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I guess I live in a protected environment. It’s called middle-class America. It’s a good place to live—I’m not complaining! But little from the outside world touches us here. We express our opinions, we work, we live our lives, and we watch the rest of the world on television while eating dinner. We hardly ever see firsthand the effects of war. Then last weekend the war in Iraq became a real-life tragedy for us, right here at home.
When my cell phone rang that Sabbath afternoon my wife, Sondra, and I were in the living room, relaxing after participating in the morning’s religious services. The broken, urgent voice on the phone suddenly extracted me from my little cocoon of safety and introduced me to the hell of war’s fury. “They’ve killed my son! They’ve killed my son!” the voice sobbed loudly. Jorge Rincon was so upset he could not give me intelligible directions to his house. Later, after talking to his neighbor, we found our way to his house in a relatively new subdivision. Walking down the driveway, we heard the sound of wailing.
For the next several hours my wife and I were immersed in a grief so profound and intense, I doubt that I will ever watch media war coverage in quite the same way. No longer will suicide bombings and war casualties be just abstract numbers. No longer will the video and still pictures from war correspondents feel like action scenarios in a television war drama.
And no longer will I cheer on the troops in the same way one would cheer for a favorite football team. I support the troops. And I feel as patriotic as anyone. But giddy, happy cheering might have to wait for a while. This was not entertainment, even though the most terrible news is often packaged that way in the media. This was real life—and real death.
Jorge Rincon came to the United States from his native Colombia 14 years ago. His memory of the dangers there remains vivid. He remembers leaving his children in a parking lot because he was not allowed to take them into a government building. Once in the building he had to evacuate his children from the parking lot because of a bomb threat. And a little later someone succeeded in detonating a bomb on that very spot.
Jorge left a land in the throes of conflict with the Medellín drug cartel and started a new life for his family in Georgia, U.S.A. Now he works hard in the carpet-cleaning business. His wife home-schools their two younger children. And they have a good life. “America has given me so much!” Jorge says. And he gives back through his strong work ethic, devotion to his family, and patriotism for his new country.
Son Diego, just 5 when the family left Colombia, became an American young man interested in the usual high school stuff—sports, cars, and girls. He also participated in his high school drama productions, including “A Piece of My Heart,” a story set during the Vietnam War. Ironically, Diego played the part of a soldier who died during that conflict.
After Diego finished high school, Jorge and Yolanda Rincon sent their secondborn son off to defend their adopted homeland. After the attacks on September 11, Jorge says he went with Diego to the recruitment office. At the swearing-in ceremony, Jorge asked if he too could join the United States Army. “They wouldn’t let me enlist,” he says, “because I was 40 years old!” The Rincons are as patriotic as any native-born U.S. citizens. Maybe that’s because they’ve seen the other side—the dark side of pervasive corruption and violence. Their American family home remains festooned with U.S. flags and yellow ribbons. And Jorge’s van has a front plate that reads “Army Dad.”
After boot camp Diego was stationed at Fort Stewart, Georgia, and became part of the Third Infantry Division. Sent to the Gulf region, his division became the “tip of the spear”—the American forces leading the way from Kuwait toward Baghdad.
Then on March 29, as Diego and three other young soldiers stood near a security checkpoint, a man posing as a taxi driver beckoned to them for assistance. When they were close enough to the car, the driver detonated a bomb, killing all four soldiers as well as himself. Details remain sketchy. But according to one theory supported by a Shiite cleric, Hussein’s thugs ordered the driver of the car to blow himself up at the checkpoint. If he didn’t, they would be sure to kill his wife and children.
The car bombing in Iraq took place about 7:30 in the morning, Eastern time, U.S.A. At 9:30 a.m. I am participating in a World Sabbath program, a program that celebrates mission work around the world.
A church member approaches my front-row location, saying, “Pastor, can I speak with you a minute?”
“No,” I whisper emphatically. To myself I think, Surely this can wait until the break before the worship service!
But she hands me a card with a picture on it. It’s a young soldier in front of an American flag. Handwritten on the card is a request from the Rincon family. They want us to have prayer for their soldier son who is in Iraq. His name is Diego, and he hardly looks old enough to shave. Humbled, I give the card to the elder who will have the morning prayer during the worship service. As the elder presents the request, Jorge Rincon and his wife and two younger children rise from their seats in the congregation. Jorge introduces his family and asks that we have prayer for their son.
After church my wife finds the family in the parking lot, and we visit with them. They seem eager to reconnect with the church. But mostly they are desperately looking for assurance about their son. In spite of the serious request for prayer, this seems like a happy reunion of sorts. Others join the conversation. It’s a pleasant, seemingly chance meeting with nice people. None of us has any idea that on the other side of the world, Diego is already dead.
That afternoon in their home my wife and I move from family member to family member, trying to console. Mostly, all I can do is put my arm around someone. The grief is heavy. It descends like a dark suffocating mist, blocking out the light and preventing clear thought. Real conversation is impossible.
Later Jorge describes how he had been upstairs earlier that afternoon. He happened to look out the window and watched with feelings of terror as a U.S. government vehicle parked in front of his house. Two solemn uniformed men got out and approached his door. Instantly he knew why they were there. They came bearing the worst news he could possibly imagine.
Later that evening the doorbell rings again. I approach the door with Jorge. A uniformed woman identifies herself as Sergeant Jones. She is the Army’s liaison for the family. Jorge instinctively extends his arm around her neck and cries briefly on her shoulder. She keeps her professional military demeanor, but I see her quickly wipe a tear from her eye. She confides to me later that this is a new assignment and her first call of this type.
On the kitchen table I find a letter dated February 22, 2003. Diego wrote it to his mother just before heading into Iraq with the Third Infantry. He will be riding in a Bradley, he writes, which I later learn is an armored combat vehicle, sort of a combination tank and battle taxi. He knows he may not be able to send or receive mail for a while. He also knows this could be the last letter he will ever write. He concludes with words I can’t imagine a 19-year-old ever having to put on paper:
“I’m living my life one day at a time, sitting here picturing home with a small tear in my eyes, spending time with my brothers, who will hold my life in their hands. I try not to think of what may happen in the future, but I can’t stand seeing it in my eyes. There’s going to be murders, funerals, and tears rolling down everybody’s eyes. But the only thing I can do is keep my head up and try to keep the faith and pray for better days. All this will pass. I believe God has a path for me. Whether I make it or not, it’s all part of the plan. It can’t be changed, only completed.
“Mother’ will be the last word I’ll say. Your face will be the last picture that goes through my eyes. I’m not trying to scare you, but it’s reality. The time is here to see the plan laid out. And, hopefully, I’ll be at home in it. I don’t know what I’m talking about or why I’m writing it down. Maybe I just want someone to know what goes through my head. It’s probably good not keeping it all inside.
“I just hope that you’re proud of what I’m doing and have faith in my decisions. I will try hard and not give up. I just want to say [I’m] sorry for anything I have ever done wrong. And I’m doing it all for you, Mom. I love you.
“P.S. Very Important Document.
“Your son,
“Diego Rincon”
The letter haunts me. I know it haunts the family. Diego’s mother weeps uncontrollably. They take some comfort, however, in the fact that Diego was baptized a Christian during boot camp. Solemnly I gather the family for prayer. I wish I knew the perfect words to say on occasions like this. But I don’t. I remember that Job’s friends in the Bible were at their best when they kept their mouths shut. So I say very little and just try to “be there,” whatever that means.
I try to remember that God is still God. He’s still in control; but at the same time it was not His will that this happened. I hope no well-meaning Christian says something stupid, such as “Maybe God allowed this to happen so that the family would be closer to God”! I resent the implications we sometimes give—as if God went around arranging killings and suicide attacks just so someone would go to church! I might hate a God like that. I wish I were better able to represent what God is really like. It reminds me of the PR problem American forces have when resented for their best efforts and blamed for someone else’s violence. God gets blamed for a lot of things for which He is not responsible!
Monday evening I attend what I think is going to be a small candlelight prayer service in the Rincon home. As I enter the neighborhood I see many vehicles lining both sides of the street. There are several huge television trucks with satellite dishes pointed skyward. I remember what Sergeant Jones said about the possibility of media interference. Another fallen soldier’s family she knows had to vacate their home every night in order to avoid the media camped outside. As I approach the house, however, everything appears quiet and respectful. Chip, the helpful neighbor, is there and tells me that Jorge had made a statement to the media already and had asked that there be no questions. The reporters and camera crew respect his wishes, and everything is now proceeding with the utmost respect, even reverence.
The vigil proceeds in the front yard with about 100 neighbors and friends singing, crying, and holding candles. Another pastor and I offer prayers and struggle to find words of encouragement. Jorge wears his son’s military ID tag and, although tearful, seems glad to tell his son’s story to everyone, including the media. His youngest son, Jorge Junior, sports Diego’s cap and sweatshirt. Diego’s bright-yellow Mustang is parked in the driveway and is quickly covered in flowers, balloons, and messages of love and support.
So this is what war is like! It doesn’t just impact a soldier. It wreaks havoc on their family, their friends, their neighbors and community. No, I don’t pretend to have seen the things that leave soldiers shell-shocked and veterans subject to flashbacks and regular visits to rehabilitation centers. But I now see firsthand the ripple effects of what happens on the battlefield. The pain of death is relatively short for the soldier. But it continues to engulf in ever-widening and unending circles the family and friends of the fallen.
I also realize, however, another casualty of war—compassion for those I don’t know or understand. Instead of compassion, I feel a numbness toward what I know must be even greater suffering on the part of Iraqis and others around the world who have lived their entire lives in an area of conflict.
I am determined not to become like the old man I met in an auto repair garage about 20 years ago. I was a young pastor just learning the ropes in a small town near Eugene, Oregon. One day when my Honda Accord broke down, a friend and I managed to push it into this little town and into a parking lot next to a repair garage. The owner stood defiantly at the entrance and gestured for me to keep my foreign car off of his property. When I innocently asked why, he explained angrily that he had lost a son in World War II. He was not about to work on a Japanese car! In shock and surprise I blurted out, “But that was another generation!”
“That was my generation!” he growled.
I wonder if the effects of the Iraqi war will extend to future generations. Of course it will. Hatred is taught. It is cherished and handed down from father and mother to son and daughter, to grandson and granddaughter. The fact of hatred becomes tradition, and finally doctrine. I suspect that is how many in the Middle East came to hate us. But how long will we be willing to suffer with our own hatred? To be honest, I don’t really care right now. Intellectually I do, but not in my gut. In the aftermath of the suicide bombing, my gut sympathizes with those who just want to “kick butt,” although I don’t want to admit thinking it. It scares me that it’s so incredibly easy to hate. The anger, kept in control but nursed through satisfaction at the sight of bunker buster bombs and decimated Iraqi militia, allows a certain self-righteous “loving of your enemies” while rejoicing in their deaths at the same time.
I’m not protesting the war. I’m protesting hate. I’m not questioning the political and military decisions that went into waging the war. I’m a preacher, not a political activist. But I am protesting the tradition of hate on a personal level, no matter what legitimate beginning it may have had. The war will end. But the wounds will still be there.
What will we do with our wounds of war? I only hope that we allow God to bring good out of them and refrain from blaming Him for causing them. And I hope that we don’t go on perpetuating a hatred for which another generation will have to pay.
As I write this, we are planning a community prayer service at the church to support the Rincon family and all the other families of military personnel at war. And again I will struggle to represent a God who is not like the person His enemies say He is. I will talk about a God who went up against the terrorist regime of the universe, the evil empire of Satan himself.
But Jesus’ life, though short here on earth, has demonstrated to the world what God is really like. And the forces of evil found their very own weapons turned against them. The cross became a symbol of victory, not defeat. All who put their faith in Him will be saved. Like the three Hebrews in the fiery furnace, they will be saved in the fire, not from the fire. But finally, like Jesus before them, those with faith in the God of love will be resurrected.
And then God will put an absolute, final end to evil. But (and this is a big “but”) God’s wrath is not hatred. It is not a self-serving supernatural temper tantrum resulting in a revengeful effort to “kick butt.” It is an unfathomed, infinite sorrow on the part of the Almighty for those who by their evil bring evil upon themselves. The biblical book of Revelation demonstrates that in the end even the forces of nature will testify to the reality that evil reaps evil, and good reaps good. The liars will reap the results of lying. The torturers will reap the results of torturing. The oppressors of good, the perverters of truth, and the killers of the righteous will find that the natural results of evil cannot be anything else but evil. The notion that good guys finish last will ultimately be unveiled as a lie. The final, unalterable law of the universe is the law of love.
And in the end God “will wipe every tear from their eyes. There will be no more death or mourning or crying or pain, for the old order of things has passed away” (Revelation 21:4, NIV). And then it will all be worth it!
One final bit of irony: Diego Rincon’s U.S. citizenship will be awarded to him posthumously. He had permanent resident status in the United States, the so-called green card, which allows a person to enlist in the Army. But he did not receive full citizenship before he died. As of this writing, Jorge Rincon expects President Bush to sign an executive order granting Diego full citizenship. Meanwhile, there may soon be a bill introduced in Georgia that automatically grants citizenship to anyone who dies in the service of this country.
Let us not forget, our citizenship is in heaven already (Philippians 3:20). This was granted at the cross and will be fully realized after all is fulfilled—when Jesus comes the second time. In the meantime, we are sustained and saved by His grace.
“He who testifies to these things says, ‘Yes, I am coming soon.’ Amen. Come, Lord Jesus” (Revelation 22:20, NIV).*
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Mike Leno is pastor of Conyers Seventh-day Adventist Church in Conyers, Georgia
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*Texts credited to NIV are from the Holy Bible, New International Version. Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984, International Bible Society. Used by permission of Zondervan Bible Publishers.
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