For regular readers of the News of the Northwest Jesuits, the name of Fr. Jack McLain will be familiar. His story appeared in a recent issue, and one doesn't not easily forget seeing a priest jump out of the back of a helicopter in full military gear. "Captain Jack," as his Jesuit friends refer to him, has served as a chaplain in the U.S. Army's Special Forces since ordination. Dedicated to being with those who need him most, Jack has done things few Jesuits have ever imagined-from a week at survival school dining on nothing but snakes and frogs, to three tours of duty with "his guys" in Afghanistan.
As his religious superior, I gave Jack permission to remain the Army early in my time as Provincial, and have tried to support him in this work-not out of any political agenda, but because Jesuits need to go where no one else is willing to be, need to announce Christ's reconciling love even in the midst of death and destruction. For the men with whom Jack has served in Afghanistan-and for the women and men helped because he was there-Jack has offered the companionship of Christ and demonstrated "in the integrity of his way of life" that violence is not the deepest reality or most abiding truth. Nevertheless, each day Jack has served in Afghanistan, I have prayed for his safety and watched, anxiously, the daily casualty lists.
The word, though, that Jack had been injured did not come by radio or television, but in an e-mail from Jack himself, written to assure me that (if I heard anything) he was fine. The blast that destroyed the truck in which he and the other soldier were driving had damaged his hearing, but "otherwise" (he said) he was fine. It was more than five months after this note that I finally had the chance to see Jack, and to hear the story of his wounding in his own words.
Sitting in a booth at a Washington restaurant, I listened as Jack told me of the day that had so changed him: of the request from one of the men for a companion to go into town; of the explosion as they neared the central square; of the mercenaries who came out to get them but were run off by Jack's shout and his companion's weapon; of the long 300 yard walk from the vehicle to the gates of the American embassy, where Jack delivered the nearly blinded driver to the troops at the gate. His story was touched by his usual bravado and humor, but behind it there was a humility and simplicity-as though any real egoism that might have been in Jack before the explosion had been burned off and replaced by a deeper sense of Gods' presence and power. I couldn't help but think of Iñigo-the future St. Ignatius-wounded at the battle of Pamplona and transformed, in that moment, into a man fully opened to the deeper call of God.
Two weeks later, in Seattle, I was again sitting across from Jack at a restaurant. We had just concelebrated evening mass at St. Joseph Parish and were sitting down to dinner when I noticed a satchel beside him. "I have gotten a lot of stuff in the Army," he said, "but I never really cared much about any of it, except for this." He reached into the satchel and pulled out a dark wooden frame. In it I saw a certificate about the size of my high school diploma; but then I saw the medal itself-a small heart bearing the image of George Washington and hanging from the purple ribbon, edged in gold: a Purple Heart, first given to the wounded of the revolution by Washington himself, who had no other way to compensate the soldiers wounded under his command. And now Jack McLain was handing one to me.
"I want you to know, John," he said, "that I would die for those guys I'm with." He paused, "But, even more so for you, and for whoever it is that sits in your chair." I fell silent, unable to speak in the face of what was offered-not just a medal but a whole life, consecrated in service to the Society of Jesus and the people of God.
For each one of us, moments come when we are invited to trace out the life of Christ in our own lives-invited to live more fully the call we have received. It comes when our marriages are troubled and when our children are ill; when failure seems imminent and the shadow of death draws near. But on the wall of my office, I have a reminder that God is faithful and that no wound can ever overcome the power of grace and love. Deo gratias!
John D. Whitney, S.J.
Provincial |
