Remembering Charlie
Stories
Lectionary Tales for the Pulpit
Series VI, Cycle B
The story of Job is familiar to all of us -- a man whose world was spinning merrily along with everything falling into place is suddenly confronted with one misery after another ... disaster, death, disease, and despair. In some of the most moving poetry ever written, chapter after chapter attempts to deal with the age-old question of why, so often, life is unfair.
People still wrestle with the issue. The particular piece of unfairness with which I wrestle involves Charlie. Charlie was several years younger than I am. If I remember correctly, his family joined our church when he was just about ready for junior high. Even though he lived several miles away, he was at that church every time the doors were open -- Sunday school, morning and evening worship, youth groups, and choir. If his parents could not bring him, he would thumb a ride or hike or ride his bike.
It would almost be fair to say that Charlie adopted that church as his second family, but it really was his third. His second family was the Leiningers. He even looked like one of us. Charlie and I could easily have passed for brothers -- he was blond, blue-eyed, and fat. He was at our house as much as he was at his own. He would drop by any afternoon, see my mother scrubbing the floor or washing windows or doing dishes, and would pitch right in to help. He was a good kid -- too good -- later that night, Mom would say something like, "Gee, Charlie is nice. Why can't you help like he does?" (Thanks, Charlie!)
For some unfathomable reason, Charlie looked up to me. He had two older sisters and a younger brother, but no older one -- he adopted me for that role. As we moved through our teen years, he followed me around like a puppy dog. He was a shadow -- there was no shaking him. He got on my nerves -- little brothers often do. Even after I was grown and moved away from home, Charlie would come around ... a lot! I could be on the radio, doing my show in the middle of the night [I was in broadcasting before entering the ministry], and Charlie would drop in at the station with donuts or pizza or something equally calorific (that was no help at all to either of our waistlines) ready to just hang around for the rest of the night. Once I was away on vacation at the beach and he hopped a bus and came. That was Charlie ... the shadow.
By the time high school was over, Charlie had no particular life direction in mind. But he was in no hurry. Instead of fumbling around in college, he joined the Navy. That way he could take some time to decide on a career, avoid the draft, and get his education when his hitch was through, letting Uncle Sam pick up some of the tab. Even though the Vietnam War was going on, Charlie was not worried about combat. The recruiter had told him that, with his talent on the trumpet, he had an excellent chance at landing a nice, cushy slot in the Navy band. Sorry, Charlie -- not only is life unfair, so is the Navy. He ended up being assigned for training as a medic.
Needless to say, he was disappointed about the band, but not terribly. He enjoyed his work and found he had a genuine talent for medicine. As a good Presbyterian, he had been brought up to understand God's providence and saw his assignment as perhaps a way the Lord was using to give him a path for life.
Of course, as Charlie's training progressed, so did the war. Not long after his schoolwork was complete, he received orders to join a Marine contingent and head for southeast Asia.
In the beginning, we heard regularly from him -- all the news from the trenches that we were getting in gruesome, living, televised color each evening over dinner, as well. I wish I could say that I was a faithful correspondent, but I was not. In spite of all I heard about how meaningful letters from home were to the boys in the service, and in spite of my mother's constant badgering (gee, David, you know how much a letter from you would mean), I never wrote -- big brother taking little brother for granted. The closest I came to sending him anything was to make a tape of some of his favorite music, but I never mailed it. I waited too long. Word came that he was missing in action.
Day after day passed with no information on his whereabouts. There were prayers for his safety from all his friends, the hope for a miracle. There were constant questions: "Any more word about Charlie?" More prayers. Finally, the dreaded letter: Charlie had been out with a Marine patrol near the base at Khe Sanh, where a two-month-long siege had just been broken; he had stepped on a mine, and was instantly blown apart -- 21 years old. They shipped what was left of him home in a body bag.
I had not been to many funerals by that time in my life. I was stunned at the number of people who came to this one (in the neighborhood of 500). That might not have been a surprise if Charlie had been the son of a prominent or powerful family, but he was not. The people were there just because it was Charlie. I knew everybody loved him, but for so many to come out on a weekday afternoon was a genuine tribute.
Several summers ago, while on vacation, we went to Washington and saw the Vietnam Veterans Memorial. It was the first time I had ever done that. It was an emotional moment as I looked up Charlie's name -- Panel 50-E, Line 11. Quickly, I walked to the spot, found his listing and softly ran my fingers over the letters ... Charles B. Boynton Jr. Tears welled up for Charlie.
There are "Charlies" in the lives of most of us ... young men or women who died in the service of their country. It seems so unfair. It is unfair! Charlie and 58,000 of his comrades-in-arms in Vietnam should never have had to die. People should not have had to die in Iraq or Korea or on Normandy Beach or in the Argonne Forest or at Gettysburg or Bunker Hill. But they did, and they do. It is all so unfair. Life is unfair.
Where is God in all this? After all, people prayed for the safe return of their Charlies and Bills and Bobs and Joes, but they did not come back. Why does God let a good kid like Charlie get blown apart in a jungle halfway around the world for no good reason?
If Job were around today, he might ask something like that. Or perhaps he would not. After all, the first time Job asked God for an answer to life's unfairness, instead of an explanation, he got an explosion: "Who is this that darkens my counsel with words without knowledge? Brace yourself like a man; I will question you, and you shall answer me. Where were you when I laid the earth's foundation? Tell me, if you understand" (vv. 2-4).
On and on an indignant God goes ... three chapters worth, not of answers, but of wilderness appreciation ... until finally Job whispers, "I am unworthy -- how can I reply to you?" (Job 40:4).
Someone has suggested that God could have said anything to Job -- could, in fact, have read from the Yellow Pages -- and produced the same stunning effect. What God said was not nearly so important as the mere fact of making the appearance. Is that enough for us? We who are Christians have had the benefit of God's appearance. God came in human flesh, walked the dusty paths of Palestine, preached, taught, and healed. It was unfair for Charlie to die, but "unfair" hardly seems adequate to describe what happened to Jesus -- after living a perfect life, he was tortured and hung on a cross. But it happened. Then three days later, God's answer to unfairness came -- Easter -- resurrection. Apparently, God was less concerned about preventing unfairness than ultimately overcoming it. Did you hear that? God seems less concerned about preventing unfairness than ultimately overcoming it. Hmm.
The pain of Charlie's loss is less now. Time heals all wounds, and now many years have gone by. The only visible reminders of Charlie's time on earth are a few photographs in scattered family albums, a gravestone in a Baltimore cemetery, and a name on a black wall in Washington.
Yes, the pain is less, but our desire for fairness in life is no less ... nor should it be. Who does not long for more justice in this world, for little children to never go hungry, for young mothers to never get cancer, for all the young Charlies to never again die in war? But until the promised day of a new heaven and a new earth, the day when God wipes away all tears from our eyes, and there shall be no more death, sorrow, or pain, we wait. In a modern paraphrase of Job, we say, "I may not have the answers, but I have God, the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, and that is enough."
People still wrestle with the issue. The particular piece of unfairness with which I wrestle involves Charlie. Charlie was several years younger than I am. If I remember correctly, his family joined our church when he was just about ready for junior high. Even though he lived several miles away, he was at that church every time the doors were open -- Sunday school, morning and evening worship, youth groups, and choir. If his parents could not bring him, he would thumb a ride or hike or ride his bike.
It would almost be fair to say that Charlie adopted that church as his second family, but it really was his third. His second family was the Leiningers. He even looked like one of us. Charlie and I could easily have passed for brothers -- he was blond, blue-eyed, and fat. He was at our house as much as he was at his own. He would drop by any afternoon, see my mother scrubbing the floor or washing windows or doing dishes, and would pitch right in to help. He was a good kid -- too good -- later that night, Mom would say something like, "Gee, Charlie is nice. Why can't you help like he does?" (Thanks, Charlie!)
For some unfathomable reason, Charlie looked up to me. He had two older sisters and a younger brother, but no older one -- he adopted me for that role. As we moved through our teen years, he followed me around like a puppy dog. He was a shadow -- there was no shaking him. He got on my nerves -- little brothers often do. Even after I was grown and moved away from home, Charlie would come around ... a lot! I could be on the radio, doing my show in the middle of the night [I was in broadcasting before entering the ministry], and Charlie would drop in at the station with donuts or pizza or something equally calorific (that was no help at all to either of our waistlines) ready to just hang around for the rest of the night. Once I was away on vacation at the beach and he hopped a bus and came. That was Charlie ... the shadow.
By the time high school was over, Charlie had no particular life direction in mind. But he was in no hurry. Instead of fumbling around in college, he joined the Navy. That way he could take some time to decide on a career, avoid the draft, and get his education when his hitch was through, letting Uncle Sam pick up some of the tab. Even though the Vietnam War was going on, Charlie was not worried about combat. The recruiter had told him that, with his talent on the trumpet, he had an excellent chance at landing a nice, cushy slot in the Navy band. Sorry, Charlie -- not only is life unfair, so is the Navy. He ended up being assigned for training as a medic.
Needless to say, he was disappointed about the band, but not terribly. He enjoyed his work and found he had a genuine talent for medicine. As a good Presbyterian, he had been brought up to understand God's providence and saw his assignment as perhaps a way the Lord was using to give him a path for life.
Of course, as Charlie's training progressed, so did the war. Not long after his schoolwork was complete, he received orders to join a Marine contingent and head for southeast Asia.
In the beginning, we heard regularly from him -- all the news from the trenches that we were getting in gruesome, living, televised color each evening over dinner, as well. I wish I could say that I was a faithful correspondent, but I was not. In spite of all I heard about how meaningful letters from home were to the boys in the service, and in spite of my mother's constant badgering (gee, David, you know how much a letter from you would mean), I never wrote -- big brother taking little brother for granted. The closest I came to sending him anything was to make a tape of some of his favorite music, but I never mailed it. I waited too long. Word came that he was missing in action.
Day after day passed with no information on his whereabouts. There were prayers for his safety from all his friends, the hope for a miracle. There were constant questions: "Any more word about Charlie?" More prayers. Finally, the dreaded letter: Charlie had been out with a Marine patrol near the base at Khe Sanh, where a two-month-long siege had just been broken; he had stepped on a mine, and was instantly blown apart -- 21 years old. They shipped what was left of him home in a body bag.
I had not been to many funerals by that time in my life. I was stunned at the number of people who came to this one (in the neighborhood of 500). That might not have been a surprise if Charlie had been the son of a prominent or powerful family, but he was not. The people were there just because it was Charlie. I knew everybody loved him, but for so many to come out on a weekday afternoon was a genuine tribute.
Several summers ago, while on vacation, we went to Washington and saw the Vietnam Veterans Memorial. It was the first time I had ever done that. It was an emotional moment as I looked up Charlie's name -- Panel 50-E, Line 11. Quickly, I walked to the spot, found his listing and softly ran my fingers over the letters ... Charles B. Boynton Jr. Tears welled up for Charlie.
There are "Charlies" in the lives of most of us ... young men or women who died in the service of their country. It seems so unfair. It is unfair! Charlie and 58,000 of his comrades-in-arms in Vietnam should never have had to die. People should not have had to die in Iraq or Korea or on Normandy Beach or in the Argonne Forest or at Gettysburg or Bunker Hill. But they did, and they do. It is all so unfair. Life is unfair.
Where is God in all this? After all, people prayed for the safe return of their Charlies and Bills and Bobs and Joes, but they did not come back. Why does God let a good kid like Charlie get blown apart in a jungle halfway around the world for no good reason?
If Job were around today, he might ask something like that. Or perhaps he would not. After all, the first time Job asked God for an answer to life's unfairness, instead of an explanation, he got an explosion: "Who is this that darkens my counsel with words without knowledge? Brace yourself like a man; I will question you, and you shall answer me. Where were you when I laid the earth's foundation? Tell me, if you understand" (vv. 2-4).
On and on an indignant God goes ... three chapters worth, not of answers, but of wilderness appreciation ... until finally Job whispers, "I am unworthy -- how can I reply to you?" (Job 40:4).
Someone has suggested that God could have said anything to Job -- could, in fact, have read from the Yellow Pages -- and produced the same stunning effect. What God said was not nearly so important as the mere fact of making the appearance. Is that enough for us? We who are Christians have had the benefit of God's appearance. God came in human flesh, walked the dusty paths of Palestine, preached, taught, and healed. It was unfair for Charlie to die, but "unfair" hardly seems adequate to describe what happened to Jesus -- after living a perfect life, he was tortured and hung on a cross. But it happened. Then three days later, God's answer to unfairness came -- Easter -- resurrection. Apparently, God was less concerned about preventing unfairness than ultimately overcoming it. Did you hear that? God seems less concerned about preventing unfairness than ultimately overcoming it. Hmm.
The pain of Charlie's loss is less now. Time heals all wounds, and now many years have gone by. The only visible reminders of Charlie's time on earth are a few photographs in scattered family albums, a gravestone in a Baltimore cemetery, and a name on a black wall in Washington.
Yes, the pain is less, but our desire for fairness in life is no less ... nor should it be. Who does not long for more justice in this world, for little children to never go hungry, for young mothers to never get cancer, for all the young Charlies to never again die in war? But until the promised day of a new heaven and a new earth, the day when God wipes away all tears from our eyes, and there shall be no more death, sorrow, or pain, we wait. In a modern paraphrase of Job, we say, "I may not have the answers, but I have God, the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, and that is enough."
