Generation "xbox" at War

The present military action in Libya has several troubling components. I can assert, with a clear conscience, that I would have the same concerns even if I had voted for the current President. It seems that the "bar" has been considerably lowered for what constitutes a "clear and present danger" to the sovereignty of the United States. For some reason, we simply are not as war averse as we use to be. For all the accusations leveled by the current culture against previous generations for being less humanitarian, the present day society seems much more comfortable with prolonged military operations with less definable objectives. The present generation of American leaders fight more wars in more places than previous generations did.

This critique uses WWII as "the gold standard" for setting the "bar" in justifying Americans being sent out to war.

To ensure consistency, I will apply to this to the "War on Terror." Unfortunately, what began as a response to a specific attack has seemingly lived beyond its "shelf life."

A "shelf life"?!?! For wars?! Yes. Definitely. When the "War on Terror" began in Afghanistan, many complained that it was taking too long (after 1 year!). I remember, in 2003, chiding the culture, saying, "Come on, people! Can't you have at least the attention span of the WWII generation?" Now, eight years later, I'm inclined to remember those words I spoke and admit: the WWII generation weren't asked to maintain their support for a war THIS long, against an enemy THIS nebulous.

WWII set the bar by offering a clearly definable enemy, with clearly definable objectives. The war effort had a goal (the unconditional surrender of the Axis nations: Japan, Germany and Italy). That generation, it seems, was less willing to enter war that could not be tied directly to American sovereignty or national interests. Accused of being isolationists, those in leadership demonstrated an understandable reluctance to commit U.S. soldiers and sailors, ships, tanks and planes to a cause not convincing to a peaceful populace. The nagging question seemed to be: when the troops return for their victory parade, who will the thankful civilians know they were protected from?

The point is that the WWII generation appeared to accept the "hell" that is war because the enemy was THAT evil, THAT organized, THAT powerful and THAT much of a threat. Therefore, because of those conditions, we were willing to enter into that war (though we were the latecomers). However, as a culture, we seemed to hate war then. We understood that war is "hell," and a horrific perversion foisted upon the human experience when evil forces are on the march, that must be resisted and defeated. Therefore, when we got into a war, we fought as nasty and efficiently as possible in order to destroy the enemy and go home. We seemed to understand then how bad war is, or at least how bad it SHOULD be so that no one wants to do it very often.

Since then a watershed change has taken place. War is seemingly a lot less abhorrent to the present generation. Thus, we're willing to do it often, and for far less threatening reasons.
We don't require that our incarnations of evil be Hitler anymore...
they can merely be Saddam Hussein.
We don't require that our enemies be threats to our national sovereignty...
they can merely be treats to our "interests."
We don't require that our enemies be powerful compare to us...
they can merely be cruel to their neighbors.
We don't require that our enemies even have a military...
then can merely have enough weapons to terrorize their neighbors.

Thus, we now seem more into "fighting" than we are into "winning."
We're seemingly willing to keep the event going rather than to decisively conclude it.
It's like we don't think it's THAT bad anymore.
It's like a video game.

Generation "xbox" has decided that war is like a "game" that can just keep going, so long as you can show that you seemingly have the upper hand. In a video game, you fight surgically, house-to-house, with hand-held rockets, small arms and occasional bombs. War is clean and neat. You don't gain any points for collateral damage. Our enemies know this, so they have the advantage of knowing that though they destroy our buildings, we will not destroy theirs.

The "War on Terror" has come to resemble more an xbox game than the destruction levels of WWII that convinced the German, Japanese and Italian cultures to get along with the West. And because we fight wars this way, we seem willing to fight them when no discernible mission or clear national threat is present. Libya is along this vein; in this category.

Some may suggest that I'm only critical because this present action was ordered by a President that I did not vote for. But in defense I say that the "War on Terror," though seemingly closer to that standard at the front end, has slipped below it over the years. Therefore, I believe this is a consistent opinion. America does not like war, and thus needs better reasons to enter into it. But the xbox generation needs only the thrill of fighting to justifying picking up the controls and rebooting the game.

The Things that Attach and Corrupt

Sin is alive...
It has a will.
It eats.
It hates.
It spares no innocence; gives no quarter; honors no boundaries.
It remains ever hungry, and is never satisfied.
It has one instinct, and one instinct alone:

To attach itself to a host, and impregnate him with a creature that will feed on him... destroy him... and then attack everyone around him.

Sin has a metaphysical element, traveling across creation... across time... and across dimensions. It emits out like a wave, and passes through substance, soil and soul.
It's more destructive than a tsunami.
It permeates more than radiation.
It consumes more than Great White shark.
It's more venomous than a Cobra.
...more encroaching than darkness.
...more communicable than the flu.
...more blinding than cataracts.
...more intoxicating than Everclear.
...more irritating than a rash.
...more scalding than boiling water.
and more tactical than a chess master.

It's faster than a viper strike.
...colder than wind chill.
...sharper than a straight razor;
and meaner than a bully.

With sinister cunning, this creature eludes detection until it is close enough to pounce. All of its sensors reach out with mystical searching, seeking to find its prey and perceive its weakness. It crouches at the door (Gen 4:7) of the dark room. Lying in wait, it's patient to await just the right moment to launch through the air and land on the unsuspecting. As the legs extend out to secure a grip, its tail wraps around the horrified victim. If the victim cannot resist well at this point, the creature attaches firmly to the face so as to implant its destructive seed down their gullet. If they can resist, the fight is violent and erratic. So determined is the muscular, spider-like alien to affix itself securely to the new host, that removing it takes the timely and persistent help from friends that care deeply enough to get their hands on the thing and pull with all their might. In fact, unless the quick assistance of beloved associates intervenes, the struggle may be short lived. This creature is strong, agile and wiggly.

Sin, a living thing, does not rest until it attaches itself to the child of God, and lays in them the "seed" of a creature than can destroy them from within and will terrorize those around them. If their family, their friends and their church doesn't step in with loving vigilance, Sin is often too strong for them to fight alone. This is why secrecy is such a friend to Sin, and confession is so harmful to it. Through transparency and confession (James 5:16) the community becomes aware that quick help is vital. In addition, Sin's ability to affix itself to the soul is weakened by confession as well. It's a great mystery, but the very things one would want to keep to themselves out of shame must be shared with others to overcome.

How unfortunate that the historic practice of confession fell out of favor with Protestant traditions. Psychologists and counselors has their use, to be sure, but they MUST be viewed as secondary to the timeless necessity for an officer of the Church declaring, after hearing your confession, "God offers forgiveness to the penitent. Go in peace." This "creature" is determined, and the Church must be more so, if indeed it loves the sinner seeking release from it.

Sin is alive. It's seeks to dominate, impregnate, destroy and multiply. The help of those quick to aid is vital. Though God has granted the Believer great abilities, seemingly absent from those is the strength to fight away the "creature" in isolation.

Baseball Gloves and Cobwebs

I recently had an episode that was very, very humbling as a father. Though there were no witnesses, it was still one of the most embarrassing moments in my recent history. I may have been the only one to perceive it at the time, still I swore I heard a collective sigh escape from even the surrounding furniture in the room. Perhaps it was just as well that no one was around to offer absolution; no one to dilute the sense of secret shame.

The exchange started out innocent enough. I turned to my youngest son and asked if he would like to go outside and play catch. It had been some time since I had thrown the baseball with him, and the spontaneously open afternoon before me left ample time to resurrect that practice (I couldn't recall the last time we had played catch). He said that he would like to throw the baseball with me, but then added that he didn't know where his glove was.

Now at this point it's important to remember how normative it is for young boys to sleep with their baseball gloves under their pillow. Such vital equipment is practically an extension of their body. You might sooner ask a policeman where they have misplaced their firearm than ask a little boy where their sports gear has disappeared to. Nevertheless, the eleven year old male in front of me didn't know where his glove was, and as a result I began to shrink inside.

"Go check in your room," I commanded. "It's got to be in there." To this he responded by immediately excavating through his bedroom rubble. After three to five minutes he emerged empty-handed. This was getting less pleasing by the moment. The next phase was obviously to check in the garage. I couldn't believe I was directing him to search for his baseball glove in the garage, but at this point I was determined that this would end with us play catch if I had to buy him a new one.

Dutifully, he ventured into the wilderness of our stored belongings to seek out the wayward mitt. I could hear my son rummaging through boxes and tools, around bicycles, rakes and shelves. He came back with something in his hands, presented it to me and asked, "Is this it?" To my horror he held in his little palms an unused baseball glove. Still retaining its original rigidity, the basket was even stuck spread open. I looked down and saw that the palm of the glove had collected cobwebs.

I swear I am NOT making this up. COBWEBS!

To say that I took the image of this personally is an exercise in understatement. Instead of having a baseball glove worn and weathered from frequent use playing catch with his brother or his father, my son had a glove filled with cobwebs languishing out in the garage. My paternal instincts had been subjected to a "pass/fail test" and come up short. It was painful.

Walking outside, I grasped the baseball intensely, feeling its stitches dig into my palm. "OK, let's go play catch," I whimsically added, trying to shrug off my shame.

"I'm not sure I know how," he sheepishly countered. Really kid. Do you have to twist the knife in my heart THAT much?

"We'll figure it out," I assured him. We started pretty close, tossing the ball lightly. Slowly we bravely moved away from each other so that the throws could become more powerful and the catches more difficult. With each subsequent catch and throw he seemed to grow in stature and pride. Though it was a delight to witness him exult in the new skills developed with his father, it did not absolve me from the guilt of time lost up until now. The image of a baseball mitt covered in cobwebs is burned into my brain. Not only did that event leave me with a resolve to never again be confronted with that type of neglect, but perhaps my humiliating moment, confessed here, will be beneficially instructive to some other father that has just gotten too damn busy. By God's grace and with his help, we will keep the cobwebs out of the baseball gloves.