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In Advent, we wait in joyful anticipation for Jesus to be born in us again and for the new life promised to us in this child. This year, we also share in the added joy of Revs. Sarah and Bill Searight and Revs. Lindsey and Pen Peery in the births of their children. In celebration of these newest and youngest members of our church family, we offer a poem and image from William Blake.
Infant Joy
by William Blake
“I have no name:
Although exact figures are not possible, it is estimated that 60 to 72 million people died in World War II, including military dead of 22 to 25 million. Over 400,000 Americans lost their lives in the war. Two plaques in the narthex of the First Presbyterian sanctuary list the names of 285 members of our congregation who served during World War II. Ten of those names are “gold star” names. Go by the narthex this Sunday and share a moment of your time in honor and memory of those men and women.
Today’s poem is by the poet Archibald MacLeish. ”The poet Archibald MacLeish was especially aware of the importance of this sacrifice. As a young man, he had served as an artillery officer in World War I and had witnessed suffering and death on the battlefields of Europe. During the second World War, he took up public service once again, serving as the Librarian of Congress while still writing poetry. When the Library of Congress held a memorial service for all its staff members who had died in the war, MacLeish contributed a powerful poem that not only commemorated the dead, but also made it clear that those who survived bore a special responsibility to make the deaths of these soldiers meaningful. As you read this poem, think about what the poem suggests as possible ways to live up to such a great sacrifice. You might also think about the sacrifices that other people have made for you.”…. from the website of the Library of Congress.
THE YOUNG DEAD SOLDIERS DO NOT SPEAK
By Archibald MacLeish
Nevertheless they are heard in the still houses: who has not heard them?
They have a silence that speaks for them at night and when the clock counts.
They say, We were young. We have died. Remember us.
They say, We have done what we could but until it is finished it is not done
They say, We have given our lives but until it is finished no one can know what our lives gave.
They say, Our deaths are not ours: they are yours: they will mean what you make them.
They say, Whether our lives and our deaths were for peace and a new hope or for nothing we cannot say: it is you who must say this.
They say, We leave you our deaths: give them their meaning: give them an end to the war and a true peace: give them a victory that ends the war and a peace afterwards: give them their meaning.
We were young, they say. We have died. Remember us.
TweetAs we recognize Veteran’s Day we will feature two poems. Today’s first poem is by Brian Turner, who served for seven years in the U.S. Army. Beginning in November 2003, he was an infantry team leader in Iraq with the 3rd Stryker Brigade Combat Team, 2nd Infantry Division. More of his poetry is available at Turner.
ASHBAHThe ghosts of
American soldiers
wander the streets of
Balad by night,
unsure of their way
home, exhausted,
the desert wind
blowing trash
down the narrow
alleys as a voice
sounds from the
minaret, a soulfull call
reminding them how
alone they are,
how lost. And the
Iraqi dead,
they watch in silence
from rooftops
as date palms line the
shore in silhouette,
leaning toward Mecca
when the dawn wind blows.
Today’s poem by Leroy V. Quintana, a native New Mexican who served in Vietnam in the Army Airborne and a Long Range Reconnaissance Patrol unit in 1967-68. More of his poetry is available at Quintana.
As summer begins to wane and the school year starts up in earnest, we thought a poem from Wendell Berry might give us a healthy perspective on trying and failing and in the process learning something about ourselves and about life and our place in it. This poem was published on-line by the Writer’s Almanac on August 23. It was published in the book Leavings (Counterpoint Press, 2010.)
IX.
I go by a field where once
I cultivated a few poor crops.
It is now covered with young trees,
for the forest that belongs here
has come back and reclaimed its own.
And I think of all the effort
I have wasted and all the time,
and of how much joy I took
in that failed work and how much
it taught me. For in so failing
I learned something of my place,
something of myself, and now
I welcome back the trees.