Entering Samaria: Peace Ministry among U.S. Military Personnel in West Germany
Experiences of a pacifist on a U.S. Air Force base
I share the following stories to give readers a glimpse of military life and our life among German and American Christians.
What do the Germans think of us?
In fall 1987 the Hunsrück peace initiative sponsored a week-long blockade of the cruise missile base. The purpose was to urge greater resolve in moving towards an INF treaty and to protest plans for further military bases in the region. People prepared to face arrest sat down together on one of the four entrance roads leading into the base. Sometimes the military simply closed the gate and redirected traffic. At other times the blockaders were arrested by the German police.
After spending an afternoon with the protesters, I decided to walk alone to another gate to discuss day's events with some of the American guards. When I approached the guard post a short man with dark, distrustful eyes met me. He seemed to be hiding behind his metallic blue Air Force coat and beret. I greeted him in English and was met by silence. He clutched his M-16 and stared at me coldly. I returned his gaze. I couldn't tell if it was fear or hate or anger I was up against.
After a few moments he asked curtly, "What do you want?"
"I'm with the blockaders at the other gate," I offered. "I wanted to explain to you who we are and why we're here."
"I don't want to talk," he snapped.
Not knowing what else to do I decided to stand there silently and pray. Even if we do not exchange a single word, I thought, after half an hour maybe he will have grown accustomed to me and will have realized that I mean him no harm. So I stood in silence.
About 15 minutes later, he suddenly approached me and almost breathlessly began asking questions: "Who are you?" "What do you want?" "How do I know you're not terrorists?" "Does it do any good to protest?" "What do the Germans think of us?"
The guard, Greg, was nervous and fearful. A few minutes earlier, just for the fun of it, several blockaders had swooped past the gate with brooms acting like crazy witches. He was agitated and could not understand this. The only purpose he saw was to provoke him. I shared my own discomfort with the attitudes and prejudices of some members of the peace movement towards GIs, and Greg began sharing his own questions and uncertainties.
"I'm just doing my job," he kept repeating. "What do you want from me? You should talk to the politicians." He claimed to be a policeman, not a soldier. It was all the same, he insisted, whether he walked a beat in some city or protected government property.
He relaxed considerably when I told him that we oppose the weapons and what they stand for, but not him and his friends. Greg thought everyone in the peace movement got orders and pay from the Soviet Union. He believed the labels "communist," "terrorist," "Green" and "peace movement" were interchangeable. He was impressed to learn that the blockade was announced publicly, that blockaders were asked to sign a pledge of nonviolence and that many were Christians. I told him decisions are made democratically in small affinity groups where members are accountable to each other. "I never knew any of that!" he exclaimed.
We had talked for about 30 minutes when an Air Force police car rolled up and called Greg over. He returned and looked at me helplessly, saying, "I just got chewed out for talking to you."
"I'll make it easy for you and leave," I responded. Greg nodded. In a short time this guard's perspective began to change: We shook hands and said goodbye, friends.
We live in very different worlds
I. September 1987.
This morning I attended the Hahn Baptist Church, a congregation in Lautzenhausen. It was the first time I'd been to a church whose members are nearly all either GIs or military family members.
The German listing of Baptist congregations said the service started at 8:30 a.m., so I rushed through breakfast to get there on time. The Southern Baptists meet in what was once the village school which was easy to find. I arrived at half past 8, careful to park the car I had borrowed from a German friend -- complete with peace dove bumper stickers -- several blocks from the church. I was donned in my only sports jacket and a tie.
The parking lot was strangely empty. At the top of the stairs I ran into a couple of children playing in the nursery. I asked where the service was and they told me I was early. "Oh no," I thought, "out of place already." And just these little girls were already making me nervous.
In the lobby I noted 14-year growth plans intended to culminate in an auditorium with a seating capacity of 700. In the racks were brochures for Navigators' retreats in Switzerland. I felt very out of place. "God," I prayed, "what are you getting me into? I've stumbled into a strange world and I am alone. What am I going to say when they ask me who I am and what I do?"
I reminded myself that I didn't have to achieve anything or change anybody. I was there to watch and to listen. I wanted to learn to be open to people whose values and lifestyle are different from mine.
The pastor greeted me with a strong Southern accent and a big smile. Mothers were taking their children to the nursery. Someone told me the singles usually sit on the left, so I pushed my way in that direction. An overhead projector stood in the middle and an American flag hung behind the pulpit. The room was three-quarters full. There were lots of couples. The faces reminded me of the crowd at a public high school football game.
The service began with devotional songs. Texts were projected on a screen. A guitar and a flute accompanied the singing. I hadn't sung songs like this since leaving the United States and I enjoyed it. But I was saddened when we sang a remake of Psalm 85: "Peace and righteousness shall kiss each other, in Jesus, Jesus, Jesus, the lamb that was slain ... " The congregation was earnest and devout. Muscular men lifted their hands, overwhelmed with emotion. Here and there tears flowed. But I couldn't help thinking that the next day they would be servicing F-16s and cruise missiles. I felt a bond with them, but also such a deep gulf between us.
After the sermon guests were asked to raise their hands. I felt like I was being rushed at the 10-yard line. An usher was immediately at my side with a King James Bible and an attendance sheet. On the cover of the Bible was written "See p. 177" and there in bold letters "You are a SINNER." Another usher practically led me by the hand to a waiting cup of coffee.
I had a few short conversations after the service. Marked as a civilian by hair that touched my ears, people invariably asked what I do. I told them I am a Mennonite volunteer. Generally they weren't interested enough to ask further questions. I told a few that I was beginning an evangelism project: Spreading the good news of peace through Jesus Christ (and not nuclear weapons). This is a vocabulary military personnel are comfortable with, but does it really help them understand? I felt deceitful, yet no one was interested in a longer discussion and other short answers use words that immediately set off red flags for most GIs.
A few mistook me for a German. Before I left someone told me that the Hahn Christian Academy, a school run by the church, was looking for a German teacher. I thought about applying.
II. October
I called the principal of the school, Jane Shelton, about the teaching position. I told her I was new to the area and a Mennonite volunteer. "Praise the Lord!" she exclaimed, and we agreed on a time for an interview. She must have researched the Mennonites because she called a few days later and said her husband, the pastor, would like to join our meeting.
The job might be a good opportunity to meet American military personnel and their families in a natural way, I thought. And it could help them learn something about the country where they are stationed. But I approached the meeting with no expectations about getting the position. It was a chance to talk and I was curious what might come of it.
Don Shelton began by asking about my work and the Mennonites. He was particularly interested in matters of church dogma. Starting with a point I thought a Baptist could readily understand, I told about the Mennonite practice of believers' baptism and the persecution the church suffered because of it. Then I explained briefly Mennonite teachings on nonviolence and peacemaking and my own convictions. "Is this something foreign to you or does it cause you problems?" I asked. He responded, "Doesn't your peace position hinder your ministry to members of the armed forces?" The Sheltons seemed to respect my stance but to regard it as a minor quirk irrelevant to the real message of the Gospel.
They then gave me a tour of the school. Each student had their own cubicle where they worked alone all day with a workbook. A student could raise a little American flag to draw the attention of the classroom "supervisor." Compliant behavior or correct answers were rewarded by extra recess time or with other goodies. Such regimentation would seem to be good preparation for military life, I thought.
Before I left, Don and Jane informed me that all teachers at their school need to be church members, although exceptions might be possible for part-time positions. They gave me a copy of the church's articles of faith. We agreed to meet again in a week.
I spent a good deal of time before the second meeting talking to my German friends and preparing myself in prayer.
At the outset of our meeting, Don told me the school had decided to hire someone to teach French instead of German. They told me with a straight face. Perhaps French will come in handy, I thought, if the children ever play with German kids. After all Germans learn French in school, too. In any case the teaching position was filled.
Don asked an elder of the church, George Wood, to join our meeting. George is a civilian engineer working for the air force. He looks like a "granola type," with his ragged beard and disheveled hair. I could well imagine him at a Sojourners worship service or working at a soup kitchen in the United States.
Don and George began asking about some German friends I had brought to a church service. "We want to ask a personal question," they told me. "Are they involved in demonstrations or in the peace movement?" These seemed to be sinister and mysterious matters. So I told them about the prayer for peace services held outside the cruise base and various local Christian groups active in the peace movement.
Though the atmosphere was relatively relaxed, there was a defensive undercurrent and George and Don made a number of veiled accusations. They warned me about judging others, sowing seeds of confusion and division within the congregation and being an unsuspecting tool of the devil in his efforts to destroy the unity of the body. I was surprised that my simple statements about how God deals with enemies and what that means for me generated such stern admonition.
I was encouraged to hear that many members of the congregation had struggled with reconciling their faith and their work. Perhaps reading the Bible and prayer do have an impact, I thought. But as Don said, "These men have placed themselves under the authority of God. Here they experience a new freedom. They have peace on this question. They've put it behind them." I couldn't help asking myself what role the pastor had played in making sure they put uncomfortable questions behind them.
Toward the end we discussed how to share deeply held but controversial convictions. They gave me suggestions on words to avoid using in a military setting because they immediately set off alarms in people's heads and create barriers to communication. In effect we had taken a step back from the immediate conflict and discussed how to discuss it. We had found a common problem that we could both work on.
Scenes from the nearly two-hour meeting kept running through my mind for hours. I was glad to realize that I had not been particularly nervous or afraid either before or during the conversation. I wondered what George and Don had taken with them from our exchange and I asked myself what I had learned. And as is often the case after such an encounter, I asked: Was I too cautious or too candid?
III. Spring 1990
One Sunday afternoon at the prayer for peace outside the cruise missile base, Renate Fuchs, a German friend, read a short announcement from the local paper. In the interest of Christian unity, the Hahn Baptist Church was sponsoring a German-American choir to perform John Michael Talbot's choral cantata "Eternal light" during the Easter season. The choir needed more voices. Four of us decided to participate: Renate, Jutta Dahl, my wife, Cathy, and I.
I had only had incidental contact with anyone from Hahn Baptist during the previous two years. When Renate called for more information she mentioned my name. George and Lynn Wood, who were organizing the event, remembered me. They were happy we would be singing with them.
We rehearsed together every Monday evening for seven or eight weeks. The cantata text consisted largely of Old and New Testament passages: "Beating swords into plowshares," "To guide our feet on the way of peace." Since everyone left soon after the rehearsals, we had little chance to discuss what this meant to us. A few raised their eyebrows when Jutta mentioned that she could not make one of the performances because she would be giving a speech at a demonstration outside the cruise missile base.
After a performance at Hahn Air Base and another one close by, Jutta invited the choir to sing in a worship service of the Protestant congregation in the town of Bell where her husband, August, is pastor. The congregation is known for its outspoken opposition to the deployment of nuclear weapons in the region. The Woods and the Dahls met to discuss details.
On Sunday, May 13, our two worlds met. The choir consisted largely of American soldiers and their wives. Many friends from the peace movement were in the congregation. At the front of the sanctuary was a large banner with the words "Glaube kann Berge versetzen" (faith can move mountains). The image of nuclear bombs being thrust aside by a large, healthy wheat stalk was a provocative illustration.
Most of the Americans in the choir couldn't read the banner and probably had little idea of the congregation's commitments. But afterward, over a cup of coffee, Germans and Americans pooled their communication skills to cross the various barriers that usually separate them. For many it was the first face-to-face meeting between Christians in the military and the peace movement. It was exhilarating for me to look around the room and watch the conversations.
Afterward Jutta commented that it was an important chance to get to know each other, hopefully the beginning of a longer exchange about faith and the consequences for our lives. "But I have no illusions this will be easy. We live in very different worlds," she said.
Who's boss here, anyway?
Mark joined the Army for several reasons. He was flunking out of college and he did not want to make his elderly parents put out any more money. He got kicked around a lot in high school and he thought the Army would make him strong and respected. He banked on the promise of a $25,000 college fund to give him a new start when he got out.
A few months later he wrote: "I found out during basic training that I do not enjoy being trained to shoot or kill human beings which seriously affects my ability to be an infantryman and to be able to fulfill the mission. I have a personality that is nonconforming and spontaneous, admirable qualities in civilian life but not in military. There is a possibility that I might cause an embarrassment to the U.S. and I might jeopardize the mission because my ability to be a soldier is questionable."
While stationed in West Germany, Mark hopped a train every Friday night. He spent all his money on a hotel room for the weekend, just so that he could get away from the barracks.
I once visited him at his Army post, an hour's drive away. Toward the end of my visit we sat in the car talking. People were running through the parking lot and cars were buzzing up and down the road. At 5 p.m. we heard a bugle call. Suddenly all the cars stopped in their tracks. People got out in the middle of the road, stood at attention, and saluted the flag. Mark, too, got out of the car and stood at attention. For five minutes no one moved as the German and American national anthems were played and the flag was lowered for the day. It had the character of religious ritual. When Mark got back in the car he said, "You see what I mean? I feel like a whore. Every day I sell my body."
We discussed various discharges for which Mark might apply. He was afraid that if he got out early it would look bad on his record and he would feel like a failure again. He decided to ride it out and put in his four years as best he could.
I introduced Mark to a small Mennonite community in Bammental near Heidelberg. Twice he spent several weeks there during leave time. The community of four couples and half a dozen small children became a home for Mark in Germany. It was different than anything he had known. People talked to him and listened. Children tugged at his legs. He was invited to meals.
I stayed with him in Bammental for several days during a community work week. Each morning we would meet to decide what needed to be done and who would do it, all in a fairly relaxed and unstructured manner. It was very puzzling to Mark. During the morning meeting on the third day he finally blurted out, "Who's boss here, anyway?"
Mark finally finished his four years and is now studying at a state college in the United States. He writes long and frequent letters. He spent his last summer vacation in Germany at the Bammental community.
Robert and Diane
I. October 1987. In a conversation after the first worship service I attended at Hahn Air Base, the chaplain invited me to a prayer breakfast the next morning at the NCO (non-commissioned officers) club. A colonel who is director for aerospace maintenance was to talk. I was skeptical about the mix of God and country at such events, but my desire to learn to know Christians in the military and my curiosity were stronger.
That night I woke up with images of sitting between officers and chaplains and causing a minor scandal when I remained seated for the Pledge of Allegiance. Would they understand when I explain that my allegiance is to Christ and not to the flag? I also knew I was ignorant about this world I was entering. I would not know the difference between an airman and a general. Maybe it was better that way.
I had a half-hour drive at 6 a.m. to ponder these questions. My silent prayer was to be able to inconspicuously observe and listen. But please, I prayed, don't put me in a situation where I must take a stand. Not yet.
When I arrived at the club my fears were allayed. I discovered that the prayer breakfast had been cancelled due to all-base exercises! A few others not affected by the exercises had also come for the breakfast. I suggested we find another spot to eat and so I joined a young couple for breakfast at the base snackshop.
Robert, a Catholic, and Diane, a Baptist, were friendly and gracious.
I had no U.S. dollars along, so they treated me. They had just arrived in August, they said. Our conversation touched on our families, churches in the area and life in Germany. I learned that Robert is an officer and works at the Wüschheim Air Station where the cruise missiles are deployed. I told them I am a Mennonite volunteer and we talked about my community group in Krastel. Before we parted they invited me to their place for supper the following Wednesday.
I felt fortunate to have met them. On the way home it struck me that my prayers had been answered in ways better than I could have planned or imagined.
II. Wednesday evening Diane and Robert treated me to a delicious taco supper with peanut butter cookies and ice cream for dessert. It almost felt like home. After supper I got out my guitar and we sang a few songs. It was nice to see Robert and Diane off-base and out of uniform. They are both lively, bright and open, very likeable.
Diane and Robert told me how they had met through ROTC while studying in New Jersey. They joked about the mindless drills: "I never did understand why they made us march, march, march ... " Robert is the son of immigrant parents now living in Jersey; Diane grew up on military bases from Thailand to West Germany, moving every three or four years.
All evening I was somewhat uncomfortable that Robert and Diane knew so little about my convictions. They knew I was Mennonite, but little more. I wanted to be open with them, to share what is important to me. I didn't want them to feel deceived later. Yet I did not want to scare them off at the outset. I also wanted to guard myself against treating them as objects I must change.
At the beginning of the evening I had decided to leave it open whether I would tell them about my commitment to Jesus' way of nonviolence and my involvement in the peace movement. During our conversation I tried to be sensitive to the appropriate time and way I might do so.
Sitting together in their living room I asked Robert about his day-to-day work. From that point on the conversation took its own course. It seemed clear when I needed to raise questions. Robert told me he is a "missileer." I was speechless when he explained that he works on a launch crew and could be directly involved in firing up to 50 cruise missiles.
Had he ever had difficulty reconciling his faith with his work? I asked. He had more difficulty, he said, when he worked with missile systems aimed toward cities. The cruise, Robert pointed out, is a battlefield weapon used against other fighting forces. Robert was convinced, however, that the superpowers would never initiate nuclear war. Third World nations that get nuclear weapons are much more dangerous, he said. It scared me when he said that he had drilled a launch so often that if the order came to fire he would surely comply almost mechanically. Then he launched into a 10-minute lesson on the four or five safety systems that prevent an accidental nuclear exchange. I found it remarkable that my one question had generated such a long lecture on a rather technical matter. It was difficult at points for me to continue listening without interrupting or rebutting his claims.
I mentioned a cap I had seen someone wear in a Sunday school class that said, "Peace through superior firepower." I told him I believe real peace only comes through Jesus Christ and the way he showed us. Robert said that no matter what we humans do, God has his plan and our future in his hands. Robert also said he was inspired by the Old Testament image of God using his chosen people and their armies to spread godly values throughout the world.
I then asked if the crosses placed around the deployment site by members of the peace movement hold any meaning for him. The lone cross at the base gate sometimes moves him, he said, but he has never spoken to anyone for whom the field of 96 crosses was of profound religious meaning. He maintained that the cross is being politically misused. In the conversation that followed, I shared the contrast I see between confronting enemies with violence and loving service, with missiles and the cross. I said I think it is important that there are precisely 96 crosses next to the base with 96 cruise missiles. I told him that I often join German Christians who pray for peace outside the base Sunday afternoons.
We did not seek to convince each other or to win an argument, but simply shared our convictions. It was hard for me not to try to drive my points home, to force him into a corner. It was remarkable Robert felt free to acknowledge that he has not really thought about his work from a New Testament perspective before.
We prayed together before I left.
III. A few weeks later I invited Robert and Diane to our house for supper. I was nervous when I called. I really didn't think they would come. But they surprised me.
In the course of the next several months we helped celebrate Robert's birthday, played Dutch Blitz and Pictionary together, made typical German Christmas decorations and attended an open house at their place. I found it remarkable that they would invite us together with colleagues from the base. I wondered whether they understood where we stand, despite our direct conversations. But Robert assured me our ties of faith were more important than his loyalty to work. It seemed I was more nervous about our contacts than they were.
In January a friend from the United States sent Robert and Diane a New York Times story featuring the Hunsrück. It was titled, "If missiles go, will rebels be without a cause?" The article presented members of the local peace movement as chaotic fanatics and described our housemate Beate Ronnefeldt as "an anti-missile militant." We thought it would give Robert and Diane a jolt, but they said they had been showing it to others on base, telling them proudly, "These are our friends!"
After our conversation on faith and nuclear weapons I anticipated Robert would struggle with his conscience and faith; questions must certainly arise when a missileer reflects on his work from a New Testament perspective. I hoped for a "breakthrough." But no questions came. I was disappointed and impatient. I had to learn repeatedly that it is dangerous to measure my "success" by other people's responses.
IV. March 1988. War games and exercises at the cruise missile base became a regular occurrence. We often watched the base for signs that a convoy was heading out to practice a countdown in the woods. One morning as Beate was standing on the
car peering through binoculars, Robert drove out the gate. There was a flash of recognition, a smile and a wave. And then he was gone. I felt a rush of adrenaline. I had known we would meet like this sometime, but now it seemed bizarre.
In the summer German friends and I started handing out leaflets to GIs as they left the cruise base after work. Sometimes the leaflets were informational, sometimes they carried a prayer or personal story. We had about 100 takers every other Thursday. At first Robert also stopped to get a leaflet, but later he drove by. Sometimes he said hello, but usually he just smiled and kept the window rolled up.
Robert and Diane don't come to our house anymore. I wrote and asked why they seem to avoid us but I didn't get a reply. Through an American friend I found out that they drew back after a group of Germans, friends of mine, entered the base to plant trees and reclaim it for civilian use. Apparently the base commander instructed his troops to be careful of contacts with Germans. In the meantime they have been assigned to another base in the United States.
Where have we landed?
Bob Bossey, a Catholic priest from the United States, visited us for several days during the fall. An Air Force veteran, he now works at a peace and justice center in Chicago. He is a soft-spoken man, with bright eyes and firm convictions.
Bob's visit, I thought, would provide an excellent opportunity to get to know the Catholic priest at Hahn Air Base. So I called up Chaplain Leinbach to set up an appointment. He would be happy to meet with us, he said, but because of military exercises he could not promise he would be in. All week they had been playing war games on base, complete with sirens, gas masks, simulated air and ground attacks, infirmaries and morgues.
The next day we drove to the base and made our way to the chapel. The base seemed strangely deserted. We saw several signs and flags, but did not realize we were walking right through the "play area." Later we learned the base had just suffered a "direct hit." When we arrived at the chapel we were pleased to find that Chaplain Leinbach was not among the casualties.
He ushered us into his office filled with books and plants. We took our places in large, vinyl easy chairs. Chaplain Leinbach sat across from us. He wore a chemical warfare battle uniform adorned with strips of tape that change color when exposed to poison gas or chemicals. Big, clumsy boots were strapped to his feet. His outfit looked heavy and h
ot.
The most eerie part was the gas mask Chaplain Leinbach wore throughout our entire conversation. If the situation were so serious, he could have at least offered us one too. We could see only his eyes and the bridge of his nose. Bob looked at me as if to say, "Where have we landed?" We made a passing comment about the chaplain's uniform, but for the following half hour we matter-of-factly discussed the seminaries the chaplain and Bob had attended, common acquaintences, a chaplain's work at Hahn and the Catholic bishop's pastoral letter on nuclear weapons. The chaplain's voice was muffled by the gas mask. The incongruity of the scene was frightening and comical at the same time.
Chaplain Leinbach was called into another room for a telephone conversation. His voice seemed to change and Bob and I speculated he had removed the mask. It was dutifully in place, however, when he joined us again.
As we were leaving the alert came to an end and the chaplain took off his mask. I was surprised to see a small, elderly man with a large bald spot and a hesitant, almost shy smile. We shook hands and said goodbye.
When we reached the parking lot Bob and I burst into laughter, trying to release the tension we felt in this bizarre encounter.
He could be anybody!
I first met Sharon at a Lenten luncheon. She is a large, strong woman with a loud and friendly laugh. She's a prankster and a wit. It was easy to make conversation with her and Myrna, the wife of a Methodist chaplain from Alabama. She heard me sight-reading hymns during the devotional service, immediately introduced me to the choir director and got me set up in the baritone section. Rehearsals were Thursday evenings and we sang each Sunday in the 11:15 a.m. worship service.
After about the third rehearsal Sharon found out I speak German. She and her husband had just arrived in Europe and they wanted to learn the language. Would I be interested in tutoring her? Maybe this is the niche I'd been looking for, I thought. Though I had never before taught, I said I would be willing to give it a try. Before we started I told her briefly about my work building bridges between German Christians in the peace movement and American Christians in the military. I didn't want her to be surprised later. My few sentences didn't seem to set off alarms like they had in other conversations on base. In fact Sharon seemed quite interested, asking me several questions about Mennonites.
We started having weekly classes. Sharon was excited to learn German. She studied nearly daily and it showed. We practiced dialogues for conversations at the bakery or with her German landlord. She tried out what she had learned on weekend trips with her family to the many castles in the area, and she came back thrilled after her first conversation of more than two or three sentences. She often thanked me with brownies or peanut butter cookies. Several times she cross-stitched hangings for my walls. And quite often she invited me to stay for supper.
I got to like Sharon. She was straightforward, said what she thought and stuck by what she said. She was resolute and gutsy.
As we became friends we began to share more about our lives. I confided in her about tensions in the Krastel community and she told of difficulties in her family. I often told her about peace movement activities. We would frequently talk for an hour or two after choir rehearsal or a German lesson.
When spring weather arrived Sharon and her husband, John, invited me to stay for a barbecue picnic after a German lesson. After we got the grill going, they showed me some of their photo albums and John explained his ribbons to me.
We swapped stories during supper. Sharon and John come from South Dakota. She was 17 and singing with a country and western band in bars throughout the Midwest when they were engaged. John was already in the Air Force when they got married a year later. After four years of guard duty walking around B-52s, John is happy to have a desk job.
Though John complained about officers who flaunt authority and can ruin career chances with one bad evaluation, he fully accepted military goals as his own. He was proud after six years to have achieved the rank his father had when he had retired. His dream was to be a forest ranger or to own a camping supply store, but for now the plaque on the living room wall reads "Home is where the Air Force sends me."
After supper we sipped sodas and ate chips as we watched television -- slices of American life that I had almost forgotten. Much of their family life seemed to revolve around television. Sharon's children, ages 4 and 6, often play "Nintendo" for hours. They showed me their numerous toy figures and plastic monsters. All their games involve battles between the "good guys" and the "bad guys" and the same figures always play the same roles.
I enjoyed the evening with the family, but as I drove home I was overwhelmed by the differences between our worlds. The gap seemed even wider when German friends came along for supper and Pictionary. The division of class and culture seemed just as significant as questions of faith and ethics.
One Sunday after church as we were putting away our choir robes, Sharon sensed I was hurting. She took me aside and we talked. She told me I was one of the people she was especially going to pray for that week and asked if there was anything she should specifically pray about. I told her how much of a struggle it was for me each Sunday to come to church on base. How hard it was to pray in a church with an American flag. How difficult to sing "In Christ there is no east or west ... but one great fellowship of love" when just a few yards away F-16s stand poised to drop nuclear bombs on other humans in Eastern Europe. How alone I felt in that church. She listened and wrote a few notes in her prayer book. I was moved by her attention and care.
I was impressed and shamed by Sharon's faith commitment and her piety. Sharon's faith had provided guidance and security during difficult times. We frequently talked about our faith but through her fundamentalist grid my concerns often appeared of secondary importance. An emphasis on right doctrine, a hierarchical order of creation and a cosmic battle between good and evil mesh well with military values. Our faith brought us together but it is also was a painful barrier.
In June 1988 the American Forces Network ran a special on "The defense of Europe." My housemate Beate and several other Germans from the Hunsrück peace movement were interviewed as well as a pilot from Hahn Air Base who sang in our church choir. Sharon taped the program and together we tried to organize a showing with all parties, but only one German friend showed. In calling around, Sharon was warned by a number of her American friends to be careful about her contact with us. One woman couldn't believe Sharon was meeting with people from the peace movement and warned that we would soon be trying to brainwash her. A pilot's wife said, "How do you know André is a Mennonite? He could be anybody!"
In the interview Beate spoke about the Noncombatant Evacuation Order (NEO) Plan from a German perspective. Under this plan, American military personnel are instructed to keep shots and papers up-to-date and to have the gas tank at least half full at all times so that noncombatant family members can be evacuated at a moment's notice. They are supposed to keep a list of furniture and valuables so that they might be reimbursed for damages incurred in war. The evacuation is planned to the last detail. Even pets will be evacuated to prevent American family members from "tipping over into an uncontrollable state of hysteria" during a crisis. But, of course, there are no plans to evacuate Germans.
As she watched the interview, Sharon realized that military planners regard Germany as a potential battlefield and that American pets seem to be more highly valued than German lives. The people who might be sacrificed had come to be her friends. They had eaten together, played together, laughed together. This realization shook her. It proved to be a pivotal moment.
As Sharon visited us in Krastel, she learned about ways we try to live simply and care for the environment. She started trying out vegetarian recipes and before long she had separate boxes in her garage to collect glass, paper and aluminum. It is hard to find aluminum recycling centers in Germany, so soon Sharon was bringing us carloads of aluminum cans collected from half a dozen families on base, some of whom avoided us in public.
For a time Annette, a German member of the Krastel community, attended a women's Bible study on base with Sharon. At a leadership meeting Sharon discovered "Annette" as an item on the agenda. The chairwoman, Mary, reminded the group of Annette's participation in peace movement activities and the dangers involved for the military community. She wanted to exclude her from particular events. In the showdown that followed, Sharon argued that Mary knew next to nothing about the peace movement. She was operating on stereotypes, prejudice and fear. Furthermore, the women had gathered as Christians. Because Annette is also a Christian, she should be welcome to fellowship with them, Sharon argued. The last point seemed convincing to the other women and Mary backed down.
There aren't many friends who will come with Sharon to Krastel anymore. And so her visits become part of a secret life. Krastel has been a place where she can escape the military scene and relax. In a few months she and her husband will move to another base, this time probably in the United States. There too, she hopes to find friends in the civilian community nearby.
I have two masters
It was the first Sunday I sang with the choir on base. Before the church service the choir lined up in the library. I got my own choir robe and a music folder. We ran through the rough spots in "How deep were his wounds."
We filed into the sanctuary and took our places in front facing the congregation. It was a queer feeling for me to be helping conduct a worship service in a chapel on a nuclear weapons base. I had a sense of disbelief and accomplishment at finding myself there. I questioned whether, by my presence, I was condoning an unholy alliance of God and country. I felt I shared responsibility for what happened in the service. The ironies abounded as we sang about Christ's passion and the soldiers who taunted him.
The senior chaplain introduced the new wing commander, Roger C. Taylor. He did not look like I imagined a wing commander would. He looked tired, like he was still recovering from his move, and he was trying to keep his three children in line. He seemed human and my sympathies went out to him. Later I read that he had flown more than 100 flights over North Vietnam.
In his pastoral prayer Chaplain Barrett thanked God for the new commander. He asked God's blessing for the base's mission (strange, I thought, that the base has a "mission" -- not a job, a goal or a task, but a mission). Then he prayed for God's mission for the base. Next Chaplain Barrett prayed for the hungry in the Third World and asked that God show us ways to help them.
Sometimes I have the feeling that Christians on base purposely link and juxtapose fully contradictory matters, as if to say, "There is no contradiction here." If they do so often enough and no one objects, then the lie takes hold. I was shocked by these prayers, one after the other.
After the next Lenten devotional service, I asked Chaplain Barrett if we could talk. I felt at ease, thanks to the hours I had spent that morning and the day before in prayer and writing in my journal. I planned to be up front with him so I wasn't worried about finding just the right words. Chaplain Barrett also seemed human and approachable.
I introduced myself briefly and asked him about his work. He said he enjoys the chaplaincy because of his access to people. He can speak to men at their work place during the day, for example. Otherwise he views his work much like that of a civilian pastor.
Then he identified a difficulty, "I have two masters -- the wing commander and my church." I said I had sensed this tension the preceding Sunday when he prayed both for the mission of the base and God's mission for the base. "I could see how that might shock a Mennonite," he chuckled. He told me he believes we should pray for that which is in our hearts and lives and God will sort it all out.
"It's not like chaplains are for war," he said. "Most of the time is peacetime. There is a community here that needs to be 'pastored'. Our work is serving this community."
But sometimes the two masters disagree, I insisted. We need to be both pastors and prophets. We cannot pray both for the mission of the base and the hungry of the world when the military serves to maintain our affluence at the expense of others. The causes of hunger are many and complex, he responded.
As he left for a staff meeting, I thanked him for helping me understand his situation better. I hope it was helpful for him to speak with an "outsider" from a different tradition. But I am afraid we talked past each other most of the time.
Mennonites
I have been surprised how much people on base know about Mennonites.
Several people have told me that Mennonite Disaster Service was a tremendous help in their community.
One day after Sunday school Martha told me about two experiences she has had with Mennonites, one good and one bad. The "bad" experience: Her husband's brother married a woman raised by a Mennonite aunt. Martha's husband, Greg, was to be the best man at the wedding and he had planned to wear his dress military uniform. When the aunt heard about this she put her foot down and without any discussion said, "No!" Due to other circumstances, Greg and Martha ended up not attending the wedding.
The "good" experience: Greg's father is retired and living on a rather small pension. When he needed his well re-drilled, the contractor came with two trucks and four men and worked two whole days. He only charged several hundred dollars, a fraction of the normal fee. The contractor's name was Stutzman.
I wouldn't tell some guys in the back row where you were this morning!
All week GIs had been playing war games at the cruise missile base a mile and a half from our home. One of us regularly watched the happenings. We sat perched in a tree high enough to see across the 10-foot cement wall and barbed wire that was supposed to protect the military from the civilian world.
Periodically a siren sounded and through the loudspeaker a monotone voice repeated, "Alarm Red! Alarm Red!" We could see men rush to put their gas masks on and scurry to find cover in a nearby ditch.
GIs had told us about the simulation attacks: Referees declare soldiers dead or wounded and decide which buildings on base have been damaged or destroyed. The "dead" are carried to the morgue, the wounded to a "hospital" where chaplains say simulated prayers.
As part of the exercise the young soldiers also load missile dummies onto launch vehicles and drive them through towns and villages to a launch position somewhere in the German woods, as far as 50 miles away. There they set up and await orders to fire. During the maneuvers the men go through the motions of launching the nuclear missiles, surviving an ambush from enemy specialty forces and decontaminating themselves from the nerve gas and nuclear fallout that would hit the area in a war. The unthinkable seems to become a mundane exercise.
Activities on base Thursday morning suggested that a convoy might be leaving soon. Six of us stood with signs and banners in protest. Gabi and Ulf held a banner that read, "Civilian job for Mike and Bob." The rhyme solicited a few chuckles from GIs who do not enjoy camping in the rain and cold away from family for four or five days. On my sign I wrote "The cross is stronger than the cruise," an allusion to the crosses that Christians in the peace movement have placed throughout the Hunsruck to illustrate the contrast between the way Jesus loves enemies and the military which threatens them.
We stood quietly at the entrance to the base for nearly two hours. This was one of the few times we waited expectantly for the police to arrive. When their eight to 10 escort vehicles appear we know a convoy will be leaving the base within minutes. But they never came. False alarm.
We were just preparing to pack up when a small car with two women drove by. The passenger was wearing large dark sunglasses so I didn't recognize her at first. When she saw me she got very animated. Was she laughing or cursing? Then I realized it was Beth, a long-standing member of the choir I had joined several weeks earlier at the Hahn Air Base. Her husband was an officer with a promising career. My heart skipped a beat and then the car disappeared through the gate.
We had choir rehearsal that evening. How would Beth respond? I had told her I was Mennonite but we had never had a real discussion. I imagined sitting alone facing 25 angry choir members. Maybe my pass to the base would be revoked. I wondered whether Beth had read my sign. Had she understood it?
When I got on base I immediately sensed that summer had come. The young men were out on the balconies drinking Miller and Budweiser. Music was blaring from their rooms. Here and there a couple was whispering in a doorway. There was a party atmosphere.
I got to the chapel a bit early. Beth was there too. "Hello, again!" I greeted her. "I guess we were both surprised to see each other this morning."
Her response surprised me. "When we drove by and I saw you I was going, 'Yeah, right on!' I'd be out there with you if my husband didn't work there. But let me tell you," she continued in a hushed tone and with a twinkle in her eyes, "I wouldn't tell some guys in the back row where you were this morning!" This is not what I had expected.
After rehearsal we got a chance to talk a bit more. I told her about my work and our efforts at living in community. She told me she had been marginally involved in the movement against the war in Vietnam until she met her husband, an Air Force pilot.
Then I asked whether she had been able to read my sign. "Sure," she answered. "'The cross is stronger than the cruise.' I thought it was great. But the woman I was with was very angry. We have this image of demonstrators as hippies and freaks, you know. So I explained to her who you are and what the sign meant."
I was amazed. Not only did Beth sympathize with our signs, she was carrying our message to the other side of the wall. Stereotypes on both sides were jolted that day.
She "trusts those in the know."
Susan and Jessica came over Monday. I wanted to give Jessica the low-down on what kinds of people she was associating with before I started giving her German lessons. I told her how our faith has led us to resist nuclear weapons and that I was barred from base because of my involvement in the peace movement.
Jessica listened closely. Much of what I said was new to her and she wasn't sure how to respond. At times she smiled and laughed at inappropriate points. She tried to relate what I was saying to her experience. She told me about a musical on peace she had directed. The basic message was what counts is having peace in your heart. Nonetheless, she asked a lot of questions and I felt she understood some of what I was saying.
During our conversation she told me that she and her husband had been stationed in England during the "Libya crisis." Military activity seemed to be picking up on base, she recalled, but everyone was told that it was simply a matter of exercises. Because she knew that the Air Force had agreed not to conduct night flights, she was startled to hear a dozen jets take off at 2 a.m. She shook her husband and asked what was happening. He kept a poker face, said, "They're taking off," and went back to sleep. The next morning she learned that Libya had been attacked.
She was upset that the Air Force had told them nothing was going on. But it didn't seem to bother her that her husband kept secrets from her because of his work.
A few hours later Jessica learned that the husband of a friend did not make it back from the "mission." This was suddenly real. She and others on base extended their sympathies and assistance to the surviving family, and accepted the loss as the bitter cost of freedom.
It impressed me that though this tragedy struck so close to home, Jessica knew next to nothing about the reason for the attack. She saw it as a matter of defense. She focuses her attention on the family, she said, and in these other things she "trusts those in the know."
Love your enemies
I. Early on a Thursday morning in late August 1988, I drove to the cruise missile base with several Mennonite friends from the United States and Frits, an itinerant Dutch peace activist. I always enjoy Frits' visits. In a simple and witty manner he invariably turns our accepted way of seeing things on its head. Today he felt called to engage in an act of "freedom of expression," and we went along to offer moral and spiritual support.
With bright red paint Frits wrote on the wall around the base, "Soldiers of the world unite: Fight pollution, not each other." He always uses a brush rather than a spray can out of respect for the ozone layer. The rest of us stood outside the main gate and sang gospel songs and spirituals as he continued to paint, "Love your enemies" in long red strokes. He stood back to admire the lettering against the green wall.
By now the security police had taken note of Frits and came rushing out of the gate. He simply smiled and continued to paint, this time, "If we can risk nuclear war, we can risk disarmament." The guards were dumbfounded that Frits was not afraid of their guns and uniforms. But they had no authority outside the walls of the base, so they retreated and called the German police.
When the Polizei arrived they told Frits that if he quit painting immediately they would not arrest him. Frits said he was not engaging in some game, but that he must continue and hoped they would give him his day in court. They gave him another warning and, to our amazement, quickly drove away. We later learned that their shift was coming to an end and they didn't want to hassle with the paperwork of an arrest before going home.
As Frits continued to paint we sang the old gospel hymn "Amazing grace," which was written by a repentant slave trader. Brad, one of my friends, did some nice improvising on his tenor sax. By then the sun was starting to peak out over the hills and the cars were streaming in with soldiers reporting to work. Frits finished writing "Good morning," "Peace through strength" ("strength" was crossed out and replaced by "Jesus") and "Love your enemies" a few more times before the second shift of German police came to arrest him. They almost missed him since he had stepped into the woods for a moment to relieve himself, but he came running, dramatically pointing at himself and saying "me." The police loaded him into the car and were ready to leave when the American guards also insisted on having them check our IDs.
When Frits was released five or six hours later, he quipped that the acoustics in the holding cell were tremendous. He was later charged and tried for destruction of property and spent 20 days in prison. The base didn't have any more money budgeted for paint, so his handiwork stayed on the wall for several weeks.
I couldn't make it to the choir rehearsal on base that evening, but rumors were already flying that three Americans had been arrested for the painting at the Wüschheim Air Station. One of them supposedly was a member of the choir.
I made a point of going to the chapel service the following Sunday to show my face so that people would know I had nothing to hide. At a potluck after the service the wife of a chaplain asked me jokingly if I'd done any painting recently. I told her I had helped re-do the bathroom and the kitchen at a friend's house. And then we talked about the writing on the wall.
I did have nagging doubts about Frits' action. I was enthusiastic about the spirit and content of the wall painting and felt good about my participation until the police checked my ID. I discovered how deeply I'd absorbed middle class values of propriety and order -- "Nice boys don't do things like that." Strange how easy it is to grow accustomed to weapons that threaten to kill millions, but a few strokes of paint are offensive. And I was afraid. I didn't have much to loose, but perhaps my pass to the base would be taken. I could begin to empathize with GIs whose entire lives are controlled by the military.
II. Sunday a week later I went to the chapel service with Annette, a member of our Krastel community, and her daughter Lea. Chaplain Sikes, the new chief chaplain from the Disciples of Christ tradition, gave the sermon, decked out in his dress uniform. We stayed afterward for a picnic and softball game.
Just as we were leaving, Chaplain Cook, the senior Protestant chaplain (a Methodist), called me aside. He informed me I'd be getting a letter soon barring me from base. After the wall-painting, the chapel had been called to confirm that I was the person in question. Chaplain Cook wanted to emphasize that the base commander had made the decision and that any questions should be directed to him -- not to the chaplains. As he spoke Chaplain Cook seemed nervous. His voice was uneven and he was short of breath.
Chaplain Cook told me he didn't have any quarrels with me personally.
As a matter of fact, he said, "I am ready to die to defend your right to do what you believe in." What farce, I thought. I hadn't asked him to give his life, but perhaps he could tell the comm
ander that the church makes final decisions on who worships and prays together. His comment was all the more cynical because I knew from a lay leader in the chapel that already several weeks earlier the chaplains had discussed getting my pass withdrawn.
The news generated a host of thoughts and emotions. I was sad that a wall was being set up between me and people I had come to know as friends. I asked myself whether the painting was worth it. Is it possible to engage in dialogue and resistance? I was worried that many members of the chapel community would not understand my actions. Many would believe that the barring was justified. Others would be intimidated. And I felt guilty about the many occasions when I had been too afraid to share my convictions clearly and boldly.
III. I didn't have much time to respond, since I was scheduled to depart the following Friday for a long-planned home leave in the United States. I composed a letter to the choir and to the chaplains (see Appendix). I met with the choir director and she agreed to read the letter at the next rehearsal. Through the letter I was able to say more in my absence than I had ever said directly to many of the choir members. But the director squelched any discussion, leaving each person alone with their thoughts and questions. Several women in the choir cried as she read the letter.
Snippets of reaction did get back to me. One woman didn't question my sincerity and felt it was unfortunate that I was barred. "But," she exclaimed, "did you notice the color of the paint they used. They used red paint. Red. That's the color of the communists." Another woman had a different idea. She was deeply moved by the slogans on the wall. The red color reminded her of the blood of Christ.
I made some cards using photos of the field of 96 crosses next to the cruise base and sent them to various families in the Hahn chapel. I included a copy of my letter to the choir, a short personal note and the verse from Zechariah, "Neither by force of arms nor by brute strength, but by my spirit! says the Lord of Hosts." I later learned that at least one of the men for whom I made a card had gotten an order to report all conversations and correspondence with me to the Office of Special Investigations (Air Force Intelligence).
Wednesday evening I met with Chaplains Sikes and Cook. Chaplain Cook's apartment reminded me of small-town Americana: A plastic table with artificial wood grain, vinyl covered chairs, an old Westinghouse refrigerator. The two chaplains were sitting around the
table donned in their full chemical warfare uniforms -- it was another week of exercises on base.
I tried to follow Hildegard Goss-Mayr's suggestions for engaging in dialogue in a nonviolent struggle: Admit your own shortcomings and failures and recognize the truth in the other person's position at the outset of the conversation. I told them of some of the stereotypes about military personnel with which I had started and that at times I had failed to recognize the Christians in the military as brothers and sisters. Sometimes I had too quickly written them off as having a different set of loyalties. The dialogue had suffered because of this and my timidity. I also told them that I think it is important that there are people who are ministering full-time to the real needs of persons in the military.
Then I raised some questions about why I was barred and what the chaplains' roles were. Most revealing, I found, was their open acknowledgement that the base commander calls the shots. "The chapel is ultimately his program," Chaplain Sikes said. This didn't seem to bother them. They patiently explained to me that the chapel program is a support program for the base's "mission" in much the same was as the recreation center, gymnasium or street-cleaning crews. It seemed to me, I said, that the chaplains were abdicating responsibility to make decisions on matters vital to church life. Chaplain Sikes responded, "If you find that your conscience doesn't permit you to carry out the commander's program, then it is time for you to leave."
Now that I was barred from base, they were rid of one uncomfortable voice. Yet many Christians -- some from their very own denominations -- condemn the production and deployment of nuclear weapons. How, I asked them, would they seek dialogue with them? The most hopeful moment in the conversation came when Chaplain Sikes stated his willingness to meet with local pastors in the peace movement.
The conversation was, in fact, only with Chaplain Sikes. Chaplain Cook sat and listened. I still have not gotten used to the fact that the military divides human beings into 15 or 20 ranks. The symbol they wear on their shoulder determines in large part how they interact, even among chaplains.
We had talked for 45 minutes. It was time to close. Before I left, I returned my base pass to Chaplain Sikes. I chose to give it to the chaplains because I felt the congregation, not the base commander, should make decisions about who worships together and who is excluded from fellowship. I was not sure they had understood my point.
IV. I was barred from base for 17 months. After a meeting with the deputy commander in February 1990 I was removed from the bar list. For seven months Cathy and I attended chapel services on base and worked with the chaplains to organize a series of meetings between Christians in the military and Christians in the peace movement.
The future of this dialogue is uncertain, however, since Cathy and I were both barred from base in the beginning of September 1990. The chaplains, who initiated the order, told us we were being barred because of our weekly "leafletting" project. We're unsure what this development will mean long term. [Note: This paper went to press only a few days after Andre and Cathy received the barring order.]
You fight fire with water
Since Martin Luther King Jr.'s birthday has been declared a national holiday, U.S. military bases around the world sponsor church services, choral programs and banquets to commemorate this American hero. While listening to the American Forces radio network, I was surprised that an Army base in Germany was even organizing a "Martin Luther King Jr. invitational raquetball tournament." I've observed at these events that King is generally portrayed as a man with a dream about black and white children holding hands, rarely as a spokesman for the poor and an advocate of nonviolence.
To encourage discussion in the military community on these issues, MCC and the Military Counseling Network invited Vincent and Rosemary Harding for a week-long speaking tour of military bases in West Germany. The Hardings, who directed a Mennonite Voluntary Service Center in Atlanta, Ga., in the early 1960s, were friends, neighbors and co-workers of Martin Luther King.
As we organized the tour we discovered how little we knew about how the military works. People with authority to make decisions were hesitant unless they got a "go-ahead" from above. It seemed nearly impossible for an outsider to sort through bureaucratic rules and regulations and to learn proper procedure and protocol.
The counsel and assistance of friends within the military community proved invaluable. With the help of a sympathetic U.S. Army social worker in Stuttgart, the Hardings were able to meet with leaders of African-American organizations and Vincent preached at a worship service on base. In Frankfurt, on the other hand, after an initial strong show of interest on the part of chaplains, nothing happened. Finally, when a University of Maryland professor helped arranged a brown bag lunch talk in the library, the base commander made a point of attending and the Frankfurt community chaplain gave the Hardings a glowing introduction.
I was challenged by the way Vincent and Rosemarie interacted with military personnel. They empathized with the young men and women and the difficult economic and personal circumstances that often led them to seek employment with the military. The Hardings engaged their audience with questions and listened to their experiences and insight. They spoke with candor and conviction about King's rejection of military might, yet rather than condemnation they offered the soldiers hope and encouragement.
One episode illustrates well the kind of discussions that took place. In a chapel on an Army base, Vincent and Rosemarie spoke with nearly 60 soldiers about the Southern freedom movement of the 1960s in the United States. The company commander had permitted the GIs to attend the event during duty hours and many were still in camouflage uniforms. Vincent described Birmingham, Ala., in the late 1950s and early 1960s as "the most violently segregated city in the United States." Those who worked for equality and justice there sometimes faced torture, bombings and death.
"They used to call in 'Bombingham'," confirmed a soldier who grew up there.
"In light of that violence," Vincent asked, "when Martin Luther King Jr. and his Southern Christian Leadership Conference organizers were invited to Birmingham, how many guns did they take with them?"
The military personnel in the room were a bit surprised by the question and responded, "They didn't take any."
Then Vincent asked, "But aren't we taught that you have to meet violence with violence? Doesn't everyone say you've got to fight fire with fire?"
After a brief pause a young African-American woman spoke up, "You don't fight fire with fire. You fight fire with water."
For the remaining hour the Hardings and the GIs in the room discussed what "water" might mean in a world of matching weapon for weapon, missile for missile, threat for threat.
In another moment of truth after Vincent's talk in Frankfurt, a female African-American officer stood and said, "I just returned from two weeks at counterinsurgency school. As you were talking, the thought occurred to me that the closest thing to an insurgency in the United States was the civil rights movement of the 1950s and '60s." Obviously she was troubled by this revelation.
As I sat in the back of the room, I was deeply moved by the unlikely meeting of people discussing earnestly the meaning of Martin Luther King for our lives: African-Americans, Hispanics, Caucasians, women and men, officers, enlisted people, members of the peace movement. And I sensed a glimpse of the reality that brought together the Zealots, Pharisees, tax collectors and prostitutes to follow the carpenter from Nazareth many years ago.
