 pm) on Monday, 22 September. I hooked up to the line, found the ledge over the side and leaned back, away from the platform of Victory Tower. I thought I might be a bit apprehensive, having been so long since my last rappel. But Victory Tower is only 40 feet, not exactly the most intimidating structure from which to rappel. Plus, I loved every second of it. I loved hooking up, then leaning back with legs straight, until I got that “perfect L-shape” and the instructor’s okay to jump. I pushed off vigorously, throwing out my right hand for the slack to play through, and then braking by pressing my right fist into the small of my back. I did okay on that bound, but it was nothing to write home about. (Mental note: brush up on meaningless clichés and euphemisms.) The second bound was much better. The only sound was the rope, zzzzznnnnnnnggging through the clip. A hard brake, and the wall came toward me. Feet out, I touched down with the balls of my feet, ready to push off again.
But when I hit the wall, it was as if my ankle exploded. I could feel the tendons behind my heel stretching, straining, shuddering. I later described it as if you were to grasp a glass rod tightly and squeege your fingers down its length. I was most of the way down the tower, and I pushed out with my good foot, easing down as best I could.
Back at the holding area I took my boot off. If the Achilles tendon was torn, I expected that there would be bruising immediately, and also disfiguration. A couple of the cadre stopped by and took a look as well. I have to admit, it was remarkably unremarkable. There was very slight swelling, and perhaps the faintest tinge of brown (or was that just dirt? Sorry, mom). But I expected that if the Achilles was torn, as opposed to just strained a bit, it would be black and blue, swollen and hurt like the dickens. It did neither. Aside from the initial wince of pain, it only hurt when I walked on the ball of my left foot. As long as I splayed that foot out to the side, I was able to hobble around nicely.
I rode in a vehicle, while the class marched back to our formation area. There are 77 chaplains and chaplain candidates in the class, broken down into four platoons. The previous weekend I think there might have been a little resentment about some extra training I felt was needed, as the platoon leader. Now only a few days removed, the only thing expressed was concern. They laid hands on me and prayed for my healing. Now, THAT is something I have never encountered in another Army school. Praise God!
At about 1800, I went to the Urgent Care Clinic, seeing the doctor about 2000. He diagnosed it as a possible tear, gave me Percocet, scheduled an MRI and suggested I follow up with TMC (Troop Medical Clinic, or sick call) in the morning. While I was waiting for Urgent Care, Lori called to tell me Jeri was in labor. I don’t know if I was as excited when any of our three boys were born. I was so happy. By the time I got back to the dorm, it was time for bed. Somehow, I didn’t see the text message that her water broke at 11 pm. I’m sure Lori appreciated my 0500 wake up call (she had been up several times during the night with updates) but I needed to know. I met the platoon for formation at 0600 and announced to them that I was a grandfather, as of ninety minutes ago. We didn’t do cigars because, well, because we are in Initial Entry Training (boot camp … loosely speaking) and not allowed to use tobacco. Besides, how many chaplains smoke cigars? At 6 in the morning anyway?
After the class marched off to another training area, I reported to TMC. By the time I was referred to Physical Therapy, it was close to 0900. The PT doc had me lay face down, and prodded. “Ow!” I yelled.
“That hurt?”
“No, sir. I’m just practicing.”
Then the doc called over two others, both for confirmation and also to tutor the intern about how to tell if the Achilles is severed, and how severely. There were lots of “Ooo”s and “Mmm”s. Interestingly, the only real pain was a little soreness in my calf.
“Completely severed. Just a little of the sheath left, perhaps.”
"Oh, is that bad,” I asked. Duh.
The whole medical record is electronic now, which is a HUGE improvement, in my book. Besides that, the doctor always looked off into space as he prodded around my ankle—as if he was viewing my x-ray on an invisible teleprompter or something. “Okay, I want you to go right away to Ortho, on the seventh floor. They’ll be waiting for you.”
Just as this was sinking in, he said, “Have you had breakfast?” (For the benefit of any readers who have enjoyed such healthy lives that you might be unaware, this is asked before surgery, as a person under general anesthesia will sometimes vomit.)
I walked in the door to Ortho at about 0945 or so, and went to the sign-in counter. “I’m Chaplain Peppers, and –”
“Captain Peppers? I’ll take him. Right this way, sir! You eat breakfast this morning?” An all-business sergeant first class materialized and escorted me back to a gurney. “We’ll be with you in a few, sir.”
About an hour later (well, that’s a few … quite a few, but they were busy. Really busy. If the ortho clinic was a wings and beer joint, they’d be opening another franchise next week.), the sergeant and the doc came by. The doc spent about one minute with me, and I was fine with that. He had a calm confidence, like this is something he has seen hundreds of times before, but my case was still special enough to warrant his undivided attention. He initialed my left (hurt) ankle, and then drew on the other heel to show where the incision was going to be. Any questions? Okay, seeya when you come to.
Jeri sent me a picture message of little Nathan Thomas Peppers, about the time I walked in to ortho. But everyone who passed by my gurney seemed on a life-or-death mission, so I didn’t get to show it to anyone. He looked just like Justin, when he was a newborn.
The last time I saw a clock it was about 1130. I guess they figured enough time passed since I ate breakfast. And then came the pain. Such an incredible, sharp burning torture. But I knew I must withstand, and be strong. Endure like a man. Face set against the tyrannical pain, with steely resolve I stood up to the agony. “There! All done. See, now all we have to do when you need meds or fluids is just to hook it up to this little catheter. We call this an IV block. Wasn’t so bad, was it?” Speak for yourself, fella.
Another half dozen people asked if I had anything to eat today. I think maybe they had a pool going on whether I would heave or not. I thought maybe I should try to get in on it. Then they wheeled me in to a cold, all-tile room. Floor, walls, ceiling, I think even the vents were made of tile. It seemed eerily and strikingly similar to the cold, all-tile room they brought me to at Fort Gordon, before my back surgery. I met the anesthesiologist again. He was quite … zzzzzzzzzz.
It was 1530 when I came to in my room. “Hey, guess what? I’m a grandfather,” I boasted groggily.
“Well, congratulations. Haven’t you had a busy day.”
She had no idea.
Monday, September 22, 2008
For Such a Time As This: Back In the Army, 10 Years Later
Well, this is my first blog attempt, so please be gentle with me.
There's a popular jody call* that begins with, "Here we go again (echo), Same old stuff again (echo ...it has been sanitized in recent years to "stuff again")..." Talk about de ja vu all over again. Here we go again, back in the military, this time as an Army Chaplain, with the Florida National Guard. A few Sundays ago, we bid our farewells at my last service as pastor, and I embarked on the newest leg of the journey. I’ve just completed my first week of the three-month Chaplain Officer Basic Course (now it’s called CH-BOLC – more on that later). After finishing the school, I’ll spend a few months on active duty with my unit, the 779th Engineer Battalion out of Tallahassee, and then we will be deploying to Iraq in late spring for a year. Eventually, I will return to congregational ministry and continue as a drilling National Guard Chaplain. But for now, it’s just Army.
Some might wonder why. Why start a new thing all over again? Am I leaving the ministry for the military? Fair questions, and worthy of consideration.
My first concern is to the question of this being something new. Instead, I look at it like God has been preparing my life for thirty years for just this moment. More than ever, I can Identify with Queen Esther, who was challenged by her Uncle Mordecai: “Who knows if perhaps you were made queen for just such a time as this?" Okay, I SORT OF identify with her. It’s not like I’ve been made … well, I think you get what I’m saying.
The beautiful Esther was prepared and put in a position where she, and only she, could speak freely to the king. She did so, and saved her people from a vicious persecution. In the same respect, I believe that God has prepared me to be able to speak into the lives of soldiers. Many of these soldiers will be afraid, or angry, or lonely. So many will be asking, perhaps for the first time or the only time, “Does God have a word for me??” I consider it a privilege -- a humbling, undeserved privilege -- to bring that word from God.
Over these past thirty years, God has developed me along two fronts: military and pastoral. I spent the last ten years in pastoral ministry and the ten years before that as a commissioned officer in the Army. In the ten years prior to that, I served a tour in the Marines, picked up my undergraduate degree in Christian Studies and Business, and spent time in the Army Reserves and Hawaii National Guard, while the call of God to ministry was being birthed in my life. All of these experiences are coming together in this newest chapter.
If you want to see in more detail how the military and ministry aspects of my life have led to this moment, you can wade through the endless succession of jobs in my profile, here or on Facebook.com.
Over the next few weeks, I’ll be adding some more comments, on what it’s like going back into the Army as a 47 year-old soon-to-be grandpa. A lot has changed in the interim. And a lot has stayed the same.
Thank you for joining me on this journey. I look forward to any comments. May God bless you in every possible way.
Chaplain (Captain) Jeff Peppers
*jody call: one of those sung cadences the soldiers echo while marching or running in formation. They are called "Jody Calls" after the ubiquitous stealer of women, liquor and cadillacs. Jody calls lamented things like "Ain't no use in looking down, Jody's got your girl and gone." Doesn't rhyme or make much sense. But they don't have to.
There's a popular jody call* that begins with, "Here we go again (echo), Same old stuff again (echo ...it has been sanitized in recent years to "stuff again")..." Talk about de ja vu all over again. Here we go again, back in the military, this time as an Army Chaplain, with the Florida National Guard. A few Sundays ago, we bid our farewells at my last service as pastor, and I embarked on the newest leg of the journey. I’ve just completed my first week of the three-month Chaplain Officer Basic Course (now it’s called CH-BOLC – more on that later). After finishing the school, I’ll spend a few months on active duty with my unit, the 779th Engineer Battalion out of Tallahassee, and then we will be deploying to Iraq in late spring for a year. Eventually, I will return to congregational ministry and continue as a drilling National Guard Chaplain. But for now, it’s just Army.
Some might wonder why. Why start a new thing all over again? Am I leaving the ministry for the military? Fair questions, and worthy of consideration.
My first concern is to the question of this being something new. Instead, I look at it like God has been preparing my life for thirty years for just this moment. More than ever, I can Identify with Queen Esther, who was challenged by her Uncle Mordecai: “Who knows if perhaps you were made queen for just such a time as this?" Okay, I SORT OF identify with her. It’s not like I’ve been made … well, I think you get what I’m saying.
The beautiful Esther was prepared and put in a position where she, and only she, could speak freely to the king. She did so, and saved her people from a vicious persecution. In the same respect, I believe that God has prepared me to be able to speak into the lives of soldiers. Many of these soldiers will be afraid, or angry, or lonely. So many will be asking, perhaps for the first time or the only time, “Does God have a word for me??” I consider it a privilege -- a humbling, undeserved privilege -- to bring that word from God.
Over these past thirty years, God has developed me along two fronts: military and pastoral. I spent the last ten years in pastoral ministry and the ten years before that as a commissioned officer in the Army. In the ten years prior to that, I served a tour in the Marines, picked up my undergraduate degree in Christian Studies and Business, and spent time in the Army Reserves and Hawaii National Guard, while the call of God to ministry was being birthed in my life. All of these experiences are coming together in this newest chapter.
If you want to see in more detail how the military and ministry aspects of my life have led to this moment, you can wade through the endless succession of jobs in my profile, here or on Facebook.com.
Over the next few weeks, I’ll be adding some more comments, on what it’s like going back into the Army as a 47 year-old soon-to-be grandpa. A lot has changed in the interim. And a lot has stayed the same.
Thank you for joining me on this journey. I look forward to any comments. May God bless you in every possible way.
Chaplain (Captain) Jeff Peppers
*jody call: one of those sung cadences the soldiers echo while marching or running in formation. They are called "Jody Calls" after the ubiquitous stealer of women, liquor and cadillacs. Jody calls lamented things like "Ain't no use in looking down, Jody's got your girl and gone." Doesn't rhyme or make much sense. But they don't have to.
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