Homily by Fr R Christopher Heying
The Lord is my light and my salvation; whom then shall I fear? The Lord
is the strength of my life; of whom then shall I be afraid? —Psalm 27.1
While I was working yesterday on this morning’s sermon, Mary Grace called to say that we had received a letter from Grandpa Bob, my father.
Apparently when I spoke to him last week I happened to be working on a sermon, so he proffered this advice:
“The secret to a good sermon is to have a good beginning and a good ending, and then to keep the two as close together as possible.”
While he has apparently retained his sense of humor at 92, I have to confess that I have not always followed my father’s sagacious counsel, sometimes to my regret and perhaps now to yours.
As I reflected on today’s gospel reading, a story came to mind that ironically had all the makings of a good joke: there was a rabbi, a priest, and two Protestant pastors.1
But when these four men came together for the first time it was anything but a joke. When they met at the Army Chaplains School at Harvard in 1942, each was responding out of love of country and fellowman, just as my own father did that summer when he joined the Navy immediately after his college graduation.
George Fox, a Pennsylvania native having served Methodist parishes in New England, was 40, a decade older than the other three and had already served with valor as an ambulance driver in World War I.
Alexander Goode was a Brooklyn native who grew up in Washington, D.C. Following rabbinical training, he had just earned his Ph.D. from Johns Hopkins University.
Clark V. Poling, a Dutch Reformed pastor, had grown up in Ohio and had studied for the ministry at Yale before serving parishes in Connecticut and New York.
John Washington, ordained priest in 1935, had served Roman Catholic parishes in his native New Jersey.
It is said that these men instantly bonded at Harvard’s Chaplains School, where they were described as being “in the thick of it,” bonding with laughter and prayer and good will.
Commissioned as First Lieutenants, they had reported to different bases around the country but were delighted to find themselves together in late 1942 when assigned together as chaplains on the USAT Dorchester, a 368-foot long former cruise ship that had been converted for military transport.
Originally designed for 390 crew and passengers, the Dorchester now had around 900 on board. Crowded and uncomfortable, the Dorchester was headed from New York Harbor to Greenland by way of Newfoundland.
The soldiers and sailors were mostly in their late teens and early twenties and were green with seasickness on what was no pleasure cruise. And they were understandably frightened, as German submarines had already sunk many ships.
Sick themselves, the four chaplains bonded with the men, encouraging them, spending time with them, playing cards, telling jokes, talking.
Each of the chaplains welcomed all to their services, some of the men attending every service they could. Jewish soldiers were seen at Roman Catholic Mass, Roman Catholic sailors at the Protestant service, all bound together by a common cause, a shared humanity.
When the ship stopped in Newfoundland for a ten-day Ruck march, Rabbi Goode, Father Washington, Pastor Poling, and Pastor Fox were right there with them, marching beside the men, having their own weighted packs on, refusing either to pull rank or to take time off.
Aboard the Dorchester again and headed towards Greenland, they formed a convoy, with three Coast Guard cutters and two other small ships, going through a slice of the North Atlantic known as “Torpedo Junction,” where German U-boats had being sinking Allied ships at the rate of 100 per month.
Word soon came that German submarines were following the convoy, operating together in groups known as wolf packs. Depth charges kept the wolf pack at bay for a time, but the captain of the Dorchester ordered vigilance: everyone, day and night, was to remain in full gear, life-vests on at all times, even while sleeping.
But it was hot below board and many did not follow his instructions, though the four chaplains did go through the ship reminding everyone to sleep in full gear.
Almost exactly 70 years ago at one o’clock in the morning of February 3, 1942, there was a tremendous explosion when a torpedo struck the starboard side of the Dorchester. All went black. It is said that a second explosion killed 100 men instantly.
Now through the narrow stairways, men were running, panicking, everyone for himself, many without life jackets, some without clothes at all, all trying to reach lifeboats, many frozen solid to the ship.
The chaplains were among the first to make it to the deck, acting like traffic cops in the midst of a New York traffic jam, caring for injured men, even hearing brief confessions.
Rabbi Goode took out his own shoelaces to fasten an ill-fitting lifejacket around an injured man. Another man was trying to go back down the stairs, said he had forgotten his gloves. The rabbi gave him his gloves, saying he had an extra pair.
When the lifejackets had run out, the four chaplains took off their own and gave them to men without.
Eighteen minutes from the first torpedo strike, the Dorchester sank in the frigid waters. Almost 700 died in the icy waters, the third largest loss of life at sea for the United States in World War II.
Those immortal chaplains were last seen atop the sinking vessel, arms locked together in prayer.
One survivor declared it, “The finest thing I have ever seen this side of heaven.”
Four chaplains. Two faiths. One Father.
In today’s gospel as the Pharisees come to warn Jesus about a murderous plot against him, Jesus is not deterred from what he knows is his costly mission but rather laments:
Jerusalem, Jerusalem, the city that kills the prophets and stones those who are sent to it! How often have I desired to gather your children together as a hen gathers her brood under her wings and you were not willing! (Luke 13.34)
So often we think that the blessedness is about insulation from hardship and difficulty, when really it is about the tender arms of God around us at every moment of our life.
It is about the rock solid promise that nothing, not even death, has the power to take away our relationship with God who gathers us under his wings.
As we remember the sacrifice of these Immortal Chaplains, the sacrifices of those who have in so many and various ways loved us, may we remember God is—come what may—always ready to gather us in safety under those wings.
The Lord is my light and my salvation; whom then shall I fear? The Lord is the strength of my life; of whom then shall I be afraid? —Psalm 27.1
Amen
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