“Therefore all things whatsoever ye would that men should do to you, do ye even so to them: for this is the law and the prophets”: My Response to Albert Carrington’s, “Dear Elder Ballard, Thanks for Further Damaging my Family”

               Have you ever read something late at night right before you douse the lights in preparation for an adventure into slumber town that caused your mind to accelerate past the point of no return?  You are getting ready for a much needed sojourn into sleep when—WHAM—you are caught off guard by a subject that demands your immediate attention.  You fight with the nagging thoughts: “Go away, it is time for bed.”  You grapple with them: “Come on brain…is what you have to say really that important?” And you negotiate with them: “Just let me sleep, and I will give you free reign of expression in the morning,” but for all your hard work, all that has passed is an hour of you staring at the ceiling naively waiting for Mr. Sandman to emerge victorious. 

               Well, that is where I find myself right now.  I am exhausted from a long day of overthinking, but in a tragically ironic turn, I cannot pass out until I express this last bit of overthinking for the day.  Here’s the headline that prompted this mania:

“Dear Elder Ballard, Thanks For Further Damaging My Family” (http://zelphontheshelf.com/dear-elder-ballard-thanks-for-further-damaging-my-family/)

Now admittedly, whenever you scroll down your Facebook news feed at bedtime you run the risk of encountering some strange things that are bound to engage your mind in the same way disgruntled millennials occupy Wall Street.  In my journey down the social media rabbit hole this evening, I saw a video of a dog using a baby as a pillow, seven tips to improve my memory, and a list of amazing foods I need to gorge on in order to live a long life.  Shockingly, I turned down clicking on each of those gems to read what I was sure would be an inflammatory post.  I was not disappointed. 

As a devout member of the LDS Church, I have noticed a rise in anti-Mormon rhetoric from past members of the church permeating my newsfeed.  I don’t know if this is a sign of a drastic rise in many members of the church having a crisis of faith, or simply an example of the vocal minority becoming increasingly adept at using a wildfire-like platform to share their views.  What I do know is that, often, these posts strike a nerve that I have had a hard time pinpointing. 

For a while, I assumed that I was naturally adverse to anything that challenged foundational beliefs that I hold to be sacred.  In reality, though, I have come to realize that my faith is not so flimsy that challenges topple it like a house of cards, and that if what I have come to believe holds any weight, it will only be strengthened through sincere inquiry and investigation of differing perspectives.  My problem with the above article is not that its author attacks points of doctrine, including that the leaders of the church are divinely inspired.  If it was, I would focus on denouncing his statement that members of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles “insist that [they] have been completely, 100% without fault,” as erroneous because they, just like the church’s founder Joseph Smith, have always admitted to being flawed—as all of us are.  Instead, I hope to turn from the off tread path argumentative banter that focuses on individual beliefs—which each of us are entitled to—and rather focus on the problematic way the author expresses said beliefs. 

I would like to consider myself I fairly open-minded and empathetic person.  My field of study encourages me to look at subjects from different perspectives, and to attempt to understand where people are coming from even if I choose not to embrace their viewpoints myself.  In short, I have tried to follow the council of Atticus Finch—whom I consider one of the wisest characters in literature—who advises his children and audience that, “You never really understand a person until you consider things from his point of view…until you climb around in his skin and walk around in it.” 

Thus, when I encounter a stance that is in direct contrast to mine, I first try to discern rather than evaluate and make judgements.  There are many points of understanding that I share with the author of this article.  I recognize how hard it must be to depart from a belief system that he adhered to during important years of identity formation, and how much courage it must take to choose not to believe what the majority of his friends and family do.  In fact, I can respect the fact that a person would question and challenge what they believe rather than accept belief second hand.  Although in my personal experience my religious convictions have grown stronger when they have been opposed, I recognize that this may not be the case for everybody, and that in some instances, it is important for a person to recalibrate their lives to a position they are comfortable with.  Those are the points I can identify with. 

However, when attempting the emotional out of body experience that is empathy, it is important to recognize points of commonality and points of departure.  Where I depart wholeheartedly in terms of comprehension when reading this article, and many others that are designed to attack people of faith, is why the attack must be made in the first place? I can absolutely understand that a person believes differently than I do, and I can even sympathize with the pain that difference of opinion can produce when those views place them in the minority.  What I can’t understand is why a person would seek to impart that pain on someone else.

What is it about the human condition that encourages us to seek retribution when abandoning a cause we had previously championed?  Do we, as individuals, think that upon experiencing a crucible we have now cornered the knowledge market and should therefore impart our newfound wisdom on others?  Do we seek a kind of emotional catharsis in seeing others follow our same path? Or are our attentions completely benign in that we hope to show our own discoveries to others in hopes that they find similar illumination?  I ask these questions because I don’t have the answer to them.  What I do know is that none of these aims will be satisfied by attempting to tear down someone else’s faith. 

If the author of this article believes that an epiphany entitles them to a lion’s share of the world’s wisdom and that it is their duty to disseminate information to prevent others from continuing down the path of religious belief, than how does that make them any less bigoted than the church they are criticizing.  Essentially he is saying, “It is not okay for you to say what you believe and share your opinions, but it is alright for me too.”  For example, Albert Carrington[1] vehemently attacks Elder Ballard’s recent statement that “When someone stops doing these simple but essential things, they cut themselves from the ‘well of living water’ and allow Satan to muddle their thinking,” but makes a similar blanket statement when stating that, “everyone else would call” the blogger’s position “following your conscience and standing up for morality.”  What makes Elder Ballard’s general statement of belief abhorrent, while the author’s stance is self-labeled as moral? 

Judging by the acrimonious tone and content of the article, I would predict that Carrington would argue that Elder Ballard’s statement is evil because it causes heightened tension between him and those who continue to hold to their religious convictions.  I find this faulty logic for two reasons.  First, is Elder Ballard’s encouragement of members of the church to stand firm and not cut themselves off from what he conceives as truth really increasing discord in his life, or are is the blogger possibly projecting his own feelings of anger and betrayal onto his peers and family members?  As someone who returned early from a mission, I am aware that there are unfair stigmas attached to people in the church—as will always be the case when it is made up of imperfect members—but I also recognize that sometimes the negative views people harbored towards me were imperfect machinations of my mind and faulty attempts at telepathy.  Could it possibly be that the antagonism the author feels Elder Ballard’s rhetoric if fueling is instead a manifestation of inner turmoil?

If the answer to that question is an honest and heartfelt no, my second qualm is how will publishing a polarizing article improve the situation any?  Rather than ask sincere questions and seek meaningful responses—or in other words, rather than employ the same empathy Zelph thinks should be offered to him—it seems that he instead decided to entrench each side further in their corners by  accusing church leadership of transferring “blame onto the members of the Church who you are refusing to teach, refusing to be transparent with, and who you are failing to nourish,” a statement that becomes hypocritical at the article’s end when he hyperbolically blames Elder Ballard for “ruining his eternal family.”  Being eager to unfairly condemn someone in the same manner you feel you have been unfairly condemned is akin to a motorist breaking the speed limit to force another vehicle off the road for running a stop sign. 

Perhaps I have gotten this all wrong and Carrington’s purpose in writing this article was to apply a healing balm to a conflicted soul.  I can understand how it could seem strengthening if others join in celebrating a new found ideology while also tearing down the previous one.  I would warn, however, that this panacea for inner turmoil is a poison, and the discord that he seeks to absolve will instead become a pandemic of disharmony.  There are many instances to point to of the corrosiveness of vengeance in history or in the realm of literature, but I will quote my favorite exploration of the pitfalls of reprisal: Alexander Dumas’s The Count of Monte Cristo, in which the author remarks, “Moral wounds have this peculiarity - they may be hidden, but they never close; always painful, always ready to bleed when touched, they remain fresh and open in the heart.”  By seeking a scorched earth and vengeful attitude towards the Church, it is my fear that the author of this article—and those similarly inclined—will continue to irritate this “fresh and open wound” until nothing remains of their soul but bitterness and hatred.  I can commend a person for establishing their own belief system, but I would caution them about spending their valuable time trying to destroy others religious’ convictions. 

Alright, I would be the first to admit I am probably full of it.  In attempting to walk in the author’s shoes, I may have unfairly attached his intentions to negative motivations.  If that is the case, I apologize.  It could very well be that he sincerely hopes to help others make important personal progress through introspection.  Even with the nobility of that goal, I wonder why it is necessary to cast any party in a negative light.  Could this not have easily been accomplished by making statements of belief and defending them without using personal attacks?  The fallaciousness in his tone is most evident to me when he questions Elder Ballard’s story of telling someone who had doubts about the church to read the Book of Mormon.  He repudiates Elder Ballard by harshly by directly addressing him and saying that if, “You [Elder Ballard] have the answers, you just don’t think it is important to share them. If you actually do have answers (and I doubt you do) and are not providing them to the people who need them most, then the eternal damnation of these formerly faithful Saints is on your hands. If you honestly had the ability to bring divine counsel and apostolic clarity to this mess and did not, you have failed in your calling and failed in saving souls you could have saved,” but rather than attempt to answer these questions, you do not ever sincerely imagine why he offered that counsel  and instead utilize antagonizing discourse.    It is possible that Elder Ballard recognized that when a person establishes their own beliefs and investigates an issue for themselves rather than have it prescribed to them, their foundation is infinitely stronger than it could have been.  In short, the author pejoratively condemns Elder Ballard as a failure without either answers or the best interest of the Saint’s at heart, and also takes issue with the apostle unfairly labeling him, but by not even attempting to understand his perspective, Carrington becomes guilty of the myopia he was eager to condemn.

While my response has questioned a specific instance of someone trying to bring down a system of worship they have already unsubscribed to, I think it is applicable across religions and ideologies.  Rather than create a productive dialogue that brings two sides closer together, we often decide to disparage an opposing viewpoint, and in so doing take on the same sanctimonious tone that we find disgusting and disgraceful in those who disagree with our side of the story.  In attempting to understand Mr. Carrington’s viewpoints in a way that refrained from personal attacks and vitriol—even if the attempt was not perfect—I have gained more compassion for him and those in a similar situation.  At the same time, my beliefs that were challenged have been strengthened by the fact that I was able to think through a different perspective and still emerge with my beliefs intact. 

Still, I feel like there is a paradigm chasm that exists between Carrington’s approach and mine because rather than call for a sincere discussion, the article instead relies repeatedly an overly dramatic denigration.  In the end, the aforementioned nerve this article struck seems to be that it undermines the seminal belief of the free-minded that two individuals be entitled to believe what they desire so far as it does not place the other person in harm.  We live in a day and age where the constitutional pillar of “religious freedom” has been turned on its head to mean that religious institutions allow those of different faiths or the secular world to believe what they want without that same privilege being afforded to them.  Channel your inner John Lennon and imagine a world where we spent more time listening and less time blaming; less time tearing down and more time building up.  Seriously.  Close your eyes and imagine it for a good minute.  What do you see?  To me it looks a lot like heaven on earth—and one that is accessible to both atheist and theist, African and Caucasian, Republican and Democrat, homosexual and heterosexual, Russian and American, Muslim and Christian, former members of the LDS church and continuing practitioners.

With that sublime image in mind, I can finally sleep in peace. 

---

[1]The author of this article uses a pseudonym that alludes to a former member of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles that was excommunicated for sexual misconduct.  This perhaps gives illustrates the frame of mind the author is approaching this topic from, but it interesting to note that Carrington was eventually rebaptized.    

Poetry!

Small Talk

A radiant ballerina gracefully

floats past my gaze, and I am
arrested with ice melting

thoughts.

Perhaps I mention the

whirlwind, a strong current of thoughts

flowing through my hard, sponge brain.

Like the Great Glass Elevator I may break

through that fragile mirror ceiling, but will

then travel up, across,

                                             down,

                               backwards, forwards, and

sideways, never actually moving anywhere.

Or maybe I discuss the calamity of parking,

trying to find a narrow stall

discovering fading, yellow lines

that may not count at all.

Isn’t that existing though?

we search and search

for that perfect fit

only to find we make the best

out of what we have.

Something more substantial is in order,

like a Titanic anchor forcing us to stay

And chat together.  In that case,

how bout the state of my stagnant soul,

that sorrow has pervaded me of late

because of the fact I have to say goodbye

but simply can’t.  I don’t know how.

Like fixing a typewriter

or writing in old lady cursive,

it is a lost art.  At least for me.

 

This is much too weighty,

the Titanic did sink sonorously after all.

Maybe that’s the key?

it doesn’t matter so much what I say

but how what I say sounds?

Life meanders on at a miraculous and mighty pace,

every minute is both miniscule and monumental,

and chance can take you to a tropical oasis

or frozen wasteland indiscriminantly.

Now that is just pretentious,

and this thought pause has

turned into a catacomb of

awkwardness; the deeper I go,

the more dead this all becomes.

What was supposed to be a quick,

elegant swan floating in a luxurious lake

has now turned into a gargantuan gaggle of hippopotami

trying to emerge from water without wetness,

all the while still springing more splashes

This Hippo must speak though.

I must let something escape my

mouth before she leaves.  I look

up confidently and hope to melt

in those chocolate chip eyes, but

she has escaped to the solace of

land while I meander in this

maelstrom of my mind.

Identity Crisis

The caramel sun beats down

on the decidedly dank forest floor

and a shrouding mist rises from

the ground like steam from a kettle.

Air is intoxicatingly alive;

each odor becoming a blend

of flora, condensation, and

draff, while leaves extend down

as living curtains. This is

my laboratory, and I act

as scientist and test-subject

morphing to every color

bright or dim, gaudy or plain,

citrus orange or oasis blue,

mudslide brown or tornado grey.

I may seem invincible,

invisibly impervious to danger.  But

what about the traps that move

unseen, the serpents slithering

 within inauspicious skin?

For it is the predator

who smiles slyly or slinks silently

that must be feared most in the end.

And if the predator and experimenter

are one, what then? I must lose

myself to the blend

to escape the friendly foes

and the foe like friends,

until each falling drop becomes

a reflection of oblivion,

like some forlorn apparition seeing through

itself in a mirror, completely reliant on

my surroundings as a prompt for

transformation.  I am at once

everything and nothing

dangerous and vulnerable;

protected from all

but myself.

Existing is impossible

when life is a perpetual act

of fitting in.

The Danger of Listening

It spoke to me.

Reinforcing that I

stand supreme and

can rule and abuse

with blunt instruments

or blind words in order

to make myself into

a God that stands above

but never high enough. 

Did I listen?

It spoke to her.

Affirming that she

is subservient to

something sinister

and subjugated to

the gaze of men

whose intentions

are ignoble

and whose tools are

dangerous.

Did she listen?

It spoke to us.

Declaring that sex

is a mystery, and

blind love its

Agatha Chrstie:

The man in the brown suit

 a perverted hero,

stalking its self-sabotaging

prey that remains

caught, in its own traps,

set in a world of depravity

and iceless attachment. 

Did we listen? 

A Tinder Feminist

Being “together” would mean

protection to think freely

and reason deeply;

devoid of pigeon holes

and prescribed expectations.

We would pursue each

other as a mollusk seeks

its shell, while still

existing interchangeably

as heart and shield.

Housewifery would not be

your sole realm, nor

would we divide home rule

in half based solely

on reserves of hormones.

Each calamity hurled at

us would be welcomed,

as a pebble seeks to be

smoothed by the rush

of a river’s breath. 

My gaze would not

chain you prisoner, but

would catalyze your desires

and drive you toward

dinosaur sized dreams

Indeed dear, our love

would prompt odes both

Eternal and effulgent.

But your profile pic was

 reminiscent of grimy golem,

and I swiped left. 

 Social Media Anxiety

Blazing pixels

of acceptance

seek entrance to

my frothing cauldron of a mind;

a processor guarded

by bugeyed witches,

dabblers of creation

that seek substance, but

are instead pillagers

of meaning as they

allow mix together

rat tail status updates,

moth wing profile pics,

and pig eared selfies

while preventing

confidence and solace

from gaining substance.

Does the electricity

 of life seep inside,

or am I thrall to

this stinging toil and trouble

of an artificial existence

where the vainglory of a

plodding mind is

morphed into

a tattered screen that

inhibits life giving light

from shimmering

into a sense

of belonging.     

West Bound

“My greatest pain in life is that I will never get to see myself perform,”

says the supposed “beatmaster” who wants people to agree

that his is the voice of the day, a light amidst a darkening storm,

which illuminates truths.  His obviously omnipotent decrees

on absolving societal sins—mostly which artists are sublime,

cause a chasm of hearty applause and palm in face motions

as fans laude his courage and voice, his expertise prime,

while detractors wonder why he has such strong devotion.

Do we Swiftly listen his rants, and follow his Beck and call?

The question and obsession with a self-absorbed “artist” is tragic;

in the midst of rhythmically flowing poverty and war beaten nations

we infuse his Kardashian sized ego and increase his treasure haul.

Is real benevolence trending or just a kind of phantasmal magic?

Becomes the true query as we placidly surf through gossiping stations. 

The Gettysburg Redress

The July sun hung high overhead,

rays partially blocked from reaching

forlorn men below, sitting at attention

at sycamores whose branches reached out

like fingers hoping to hold a rocky

frame upright amidst a steep expanse

that seemed to extend into eternity.

Loose rock and fallen timbers

were allies not impediments

as soldiers shrouded in navy

awaited the grey storm cloud ascending

to overtake a fish-hook line, a cataclysm

that would leave a crumbling Union

collapsed in a heap; noble bodies and

and ideas enslaved to the call of the reaper.

The defenders of this “bottomless tub”,

Maine men that marked the end of the line,

sat ammo-less like Cowboy and Indian children

and a mustached, professor Commander

astonished with an order to assemble

sewing needles atop rifles—

     “Charge!”

The soldiers descend into history,

and seven score and twelve years later,

their sacrifice is caricatured into partisan

prattle to propel careers into the future

without a sense of the past. 

Heroism buried in posturing and blocked

by politicians whose own filibuster infused

charges resonate against the battle cries

once heard atop a little, rocky hill.

On Dying Slowly

Neil says, “it’s better to burn out than it is to rust,” and the words penetrate

my mind with the force of an unharnessed racehorse galloping gallantly towards

a distant horizon that is invisible to the outside world.  But was he right?

Or is this poet prophet a false one whose pretenses mask the danger behind

partaking poison to placate pain when a gradual healing would suffice.

And yet, time may really not be the salve for all hurt, and existing within it

is remaining a willing hostage to its dastardly machinations, a Stockholm Syndrome

situation that connects captive to captor like a sticky sap from a tree encases

its unwitting victim in a callous shell that prevents it both from every truly dying

and ever really living.  Maybe our Young prophet was right after all?

Still, ticks on the clock may not be a universal solvent, but existing within its

confines remains better than a lemming-like escape.  Better to “step back

from that ledge” and fight on towards a light that may not ever arrive, but

is still worth looking for.  Hoping, even futilely, is more rewarding than eternal

sleep, in the way a child learns to crawl across hard, slick tile, not because his

mother waits open armed across the expanse, but because he glimpses the world beyond. 

No More Mr. Nice Guy?

A few days ago, a friend shared this meme thing on his Facebook page and prompted me to reconsider the age old question, "Do nice guys really finish last?"  Here are 20 reasons why they do!!!  (Note that this is why they finish last in terms of winning girl's affections, not why they bring up the rear in life in general...that would be a much longer list)

1. We care too much about how you feel. Spending too much time wondering what a girl is thinking leads to inaction. While we wonder if you actually want to go on another date or not, Joe Schmo is already asking you on your fifth. (Girls, maybe you shouldn't be so nice either and should tell Mr. Schmo you just aren't interested)

2. We put everything we have into a relationship and making our lady happy, so when it doesn't work out, we have a hard time recovering and putting ourselves out there again. We have a lot in common with investor guy who jumps off a building when the stock market crashes.

3. Safe and practical doesn't equate to sexy. Do you want a Honda or a Lamborghini? Neither, you chose the guy on a motorcycle.

4. Often times, nice is the only thing we have going for us...we are also ugly and poor. If perennial nice guy  and all-around stud James Marsden (X-Men, Superman Returns, Enchanted, The Notebook) is repeatedly jilted, what chance do us mere mortals have?

5. Jerry Magiuire was right, we live in a cynical world. Nice guys can't do their thing and be kind to a girl without her thinking there are ulterior motives. Can't we just be nice to you for sake of being nice? And if it somehow leads to you planting one on our lips, so be it...

6. If a dame we are interested in knows us well enough to be aware of our propensity for niceness, she thinks anything we do for her is just our personality and not part of some maniacal plot  to make her feel incredibly special.

7. We literally do finish last...when was the last time a nice guy won a race?

8. How many times have you heard a girl say, "I am tired of dating jerks"? On the other hand, how many times have you actually seen her date a guy who treats her like a queen and who understands her feelings? Sometimes you lady folk are like the person who says they are tired of things in life that aren't real, and then goes on a dive searching for the Loch Ness Monster. (Alright, such a person does not exist...but you get my point, right?)

9. Humility, a hallmark of the nice guy, can sometimes be perceived as a lack of confidence. We like ourselves, we just don't want you to know that.

10. At times we struggle at taking the initiative. We can be so overtly cognitive if your feelings that we do not want to cause you pain that could come from having to tell us you aren't interested or that you are dating Jo Schmo (again, why are you still dating him?)

11. Often, we fail to meet girls in the first place because we don't take the Beastie Boys advice to fight for our right to party. Instead, we fight for your right to vote. (That's happened already, huh?) We fight for your right to abort. (That's happened too?!?) We fight for your right to fight in the army. (I gotcha there didn't I? No??? Gosh darn it all) We fight for your right to emotionally eat. (There, something we can both agree on)

12. Nice guys often sacrifice our lives to save others, and the trait is slowly being bred out of society. If you are about to get hit by a moving vehicle, we push you out of the way and are hit instead. If there is a live grenade on the ground, we smother it with our body. If you are given a free ticket to a Neil Diamond concert, we offer to take the ticket instead. In other words, we don't pass Darwin's survival of the fittest test. Girl's don't naturally select us, why would Mother Nature be any different?

13. Sometimes we write blogs about our feelings instead of going on dates.

14. Many girls are suffering from "Disney Princess Syndrome" and are waiting for their prince to come rescue them without them having to do anything in terms of putting themselves out there in the dating world. Nice guys wait for a girl to give a sign that romantic feelings are reciprocated before they act on them. On a separate note, props to Disney for their new line of Princesses that take the initiative and fight for themselves (Tiana, Rapunzel, Merida). On another separate but related note, maybe nice guy's propensity for being too into Disney movies is a turn off?

15. It is in the Bible.  See Job.

16. Nice guys are notorious people pleasers.  We don't want to make one girl feel bad, so we often unintentionally lead a bunch of girls on rather focus on just one they are interested in. Nice guys don't gamble, but if we did, we would naively put one mark down on every number on the craps table and eventually lose all our chips.

17. All too often we accidentally take the fork in the road that leads to the "Friend Zone" rather than to the "Relationship Zone." Navigating through the world of dating games is tough for us amiable gentlemen.

18. We are too emotional. Girls want a shoulder to cry on, not a shoulder to cry with. For example, we don't like chick flicks because we often identify with the female lead more than you do...

19. On a related note, nice guys are usually cheery people, and there is a reason happy is synonymous with gay...some girls, in fact, believe we play for the wrong team...

20. We spend so much time pondering why we constantly finish last that we fail to realize that other guys, like Joe Schmo, have solved this puzzle, are dating a cute girl, and are nice to boot! (Ahh, that's why you are still dating him)

Charge!

“In great deeds, something abides. On great fields, something stays. Forms change and pass; bodies disappear; but spirits linger, to consecrate ground for the vision-place of souls… generations that know us not and that we know not of, heart-drawn to see where and by whom great things were suffered and done for them, shall come to this deathless field, to ponder and dream; and lo! the shadow of a mighty presence shall wrap them in its bosom, and the power of the vision pass into their souls.” 
― Joshua Lawrence Chamberlain

On July 2, 1863 Colonel Joshua Chamberlain found himself trapped between the proverbial rock and the hard place.  He and his Maine men were in the unfortunate position of being the last regiment on the left flank of a two mile long Union line of troops that barred the Confederacy from pursuing a course to Washington D.C., and perhaps, the end of the now two and a half year long Civil War.  Although he held the high ground, an extremely beneficial position in military stratagem, his men were nearly exhausted of both spirit and ammo after being attacked repeatedly by Southern troops for hours.  Chamberlain had been told emphatically by fellow officers that he could not retreat and must fight to the end, lest enemy troops flank the Union line and sweep away the troops like a strong tide, perhaps washing away any hopes of preserving the nation and ensuring freedom for those still in chains.  However, as he looked at his men, and then down the hill at the grey coats preparing another assault, he simply found himself out of options.  Should he sound the retreat and perhaps save the lives of his comrades in arms, one of which happened to be his younger brother?  Or should he order them to fight valiantly where they stood to the last man, a heroic, but in the end pointless, sacrifice?

In essence, the weight of a war fought to ensure that the lines "all men are created equal" truly applied to all men, and even the destiny of the entire nation first forged when the Founding Father's laid quill to paper to create the immortal Constitution, found itself squarely on Chamberlain's shoulders, and luckily for posterity, he did not flinch at the strain.

Rather than be overcome by the intensity of the moment or what seemed like inevitable defeat, Chamberlain did something bold and unexpected.  He sounded the call for his troops to fix bayonets, and then ordered a charge down the mountainside and into the enemy position.  Unheard of in terms of military tactics, his higher ranking officer's mouths must have been agape when he informed them of the plan.  Charge the enemy when they are seemingly infinite in number and when you hold the high ground?  Pure folly at worst, unusual at best.  But Joshua Lawrence Chamberlain was not a "usual" soldier.

In fact, it was improbable that he ended up in the conflict at all, not to mention commanding troops at its epicenter.  He was not a fighting man, he was an academic.  He was a professor of rhetoric at esteemed Bowdoin University, and taught men how to be better communicators, not better killers.  Described as shy and reluctant by some, it was unfathomable--or as it turned out, providential--that he held a position of military leadership at all.  But Chamberlain held two hallmarks of character that made him the right person for the job at the right time: clarity of thought and empathy towards others.  He knew he could not retreat, but he also knew he must act.  Yet he also saw his men, the men he had marched with, bled with, and nearly died with, sweltering in the summer heat and frantically searching for cartridges in the belongings of their fallen comrades. So he availed himself of the only option left to him and boisterously yelled "charge" and began running down the steep mountainside with his troops, sword in hand.

Perhaps it was the fact that the enemy troops, exhausted themselves from the day's events, were taken completely off guard.  Or maybe it was the tenacity with which the Maine boys swept down the mountainside, wheeling from left  to right in order catch any Southern troops in the vicinity.  Whatever the case, the "Lion of Little Round Top" made a courageous decision when the fate of the entire nation was in the balance, and he ended up tipping the scales in favor of the Republic's preservation.  He would later receive the Medal of Honor, the highest award given to a soldier, and would go onto serve after the war's end as Governor of Maine and President of Bowdoin College

It is important to remember that tomorrow marks not only our nation's independence, but also the sesquicentennial of the end of the climactic Battle of Gettysburg.  There are so many stories of bravery and selflessness from both sides during the three day struggle that ultimately changed the course of history, but ever since I became fascinated with this event as a teenager, Joshua Lawrence Chamberlain has been one of my personal heroes, not just because the part he played on the grand stage of our nation's history, or who he was as a person (both of which were admirable), but because in a moment of extreme chaos and calamity, he had the courage to act rather than be acted upon.

How many times in our life are we placed in a stressful situation and we simply sit around and wait for circumstances to get better?  I know it is a personal bad habit of mine to figuratively crawl into the fetal position and cut myself off from the world around me when faced with extreme challenges.  Like the frog in a pot of boiling water, I feel the temperature of life's turmoils increase, but rather than take action and escape, I grow comfortable with not taking action at all.  How much more healthy would it be if, rather than simply wait and let life act on me, or even worse, retreat from my problems completely, I followed Chamberlain's example and charged them head on?  Even more poignant, how much more of an impact could I have on the world around me if I wasn't afraid of what other's thought or whether and simply acted in the manner that was best?

I love history because, when taught well, it should be the most engaging of stories;  a tapestry woven with the actions of heroes and individuals that we can look at and learn from.  The actions of figures long left behind by the annals of time can be remembered, and as Chamberlain said, "their vision can pass into our souls."  So as you remember those who fought and who are currently fighting to preserve the pillars of liberty we as nation hold dear, remember not only what they did, but the lessons they were trying to teach us.  Like the lesson that an unassuming teacher from Maine taught 150 years ago: that sometimes when life seems like it is beating down furiously upon you, when you are being plagued by column after column of quandaries, sometimes you have to bravely take a step forward and charge into the fire in order to avoid getting burned.

Happy Day of Independence!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

(If you made it to the end of my bloviating, I commend you and I apologize for the many grammatical errors you were sure to have encountered.  In my defense, I am writing this at one in the morning and decided that I could not give my tired brain rest until I finished.  On the other hand, it is sad to think that a post dedicated to one of my heroes, who happened to be a professor of language, would be riddled with errors that would most likely make him cringe.  So if you are looking down from the great haven in the sky JCL, or if you are one of the 4 people that actually read this post, I am sorry!!!)

The Retreat

I had not been away very long, and yet my body trembled with a great sense of loss.  The trenches have that effect, or so I am told, and after all that I have observed in a short period of time, so I believe.  Each shell landing with immense power, each whistle that sounds the charge, each bullet whizzing by your helpless frame reminds you exactly how mortal you are.  Death is an ever present shadow; every stone you left unturned before arriving in the battle torn wasteland and every dream you yet hope to fulfill becomes an obsession in the trenches.

This maelstrom of anxiety has prompted me to record my ruminations about the past, the present, and the future.  I hope, perhaps in vain, that words can bring peace to my soul; a peace that is absent in a world of wanton violence and destruction. 

My soul…what is that? I once thought it to be a thing of great importance, central to the progression of all life.   I once believed that God had great things in store for me, that his mighty hands had placed me in this exact place and this exact time for an exact purpose.  But that now seemed the distant past, and eternity even, when the naïve hopes of a boy collided with the stark reality of manhood.  They tell you that more years bring more wisdom…I do not know whether this is true, but they do not bring more optimism.  Any wisdom I have gained has taught me that life is cruel, an illusion without end, a bleak, manipulative, horrifying prospect. 

A slight drizzle brings me away from these incessant and forlorn contemplations.  It seems that rain is invariably connected to the trench…even when moisture does not fall on us from above, the dreariness that precludes and exists within a storm is ever present.  The drizzle bangs against my helmet like a battle drum, constantly reminding my comrades and I of our desperate and gloomy circumstances.

The rain itself is not the worst part of a storm, at least in a soldier’s eyes.  It is the pool of mud it creates.  Mud is one of the most dogged foes of those who dwell in the trench.  It drowns us, consumes us, and leaves its stains to scar us.  When the charge sounds, it is mud that hampers our movement, and with one ill move, brings us to the ground never to escape its grimy confines.  There were no tombs here to inter the noble souls who died doing this woesome work, mud was our only grave, our shroud between this world and the next. 

This was not my hope for a journal, what a pathetic attempt this is? I hoped that by writing down my feelings I could find some source of illumination in the darkness…some enduring kernel of truth.  Instead, I fill these pages with the complaints of a wounded soul…the whining of a weak wanderer.  What use does this have to me or anyone else?

I sit straight up, hoping that by adjusting my position I can also shift my frame of mind.  But sitting straight up is a dismal process in a rain soaked trench, the slosh of the mud quickly brings you back down to your previous position.  Perhaps the most frequent battle a soldier wages is to ever find a comfortable niche in his drab surroundings.

Come to think of it, had I ever been in a comfortable position before.  I remember months ago, it seems like years, waking up in to the cool, crisp morning air in a feathered bed with satin sheets.  Surely that was comfortable? But I remember my psyche during this period and all physical peace seems to be dwarfed by the feelings of anxiety that engulfed me.  I look at the previous morning’s paper, the overbearing headline “WAR FINDS EUROPE” readily visible at its top.  The frantic thoughts that raced across my mind come back to me in a flood, like guilt rushes over its victim before confession.  More than anything, I remember the vague sense of horror this headline produced.  War had found Europe, would it find me?

It should not have come as that great of a shock, world events had pointed to a cataclysmic outbreak of some kind, but that morning’s headline caught me much like the sound of an exploding shell in the trenches, though I knew it was coming I could not prepare for the sonorous sound of its arrival. 

If this dribble is ever in fact perused, please understand one thing from the beginning.  I am a coward.  My response to any uncomfortable thought is to run away from it, to escape, to find solace in some distant fantasy.   Upon reading this headline, a deep wave of patriotism did not fall over me.  I did not take action and run to the nearest enlistment station to declare my unwavering support.  I did not, in fact, do anything except retreat back into the comfort of my satin sheets.  You may wonder how I ended up in a trench, 200 yards from an enemy prepared to bring about my death.  I often wonder that myself.  Like most cowards, running away from what I dreaded brought me right where I didn’t want to be.  I chose not to control events in my life, and by doing so, I let them control me.  Like Jonah, I tried to escape from any sense of duty, but found myself whale deep in it. 

I come from a distinguished family, one that had a propensity to stand up against injustice and fight for what they had believed in over centuries.  My mother often told me the story of one of our distant ancestors of valor who stoically awaited his death on the shores of England at the hands of the Spanish Armada, and as his reward, found salvation in the Provident Wind.   I never really found out about the validity of this story, but the moral my mother sought to leave me with has been ingrained in my mind ever since, my own personal scarlet letter.  “Even in times of hopelessness, God rewards the brave and faithful.”

I adore my parents.  Many of my thoughts are directed towards them during these desperate times.  But perhaps my unbinding love for them is the base of my never ending guilt for being an ugly duckling, the son who could never live up to their well-founded but misguided expectations.  If I did not love or respect them, that means I would not love and respect all that they stood for, which in my mind, was everything beautiful.  If I did not love them, I could say that my not being courageous or penitent in the face of danger was simply a product of a rebellion against two trite figures.  But I do love them, and thus must be confronted with everlasting shame that I did not embrace the values they sought to distill upon me. 

I remember the shouts of my brothers after retreating back under the covers, pulling me back into reality.  I was only 16, my brothers were all older, like the rest of the country, were eager to be consumed by the fire of patriotism.  I loved my country as well, or at least thought I did, but unlike them, I remained unfettered by the passion that had seemingly consumed the nation like a tsunami.  I would like to say it was because I was a pacifist; that my lack of jingoistic joy was principle founded; that I was taking a stand against violence.  My lack of enthusiasm for war, however, was more a product of my lack of enthusiasm for taking a stand in general.  Here was my chance to measure up, to put behind me the adolescent years marked by indifference and apathy, but I responded by not responding. 

Eventually, I muddled my way out of bed and towards the breakfast table.  As with all large families, especially those with a wealth of testosterone, meals seemed to be a battle in themselves—although the use of that term makes me cringe knowing what I do now.  Because I had arrived late, I had lost this battle before it had even started…the prospects for a filling breakfast vanished almost as quickly as my hopes that my entrance would go unnoticed.

“Have you heard the news yet?” My father asked with a pinch of pride and excitement in his voice.

“How could I not?” was my quick response “trying to sleep in this morning was like trying to take a nap at the Exchange.”

“Ah, come off it, sleeping can be done anytime! Now is the time for celebration!” Remarked my eldest brother jubilantly.

“Yes, and I wanted to celebrate with breakfast”

“Well, leave it to you to spoil the excitement with your doom and gloom,” was his matter of fact retort. 

Looking back, these mornings all seemed to pass in the same perfunctory haze.  The only thing that changed was the raucous crowd that welcomed me into the world, or at times, patronized me into participating in it.  One by one, my elder brothers were called off to war crops in a field being picked for harvest.  This once great nation had indeed been harvested, my eldest brother has sense passed performing a duty that he had once entreated me to celebrate.  How many more brothers, sons, husbands had passed during the course of this “great” war.  Yes, the men of this country had been harvested…and for what purpose?

Eight months after I awoke to find the world embroiled in conflict, it was my turn to offer service to my country, an opportunity I sought every opportunity to avoid.  “You will make such a great soldier,” my mother would often remark, “you look like one even now.”  Perhaps I did, but I did not feel like one.  I was a scholar.  My family and friends encouraged me incessantly to volunteer like my friends and brothers had before.  The reality of war may have begun to hit the mainland, but my country was still possessed by a jingoist fever. “Dulce et decorum est.  Tis sweet and meet to die for one’s country.”

There was nothing sweet about these trenches.  I looked around at my compatriots trapped in the tunnels like I.  One was reading in his bible.  I often admired this man.  He was brave in the face of combat, and I had once seen him risk his life to carry a fellow soldier to safety.  He seemed to be able to look death in the eye and mark him as his equal.  The pages of his bible had been folded and refolded to mark what I assumed to be passages of import and its outside was caked in mud like almost all of a soldiers possessions.  He flipped frantically through the pages, I almost asked him what he was searching for, but decided not to disturb his study.  I wonder how he can even read in what had now become a downpour? Maybe he can’t, maybe the mere idea of examining words of solace was enough to calm an anguished soul. 

Other soldiers were engaged in traditional downtime activities.  Often the recruitment posters make a soldiers life out as exciting and glamorous, but what they don’t tell you is that you spend more time combating boredom than the enemy on the other side of the trench.  The important caveat being that boredom could not kill you of course, or at least we all hoped not. 

My life before the war was not an exciting one of incessant activity either.  Preoccupied with my studies, I did not participate in many of the enterprises of my peers.  Honestly, the thought of interacting with a group of unknown people at a social gathering terrified me almost as much as the prospect of death.  I had a few close friends and that was enough.  I wonder where they are now?

Invariably, thoughts of my friends brought my mind exactly to a point I wanted to avoid.  Or did I? I realized I still had her letter in the front pocket of my coat, why hadn’t I thrown it away? Perhaps having this paltry possession from her made me oblivious to the fact that it was over, that I would never embrace her again like I had hoped. 

I met her at a dance; what our French allies would call a soirée.  How I arrived there remains a mystery to me, much like how I have arrived here in the trench.  A hermit lives a complicated life, one much more difficult than most realize.  He constantly avoids attention and interaction, and yet in his deepest part of his soul, these two things are what he craves the most.  It is the inability, or the fear of achieving these comforts that prompt him to retreat from the world. 

I often wonder why they still held dances while men were fighting and dying across the Channel.  It is remarkable to me that the times when humanity tries hardest to pretend that life can continue on its regular pace are the exact points at which it has been irrevocably altered.  Regardless, there I stood, anxiously looking around for an opportunity of escape.  I found it, and quickly retreated from the terrace to a bench just outside.  I sat there for many minutes, perhaps hours, when a figure approached and sat to my right. 

“Well this is a strange place to spend a party? Peaceful though, I’ll give you that!” She exclaimed boldy.

“Ha, peace is the only thing I crave at the moment.”

“You came to the wrong place then”

“I live in the wrong place at the wrong time,” I thought to myself.

Clearly, she expected me to make some attempt at conversation like many of her admirers would have.  She was beautiful to be sure, but that made the prospect of carrying on a conversation with her all the more difficult.  I quickly looked away from her and turned my gaze pensively to the distance.

A few moments passed before—to my horror—she began talking again.  Rather, I should say to my awe, because I soon discovered her words to be of such a crystalline character and her entire persona of such a radiance, that I started to consider myself Adam gazing upon Eve, realizing his full human potential for the first time.  Realizing it but not able to see it fulfilled.  I just listened, I did not say a word—not because I did not want to, but because like Prufrock, I did not dare.  Ironically, perhaps it was this trait of silence that differentiated me from the other fish in the proverbial sea.  Soon we began swimming through life together, and for perhaps the first time, I felt truly at peaceful—truly blissful—truly  hopeful. 

In her I found my constant.  Often unable to confide in those closest to me about the most trivial of matters, I found that I could pour out the entirety of my soul and this most beautiful of vessels would receive it with care.  I could trust her.  I even told her about my fears of serving in the war, to which she often said with a sly smile, “you getting shot, mangled, or gassed does not suit me very well either.”  And so I passed a few months oblivious to the chaos of the outside world.  Too short.

As I previously mentioned in this account, my brother passed in the service of his country.  Rather than feeling disdain towards an event that had taken their firstborn away from them, my parents increased their recruitment efforts tenfold.  There was something to be admired in this.  In the face of such terror and overwhelming grief they responded with hope and courage.  Why was I not more like them?  This guilt, mingled with the misguided idea of avenging my brother’s death, prompted me to enlist shortly thereafter.  Misguided, I say, because I would never confront his true killer.  How can you confront an idea?

I met with my beloved the night before I was to embark.  It remains the greatest night of my life.  Amidst the sorrow, the worry, the sense of the unknown, I gazed into her eyes and saw an immovable beacon, my Ruth, and as I brought her letter out of my pocket, my Guinevere.  It had only been 5 short months from that night, that glorious twilight eve, when made promises that two young souls—destined to be separated—should never solemnize.  Perhaps I always knew that she would not, or could not, wait for me, but words cannot describe the unbearable pain that coursed through my soul to open up a much anticipated letter and find it commencing with the words, “I am to be married.”  I know not what the rest of the post said, perhaps some angelic words entreating my forgiveness.   I had forgiven her—immediately in fact—but I could not forgive myself for being in a place that left me buried in mud rather than in her loving embrace. 

A shell announced its arrival with a shrill shriek, like a Banshee announcing her arrival to its involuntary victim, and I was immediately brought back to my current circumstances.  Usually artillery fire preceded or coincided with an enemy’s charge, was this the case now or was the enemy simply testing our defenses?

My question was answered almost immediately as it was conceived, it was indeed preparation for an attack—one that should be easily repelled.  I say easily with some trepidation because this will, no doubt, engender confidence in our commanders and perhaps prompt them to sound a counter attack.  I only have a few minutes left as the charge was just repelled.  As the enemy began its charge, I moved to my position at our trenches precipice and prepared, like my compatriots, to bring about the work of death.  I began firing frantically at the enemy.  The scene was a cacophonous symphony of fatality.  Gunfire, artillery, bold shouts of those seeking to fend off their end, painful screams of those being carried into death’s arms.  Amidst this chaos, I had a moment of clarity.  I saw my enemy…I saw a man slip in the mud as he charged our position.  Rather than stay down and perhaps wait out the attack, or crawl into a retreat, he fought against the mud and rose to his feet, at which point he was struck and fell limply to the ground.  Why? Why did he continue to fight? What hope did he have? From where did he take courage?

He made a decision.  He decided to keep going.  He refused to become entombed within the mud; it is time I cease to be paralyzed by fear.  When our charge is sounded, I will make a charge of my own.  I will charge home.

****Like an old, wizened man weary of visiting the sins of his youth, I have been fearful of recounting my experiences in the trench again.  Yet years later, here I am, writing an addendum to these words.  As the horn sounded signaling the counter attack, and my fellow soldiers climbed out of the trench and began rushing towards the enemy and their doom, I went to the opposite side of the trench, climbed out, and began charging in the polar direction.  After rushing, or I should say, sloshing a few feet, a bullet struck me in the back and I fell.  I struggled to fight to my feet, to resist being buried in the mud, but my strength failed me and I collapsed.  I know not how long I waited there in the mud, an eternity it seemed, until I sensed, even in my pain and weariness, shadows crouching besides me.

“What is the bloke doing out here?” A voice exclaimed emphatically.

“Isn’t it obvious? The coward was running away!”

“Running away? Where did he think he was going?”

“Away from here? What doesn’t matter, he’s a coward all the same.”

“Do you think he’ll live?”

“His breathing is shallow.  I guess that’s up to God.”

The other soldier, I imagine scanning the desolate field of battle, remarked, “No, it’s up to him.”  He was right.  With the Grace of God, I chose life.