This is not meant to be a slight on any man or woman who chooses to
serve in the military. It is only meant to show the other side of the
story, as told by me.
GOD’S GRACE
God’s grace shows up in the most
unlikely of places. We should always be prepared, especially when
God is involved. Still, it can be a
bit disorienting when it happens. On a
fall day, in 1972, in downtown Chicago, at the Everett Dirksen
Courthouse, on Dearborn Avenue, God’s grace made an unusual appearance. But I get ahead of myself.
My wife and I were married on March 6, 1971.
We immediately moved to Bethany Theological
Seminary,
in Oak Brook, Illinois. I went to seminary for two reasons. I wanted to be a
minister, primarily to save
the world, and I wanted a 4D classification from my local draft board. A
seminary student was exempt
from the draft. Somewhere, deep inside, hidden in a corner of my heart that I
was unfamiliar with, a
conviction, or fear, was taking up residence. I was beginning to realize I could not kill another human
being. I do not know where that feeling came from. Not from my parents. My
father was a WWII veteran
and a member of the local American Legion. The church we attended had deemed
the war as just. The
community my wife and I grew up in demanded that one put in your time. Still,
it was there, hidden
away, dormant, nagging, keeping me awake at night, keeping me busy during the
day protesting the war.
Then, I read an article about Dr. Dale Brown, professor at Bethany. He was a
leading authority on
pacifism and nonviolence. The direction was clear: I would attend Bethany and learn
what I could about
becoming a pacifist and conscientious objector, under the guidance of Dr.
Brown, who became generous
with his time and helped me prepare for a hearing with my local draft board. I
was denied at my first
hearing. I appealed and was given another hearing. At my second hearings with
the draft board, I was
tested to see how my pacifism would hold up. Someone in Washington must have
sent out questions
that the local boards should ask would-be pacifists. It actually became
something of a classic. One of
the members asked what I would do if I found someone raping my wife. I had to think about that for a few
minutes. The silence unnerved them. I finally answered that I would not push my
conviction quite
that far. I’m not sure if my answer was good or bad, but they granted me
conscientious objector status.
It was some years later that one of the board members, whom I did not know was
an acquaintance
of my deceased father, told me that I was the only person granted CO status
that he could recall.
He did not elaborate. And I didn’t
mention that silly question.
At the
same time I was attempting to become a CO, another student was giving up his
status. Doug had moved
from just objecting to being involved with war, to not wanting to participate
in the conscription system at
all. A letter describing his new position, and his torn draft card, were mailed
to his local board. This
resulted in him being arrested for non-compliance with the draft, a federal offense,
and he was scheduled
for trial.
Fifteen
of us loaded into the seminary van and went to the trial in downtown Chicago.
It was a cold fall day,
dreary, a little damp, one of those lonely fall days that sticks to your bones.
The courthouse is quite spectacular.
It was designed by architect Ludwig Mies van der Rohe in 1964. It stands there,
thirty glass stories
tall, staring at you, each window reflecting you like an eye, a primitive
insect warning against coming
too close. Soon, inside this stately, orderly building, a judge wearing a black robe will be convicting
a good man for refusing to kill anyone, or be involved in a system that sanctions
that killing. It seemed
about as cruel as the weather, which was getting worse.
It would
be a bench trail. There would be no need for a jury. It was all cut and dried.
Doug’s position was clear and
simple as any case could be. He was defying the federal government. He was
breaking the selective
service system laws that had been put into place in 1940. From 1964-1973, about
three and one-half
million young men between the ages of 18-25 were sent to Southeast Asia.
Another 16 million were
either deferred, exempt, or disqualified from the draft. According to the
Selective Service System, a
conscientious objector was “one who is opposed to serving in the armed forces
and/or bearing arms on the
grounds of moral or religious principles.” The objector could agree to enter
the military, but refuse to
carry arms, in which case they would be placed into noncombatant service. Or
the objector could do
“alternate service” in a job “deemed to make a meaningful contribution to the
maintenance of the
national health, safety, and interest.” Doug was going to do none of
these. He was guilty of noncompliance,
by his own admission and action. We would probably be taking a dreary ride back
to Bethany. Doug may or may not be with us.
We filed
into the courtroom. The room reflected the powers that designed it. The judge
up front, in
charge. The bailiff by his side, the muscle. The
prosecutor sits below, to the right. He
represents the
people. The
defendant is to the left. There was no need for an attorney. This would likely
not
take
long. The prosecutor and the defendant are separated by as much space as the
room allowed,
driving
home the fact that this is an adversarial proceeding. To the rear, the gallery,
those interested in
what will
happen. I suppose a lot of life is played
out like this. Things designed to let you know where you
stand. The room was not very big, adding to the uncomfortable feeling. The fifteen of us filled it up. There
were a couple of other people, maybe relatives, I’m not sure. I do not remember
meeting anyone else, but
it was all about to become pretty confusing.
The
prosecutor had no witnesses. He laid out the case in detail, reading from
various documents that
told of
the selective service laws and penalties for violating them. The maximum
sentence was five years and a
$10,000 fine. It was all right there, in black and white. It was plain and
simple. He wasn’t going to have to
do much to find that guilty verdict he was looking for. There was only one
witness for the defendant,
Dr. Dale Brown. It had been determined
that Doug would not testify on his own behalf. This was in
keeping with his conviction to not participate in a system that would try a
person for their unwillingness
to kill and be a part of the military
system, including the courts demand on him to comply.
Dr. Brown
would have to paint some gray between the black and white. He talked for
probably thirty
minutes.
He spoke eloquently about the history of the Brethren being pacifists and
conscientious
objectors.
He evoked the names of Bonhoeffer, Gandhi, Penn, St. Francis, and Christ. By the time he got to
Christ, the courtroom was dead silent.
You could hear everyone breath in, breath out,
like a silent meditation.
“Blessed are the peacemakers, for they
shall be called the sons of God,” was the mantra. He held
everyone spellbound. He told of all
religions emphasizing the good, peace, and a nonviolent resolution
to our differences. His words were
soothing, comforting, giving hope that this would somehow
work out. Power became a very gentle
thing that day.
The judge
appeared attentive, but I was worried that he was not very interested. Having
heard both
sides,
the judge said he would retire to his chamber to consider the verdict.
Generally, you would
consider
that a good sign. We figured it was probably unnecessary, more likely a chance for
him to go to the
bathroom or grab a bite to eat. We talked among ourselves, trying to be positive,
supportive,
realizing
we were waiting for the inevitable. Doug
was okay with how it had gone. He appeared
resigned
to his fate. Outside, the wind continued to blow and the sky grew darker.
The judge
returned in about an hour. He asked the defendant to stand. Dr. Brown stood
with him. The
fifteen
of us also stood up, slowly and hesitantly, not wanting to, but knowing we were
probably
breaking
protocol. We were all going to be guilty of the same crime: refusing to take
another life.
In an
instant, I discovered why the judge looked more human. “I find the defendant innocent.”
Innocent.
I played over in my mind all the words
that mean innocent: guiltless, cleared, blameless,
acquitted.
None of them seemed to fit. Surely, that
is not what he meant. I must have
misheard him.
Innocent/guilty,
it’s hard to confuse the two. Doug had admitted his guilt. It was purposeful.
He had
done it
intentionally. He wasn’t trying to weasel out of this. He was prepared to
suffer the punishment. We all
were.
You could
hear a pin drop. No one said a word for what seemed like hours. No one could
form words;
they
seemed inappropriate. Everyone was crying, sobbing, hugging the person next to
them, fighting for some way
to make sense of what had just happened. Out of this joyous, thankful, once
dreaded but now glorious moment,
someone started singing the doxology: “Praise
God from whom all blessings flow.” We all tried
to sing as best we could, still crying and sobbing like newborn babies. “Praise him all creatures here below.” Praise us. Praise Doug for
standing up for what he knew was right. Praise everything about this day,
which is a miracle. “Praise him about, ye
heavenly host.” I translated to “Praise
God for all that love has done.” Where did “innocent”
come from? How, in a place so filled with law and order, could something
so gracious and unpredictable happen? “Praise
Father, Son, and Holy Ghost.”
The judge
came down from the bench, took off his robe, and shook all our hands. You could
tell he was rattled.
He was caught between being happy and doing what he was required to do, which
was follow the
letter of the law. He was shaking slightly, and his eyes were misty, making a
dignified attempt not to cry. I
still don’t know what happened that day. I do not know if he was ever
reprimanded for his verdict. He was
probably given a hard time by his colleagues, at the very least. I cannot
explain what happened in any
logical way. I’ve tried for forty-three years. Sometimes, just at the right
moment, when everything comes
together in the universe, just then, I believe the synchronicity allows God to
intervene. On that day,
God’s grace prevailed over man’s laws.
