The Warriors

Day after day men came to help David, until he had a great army, like the army of God.
1 Chronicles 12:22 (NIV)

Today is June 6, 2024. Eighty years ago today the Allied nations launched the greatest military assault in human history. Crossing the English Channel and landing on the beaches of Normandy, the tide of World War II had shifted. Hitler’s days of conquest to rule the rule the world and create “the master race” were effectively over. It was the Allies who now pursued conquest in order to eliminate the threat of Nazi tyranny.

Generally speaking, human history is a never-ending series of conquests. Whoever had the bigger, better, and more equipped army conquered greater territories and prevailed until a bigger, better, and more equipped army came along. And, history proves that, at some point, one always seems to eventually come along.

One of the reasons that David was viewed as the greatest king of Israel was because he was a successful warrior and a successful leader of warriors. For over a decade, David lived as a young fugitive in the desert, hiding from Mad King Saul. During that period of time, he became a legend in an almost Robin Hood-like fashion. It started as a rag-tag group of mercenaries, outcasts, and misfits who hailed from a wide variety of backgrounds. As tales of the desert warrior spread along with word of his exploits, more and more men sought David out and joined his burgeoning personal army.

By the time David becomes king, he already has a large, well-trained and experienced army who were personally loyal to him. His army were men from every tribe and virtually every local nation. David succeeded in earning their loyalty. As king, David and his personal army were uniquely prepared to conquer neighboring nations and expand his nation’s power and wealth. Bolstered by the addition of the national army that had been previously loyal to Saul, David was geared to rise to prominence.

In today’s chapter, the Chronicler continues to wax eloquent on the greatness of David’s army and his military leadership. History goes to the conquerors. One again, for the Chronicler and the conquered and defeated people returning from exile, the memory of a once great warrior-king who conquered the region and led an army “like the army of God” would have been inspiring to a people trying to reclaim their identity within the larger Persian Empire.

In the quiet this morning, I find myself thinking of the men that I knew who participated in battles to liberate Europe. One was a high school teacher, bound to a wheelchair, who one day reluctantly shared his experiences of storming the beach at Normandy and taking out a German pill-box on D-Day. Another was a retired postman who always had a smiling and pleasant disposition and rarely said a single word. He was among the few pilots to survive 25 bombing missions over Germany and earn a ticket home. A third was a Tuskegee Airman who survived the battle of racial prejudice as well as the war over Europe. He returned to become an educator in Iowa and was kind enough to share with me his story over pints at the Pensacola Naval Air Station.

How different life would be had these men not made the sacrifice to serve along with the thousands who didn’t live to tell their tales. I found it interesting how the Chronicler mythologized David’s warriors. As I noted yesterday, we like to glorify our past and make heroes of our warriors. I consider them heroes. But I have found, however, that these warriors I described were each reluctant to share their stories. The “glorification” was something they eschewed. I could feel the unspoken pain of the horrors they’d witnessed. I sensed the survivor’s guilt that comes with the memory of all the faces and names of friends who died fighting next to them. There was a common humility these men had in trying to diminish the glorification and honor the terror of being one lucky S.O.B who made it when so many laid down their lives.

While in college, I was asked to give a speech at a Veteran’s Day parade. As I rode to the parade grounds with a bus full of mostly World War II veterans, I noticed that the Veteran sitting across from me was staring out the window, a glazed expression on his face as was lost what I can only guess was a bitter memory. As I watched, tears began streaming out of his eyes and down his ruddy, wrinkled face. I almost felt ashamed to be there watching. It was a holy moment. It was qadosh.

He caught me looking at him.

Tears still streaming down his face, he said, “Never get in another war. Never.”

If only history in the fallen world east of Eden was as simple as willing it to be the way we’d like it to be.