Justice

As I hurried past the substance abuse clinic on the VA Medical Center campus one day, I noticed a small group of men clustered outside the door taking a smoke break in the afternoon sun. One of them called out “Hey Chaplain,” and waved me over.

“Scott.” I turned aside to meet him and we shook hands. “Are you back here again?”

A 61-year old veteran and a retired army major, Scott was deeply affected by his wartime experiences. Like many Vietnam vets, he had slipped into years of alcoholism that ruined his marriage and destroyed his family’s trust in anything he said or did. I met him during his second stay in a 30-day treatment program. As the chaplain assigned to the clinic, I had several heart to heart conversations with him then, and I felt privileged to be present for his graduation from the program.

Tall and thin, observing the world through half shut eyes much of the time, Scott thought long and spoke little. We stepped aside from the other smokers and stood talking for a few minutes. At first, I thought he must have slipped back into drinking. I felt a twinge of disappointment, because I wanted this vulnerable yet determined man to succeed in his resolve to get his life back.

“No, I’m not in the program this time. I’m here interviewing.”

“For a job?” I asked surprised.

“Yeah. I’m sort of like a mentor to these guys,” Scott replied with a thin smile.

A wave of admiration swept over me as he told me this. During his time in the military, Scott has been a leader of men. I knew how much it had hurt him to lose the respect of his family.

“That’s great,” I affirmed. “Are things going OK?” That was an understated question about his sobriety and his family relationships.

“Pretty good,” he replied. For Scott “pretty good” was positive. “Say, chaplain, can I ask you about something?”

“Sure Scott,” I said, my curiosity aroused.

“We had a visiting pastor the other day who said there are 600 million people in India who are all going to hell when they die because they haven’t heard about Jesus. He said it’s our duty to tell them about Jesus so they don’t go to hell.” Looking me straight in the eyes, he asked, “Do you think he’s right?”

I sensed that Scott was not seeking a “right” answer to his questions, but was wrestling with notions of fairness and justice. I also sensed a fear in his question. Could God be so unforgiving of people who don’t think and act the way religious people say they should?

“Well Scott, what do you think?” I asked him back.

He looked down at his feet as he slowly answered “I guess I’m at a stage in my life where I’m questioning all religions.” My instinct told me there was something more to be explored here. So I changed the conversation slightly. “Tell me, Scott, what is God like to you?”

He thought about this for a moment, then answered in a quiet voice. “He’s all loving, all knowing, all powerful.”

“What do you think that kind of God would do with these 600 million people?”

The answer came without hesitation. “I think that just before the Pearly Gates, he’d have a training program for them so they could hear about Jesus then and decide for themselves.” Another thin smile followed his answer.

I smiled back and laughed a little at his wry humor. “Tell me, Scott, how do you experience that God working in your life?”

Scott became very quiet and thoughtful for some time. “He forgives me, no matter what.” Here was a man hoping to have his experience of a merciful, forgiving God validated in spite of what he had been told by an “expert” on salvation. Having been in need of forgiveness himself, he could not believe God would simply condemn 600 million people just because they had never heard of Jesus.

“I think you know the answer to the question you asked me,” I said. “Do you trust the God you know, or accept someone else’s idea of who that God is and how he acts?”

He looked at me in silence for a moment. “Well that’s what I thought all along,” he said. “Thank you, chaplain.” We shook hands. Scott disappeared inside the clinic door and I continued on my way, thankful for a God who is always ready to give anyone a second chance.

© 2013, Chaplain David Pascoe