Eighty-seven years and two days ago, the huge artillery guns that had been thundering across northern France fell silent. The incessant rattling of machine guns ceased. Battle weary men crawled out of their cold, muddy trenches. After four long years, the world war that was supposed to end all wars was over.

For 36 years, November 11th was known as Armistice Day, in observance of the truce that was declared on that day in 1918. Then Congress changed the name of this holiday to Veterans Day, to honor all men and women who served in America’s military. Then-president Eisenhower, who personally knew the horrors of war, called on all citizens to not only remember the sacrifices of America’s servicemen and women each November 11th, but also to rededicate themselves to the cause of peace.

Sadly, the armistice of 1918 came a few weeks too late for Private Lars Lester Larsen. [slide: photo of Lester in uniform] Known as “Lester” by his family and friends, Private Larsen hailed from Spanish Fork, Utah--the oldest son in a pioneer family of Danish immigrants. At the age of 25, Lester had been drafted into the United States Army and soon found himself in the middle of the Meuse-Argonne offensive--the last and largest battle of World War I. Drinking water was scarce in this hilly and forested region of northeastern France, so when Lester spied a steam in the bottom of a shallow ravine, he grabbed his canteen and headed down into the draw.

At that moment, a huge artillery barrage rained down, filling the draw with thunderous explosions. When the barrage ended and the smoke cleared, Lester Larsen had become one of the 53,000 American soldiers who lost their lives in the Meuse-Argonne offensive of 1918.

Like many other American doughboys, Lester’s remains were buried in France, rather than returned to the States. Fourteen years later, the federal government organized an excursion for “Gold Star Mothers”--those who had lost a son in battle--to visit the American cemetery near Verdun where their sons were interred.

Lester’s mother, Mary Eleanor, never recovered from the loss of her oldest son--the one, she said, who always made her laugh. Her health deteriorated after the war--the result, thought her family, of a broken heart. On the very day the Gold Star Mothers’ ship sailed from New York, Mary Eleanor Larsen passed away. My father, Mark Larsen Money, was her grandson--Lester’s nephew.

In September 2000, I visited the Meuse-Argonne American Cemetery in France with my father. It holds the remains of 14,246 American war dead--nearly 5000 more than the U.S. cemetery at Omaha Beach that was so poignantly portrayed in the Tom Hanks film, “Saving Private Ryan.” There, amid seemingly endless rows of Carerra marble crosses and Stars of David, lies this memorial to my Uncle Lester. [slide: photo of Lester’s cross amid rows of others] Dad said a very touching prayer over Lester’s grave; in a halting voice tinged with emotion, he thanked God for Lester’s life, and for the freedoms we enjoy because Lester and so many others have paid the ultimate price.

My father was born after Lester was killed, and I wondered why Dad, who had talked about Uncle Lester my whole life, seemed so attached to a relative he’d never met. That attachment was even more evident as we spent the next two days scouring the French countryside, old maps and military history books in hand, tracing the movements of Lester’s army unit eighty-two years before. Although it seemed an impossible task to me, Dad was especially eager to find the streambed where Lester was last seen alive.

I think it was more than family connection. My dad was a U.S. Army chaplain for 36 years--a veteran of the Korean Conflict of 1950 to ’53--sometimes, sadly, called the “Forgotten War.” [slide: photo of Mark and Ray in uniform] That’s him on the left, in Korea, with his brother-in-law, Sgt. Ray Dixon. As a veteran himself, my father seems to have an almost spiritual connection to the uncle he never met, who died a soldier’s death. It’s a connection that I think exists between most people who’ve served in their country’s military. It’s a connection that crosses the range of armed conflicts and even generations.

Why do we have such people--the veterans we honor every November 11th? Because, as Arthur Keostler wrote, “the most persistent sound which reverberates through man’s history is the beating of war drums.” The human experience thus far does seem to belie Isaiah’s prophesy 2700 years ago that the people will beat their swords into plowshares and learn war no more. In fact, some of the Bible’s most prominent characters were warriors: Joshua, who enabled the Hebrews to claim their Promised Land by conquering Canaan; David, who morphed from shepherd boy musician into the warrior-king of Israel.

Shortly before his death, Jesus told his disciples that at the end of the age--his second coming--they would hear of wars and rumors of wars, and that nation would rise up against nation. H.L. Mencken glumly put it this way: “War will never cease until babies begin to come into the world with larger cerebrums and smaller adrenal glands.” Just in our lifetimes, wars have raged from Afghanistan to Zimbabwe. We have to face the sad prospect that war may indeed be with us until “the end of the age.”

No one dreads the perpetual prospect of armed conflict more than military servicemen and women. In 1862, Confederate General Robert E. Lee observed: “What a cruel thing is war, to separate families and friends, and mar the purest joy that God has granted us; to fill our hearts with hatred instead of love for our neighbors, and to devastate the fair face of this beautiful world.” Lee’s nemesis, Union General William Tecumseh Sherman, if less eloquent, was more blunt. “War,” he said, “is all hell.”

This feeling may be part of the connection that spans generations of veterans. Dwight Eisenhower, the architect of Allied victory in World War II, once said, “I hate war as only a soldier who has lived it can, only as one who has seen its brutality, its futility, its stupidity.” General Norman Schwarzkopf, commander of coalition forces in the Persian Gulf war, declared that “war is a profanity, because let’s face it, you’ve got two opposing sides trying to settle their differences by killing as many of each other as they can.”

While many veterans consistently decry war, Christians have historically been more ambivalent. Most of us don’t want to bring back the 12th century concept of war as a holy crusade, however, many Christians of good conscience accept the doctrine of a “just war,” where armed conflict is a last resort to stop the commission of genocide, tyranny, and other universally recognized evils. Other equally devout persons of faith observe the tradition of Christian pacifism, in which war is never a justifiable way to resolve conflicts.

The United Methodist Church has a Statement of Social Principles, which are intended to be an instructive call to faithfulness, but are not church law. Those Principles recognize both Christian views of armed conflict: the pacifist tradition and the doctrine of “just war.” The idea of “pre-emptive war,” recently espoused in connection with the current conflict in Iraq, further muddies these theological waters.

With the possible exception of America’s entry into World War II after Pearl Harbor, every war in which Americans have been enlisted to fight has generated national controversy. For many Baby Boomers like me, Viet Nam leaps to mind as a case study of such conflict. But no American war was more embroiled in controversy than the Civil War of 1861 to ’65. It defined the America we know today by preserving the Union and putting an end to America’s “original sin,” as Jim Wallis, author of God’s Politics, referred to slavery.

The Civil War was our country’s deadliest conflict: 623,000 Americans--2% of the population-- lost their lives; another 471,000 were wounded. That’s 17,000 more total American casualties than in World War II, despite enormous advances in military technology.

President Abraham Lincoln gave one of his greatest and most theologically intense speeches at his second inauguration in March of 1865. In that speech, he said how strange it seemed that both sides in that horrendous conflict read the same Bible, prayed to the same God, and invoked that God’s aid against the other side. But, Jim Wallis notes, on this point Lincoln was unlike many other American politicians, before and after him. Lincoln pushed the nation to look at its own sins in a time of crisis, to dig deep into our spiritual traditions, and instead of declaring that God is on our side, to worry earnestly whether we are on God’s side.

In that same speech, Lincoln gave special attention to the veterans of both sides; he urged his fellow Americans to have malice toward none and charity for all, and to especially care for him who bore the battle, and for his widow, and his orphan.

Nowhere was that care more needed than after the climactic battle of the Civil War in July, 1863: Gettysburg, Pennsylvania. After the battle, which generated 51,000 casualties--the largest of the war--the small hamlet of Gettysburg and surrounding farm lands were in shambles. Wounded and dying men were crowded into nearly every home, barn, and building. Most of the dead lay in shallow, hastily dug graves; hundreds had not been buried at all.

To help remedy this distressing situation, 17 acres outside of town were set aside as the Gettysburg National Cemetery, which I visited last month. The cemetery was dedicated on November 19, 1863. The principal speaker, Edward Everett, delivered an eloquent oration that lasted two hours. He was followed by President Lincoln, who had been invited, almost as an afterthought, to make “a few appropriate remarks.”

Lincoln’s speech, which contains only 272 words and lasted about two minutes, transformed Gettysburg from a scene of carnage into a national symbol, giving meaning to the sacrifice of the dead and inspiration to the living. In his book, Lincoln at Gettysburg, Garry Wills wrote that Lincoln’s words had to “disinfect the [acrid] air of Gettysburg.” Listen now to those words, as portrayed in Ken Burns’ film, The Civil War. The beginning of this clip contains some scenes of the battle’s casualties, so parents of young children may want to distract them. [film clip: Gettysburg address read by actor Sam Waterson, with pictures from battlefield and cemetery]

“That from these honored dead we take increased devotion to that cause for which they gave the last full measure of devotion.” Lincoln spoke those inspiring words about Civil War veterans 87 years after America’s Declaration of Independence. As we stand here now--87 years after the first Veterans Day--I believe it is incumbent upon us to honor all men and women who serve in our nation’s defense.

If you are a veteran of military service at any time, or are currently serving in the armed forces, and would permit us to recognize you and show our appreciation, I invite you to stand now. [applause]

Senator John McCain--who spent five horrendous years as a POW in North Viet Nam--observed that a person’s values are measured by their commitment to a cause greater than their own interest. I believe that such a commitment is inherent in the work that our servicemen and women do, and stand ready to do if necessary. Why? Because every member of the military, regardless of their branch of service or specialty, either is, or might someday be, in a position where they are called upon to sacrifice for their country--perhaps even to the point of giving the last full measure of devotion.

I also believe there is a spiritual aspect to that commitment, regardless of an individual’s particular religious persuasion, if any. General Douglas McArthur put it this way: “Above all [others],” he said, “the soldier is required to perform the highest act of religious teaching: sacrifice. In the face of danger, the soldier [demonstrates] those divine attributes [which were given by God] when He created man in his own image.”

First and foremost among those “divine attributes” is love. “No one has greater love,” Jesus said, “than to lay down one’s life for one’s friends.” Jesus didn’t just talk about this sacrificial love—he became the perfect model of it when he gave the last full measure of devotion to become our Christ.

Duty to a worthy cause. The honorable discharge of that duty. Personal sacrifice for the common good. Courage in the face of danger or difficulty. We should recognize and appreciate these ideals in our veterans year round--not just every November 11th. We should also be grateful for the police, firefighters, medical workers, and others who stand ready to demonstrate these same ideals in response to natural disasters, acts of terrorism, and other dangerous emergencies.

I’ll leave you with this thought. It’s true that military personnel and first responders serve such exalted ideals as protecting human life and liberty; however, we should never forget the incredible personal toll that such service often takes on them. In this second excerpt from Ken Burns’ film, a union soldier’s letter home to his wife poignantly shows the man’s willingness to face the personal consequences of serving a higher ideal. [film clip: Sam Waterson reads letter from Sullivan Baloo to his wife, Sarah. He tells her that, while he would certainly rather live to see their sons grow to “honorable manhood,” he is perfectly willing to lay down his life to preserve the ideals his ancestors fought for in the Revolution. If that happens, and if there is any way for the dead to make their presence known to the living, she will feel his spirit and hear him whispering her name whenever the warm breeze fans her cheek. Narrator David McCullough then tells us the Sullivan Baloo was killed a week later in the second battle of Bull Run.]

I pray that we may truly honor all of the Sullivan Baloos of our world--past, present, and
future--by continually rededicating ourselves to the cause of peace. Amen.