Pearl Harbor Day

A small glimpse into what our heroic war veterans went through can be found in the seven-part Ken Burns documentary The War. It covers World War II from the perspective of the soldiers.

In the episode "When Things Get Tough," the narrator quotes Pulitzer Prize winning Bill Maulden, a cartoonist and writer for Stars & Stripes. It is an analogy written for those who have never fought in a war on the miseries and hardships of the American soldier, in this case with scenes from the Italian Campaign:

Dig a hole in your backyard while it is raining. Sit in the hole while the water climbs up around your ankles. Pour cold mud down your shirt collar. Sit there for 48 hours. So there is no danger of your dozing off, imagine that a guy is sneaking around waiting for a chance to club you on the head. Or set your house on fire.

Get out of the hole, fill a suitcase full of rocks, pick it up, put a shotgun in your other hand, and walk on the muddiest road you can find. Fall flat on your face every few minutes, as you imagine big meteors streaking down beside you. If you repeat this performance every three days, for several months, you may begin to understand why an infantryman gets out of breath. But you still won't understand how he feels when things get tough.

Physically, this Bible isn’t much to look at. It’s about five inches long and three inches wide. It has a black leather cover, now well-worn and torn at the edges, with the pages at risk of falling out. Jesse Maple first carried the Bible with him (into battle) because he saw Scripture as a good luck charm. But soon enough, Maple saw it as evidence that God loved him and was with him in the jungles of Vietnam.

Maple said, “You wouldn’t believe what that Bible has been through.” He was drafted into the Army at 19. He was living a wild and backslidden life at the time. But then a man with Gideons International gave him the Bible. His mother taught him to respect Scripture, so he stuck it in his pocket and kept it there. He carried it through his tour in Vietnam.

It was still with him during one intense firefight when bullets ripped through the pack on his back. They pierced a can of fruit but left him unharmed. Afterward, Maple was standing there, juice leaking on the ground, when a passing Catholic priest told him, “The Lord was with you today.” Maple immediately thought of the little Bible in his pocket.

Maple found that personal faith, carrying and reading the Gideons Bible in Vietnam. He says, “I give God all the credit for bringing me home. I had so many close calls.”

When he came back home and learned his brother Bill, also in the Army, was being transferred to fight in Vietnam, he decided to give him the Bible. While Bill didn’t have a personal relationship with Jesus until years later, he did feel an immediate connection to that Bible. He said, “It was just like a security blanket for a baby. It felt like you had on extra armor.”

Before he left Vietnam, he gave that Bible to his close friend Roger Hill. Hill wrapped the Bible in plastic to protect it from the monsoon rains, and he still had it with him when he was severely wounded during his final tour.

In all, seven US soldiers have carried that same small book since 1967. By 2019, they had brought it with them through 11 combat tours in five countries. For each of the men, the Bible was a source of comfort, an assurance of protection, and the promise of a fuller relationship with God. They carried the Scripture to keep them safe, but they found a deeper security inside its pages.

Ultimately the small worn Bible was returned to Jesse and his brother Bill, who were the first two who carried it into combat. Bill can’t read the Bible anymore because he’s gone blind. He has an electronic device that reads books to him, though, and his favorite is still the Bible. He said, “I lay in bed when I first wake up in the morning. I turn my Bible on, and I listen.”

On a balmy January Saturday morning, an alert warning of nuclear doom was erroneously sent to millions of people across the state of Hawaii.

"BALLISTIC MISSILE THREAT INBOUND TO HAWAII. SEEK IMMEDIATE SHELTER. THIS IS NOT A DRILL." Those were the words that flashed on cell phones and televisions screens across the state, the result of a gaffe by an employee of the Hawaii Emergency Management Agency who selected the wrong option in a text-based dropdown menu.

Though the agency eventually issued a correction, residents and tourists, as well as Hawaiian natives tracking the impending disaster on the mainland, in real-time on social media, criticized the government for taking 38 minutes to issue the retraction.

"If it was a mistake and someone pushed a button they shouldn't have pushed, then why the 38 minute delay?" asked Rep. Colleen Hanabusa, D-Hawaii, in an interview with Fox News. "The next question is, why don't we have a better fail-safe?"

The employee who made the mistake has expressed profound regret for the mistake, but the blunder has since been overshadowed by the obvious, ominous hypothetical: what if the threat had been real?

In July of 2017, news reports confirmed Hawaii as the first U.S. state with an attack-warning system designed to detect nuclear threats. This latest development seems to have shaken the public's trust in its effectiveness.

Potential Preaching Angles: The end can come at any time; will you be ready? What would you do if you had just a few moments left? In times of calamity, to whom can we run?

National Geographic: In God's Name is a 2007 documentary that explores the views of 12 prominent spiritual leaders. Topics include calling, the presence of God, sacrifice, doubt, and the meaning of life. One of the segments in the bonus features section of the DVD is titled "Can All Religions Co-Exist?" Six of the contributing leaders offer their thoughts—thoughts that might be useful for preachers to interact with in a sermon.

From Reverend Mark Hanson, President, Lutheran World Federation, Evangelical Lutheran Church in America:

I think people of different religious beliefs must co-exist because we share two things: a common humanity and a common earth. I think one of the greatest challenges today is the relationship between unity and diversity. If we didn't have a sense of what holds us together, what unites us, a common humanity and a common earth, then our differences will become cause for division and conflict, one seeking to dominate the other. But if we have a sense of what unites us, then our diversity will enrich our lives. Dialogue is very difficult. It takes commitment, it takes honesty, and it takes a willingness to be open to the other.

From Yona Metzher, Chief Rabbi of Israel:

The answer as to whether religions can live together, the answer is yes. They can. They have to. Our sages say: "As faces differ, so do opinions differ." Every person has a different face. Do I hate him because his face is different from mine? If he doesn't have eyes like mine, am I supposed to hate him? It is like this also with different opinions. If his belief is different than mine, why should I hate him? We can stay friends. Each with his own laws. Each with his own beliefs. Everything depends on the religious leader and what kind of attitude they promote in their communities toward other religions.

From Dr. Rowan Williams, Archbishop of Canterbury, Church of England:

I believe that the Christian faith is true. I believe that what is revealed in Jesus Christ is the truth about God. But that does not make me feel I must now force everybody to accept that. It means I am grateful for what I have been given. That I would love to share it. That, also, I need to know that other people have come to their faith by a route that deserves my respect. So we talk to one another. We listen to one another. We have our convictions. We have our firm commitments to truth. But that does not mean violence. I think we can live together.

From Alexy II, Patriarch of Moscow and All-Russia Russian Orthodox Church:

We need to find common ground. We need to find out more about each other. That's why we support people knowing about religious values. First of all about the values of their own religion. And after that, about the values of other religions. This will help people to understand each other better, and not to address people of other religions with hostility or hatred.

From Tenzin Gyatso, The 14th Dalai Lama of Tibet, Tibetan Buddhist:

We can't decree that this or that religion is the most important. I cannot tell that Buddhism is the best for each one of us. For example, for one of my Christian friends, Christianity is the best, and that is the most suitable for him. Thus, Buddhism is the best for me, but I can't say that this is the best for you too. And it being the best for him, he cannot say it is the best for me as well.

Likes and interests are different, as in the food habits of different people. Some people like chilies. Others do not. Those that like chilies cannot say that the food having chilies is the best. For those that don't like chilies, the food without chilies is the best.

Take medicines also for another example. There are different varieties of medicine because there are different varieties of diseases. We cannot claim that only one medicine is the best for all diseases ….

Whatever religion it is, they are all beneficial to many people. I feel wonderstruck that these religions have been beneficial for millions of people for many thousand years. I always think they are very favorable to humanity.

From Grand Ayatollah Mohammed Hussein Fadlallah, Shia Muslim:

I have always been open to humanity as a whole. I have always thought that if I have the right to differ with the other, the same applies to the other. That is why I am always ready to engage Christians, Jews, and secularists and all other people who have a different religion than mine. I have never been a religious fanatic.

Elapsed Time: DVD, bonus feature titled "Can All Religions Co-Exist?" (the clip runs about five minutes)

Worship songwriter Brian Doerksen writes of a time when God placed in his mind a surprising, provocative picture that has since defined for him biblical worship. The picture seemed as though it had been ripped right from the memorable scenes of the hippie movements of the '60s. There was a crowd of "bedraggled-looking young people" holding up signs that said, "Make Love, Not War." But as Doerksen looked closer, one of the words on the signs changed so that they all read "Make Love, Make War." Doerksen thought to himself, Could God possibly be saying something that provocative [about worship]? Doerksen concluded that he was—that God was using the image to call on Doerksen and his church to rise up. He writes:

The gathering of the church is meant to be a number of things: a hospital to heal the sick and wounded; a family where everyone is accepted; a school where we are taught the Word of God; and an army that engages and defeats the Enemy to see the kingdom of God advance.

Becoming a worshiper means becoming a warrior. And by toning that down—or cutting it out altogether—we have sent men and women away from the church in droves. It's time to call them back. We need warriors to return. But we need them to return as worshiping warriors. That doesn't mean that all we do is sit around and sing. What I mean the most by the phrase worshiping warriors is warriors who are surrendered to God. Warriors who know that their authority comes because they are under authority—warriors willing to wait (even when everyone else is rushing ahead) or act decisively to walk in obedience.

We can be little w warriors because our King is a capital W Warrior. He's a warrior, not because he loves to kill and destroy, but because he defends and protects his own. Our King is a warrior because there is a rebellion against his rule and reign.

German pastor Martin Rinkart served in the walled town of Eilenburg during the horrors of the Thirty Years War of 1618-1648. Eilenburg became an overcrowded refuge for the surrounding area. The fugitives suffered from epidemic and famine. At the beginning of 1637, the year of the Great Pestilence, there were four ministers in Eilenburg. But one abandoned his post for healthier areas and could not be persuaded to return. Pastor Rinkhart officiated at the funerals of the other two. As the only pastor left, he often conducted services for as many as 40 to 50 persons a day—some 4,480 in all. In May of that year, his own wife died. By the end of the year, the refugees had to be buried in trenches without services.

Yet living in a world dominated by death, Pastor Rinkart wrote the following prayer for his children to offer to the Lord:

Now thank we all our God With hearts and hands and voices; Who wondrous things hath done, In whom this world rejoices. Who, from our mother's arms, Hath led us on our way, With countless gifts of love, And still is ours today.

In a 2009 article for Christianity Today magazine, author Jocelyn Green gave readers a glimpse into the lives of different military officers suffering from post-traumatic stress disorder—with special attention given to the responsibility the church has in ministering to those officers. She writes:

Nate Self's military record was impeccable. A West Point graduate, he led an elite Army Ranger outfit and established himself as a war hero in March 2002 for his leadership during a 15-hour ambush firefight in Afghanistan. The battle resulted in a Silver Star, a Purple Heart, and a position as President Bush's guest of honor for the 2003 State of the Union. But by late 2004, Self had walked away from the Army. In another surprise attack, post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD) had taken his life captive.

"I just hated myself," says Self. "I felt like I was somebody different. And since I didn't feel like I could be who I was before, and hated who I was now, I just wanted to kill the new person. I felt like I had messed up everything in my life. The easiest way, the most cowardly way to escape, was to just depart." …

Those who suffer from PTSD continue to react, sometimes more intensely than ever, to a traumatic or life-threatening event even after the danger is past. The main symptoms include troubling memories and nightmares, hyper-vigilance, depression and anxiety, emotional detachment, and avoidance of crowds or anything associated with the event. The symptoms often lead to substance abuse, chronic unemployment, and homelessness. Two out of three marriages in which one spouse has PTSD fail. The suicide rate among those with PTSD is almost twice the national average. Suicides were up in all the armed services in 2008, with 125 confirmed suicides in the Army alone—the most the Army has seen since it started keeping records.

Since PTSD wasn't officially recognized until 1980, many of today's veterans carry scars from not being properly cared for upon coming home from previous wars.

In 1970, after 14 months in Vietnam, James Knudsen returned as a decorated combat veteran. A Christian and regular churchgoer, he has suffered from PTSD ever since, resulting in long-term unemployment, severe depression, and a failed marriage.

John Blehm also returned from war in 1970, but wasn't diagnosed with PTSD until 27 years later. "Before then, people just thought I was a crazy alcoholic," he says. Today, Blehm and his wife, Karen, teach classes at Skyway Church in Goodyear, Arizona, for those with PTSD and their family members. The nondenominational church offers professional counseling at an affordable price on its campus, at the Window to Healing Center.

Skyway's approach represents a positive and growing trend among U.S. churches in addressing PTSD—a change that's been a long time coming.

"The church dropped the ball on our generation," says Vietnam vet and PTSD sufferer Frank Vozenilek. "We cannot afford to drop the ball on this one." Today, Vozenilek and Knudsen assist churches in the Cedar Rapids/Marion, Iowa, area in meeting the needs of veterans with PTSD. …

Retired U.S. Navy SEAL Mark Waddell says his church was "absolutely oblivious" to his family's desperation when he was dealing with PTSD, but that a fellow member, Sue McMillin, offered very practical help: she spent seven hours helping him clear his garage, which was full of boxes of military gear left untouched since Mark had returned from combat in Iraq.

"Mark could not bring himself to open the bags and boxes because of the weight of the memories," says his wife, Marshelé Carter Waddell. "He was avoiding all the triggers that lurked inside—sand and dirt from the desert, mud and blood on his boots. So the garage continued to be a negative thing in his life. With Sue's help, we hauled away a truck bed full of paraphernalia and clothing, and reorganized and labeled all the plastic tubs."

"Mark went through the memories and the triggers with us by his side, with people who love him and want him to heal, who didn't allow him to stop and walk away. It was very difficult for all of us, but at the end of the day, Mark's load was lightened dramatically." …

[The church has also played a critical role in Nate Self's healing.] Though Self was involved in a PTSD small group at Veterans Affairs, it was his … small group that proved most beneficial. Though some of his PTSD symptoms remain, they are much less severe. He now works as a consultant on officer-training materials for the Army, and is active in First Baptist Church's military ministry, which serves more than 100 military families in its 3,500-member congregation.

"If people think the VA hospital will solve all the problems, they'll overlook the greatest source of healing in any situation: Jesus," says Self. "The majority component for recovery is a spiritual solution, more than any secular clinical answer."

In 1993, Lt. Col. Gary Morsch joined the Army Reserves as a doctor to care not only for U.S. soldiers, but also for wounded civilians and prisoners of war. In 2005, as a part of the war in Iraq, he was called up to serve as the field doctor for a battalion near the Iranian border. He would take care of soldiers in the medical tent, provide supervision and training to eight combat medics, and visit two detainee camps to treat POWs. Even in that war-torn area of the world, Lt. Col. Morsch experienced the peace of God. He says:

One day I was supposed to travel by convoy to a military hospital in Baghdad to accompany a prisoner with a severe abdominal infection, but the mission was canceled after a bomb hit a convoy returning to our camp. That was the third time in five days that one of our convoys had been hit, so we waited until a nearby combat unit could beef up security. A day later we headed out.

As I sat in the back of a Humvee with this very sick POW, I asked myself what I thought every soldier in that convoy was asking: Why are we doing this for someone we consider our enemy? I could see risking my life and the lives of American soldiers for another American. But risking all this for an enemy POW?

In addition to the anxiety I was feeling as we made our way along the dangerous road to Baghdad, I was also feeling very lonely and homesick. When I realized that it was Sunday, and that I was going to miss the chapel service again, I grew even more depressed.

So there I was in this armored vehicle, wearing about 50 pounds of body armor, helmet and weapons—the full "battle rattle." Standing next to me was the gunner, his head sticking through the roof of the Humvee, constantly spinning one way, then another, aiming his machine gun at anything that moved, looking for snipers, motioning for cars to stop or move out of the way, and screaming at drivers who didn't understand.

We drove down the highway as fast as we could, trying to make ourselves a more difficult target to attack, tailgating the Humvee in front of us so a suicide car bomber could not come between us, and being tailgated by another Humvee. Sitting in front of me was a soldier monitoring the radio, who received messages from the Humvees ahead of us and yelled this information to the gunner and me.

I decided to fight off my sorrow by listening to some music on my MP3 player. My son-in-law, Eric, had loaded my player with about 1,000 songs before I left home. Since it was Sunday, I decided to listen to some praise music. The first song was by the Brooklyn Tabernacle Choir: "Surely the presence of the Lord is in this place; I can feel His mighty power and His grace: I can hear the brush of angels' wings, I see glory on each face; surely the presence of the Lord is in this place."

Speeding toward Baghdad, crammed into the back of a Humvee, I sensed the presence of God as never before. I felt enveloped by the presence of God—God around me, God above me, God in me. As tears ran down my dusty cheeks, I peered through the thick, bulletproof window at Iraqis in their flowing robes, their mud-walled houses, children at play, the tall and stately palm trees. And just as surely as I felt the presence of God in that Humvee, I sensed God's presence in all that I saw—here, in this desolate country, with the Shiites, the Sunnis, the Kurds. God was surely here. He loves Iraq.

Then I thought of what this convoy was doing, and the words of Jesus came to me: "Greater love has no one than this, that he lay down his life for his friends" (John 15:13). I was filled with a deep sense of peace. I was still worried about the road ahead, but I had a sense of contentment that everything was going to be fine, no matter what happened. I knew that God profoundly loved every person on both sides of this war.

This sense of peace and contentment lasted throughout my time in Iraq. It had nothing to do with bravery or courage on my part, but everything to do with the sense that God was with me, and that many people were praying for me.

While serving in Iraq, Courtney Birdsey experienced the protective hand of God, forever changing her. She says:

On one of [our] missions, my unit made a return trip to Samarra, north of Baghdad, to gather data. As we were leaving the town, the Humvee I was riding in approached a tank from behind. A soldier riding on the tank gave us an urgent "turn around" signal. We didn't hesitate to follow orders. We doubled back to Samarra, only to find ourselves surrounded by gunshots.

All of us jumped out of our vehicle and took cover—some of us running ahead and some of us staying with the Humvee. I readied my weapon and hunkered down against the back corner of the Humvee. Amid the gunfire, a black BMW sped through the street at 70 miles per hour—the Iraqi passengers inside, pointing their guns through open windows, opened fire at any American soldier within range.

We exchanged shots, and suddenly the BMW careened, out of control, toward the Humvee where I was crouched. I could see the driver slumped over the steering wheel and knew I had only seconds to make a decision. With my heart pounding and unformed prayers racing in my mind, I ran to the front of the vehicle just before the car slammed into the very place I had been just seconds before.

We were told we would have to transfer the wounded in our own vehicle. In the background, completely incongruent to the battle I was facing, I could hear the droning of Muslim prayer chants over loudspeakers.

My convoy was commanded to drive to an American safe house on the outskirts of town. The chanted prayers and the lamb-like groans of a dying man behind me echoed in my head. Finally we arrived at the safety of the compound. I looked down at my uniform, dirty and speckled with the blood of the wounded. I stepped out of the truck and dropped, shaking, to my knees, thanking God for our safety.

After this encounter, my faith took on a deeper and more personal perspective. I had felt the protective hand of God as we returned to our base physically unscathed. For my remaining time in Iraq, I began to rely heavily on my constant communication with God. Praying without ceasing became, for me, as natural as breathing.

Finally, in April 2004, my unit returned home to Colorado Springs. As the National Anthem played over the loudspeaker celebrating our arrival, I felt the tears I had been unable to cry for months stinging my eyes. I thought of my love for this country, the safety of my military family still in Iraq, the loss of those I had known, and of my family waiting in the stands to greet me.

Now back home, I strive to readjust to my life. The pace seems so hurried now. No more endless waiting under the unbearable heat of the sun that rises at 4 A.M. I coach a girls' high school softball team and encourage them in the sport I used to play. I try to capture a vision of my future by taking classes at a local college and working toward a degree. But it's not easy to move forward with five more years of my reserve duty still to go. There's always the underlying fear that I may be called back.

The visions and sounds of Iraq are never far from my thoughts. In many ways the experience there grew me up. I'm not the same person, spiritually or emotionally, that I was before I left. I still suffer from nightmares—images that come alive in my sleep, especially after a stressful day. But each time I see or hear of events in Iraq, I am reminded of how God faithfully protected me. I know now, no matter what the future brings, I'm never alone.

In 1993, Lt. Col. Gary Morsch joined the Army Reserves as a doctor to care not only for U.S. soldiers, but also for wounded civilians and prisoners of war. In 2005, as a part of the war in Iraq, he was called up to serve as the field doctor for a battalion near the Iranian border. In an article for Today's Christian, he shares a story of something that happened on the last day of his tour of duty:

The Saturday before I left Iraq was one of the most amazing days of my life. I was scheduled to see patients and make rounds at the POW camp, and I asked the chaplain to join me. I wanted to say goodbye to the prisoners. Many of these Muslims had become Christians, and they had been asking for a baptismal service.

The chaplain suddenly decided to conduct a simple service. The POWs gathered their water bottles, and we pulled a cot out of one of the tents, setting it in the middle of the compound. One by one, the POWs sat on the cot and leaned back while we poured water over their heads and baptized them in the name of Christ. We baptized about a dozen that day.

During the baptisms, we asked each man if he wished to take a Christian name. One man asked me to write down each of the apostles' names so he could choose one. Another prisoner, named Afshin, asked me to suggest a name. I suggested James, the brother of Jesus, and told him that my father and brother are named James. Since my family name was on my uniform, Afshin asked about Morsch as well.

The chaplain asked me to baptize Afshin. I asked my friend what name he wished to take. He said, "I wish to take the name James Afshin Morsch." With tears in my eyes, I poured water onto his head, baptizing my Muslim friend into the fellowship of Christ. After our baptismal service, James pulled me aside and told me it was an Iraqi tradition to give a good friend a gift. He slowly slipped a ring off his hand.

"This is my wedding ring," he said. "I haven't seen my wife in many years, and I probably will never see her again. I'd like to give it to you."

I was stunned.

"No, James, you must keep it," I eventually said. "Someday you will see your wife again."

"No, I want you to have it," he said, as he pressed the ring into my hand.

We hugged and said a tearful goodbye, and then I walked out of the POW compound. It was time to return home.

I left on a plane full of wounded soldiers. The airstrip was under attack even as we taxied for takeoff. But I was at peace. God had brought me to Iraq to serve soldiers, civilians, and the enemy. But I saw that those categories are meaningless before God. He loves them all, and calls us to serve them all.

On April 18, 1942, Army Corporal Jacob DeShazer boarded a bomber plane with his pilot, Lieutenant William Farrow, and a co-pilot, navigator, and rear gunner. Their mission was to bomb Tokyo and its surrounding cities. When the mission was accomplished, they were to land on the shores of enemy territory and elude the opposing forces as they awaited further instructions. The bombing was a success, but they never received word as to where they were to land. With fuel running low, Lt. Farrow gave the order for all on board to jump. DeShazer made a safe landing and was taken prisoner by ten Japanese soldiers shortly thereafter. Though his life was spared, he was tortured ruthlessly before being placed into solitary confinement at a filthy prison camp. DeShazer remained in captivity for almost two years, struggling with starvation and illness. After one of his fellow prisoners died of dysentery, Japanese authorities increased the rations of food and allowed the prisoners to have reading material, including the Bible. Because there was only one Bible, DeShazer had to wait six months to get his turn with it. Finally, when his turn came, DeShazer read the Scriptures over and over again. Though raised in a Christian home, he had never accepted Christ. On the final day he was allowed to have the Bible, he read Romans 10:9 once more, confessed his belief in Christ, and begged for forgiveness. DeShazer had been converted to a follower of Christ. Immediately he realized this demanded changes in his life—both while in a prison camp and beyond (should he ever be released). In an article on DeShazer's life for Today's Christian, Elsie J. Larson shares what happened next:

Bad habits and attitudes don't just go away when a person accepts Christ. One day after the exercise period, DeShazer's guard hurried him toward his cell, shoved him inside, slamming the door on DeShazer's foot. Instead of opening the door, the guard kicked the prisoner's foot with his hobnailed boots.

DeShazer desperately pushed the door until he could free his foot. His mind blazed with rage.

However, Jesus' words came to him: "Love your enemies, bless them that curse you, do good to them that hate you, and pray for them, which despitefully use you."

Nursing his foot, DeShazer wished for a while that his mind would go blank; instead, all the Scripture God had helped him memorize flooded into his mind. Calming down, he decided, God commanded me to love. What a wonderful world it would be if we would all try to love one another. I'll try.

The next morning was the test. DeShazer greeted the guard respectfully in Japanese.

The guard gave him a puzzled look and said nothing.

Every morning, the prisoner offered friendly greetings and received no response. Then one morning the guard walked straight to DeShazer's cell, and spoke to him through the door. He was smiling. DeShazer asked about his family. From that time on, the guard treated him with respect and kindness, and once even brought him a boiled sweet potato. Another time, the guard slipped DeShazer figs and candy.

A year after his conversion, in June 1945, the Americans were transferred to a prison in Beijing (Peking). Conditions were worse than in Nanjing (Nanking). DeShazer nearly died of starvation and disease, but he grew spiritually. Like the prophet Daniel, he knelt and prayed diligently.

On August 6, 1945, the day the atomic bomb was dropped on Hiroshima, DeShazer woke up about 7 A.M. and was impressed to pray for peace. At 2 P.M., the Holy Spirit told the prisoner, "You don't need to pray any more. The victory is won." DeShazer thought this was a better way to receive world news than waiting for a radio report. Immediately, his thoughts turned to his captors. Wondering what would happen to the Japanese people, God gave him the answer: he was to eventually return to Japan and teach them about his Savior.

In 1948, Jacob DeShazer returned to Japan with his wife, Florence, as a missionary. By that time, Army chaplains had distributed more than a million tracts containing DeShazer's testimony titled, "I Was a Prisoner of the Japanese." Thousands of Japanese people wanted to see the man who could forgive his enemies. In his first few months in Japan, the former [bomber] had spoken in two hundred places. Soon he, with his wife Florence, helped Japanese Christians to establish churches.

Although the church planting was going well, early in 1950, DeShazer longed for a revival for Japan. He fasted 40 days, praying for the salvation of the Japanese.

A few days after he ended his fast, a man came to his home and introduced himself—Mitsuo Fuchida, flight commander of the 360 planes that attacked Pearl Harbor. After reading DeShazer's testimony, Fuchida had purchased a New Testament, read it, and had accepted Christ.

DeShazer welcomed him as a brother and counseled him to be baptized. Within a short time, Fuchida became an evangelist, preaching in Japan and all over the world.

In 1959 a dream came true for DeShazer when he moved to Nagoya to establish a Christian church in the city he had bombed. Because of one shared Bible, the man who first came to [bomb] Japan…returned on the wings of a dove to spread the "peace that passeth understanding" in that country for the next thirty years.

Acclaimed newsman Walter Cronkite hosts PBS's 2003 documentary Heroes of World War II, a look at the many American military officers who won the second great war through dedication, sacrifice, and bravery. In this scene Cronkite describes the battle Americans and Germans fought over territory near Bastogne, France.

"The U.S. forces in Bastogne were now surrounded by the Germans," Cronkite says in voiceover narration. "But they held on."

Various archival war scenes are shown, but there is nothing bloody or objectionable. Many shots are close-ups of American soldiers.

Major Richard Winters, 101st Airborne, U.S. Army, comments: "We were seeing men break down due to mental strain and frostbite. Roughly 30 percent of the casualties at Bastogne were frostbite."

Cronkite continues to narrate as more scenes of soldiers are shown: "The 101st defended Bastogne with dogged determination, even while supplies dwindled, munitions ran low, and morale began to slip."

Major Winters takes over the narration from Cronkite: "The Germans were just a few miles from their home territory, so they had plenty of ammunition. And they're shelling the heck out of you. And this is going on and on. So you're not sure how long you'll be around. But you're not leaving until it's done!"

More scenes are shown of warfare as Cronkite says: "On December 23, the skies cleared enough to supply badly needed supplies and ammunition to battered U.S. troops."

Footage is shown of military airplanes dropping parachuted supplies.

Major Winters continues: "A man who is in a unit like—we'll say Company E—they take a lot of pride in [sticking close to each other]. They do not want to let their friends down. They want to do their part. And that's beautiful. That bonding, that friendship—you have to see it, you have to live through it to appreciate the strength of it."

Various scenes of soldiers helping wounded soldiers are shown. Again, nothing bloody or objectionable is shown.

"And that's what we had," Winters continues. "That's where we got the strength to go through it again and again. You're not going to drop out because your friends are there. You're going to stay there. Cold? Well, if you can take it, I can take it!"

Soldiers marching through a winter storm in a forest are shown.

"It's the bonding of men. It keeps them together," Winter says.

As the images of soldiers linger, Cronkite concludes: "And it was this bonding of brothers in combat that gave the men the strength to continue."

During the 2008 presidential race, John McCain was asked by Time magazine to share his "personal journey of faith." In his article McCain shared a powerful story of something that occurred while he was a prisoner of war in Vietnam:

When I was a prisoner of war in Vietnam…my captors would tie my arms behind my back and then loop the rope around my neck and ankles so that my head was pulled down between my knees. I was often left like that throughout the night. One night a guard came into my cell. He put his finger to his lips signaling for me to be quiet and then loosened my ropes to relieve my pain. The next morning, when his shift ended, the guard returned and retightened the ropes, never saying a word to me.

A month or so later, on Christmas Day, I was standing in the dirt courtyard when I saw that same guard approach me. He walked up and stood silently next to me, not looking or smiling at me. Then he used his sandaled foot to draw a cross in the dirt. We stood wordlessly looking at the cross, remembering the true light of Christmas, even in the darkness of a Vietnamese prison camp.

Millions have seen Nick Ut's Pulitzer Prize-winning photo of Phan Thi Kim Phuc (pronounced "fuke"). On June 8, 1972, a napalm bomb was dropped on her village. Phuc, who was just nine-years-old at the time, ran crying from her hiding place in the village temple in Vietnam. Ut's picture shows Phuc's arms outstretched in terror and pain, skin flapping from her legs as she cried, "Nong qua! Nong qua!" ("Too hot! Too hot!").

Doctors said Kim would not survive, but after 14 months in the hospital—and 17 surgeries—she returned to her family. Despite the miraculous recovery, however, Kim was seldom free from pain and nightmares—and anger.

"The anger inside me was like a hatred high as a mountain," said Kim, "and my bitterness was black as old coffee. I hated my life. I hated all people who were normal, because I was not normal. I wanted to die many times. Doctors helped heal my wounds, but they couldn't heal my heart."

While spending time in a library, Kim found a Bible and began reading the New Testament.

"The more I read, the more I felt confused," said Kim. "I wondered which was true—my religion or the Bible."

Kim's brother-in-law had a friend who was a Christian, so she arranged to see him with her list of questions. After they talked, the friend invited Kim to visit his church for a Christmas service. The end of the service was a turning point in Kim's life. "I could not wait to trust the Lord," Kim said. "[Jesus] helped me learn to forgive my enemies, and I finally had some peace in my heart. Now when I look at my scars or suffer pain, I'm thankful the Lord put his mark on my body to remind me that he is with me all the time."

Peacemakers are honored insofar as they speak about peace as something already victoriously won that we can celebrate as part of our glorious past or as something that will be won in the other world. They continue to be dishonored insofar as they continue to point out injustice, hypocrisy, and suffering. They are noble when their actions bring to light problems far away from us; they are an odious nuisance when they point out our own sins.

The 20th century was the bloodiest in human history. In Humanity: A Moral History of the 20th Century, Jonathan Glover estimates that 86,000,000 people died in wars fought from 1900 to 1989. That means 2,500 people every day, or 100 people every hour, for 90 years.

In addition to those killed in war, government-sponsored genocide and mass murder killed approximately 120,000,000 people in the 20th century—perhaps more than 80,000,000 in the two Communist countries of China and the Soviet Union alone, according to R. J. Rummel's Statistics of Democide.

In his book Sermon on the Mount: A Foundation for Understanding, author and professor Robert A. Guelich writes of the role Christ-followers play as peacemakers:

The peace intended is not merely that of political and economic stability, as in the Greco-Roman world, but peace in the Old Testament inclusive sense of wholeness, all that constitutes well-being…

The "peacemakers," therefore, are not simply those who bring peace between two conflicting parties, but those actively at work making peace, bringing about wholeness and well-being among the alienated.

In an interview with Carolyn Arends, singer and songwriter Sara Groves explains why she begins her 2007 album Tell Me What You Know, which primarily addresses social issues, with "Song for My Sons":

I wondered how my kids would finish the statement, "My mother always said … " What would they say? Besides, "You get what you get," "Don't throw a fit," and "That doesn't fit in your nose"? I would hope there was something that stood out as the message of my life.

"Song for My Sons" is based on Matthew 24:12–13, where Jesus tells the disciples that in the end times, there will be an increase of evil. He says, "The love of most will grow cold, but some will stand firm to the end and they'll be saved." I think my sons will face things that I can't even comprehend. And that evil, that darkness, that hurt will make them want to shut their hearts. Even now believers are shutting up their hearts and they're closing the windows and locking the doors. But Jesus says, "I want you to keep your door open in the face of terrorism, in the face of all the ills that the world has to offer. I want you to keep your heart open and love your God and love your neighbor."