Sermon Tone Analysis

“I commend to you our sister Phoebe, a servant of the church at Cenchreae, that you may welcome her in the Lord in a way worthy of the saints, and help her in whatever she may need from you, for she has been a patron of many and of myself as well.

“Greet Prisca and Aquila, my fellow workers in Christ Jesus, who risked their necks for my life, to whom not only I give thanks but all the churches of the Gentiles give thanks as well.

Greet also the church in their house.

Greet my beloved Epaenetus, who was the first convert to Christ in Asia.

Greet Mary, who has worked hard for you.”

[1]

His name was Charlie Greer.

I doubt that many people outside of his family remember him now.

I am reasonably certain that his parents are no longer living; if they are, their hearts are undoubtedly still raw despite the passage of over forty years.

He had an older brother and two younger sisters; I met one of those sisters, Roberta, this past year; I hadn’t seen her since Charlie came home for the last time.

She still thinks of him; the family members no doubt value the few ageing photographs in albums or hanging in cherished places on the walls.

Every Veterans Day and each Memorial Day they probably go to the cemetery and place flowers on the grave, shed a few tears and think of Charlie.

Frankly, I can’t forget Charlie.

A raw memory of Charlie forces its way into my consciousness at the most inopportune times.

The last time I saw Charlie is vividly etched in my memory.

We had joined forces in Fredonia, the county seat of Wilson County Kansas.

From Fredonia we rode a Continental Trailways bus to Cherryvale.

In Cherryvale we caught the Missouri Pacific passenger train to Kansas City.

By unspoken consent Charlie had hidden a couple of bottles of peach brandy in his luggage and I smuggled a couple of bottles of “Old Sour Breath,” and so we spent the hours tippling.

We were two teenage boys on our way to war and with teenage bravado; we vainly tried to forget the threat hanging over our heads.

By the time we got to Kansas City neither of us was able to form a sound opinion about much of anything; but we were still teenagers and life was sweet and we were about to enter into the service of our country and we would live forever.

What would one more night matter?

Who could possibly object to us having a little fun?

So we two boys from a small town in Kansas wandered the streets of the big city until well into the morning hours.

I had a ticket to stay at the YMCA courtesy of the United States Marine Corps and so I invited Charlie to sleep on the floor for the remainder of the night—all three hours of it.

We would then get up and report to the induction centre across the street.

Those few hours swiftly fled and soon we were entering the imposing looking building where we asked a few questions and discovered where we were supposed to go.

Pausing before a stern looking United States Army sergeant, Charlie gave his name and stated that he was to report for induction.

Looking down a rather long list the sergeant looked up and said, “You were supposed to be here last night, Greer.

Where were you?”

Charlie stammered some reply which made no great imprint on my memory, but the rejoinder of that sergeant is stamped indelibly on my memory: “Son, you just bought a one-way ticket to Vietnam.”

In retrospect, his words were more a prophecy than a statement, and the words are chilling in their impact to this day.

Charlie grinned and waved good-bye to me and disappeared through the door behind that old sergeant while I continued on my way to the Marine Corps induction centre.

Two years later, in April of 1967, Charlie came home from Vietnam.

Charlie’s final journey was in a metal coffin carried by six men and accompanied by a friend who had also joined the Marines, Lance Corporal Jack Fail.

Two weeks before rotating home, Charlie was shot in the head by a sniper as he walked about believing himself to be secure in his own camp.

Charlie Greer—it’s just a name to most people; but when viewed on line #4 of panel #17E, together with fifty-eight thousand one hundred ninety other names engraved on the black granite wall; but for me, that name evokes some of the most powerful memories imaginable.

What memories flood visitors as they approach the wall laughing and chattering!

Nearing the wall a strange phenomenon is observed as voices are first muted and then silenced.

Other than quiet sobbing or the occasional whisper as a visitor speaks the name of a departed friend or family member, there is no sound.

Those 58,191 names of dead and missing men and women are a powerful reminder of the cost of freedom and the folly of unrestrained government.

A mother and a father look at a name and they again see the faltering steps of a little child grow into the purposeful stride of young manhood.

They see that young man proudly wearing the uniform of his country and they see their own dreams for him smashed by the black trimmed telegram which begins: “We regret to inform you that your son…”

A woman of sixty something, or even seventy years of age, stands before the wall and recalls the tender embraces with which her young husband comforted her as she sobbed at the thought of a thirteen-month separation.

How could she make it on the money he would be able to send home?

And the child which would be born in just seven months?

That little one would be six months old before he or she ever saw Dad!

The unknown gnawed at her and left her apprehensive.

Yet he had stroked her hair, kissed her forehead and spoken just the words she needed to hear—words of purpose and resolve and a reaffirmation of his love and devotion for her, his childhood sweetheart.

She still remembers the day the knock on the door startled her as she was busy with the affairs of the home and motherhood, and opening the door she saw the chaplain standing there with a captain she had never seen before.

Before either could say a word she cried out, her voice rising to a scream: “No!

Not him!

No! No! No!”

The ageing man stands, head bowed and hand extended to the wall.

A look of profound grief crosses his face and knits his brow.

The insensitive observer would stare and see the tears streaming down his face as the anguished screams for a medic echo in his mind and he again cradles his best friend in his arms, watching his life blood drain out onto the jungle floor.

The grieving man lays a medal—a piece of ribbon with an icon that indicates heroism at the base of the wall.

In his mind, he knows he wasn’t a hero, just a boy sent to perform an impossible job with inadequate support.

He knows that the heroes are memorialised on that black wall.

The young woman stands before the wall, and before laying a single rose at the base of the wall she wonders what her father would say about the decisions facing her now—marriage, family, education, work; it all seems so overwhelming at times.

She longs to have a father tell her what to do, a dad to give her advice about her options; but it will never be.

She never knew him, but she has often heard about him as she grew up.

She has even been told that she looks a lot like him and that her mannerisms remind old friends and family members of him.

The way she speaks evoked strong memories for her mother and for her grandmother.

A piece of polished black granite inscribed with names of family, friends and neighbours has become for an entire nation one of the most powerful sources of emotion.

Those names speak of acts of courage and of acts of cowardice.

The names are those of men and women, citizens and aliens, young and old, each alike was engaged in a conflict they could not wish, each was swept up in a great social upheaval.

The names inscribed on that wall point to other unlisted names representing individuals who were equally courageous but who carried or still carry scars which will never heal—scars both visible and unseen.

Always underlying the names listed is the knowledge of the hurt to millions of young Vietnamese who have no memorial.

Names can evoke powerful emotions and powerful memories, and when those names represent that which is considered precious, as do the names inscribed on this memorial, the power resident within those names can only be enhanced.

There are other lists of names which hold great significance for us as citizens of one of the nations.

These other lists speak of privilege and responsibility.

Along with most of my neighbours I travel to a local school, church or community hall.

We arrive individually and in little knots throughout the day.

Arrive at the wrong time and your wait may be extended; at other times you will be able to walk right in, march up to the table and obtain your materials.

Seated behind the table is one of your neighbours who will ask your name and verify that you are listed on the master list.

You may find it necessary to produce your registration card in the event the clerk seated before you is somewhat nervous or a novice.

In a ritual as old as democracy itself the citizenry is participating in the selection of those who will direct the affairs of the municipality, of the province or of the nation.

Not everyone living in the community will be permitted to cast a ballot; only those enrolled on the voters list are permitted to vote.

There are rules for being listed on the voters’ list.

You must be a member of the community.

You must be a citizen.

You must be permitted the privilege.

Though others are graciously permitted to live among us, even to benefit from the decisions our governments make, they are not permitted the great privilege of determining the direction government will proceed during the coming term.

From the voter’s list which speaks of the privilege of participating in the democratic process is drawn another vital list which speaks of responsibility.

Privilege always leads to responsibility and the responsibility imposed on voters is that they must participate in administration of justice.

In a procedure as old as British jurisprudence the names of voters are set down on a list and those so listed are subject to random selection as potential jurors.

Gathered in a courtroom, that large body of men and women—known as the jury pool—listen to detailed instructions from a sheriff.

Then they hear the judge describe the cases which will be heard.

He gives an indication of the length of time the participating lawyers estimate they will need to present their respective cases.

Without further delay juries are empanelled from that list of citizens.

It is a privilege to vote, to participate in the selection of those directing affairs of state and matters of civic need.

Only those meeting the requirements of citizenship may participate in that act.

Balancing the privilege is the awesome responsibility of participating in the administration of justice through hearing legal arguments and making decisions based upon those arguments.

Again, the responsibility is incumbent upon those who are members of the society and citizens of the community, of the province, of the nation.

Surely we are aware that names are significant.

John closes his third letter with this admonition, “Greet the friends, each by name” [3 JOHN 15].

Names can evoke intense emotions, feelings of pride and sorrow and determination.

Names remind us of privilege restricted to those meeting the requirements to be numbered among those listed.

Likewise, names, when listed to remind us of privilege also speak of responsibility to be borne by those so privileged.

Throughout the Word of God are found lists of names.