The first of the weekly poetry readings, a series cut short by server trouble and reposted here. Enjoy this little treasure from the brilliant A.E. Stallings.

 

 A.E. Stallings - How the Demons Were Assimilated and Became Productive Citizens: Play Now | Play in Popup | Download

[ESPN's Dream Job is finally here - so I'm posting my experience in tryouts last year. Enjoy.] So it was a cold morning, dark, and I took a half day off work to go down to the ESPN Zone at 11th and E to stand in line for the ESPN Dream Job Contest. I didn’t think there would be a ton of people there – but when I showed up about an hour and a half before the thing was supposed to start, the line had already stretched down to the Borders at the end of the block. Twenty minutes later, it was around the block, so I was glad I came early.

The line moved very, very slowly. A woman and local reporters were going up and down the line interviewing people. An ESPN crew with a camera was going along asking people for their “catchphrases.” I was behind a group of guys from the University of Maryland who were funny when they were talking to each other, but froze once the camera came around. They had us fill out about three different forms about ourselves. Various sponsors handed out trinkets. They ran out of pencils and pens.

There was this one staffer who was just a total jerk to everybody, a short balding guy in a referee’s uniform who I later learned was one of the interviewers. But for whatever reason, he refused to answer any questions from folks in the line, and was taking people in who were cutting in line. I later learned that these were the people who had sent in tapes ahead of time, but he never explained that, and a lot of people were pissed at him for his apparent favoritism.

It took forever for me to get down to the front of the line. I finally went in just before noon with a group of about 10 people, including the Maryland kids, and one of the tape-senders, a short smart Indian guy. First they took us into the lower room at ESPN Zone, where there’s that basketball game from the late 1980s that’s permanently broken. We sat at long tables and had to take a sports knowledge quiz. Various ESPN lackeys told us that the quiz was timed, and very hard, and no one had gotten 100% all morning, so we should relax and do our best. I aced all the football questions, got some of the baseball and basketball questions, and crashed and burned on nearly all the hockey/Olympics questions. They didn’t tell us our total, but they told us how we ranked, and I came in second. The easiest question was: “What was Joe Namath’s number?” The hardest (for me) was: “The Calder Memorial Trophy is awarded annually to which NHL player?” Duh, Rookie of the Year (McErlain would kill me).

Then we went out and stood on the stairway for a while, until they took us into the ESPN Zone midlevel rooms with closed off sliding glass doors. Inside were several local radio DJs and sports figures – I didn’t know them all, but they included: JP from the Junkies, Mark from the 94.7 morning show, the big black dude who opens Wizards games, and a couple other people I didn’t recognize. Chamique Holdsclaw came in midway thru. We stood around a couple of tables put together, and the panelists stood on one side. A tall guy from ESPN was managing the whole thing – he was asking sharp, quick questions, moving things along, making notes as we talked. He would ask each panelist to give us a question, and then we’d debate it, like some massive uncontrolled PTI.

So this is a little weird, but: I was in the same group as Washington Times writer Patrick Hruby, who wrote about the whole thing later. You can find his article here.

I didn’t even realize he was a reporter during the thing, except that he didn’t come in with the rest of us. But it was definitely him, because when they asked us to (right off the bat) do a call of a favorite sports moment, he did that stupid thing about Canseco that he wrote about (and I seriously doubt anyone else did that). I did the only thing I could think of: the old Russ Hodges “The Giants Win the Pennant! The Giants Win the Pennant!” In retrospect, I would’ve done the Miracle on Ice call, but I just wasn’t thinking about it ahead of time…

When Hruby writes about “the loud people,” I’m sure he’s probably including me – but I hadn’t gone in intending to be loud, it was just that whenever they asked a question, there would be dead silence for a couple of seconds. I felt like jumping in, and I think I talked on all but two questions (the ones about boxing and NASCAR), and I have a pretty deep voice, so it probably sounded louder than it was. JP asked a football question, about the best team in the NFL (I said the Colts). Someone else asked a baseball question. When Holdsclaw came in, the ESPN dude asked the inevitable “how can the WNBA be successful” question, and I (foolishly) answered it the best I could. But I think I scored some points with a few comments by making a couple people laugh and trying to be animated and quick on my feet.

In all, I would say that the Indian dude and I talked the most of anyone in the room. Some people just clammed up – I probably heard two words out of the UMD guys after they struggled through their calls. And one guy just kept making mistakes, getting shot down.

After about 10-15 minutes, the folks walked away from the table and left us, then the tall ESPN guy (I guess that was David Jacoby) came back and said thanks, they’d be in touch. We all filed out, but then another bearded guy grabbed me and the Indian dude and said that we were getting callbacks, so he needed us to fill out some paperwork and schedule a time to come back later that night. Apparently the other people got to do more things (like interview LaVar Arrington, Michael Wilbon, etc.) during their approval period, but I didn’t.

The paperwork took forever. It was literally 30 pages long. Favorite sports moments, what do you like about sportscenter, what do you hate about sportscenter, favorite anchor, craziest thing you’ve done in the name of sports, etc. etc. etc. I tried to get through it as fast as I could.

I had a callback for later that night, but when I showed up, the place was clearly working on a delay. Everyone was behind. I ended up standing around for an hour, commiserating with the Indian guy at the bar. Redskins WR Darnerian McCants was there, with not one but two lovely lady fans, eating a massive ice cream sundae.

Eventually I got called in to the office again, and they sat me down with this girl with glasses. Another one of the producers was there, and we talked a little bit – she was nice, chatty, thought I had an interesting job, but then she left to tape someone else’s interview and I was left with the other girl.

This is the point where I started to sour on the whole thing. The girl asked me a bunch of questions, but they were really stupid ones (from my perspective). She, too, asked me if I had any catchphrases. I said that I liked to use “I – Am – Bulletproof” and “Next time, you best bring some Kryptonite.” (SNL references, folks). She didn’t get it either.

I realized about halfway thru that the questions she was asking weren’t really designed to be about sports… but about Reality Shows.

She was asking stuff like: “How do you interact with groups?” “Do you consider yourself the center of attention?” “Do you play well with others?” She seemed a little down on the fact that I was married, and even more so when I thought that the Yankees and the Cubs would make for a better World Series than the Red Sox.

And then came the showstopper – she said, “So, tell me why your favorite baseball player is … [pause to look at page] … Sandy COWfax?”

I’m serious, folks. She mispronounced Sandy Koufax’s name. Maybe she thought my scrawl was a W instead of a U, but to not know how to say the name of one of the greatest pitchers of all time? Please. She was clearly a production person, not a sports person.

For whatever reason, I didn’t get cut right at that point. I know they sent some people home, but they asked me to hang around and shot some footage of me (which still exists, somewhere) reading the mockup highlight they’d asked me to bring in ahead of time - I wrote it out calling the Monday Night game from the night before, Packers at Bears. Afterward, the short ref guy told me that they’d “clearly seen something” in me, and they’d “be in touch”… which I took to be the cut, and it was.

I survived until there were only about 15 people left, so I felt pretty good. I saw Michael Quigley, the guy who eventually won the D.C. tryout and is now on the show, and he seemed pretty knowledgeable. I wish I had gotten the Indian dude’s name, because he seemed cool, and he was still there when I left, so I hoped he’d win.

All in all, though, I’m kinda glad I didn’t go any further. The worst situation would’ve been to win the city-wide search, but then get cut in the semis and not get on the show except for some token footage. I don’t really want to live in Connecticut, and it would’ve taken a lot to basically ask for a month of leave to do the show.

But more than that, it was clear to me that the contest really wasn’t going to be one of merit, but of style. It was less “Who Wants to Win a Dream Job” than it was, “American SportsIdol.” I wouldn’t be at all surprised if someone ends up winning who doesn’t know very much about sports, but is a comedian or an actor (I think there are four of those in the final 12), so they’re quick on their feet and capable of faking it.

In all though, it was a fun experience. I hope whoever wins has some fun on the Big Show.

(Originally posted by Ben at February 20, 2004 05:34 PM)

We got in line yesterday around 3 PM, with about a hundred people ahead of us. We were dead center in the front row, bordering on the reflecting pool, looking straight ahead at the Capitol and the glowering statue of General Grant on horseback. We waited for the arrival.

Folks were from everywhere – Iowa, Austin, Chicago, Minnesota, Kentucky, Frankfurt. Not everyone was a Republican… but someone who saw me reading NR did ask if Ramesh’s piece on Spitzer was good. It was probably the most calm and polite line I’ve ever seen in DC. It really was sweltering, but the Red Cross was there, and water was plentiful.

That mini-evacuation scare was really just frightening to the out-of-towners (anyone who works on the Hill is used to getting those sort of warnings by now), and the locals helped people out. All ages were there – old military men, young families, a baby that couldn’t have been more than a year old.

We counted the stacks of water bottles on wooden pallets scattered around the grounds. Approximately 1,800 bottles per pallet. Upwards of 110,000 bottles of water. They were going to need more.

The F-15s flew right above us, the sunlight winking off their wings. As the last fighter broke off towards heaven in The Missing Man maneuver, I knew this was one of those moments I’ll be telling my grandchildren about someday.

There was a circle of silence that surrounded the horse without a rider – it was awesome, in the true sense of the word. The murmur went through the crowd from those holding newspaper clippings – those were his boots in the stirrups. They were. But of course they would be.

At first, there were just a few hundred people in line. Then it grew. As the casket made its way slowly up Constitution, passing by the thousands who lined the streets and the balconies, watchers would break off and move up towards the line. They stood in families and groups and in crowds, on the sidewalks and the steps, knowing that others stood at home.

By the time the caisson reached us, there were tens of thousands of them, moving steadily down the mall, watching from a distance as the honor guard carried The Man Who Wrestled the Bear up the steps.

I’ve never had a soft spot for Nancy. But to see her standing up there, a frail yet strong figure at the top of the wide stairway, reaching out for one touch, was as moving a sight as I have ever seen.

The lines of the honor guard looked straight and steady as they bore him through the door. Someone cheered – and then another – and then everyone was clapping and whistling, as if welcoming home a conquering hero.

There were hours more to go in the heat as we worked our way through security and up towards the southwest entrance. The sun set when we were by the reflecting pool. We were in the first group to go in – they were counting us off, and we were numbers 143 and 144.

Up the steps, across the front, through the outer door, into the entranceway. Throats are clenched, hands held tight. The guard nods. The doors open.

The room is hushed. The crusty military man in front of us, whose legs were broken on some mission long ago, creaked up to the velvet rope and did a slow, solemn salute. We stepped together around the axis of the rotunda, as slow and deliberate as the honor guard. The draped flag shone bright in the spotlights, shimmering with color, vivid and unashamed.

We wept for a man born before our grandfathers.

One last glance, and then we are in the outside world again. The air seems lighter now. Standing atop the Capitol steps, we look across towards the Potomac – past the crowd, the trees, the monuments of heroes, and up up up to that night sky where the fighter jet rose like a soul aloft, busting through the clouds – straight on through to the kingdom of heaven.

The first time I saw Bobby Jindal, he left Jack Welch, John Sweeney, and a roomful of corporate bigshots, union leaders, and people who generally like to hear themselves talk absolutely dumbfounded.

It wasn’t the first time he’d done this sort of thing, and certainly not the last.

Read on.

It was 2003, and President Bush’s Medicare plan was coming to Capitol Hill. As every cabinet secretary does in these situations, Health and Human Services Secretary Tommy Thompson was tasked with marketing the legislative policy to the people who matter—Committee Chairmen, union heads, and a trail of Congresspeople were met for one-on-one sessions, where Tommy would use his trademark aw-shucks Wisconsin glad-handing tactics to try and win their vote.

But on an issue as big as Medicare, and with the controversial Prescription Drug Benefit the president was proposing, there was a need for something bigger than the normal Hill activity. So the heads of GE, the AFL-CIO, and a dozen other captains of industry and labor met in a small back room of the Hay-Adams hotel, across Lafayette Park from the White House, to share their thoughts on the legislation.

Standing against the burgundy wall behind Thompson’s ornate chair, I watched as he went into his traditional spiel in favor of the measure. “This is a first step toward more flexibility, toward more accountability. This is about bringing common sense into a confused and disorganized system. I’ll listen to what you have to say and take it back to the President.” And so on.

Thompson always seemed to me to be a good and kindhearted Midwestern fellow. But like many former governors who were once the unchallenged kings of their state, he would often make the mistake of assuming that the same tactics that worked back home could work here. Where before tough political divisions could be mended in the box at a Packers game, or over a round of brews, or after a cross-county Harley ride, the political creatures who inhabit Washington have no taste for such things. They want money, and power, and credit, and sometimes all of the above. And if they can’t have it, they don’t believe you should, either.

In this meeting, Thompson had walked into a vituperative buzzsaw in the person of Leo Gerard, head of the United Steelworkers. Stout, vulgar, and mustachioed, Gerard was not interested in debate or discussion, but in browbeating Thompson and the business leaders around the table into submission. His policy views were bluntly communist. With a stack of papers at his side, Gerard would cite an odd statistic, use it as the basis for why the American health care system should be more like Sweden’s, then doodle on his notepad while others responded.

The meeting fell apart within fifteen minutes. Thompson just didn’t know how to handle this creature. He quickly found there was no give and take on health care with Gerard—even moving leftward in small areas would never satisfy the union leader. And where Thompson would try to respond with alternate statistics or his knowledge of the situation, Gerard would fall back on anecdotes about workers bleeding in the streets while fat cats got the best health care that money could buy.

Bobby Jindal, at that time a senior policy advisor at HHS, arrived late to the meeting, cracking the door and slipping through. He is a slim and quiet man, with an easygoing smile—but always with the underlying intensity of those truly dedicated to the tasks in front of them. I knew who he was, but had never seen him in person before.

After a few minutes of watching Jack Welch roll his eyes as Gerard launched into another tirade on the virtues of socialist health care, he stepped toward the table.

“Mister Secretary, if I may interject?” he asked. Relieved for the possibility of some help, Thompson nodded assent.

Off the top of his head, Jindal started going down the list. He snapped Gerard’s smaller concerns like dry twigs, citing statistics and anecdotes as if they were memorized specifically for this moment. The larger socialist arguments he hacked into little bits—this won’t work, here’s why it won’t work, and here’s three places where they tried it and it didn’t. He was polite, he was intelligent, and he was passionate. He was ruthless.

Gerard sat, silent and sullen. He tried to respond at one point, but got tied up in knots. He shuffled his papers. He took a sip of water. And he was quiet. Everyone was.

In five minutes, Bobby Jindal made the case for free market solutions, for individual liberty, and for health care that caters to what people need, not what unions want. He did what none of the other men in the room were capable of doing. And it seemed as if it was as easy for him as breathing.

There are precious few people in America who, given the choice between a cushy Washington career and the task of governing the ungovernable, would choose the path Bobby Jindal has.

But that’s who Jindal is. It’s who he always has been.

Bobby Jindal was born in Baton Rouge in 1971. His parents were in grad school there, recent immigrants from the Punjab in northern India. He was raised Hindu, but converted to Roman Catholicism in his teens. He went to Louisiana public schools, then Brown University, where he was an honors student in biology and public policy. A Rhodes Scholar, he was admitted to the medical and law schools of both Harvard and Yale—but chose Oxford instead.

It was 1994. He was 23 years old. The whole bright world of Europe was open before him. He had a prestigious consulting job waiting in D.C. But Bobby Jindal was looking back toward home.

Republican Gov. Mike Foster, Jr. the rambunctious chief executive of the state at the time, took notice of Jindal. And before he turned 25, the young policy mind was appointed Secretary of the Louisiana Department of Health & Hospitals. They needed him, this kid, to fix the Louisiana health care system—a wreck of a system, facing the worst crisis of mismanagement, fraud, and abuse in its history.

He had to be on the job immediately—so he gave away his furniture, packed up his clothes, and hopped on a plane bound for home. The appointment was “a bit unorthodox,” and that was just in the words of the man who made it.

“Everybody that has met him agrees with me. He is a walking computer…for some reason, his mind is locked in on the medical field,” Foster told the Baton Rouge Rotary Club. “And he is also the kind of guy you can go out and drink a beer with. He’s a nice guy. This is a guy that will, if you sit down with him, give you more confidence that he’s got a handle on it and is going to stop solving things with crisis maintenance.”

“I’ve got as much confidence in Bobby Jindal as any man I’ve ever met.”

“Whiz Kid Takes the Reins,” the headlines said.

Jindal likes to tell the story now of how when he went out on dates, he’d just tell girls that he was “a secretary.” Nobody would believe him if he said what his real job was—or worse, he’d seem like he was bragging. In 1997, he married Supriya Jolly, who was apparently impressed enough by him despite his lowly title.

From 1998 to 1999, Jindal headed up the National Bipartisan Commission on the Future of Medicare, the first significant push for reform of the national health care system. The seventeen-member panel was chaired by then-Senator John Breaux, the Louisiana Democrat who, at the time of this article, is reportedly considering returning to Louisiana to run against Bobby in what has all the marks of an epic southern political showdown. Breaux likely won’t do it, though—the latest polls show that the long-serving Senator, who’s been working as a lobbyist in D.C. for several years, would trail the younger Jindal by nearly ten points.

In 1999, Jindal moved homeward again to become the youngest-ever President of the University of Louisiana System. And in 2001, the new President Bush snatched him up, bringing him in to be the idea man at HHS.

It was the kind of career arc that some men take decades to achieve. The next move, in the typical Washington fashion, is to a high-priced private sector job—the corner office, the nice bonus, the big house in walking distance of Georgetown. But Bobby Jindal came back home.

In 2003, he took on Katherine Blanco, the Democrat Lieutenant Governor, to replace the retiring Gov. Foster. After navigating the messy but-oh-so-Louisiana jungle primary, Jindal took first place with 33 percent of the vote. The Times-Picayune endorsed him, as did several Democrats, despite the fact that he was 100% pro-life. No negative campaigner, Jindal stressed his role as a problem solver, and the need to fix the many difficulties plaguing his home state: “I am not a politician, I’m a problem-solver, and Louisiana needs a problem-solver,” he said in his quiet southern accent.

And many of the people listened. But not enough.

On election day, Jindal won a plethora of districts, including Blanco’s home of Lafayette. But in the normally conservative parishes of northern Louisiana, he lost by slim margins. In the last days of the campaign, ads had run in many of these districts that used darkened photos of Jindal and ominous intonations. Some voters just made the choice by color, not by ideas—and Blanco won with 52 percent of the vote.

The private sector called again. Bobby was too smart to waste his time in this effort—come back to Washington, they said, and they said it with bags of money.

Yet a few weeks after the devastating loss, Jindal was on TV again, announcing that he was running for the open seat vacated by Rep. David Vitter, who was vying to replace the outgoing Sen. Breaux. This time, in a safe Republican district, the support was on his side. He won handily, with 78% of the vote.

In Congress, he was elected Freshman Class President. He got several good committee postings. He joined the conservative Republican Study Committee. He started to get used to the idea of being a legislator.

Then, in August of 2005, the skies ripped open. And nothing would be the same again.

You don’t see how bad some governments are run until the moment when things are at their most dire and people face their greatest moment of need.

At that point of despair, a choice is made: either the cops form lines to rush the burning towers, or they grab a shopping cart and start looking for what they can take.

Bobby Jindal doesn’t tell a lot of stories about what he did during Katrina. Seeing the devastation firsthand does that to you. You have to hear it from the people around him, the people who saw what he did.

A few days after the storm, there was a meeting of the Louisiana principals. Blanco was there, FEMA’s soon-to-be-infamous Michael Brown, a handful of Congressmen, and every local political staffer worth shaking a stick at, and some not even worth that. It was supposed to start at Noon. At 12:30, it still hadn’t. People were milling around, chatting, giving quotes to reporters.

Jindal surveyed the room for a few minutes. Then he saw Blanco and the others pause to look at a television in the corner—it was footage from another press conference they’d had the previous day, broadcasting on CNN. The politicians all stood around, watching themselves on the screen.

Jindal turned to his chief of staff, and said, “Let’s go.”

They climbed into a Ford Excursion and took off looking for what they could do to help. They started with Harry Lee, the infamous Sheriff of Jefferson Parish.

Lee is a typical Louisiana political figure. Born in the backroom of a Chinese laundry in New Orleans, Lee was first elected sheriff in 1979. He’s been there ever since. Popular, controversial, but effective, Lee keeps crime rates consistently low in his parish—despite the fact that his neighbors in Orleans enjoy one of the highest crime rates in America.

During Katrina, Lee commandeered local Wal-Mart and Sam’s Club stores, allowing them to open in spite of FEMA’s request that they remain closed. When the Feds got angry, Lee responded that anyone who tried to close either store would be arrested by deputies. And when the Times-Picayune asked Lee about the 40 deputies who didn’t show up for work after the storm, Lee said he’d told the one officer who’d tried to return late not to waste his time: “As far as I’m concerned, [he] will never get a job in law enforcement again.”

Jindal and his staff found Lee exactly where they expected him to be: eating in a local diner, his unofficial office, powered by generators. Jindal asked him what he and his officers needed. Lee said he needed nothing, of course—but he had a helicopter to spare. Why not put it to use? So Bobby climbed in and headed to the St. Bernard parish, where Sheriff Jack Stephens gave them a list of what he needed.

1. Trucks
2. Medical Supplies
3. Water
4. Guns
5. Ammo

“I’ll see what I can do,” Jindal said. Lee took care of the numbers 4 and 5—the congressman got the rest.

Before the storm, Michael Brown and the folks at FEMA had told Jindal that they had “resources in place” to respond to the storm, organized and ready to move in with water, food, and clothing in the event the levees broke (though no one really considered such a possibility). Now, these resources were nowhere to be found. Calls to FEMA on the Sat-phone produced nothing at first, followed by lousy excuses.

“Where are the trucks? Where are the medical supplies? Where’s the food?” Jindal and his staff asked.

“Well, we don’t think it’s safe enough to send them in,” was the reply.

An idea: why don’t they give the food, the supplies, everything, to the National Guard. After all, they have guns. If crazed looters try to take the goods, the Guard can, you know, shoot them.

Such an action isn’t authorized here, FEMA responded. The supplies sat where they were for days.

Jindal’s office had set up a hotline number, with the number broadcast over the radio airwaves, for anyone who needed help to call. The calls ranged the full gamut, from the expected to the shocking—from no power, to missing children, to medical supplies needed, to “I’m stuck in my attic with a cell phone and a radio. Please come and save me.”

They had a helicopter pilot call in. He had his helicopter, gassed up and ready to go. But he wanted authorization to go in and save people.

Jindal’s staff called FEMA—they said it was a military issue. They called the Marines—they said it was an issue for the Department of Transportation. They called the DOT—nobody knew who to ask.

Jindal called the helicopter pilot back. “Go in.”

“You got me authorization?” the pilot asked.

“Yeah, I’m giving you your authorization right now.”

A local mayor told Jindal a story after the fact that in retrospect seems like a good symbol for the disconnect between D.C. and Louisiana. After the storm, he’d called FEMA in search of help. They were flooded. They had no power. Can you send someone?

“I’m not authorized to do that, I’ll need to ask my supervisor.”

Thirty minutes on hold.

“Yeah, he’s not able to approve that right now,” the FEMA bureaucrat said. “Could you maybe email the details? I can pass it along then.”

The mayor informed FEMA that no, without electricity, they couldn’t email him. FEMA put them on hold, searching for the answer to this unexpected situation.

Another few minutes. Then they came back on.

“Yeah, see, that’s our protocol here. So if you could find someone to email the details, and then maybe put that last part in the email too? That’d be great.”

FEMA was useless. The governor was looking for someone to blame. Time to solve some problems. Time to use that rolodex.

Jindal and his staff started calling like mad, becoming a de facto volunteer and donation coordinator for the corporate, community, and faith-based entities eager to help. We need a truck with clean water—let’s talk to the beer companies, the soda makers. We need medical supplies—I know a guy with the pharmaceutical companies, they’ll donate something. We need people in boats—let’s talk to the megachurches. They’ve got volunteers up north, but no way to get them here—fine, let’s call down the list to everyone who owns a plane or a helicopter.

One can’t really tell the impact one congressman and his staff had on the recovery from a storm like Katrina. There’s no tangible way to measure it. In simple legislative terms, Jindal did a handful of key things—putting together the relief plan, co-sponsoring the bill to prevent authorities from grabbing guns from legally-authorized owners, pleading for competence in managing the aid to the people of his state.

We can’t measure it. But the people of Louisiana know what he did.

After being reelected by a wide margin, in January of 2007 Jindal announced that he would return home to run for governor again. Even though the Republican leadership wanted him to take on vulnerable Senator Mary Landrieu, Jindal knew his state, his devastated home, needed him now more than ever.

The polls weren’t even close. In March, faced with a prospect of an election that would uncover the true breadth of her incompetence and mistakes, Gov. Blanco announced that she would not run for reelection. There are just too many stories, and too much truth to be told about the choices she made and didn’t make when people’s lives were on the line.

The remnants of the Louisiana Democratic machine are scrambling to fill her spot—and already, some are admitting publicly that their only hope is to play the race card. Democrat Rep. Charles Melancon mused to reporters that “a white, centrist Democrat can beat Jindal.”

It remains to be seen who they’ll choose. In early polling, Jindal still leads all potential candidates. But Louisiana has a history of difficult, controversial, and crooked elections, and there’s no reason to think this will be any different.

What is different is Jindal. He’s more earnest now, more than just a policy wonk dealing with charts and figures. He’s more dedicated to the ideals he cherishes, because he knows what they mean for his state. He’s older, but it’s not just the years—Katrina aged him. He understands the importance of this race for his home state, for his neighbors, for his family.

In the fall of 2006, Jindal’s wife was pregnant with her third child. In the middle of the night, in their home in Kenner, Louisiana, she awoke to the pain of contractions, days before she was expected to deliver. They called the hospital, and got ready to leave—but it quickly became obvious that this child was coming out, and it was coming out right now.

At 3:25 AM, before the paramedics could arrive, the congressmen delivered his third child, a son named Slade Ryan Jindal, into the world.

“[My wife] told me, ‘Make sure to get everything out of his mouth.’ I said, ‘I don’t think there is any obstruction. He’s screaming,’” Jindal told the Times-Picayune.

“She asked me if there were 10 fingers and toes. I told her there were. She asked if it was a boy or a girl. I told her it was a boy…It was all so quick. It was over in 30 minutes,” he said. He put the baby in his wife’s arms, and tied off the umbilical cord with a shoelace.

“You don’t have time to think about calling anyone for help. It’s your wife and son. You just do what you have to do.”

This fall, Louisiana can choose the old ways of doing things, the corrupt ways, the status quo. They can fall back. Or they can move forward under the leadership of the brilliant young policy wonk who chose his home over comfort and financial success. They can take this opportunity to walk in a better path, a path toward solving their problems, fixing the crushed houses and streets, and do what they have to do to make this broken state new again.

The choice is theirs to make.

(Originally posted by Ben Domenech at Redstate)

The President’s speech in Normandy is a far better commentary on Memorial Day then anything I could offer, but what follows is a speech I delivered as part of the Colonial Williamsburg Veterans Day celebration. I think it works for today, as well.One of my earliest memories is that sense of great height, the rush of wind in my ears as my father held me atop his shoulders on the shores of Puerto Rico. I could see for miles across the ocean from my post, held aloft by those strong arms. “Never be afraid,” he used to say, “of standing on my shoulders.”

My father has taught me many things, but I think this was the first. It was a lesson of loyalty and trust. The American dream seemed far away across that ocean–yet my father never gave up hope of building a better life for us here. He taught me that I could rise up above the dirty streets of my youth, the urban flack and steaming cement of the inner city — that we wouldn’t always live where we could hear gunshots at night — that starting poor, and weak, and small didn’t mean it had to stay that way.

And through it all he reminded me of those who had gone before us, who had risked their lives and fortunes for the freedom we presently enjoy: people like my grandfather, an Army Colonel who served under MacArthur in Korea, and in Panama afterward. My dad was an Army brat, who’d seen all of Latin America before he was 18. I remember finding an old uniform of my grandfather’s once in a neglected closet — marveling at the feel of its sleeve, the worn buttons and proud shoulders, the flood of stories it represented to my young mind. My father taught me the true responsibilities that wearing the uniform entailed–the solemn covenant of sacrifice and patriotism: Duty, Honor, Country.

Would that more in my generation understood that ancient responsibility. Even in the wake of the tragedy of September 11, there seem to be precious few of my peers who remember the lessons of the past. Far too many of them seem to be caught up in the immature finger pointing of an apathetic age, where protest for the sake of protest seems more fashionable than the uniform of service. Even at this moment, where the country is united more than at any time in the past 50 years, my own generation’s American pride is scarce - they are more apt to point blame at our flag than salute it. It is a sad case indeed: a poll of Harvard students taken in the week after the attacks found that, if called upon by their country, barely more than 1 out of every 4 students would willingly serve in the armed forces.

To this I can only respond, with a certain degree of pride, that Harvard is no William & Mary. I am proud to be on a campus where “unity day” is not merely a euphemism for anti-American discourse.

But there are some in my generation who have forgotten the faces of their forefathers–the faces of the lone Marine on the beach, the grave General in the bunker, the Army Nurse working against harsh reality in the hospital tent. To some, the only wars left are those that take place on the movie screen, where there are no casualties, where, after the sounds of the guns and pain, we return to a quite, peaceful world outside.

For this, they should be ashamed.

Make no mistake–the war that lies ahead is not one of economy or state–it is one of ideology as well. The ideology of our enemies praises the bold manhood of the agents of terror, who destroy in an instant thousands of lives, the lives of unarmed men, innocent women, and crying children. The destruction of strangers, the murder of noncombatants, is not a cowardly act, they claim; rather, it earns them the posthumous marks of conqueror, martyr, hero.

To the eyes of those who peddle terror in our streets, the American brand of heroism must be hard to fathom. Our heroes are those who run into the flames of collapsing buildings, without a thought for their own safety, hoping beyond hope to save a single stranger. Our heroes are the faceless volunteers, the doctors, the police, the firemen who labor on through the rubble, damned if they will be stopped by flying debris or another collapse. Our heroes are those who lay down their lives for the sake of others.

In life, it is cowardly to purposefully attack those who cannot resist and thus threaten you in turn; in war, it is cowardly to purposefully attack civilians. The butchers of September 11 fail by both those standards.

Yet there is promise for us today, as well. In the Biblical book of Nehemiah, we are told the story of the ancient walls of the holy city of Jerusalem. They had been laid to waste by a foreign enemy, the city’s gates burned to the ground, the defenses left barren and desolate. The people were left without heart for work or civic pride, fearful for their families and their land, confused, hollowed out, and uninspired.

Into this scene strode Nehemiah. With a few blunt words–you might even call them folksy–this man seized the leadership of his people, and turned their hearts back toward the work at hand:

“Then said I unto them, Ye see the distress that we are in, how the walls of Jerusalem lieth in waste, and the gates thereof are burned with fire. Come, let us rebuild the wall together, and we will no longer be in disgrace.” (Nehemiah 2:17)

Today, we strive to rebuild the wall. It is slow going — placing brick upon brick, stone on stone, one day at a time. But Americans have done it before. You, you who stand here today, have done it before. And, working together, we will do it again.

“Old men forget — yet all shall be forgot, and still we will remember” the sacrifices made by those who came before, who met challenges greater than this with strength of heart and mind. Some stand with us today in person — others stand here in spirit. And years hence, when the heroes of this war join your ranks, those who forgot their solemn duty will think themselves accursed they did not stand with us today.

Today I bring you a simple pledge, offered without pretense, as one student at the alma mater of our nation. Others have forgotten — but we will never forget you who have come before us, who have sweat, and bled, and died …

All so that a man can stand up on his own two feet, hold his son atop his shoulders, and look across the ocean towards Hope and Freedom.

Thank you.

(Originally posted by Ben at May 27, 2002 02:35 PM)

Could Trent Lott have saved himself? We probably won’t ever be able to know the answer. I think it was within his ability to save himself, to give the equivalent of Nixon’s Checkers speech — which was a great one, and one few people actually remember accurately — and wrest control of this controversy away from the Democrats and the press.Lott just can’t handle this kind of pressure. Never a very philosophical man, he’s more of a vote counter than a bomb thrower, more deal maker than ideologue — and that means, in the face of angry questions and hostile interviews, he’s wilted like so much winter kudzu. He’s gone all over the map on his vote against the MLK holiday (Lott, like many others, has always said he opposes all government holidays because of their massive cost — around $300 million). He’s become Mr. Affirmative Action. And he’s talking about the South as if it’s some retromingent backlog of Third World economics and antebellum hostility. He just keeps digging a bigger hole.

Here’s a speech that Lott didn’t give. I don’t know if it would’ve saved him. He’s not a naturally eloquent man, so it’s hard to recover from mistakes like this. But I think if he had delivered a speech like this — solemnly, carefully, without any degree of lightheartedness — I think his cause might be a little better right now. He should’ve spoken on the front porch of his house. He should’ve taken no questions. He should not have smiled. He should just have been himself.

The Pascagoula Speech

Hello everyone. My name is Trent Lott, and I’m from Pascagoula, Mississippi.

I come before you tonight as a Senator, and as a man whose honesty and integrity has been questioned.

There’s a usual political thing to do when charges are made against you. You either ignore them, and pretend they didn’t happen. Or you deny them, and say that you’re blameless and innocent. There’s too much of that in politics already without me getting involved, so I’m not going to do either of those things tonight.

To me the office of United States Senator is a great office, and I feel that the people have got to have confidence in the integrity and honor of anyone they elect to hold that office. I’ve always believed that the best way to answer a charge, whether it’s a smear campaign or just an honest misunderstanding, is with the truth. And that is why I am here tonight.

I grew up here in Pascagoula. My father was a shipyard worker here, and my mother was a teacher. I went to the University of Mississippi, and my family and I worked hard so I could afford to go to law school there. I went to work for William Colmer, the Democrat Congressman from these parts, back in the late 60s — and when I first ran for office in 1972, I was glad to count William as my first supporter from the other side of the aisle.

The people of Mississippi have been good to me. It’s been an honor for me to serve them in the House and the Senate. And while I’ve been in Washington, I’ve tried to quit myself well. I’ve done my best to fight for the needs of Mississippi and of all Americans, and I’ve served the nation I love as hard as I can.

My party has seen fit to elect me as their leader in the Senate. It’s a position of great importance and history. Some of the great Americans who’ve held this position include Everett Dirksen, Henry Cabot Lodge, Charles McNary, Robert Taft, Howard Baker, and Bob Dole. And I consider it an honor to be counted among the ranks of men who have given so much in the service of their country.

I’m not an eloquent man. I haven’t succeeded in politics because I’m a skilful speaker, who can move people’s hearts with a few words. I’m a simple man, from a small town. So I’ve tried to compensate for that by working harder, putting in longer hours, and doing my best to meet the people of Mississippi where they live, as neighbors and friends, not just as another voter.

We all make mistakes sometimes when we talk. We say things that are rude or insensitive or just plain wrong. I don’t know a single person who hasn’t ever insulted or offended someone with their speech, unintentionally — either by telling an off-color joke, gossiping about others behind their backs, or making an inappropriate comment.

I’m no different as a person. The difference is, because of the position of prominence I have, when I make a mistake or speak without thinking that mistake gets carried on national TV and broadcast around the country. Instead of an apology on a personal level to the folks I offended, I must try to offer what impersonal apology I can through the lens of a TV camera.

My comment at Senator Thurmond’s birthday party was not in any way intended as an endorsement of the views Senator Thurmond espoused back in 1948. I did not misspeak; I simply did not consider the message my remarks would convey. It was a foolish statement, made in praise of an old, dying man. But that is no excuse for the offense.

When Senator Thurmond ran for President, I was all of seven years old. I would’ve had a hard time telling you what segregation meant then, or explaining why my black friends and white friends were “different.” But as I grew up and saw what turmoil the South was going through in the 50s and 60s, I saw a very clear battle going on — one that was more about the root belief in the equality and freedom than anything else.

I am a federalist, and a conservative. That means I believe in small government, in low taxes, in the rights of states and of individuals. People may disagree with my voting record — but I stand by it. I have fought hard to pursue the interests of the state of Mississippi. And there is not one vote I have cast in the Senate or the Congress that I regret.

I have had a long career in politics, and I am honored of the position in which God has seen fit to place me. I also understand the political realities of this media age. I understand that a stupid and insensitive comment like the one I made is repeated a million times, compounding the offense.

Some folks call it “gotcha” politics. But you know what, people out there that hate me wouldn’t be able to play “gotcha” if I didn’t give them something in the first place. And I will not allow the Republican party, the South, or the people of Mississippi to suffer for an offense that is nothing but my own.

And so tonight, I have called a meeting of the Republican Conference of the United States Senate. I will ask the Conference to vote again on the position of Majority Leader.

If the party supports me, I will continue on. But I believe that my fellow Senators deserve the right to make a forthright decision about their leader, and vote for the best possible candidate. If they choose to replace me with someone else, there are many worthy individuals within the Senate who would be good leaders in my stead. And I will not oppose their efforts.

I believe in America. I believe that America is a blessed nation. I believe America has, through war and conflict, protest and politics, come a long way down the road to resolving the problems of race, towards fulfilling the true meaning of our creed: that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their creator with certain inalienable rights, that among these are life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness…

Across this country, though, you and I know that there are still pockets of hate, groups that have not learned from the past, groups that would like to live in a world without any members of other races, with signs that say “colored don’t enter here,” where the white children don’t hold hands with the black ones.

That is racist. That is evil. That is unAmerican. Anyone who stands for that view must know that they have an enemy in Trent Lott.

I am a simple man. I have always tried, throughout my career, to do the right thing. And I have made mistakes, like any flawed person. I apologize to those I have offended, and hope you will forgive me. In the end, that’s all I can hope for.

My name is Trent Lott, and I’m from Pascagoula, Mississippi.

May God bless you all, and may God bless America. Thank you, and goodnight.

(Originally posted by Ben at December 16, 2002 08:25 AM)

We have been silent witnesses of evil deeds. We have been drenched by many storms. We have learnt the arts of equivocation and pretense… Are we still of any use?

One of the little things about Dietrich Bonhoeffer’s story that I had somehow forgotten over the years was the fact that he took a second teaching position in New York prior to the outbreak of World War II. As Bonhoeffer walked around the streets of the city, he became convinced that, like Jonah fleeing from Ninevah, he had refused the call of God to fight the Nazis from within Germany. And he knew what that call meant — after all, he once wrote: “When Christ calls a man, He bids him come and die.”

Convinced that he must return to his homeland, Bonhoeffer boarded a ship in America and sailed back toward Germany. It was the last ship to sail for Europe before the outbreak of the war.

I’ve always been intrigued by Bonhoeffer’s inner confliction about his role as a Christian caught in the horror of Nazi Germany. The state had engulfed and bent the church, as an entity, to its will. The church leadership was all compromised, helpless, or willing participants. And those church leaders who spoke out against the villainy pre- and post-Kristallnacht were either brutally murdered or sent to concentration camps.

Bonhoeffer and his allies made the decision to act, as members of a faith-based resistance, to do whatever they could in this horrible situation. They committed themselves to jamming a spoke in the wheel of the state:

“[T]here are three possible ways in which the church can act toward the state: the first place, as has been said, it can ask the state whether its actions are legitimate and accordance with its character as state; i.e., it can throw the state back on its responsibility. Second, it can aid the victims of any ordering of society, even if they do not belong to Christian community - “Do good to all people.” In both these courses of action, the church serves the free state in its free way, and at times when laws are changed the church may in no way withdraw itself from these two tasks. The third possibility is not just to bandage the victims under the wheel, but to jam a spoke in the wheel itself.”

Bonhoeffer was still, at root, an avowed Pacifist. But while he worked in peaceful ways as a double agent of the Nazis, helping 14 Jews escape from Germany, he knew that work was insufficient. He refused to be a silent witness — so he began to aid the efforts of the resistance to assassinate Hitler.

One day he asked his pupils an ethical question: whether the murderer of a tyrant could receive absolution. Could it be right for a Christian to kill an evil man in the defense of others?

Bonhoeffer could not reconcile his non-violent beliefs and the calling of the church to worship God and minister to mankind on this earth with his desire to end another’s life — even if it was the life of a vile murdering dictator. But he did know that God calls us to work His will, not ours. So Bonhoeffer labored seeking the death of another man, the ending of the Holocaust.

It is in that labor that he was caught, jailed, and eventually executed — in April, 1945, one last casualty of a dying Reich stabbing from hell’s heart.

Yet Bonhoeffer’s question remains a valid one today. Can a believer act in violence against his fellow man consistent with his faith? Not in one’s self defense (there is a wealth of Biblical justification for self-defense), but in the defense of others – of your neighbor.

I think the way to find an answer is to look at Christ’s own teachings – in Matthew 10, He explicitly tells us:

“Think not that I came to bring peace on the earth, for I did not come to bring peace, but a sword.”

Christ is the Lamb of God, who comes to take away the sins of the world. But He is also the Lion of Judah, who sits at the right hand of the Father in heaven, and who will come again in glory to judge the quick and the dead. He is not a non-divisive figure – He turns men against each other, and brings the conflict between good and evil to its zenith. C.S. Lewis’s dictum still holds: the Christ is not a tame lion.

Ultimately, Bonhoeffer recognized this truth. As a double agent, he was familiar with Hitler’s works – he knew the true degree of Nazi atrocities long before the rest of the world did. And he knew that the only way of stopping the Reich was by undertaking a mission that would require him to shed the blood of another man – a man who, while consumed with evil, was just as much his neighbor.

Yet I firmly believe that Bonhoeffer’s decision, as emotionally wracked as it was, to be a fundamentally righteous position. There will always be evil men, and there will always be good men. For both, it is up to God to judge their salvation or damnation. But do not allow yourself to believe that He stands neutral between them.

As it is written in John 3:

“For God did not send the Son into the world to judge the world, but that the world might be saved through Him. He who believes in Him is not judged; he who does not believe has been judged already, because he has not believed in the name of the only begotten Son of God. This is the judgment, that the Light has come into the world, and men loved the darkness rather than the Light, for their deeds were evil. For everyone who does evil hates the Light, and does not come to the Light for fear that his deeds will be exposed. But he who practices the truth comes to the Light, so that his deeds may be manifested as having been wrought in God.”

Bonhoeffer made the right choice. He took the last ship. Had he taken it to the success he imagined, we might remember him today as a hero, a man of God who averted the greatest tragedy in the history of modern man. He took the last ship instead to martyrdom, to the concentration camp, to the grave – but he was no less a hero, and no less a man of God.

(Originally posted by Ben at July 21, 2003 06:02 PM)

One thing that I’ve learned over the past few years is the importance of the choices we make — not just in terms of career, of our life goals, of our partner. But the decisions we make about The Choice in life can ultimately make the difference in the way we act in all contexts and situations. The Choice about what we believe — whether we are all alone, whether there is no one to count on but ourselves — or whether there truly is one who watches over us — does more to determine your reaction to the world around you than any other factor or belief. Our faith, in God or in man, ultimately defines us to the world and to ourselves.

There is an apochryphal story that tells us of Pontius Pilate’s actions after he made the most fateful decision of his life. Pilate was a good politician, but he had never been a very wise man. Ever the apotheosis of existensialism, Pilate had in jest thrown out a philosophical question to an accused blasphemer that still lingers through time: “What is truth?” He had not stayed for the implicit answer from the accused Christ: “I am.”

Pilate had washed his hands — in a purposefully ritualistic manner, the symbolic cleansing of guilt and blood, of verdict and responsibility. He had ordered a mocking sign bolted over the cross. He had done his job.

The story goes that, after Christ had shown that the tomb is conquered through Him and by Him, Pilate took to wandering the beach near Caesarea, where he was stationed until 36 AD. He walked in the sand dunes, his robes snagging on the grass and the Mediterranean wind, his eyes turned toward the ocean. The sand was warm against his sandals.

No one knows what Pilate thought while he walked along the beach — if he walked. Perhaps the crashing waves reminded him of the Passover crowds in Jerusalem, roaring in his ears. But I think that as he gazed out at the waves, he must have wondered. Wondered whether the waves were enough to wash away his guilt — whether the whole ocean was enough to wash the blood that sticks to his hands.

We don’t know if Pilate chose baptism. But we do know the decision before us today, and we cannot underestimate its ramifications. This decision, more than any other, will change the way you live your life. Don’t ignore it.

Like Pilate, we stand on the shore, wondering whether our sin can be forgiven, whether a whole ocean can cover our spiritual imperfections. You can wade in, admit your complicity, acknowledge the fact that there was a sacrifice made for you — or stand on the shore, looking out, seeing nothing but gray skies and crashing waves.

The choice is yours to make.

Let’s go chase tornadoes
Just me and you
Don’t often catch em
But man, when you do
Just grab that catch rope
Crawl out on the wing
We won’t come down til we
Own that thing.

-James McMurtry

My family stopped in Pennsylvania this past week to hike and stop by the highest point in Pennsylvania – we’ve done about a dozen state high points together over the past couple years, and Pennsylvania’s has a beautiful view (as opposed to Virginia; our highest point is in the middle of a forest). We drove to the north, through small towns and past horse buggies, traveling slowly towards Shanksville, the crash site of Flight 93.

Springsteen was playing on the stereo when my sister and I drove past the town’s welcoming sign: “Welcome to Shanksville, a Quiet Little Town.” Underneath that was a High School logo: “Home of the Vikings.”

The flags were everywhere on Main Street – in windows, on porches, rows of miniature flags standing along front yards. There was a small sign, a flowing flag on a white background, pointing the way to the Flight 93 temporary memorial. The wind was at our backs.

There were only a few cars on the back roads, winding slowly between sunlit farmers’ fields, filled with corn and freshly bound hay bales. The tiny white signs guided us along, past farmhouses with peeling paint, broken down trucks on cement blocks, black cows and green pasture. There was a faded piece of plywood propped up against one of the porches: “Never Forget the Heroes.”

As we topped the rise of a hill, a field that bore all the marks of an old strip mine came into view. Some reports claimed that Flight 93 went down in a farmer’s field, but they were wrong. The field is actually owned by a coal company, which still has two massive old coal rigs set yards away from the road, like rusted metal giants, twins sleeping in the long grass.

The temporary memorial was a spread of gravel in the middle of the field and a section of a high chain link fence set into the ground, swaying incongruously in the wind. About a dozen cars were parked there as we arrived – the visitors, young and old alike, walked quietly along the fence, looking at the poems, flags, letters and little trinkets stuffed into the chain links. Some took pictures of a flag stretched across the ground several yards away, marking the impact site of the plane. Others wept, uncontrollably.

In that field, on that quiet sunny afternoon, there was no separation between man and reality. This wasn’t TV footage. You could squint into the sun. You could smell the air. You could hold the dirt in your hands, and watch the wind carry it away.

In the rest of the country, almost a year has passed since the crash. In that field, it still feels like it was yesterday.

I can only think of one thing that I can compare to the feeling of walking that plain – it was the same feeling I had when I walked the fields of Gettysburg for the first time. This was hallowed ground.

I wonder what it must have been like on Flight 93 – not the actual action, the sequence of events, but the thoughts of the passengers and the terrorists as they approached their confrontation. What did the passengers think as they traded glances on that plane, scared but united, preparing to lay down their lives? Did they think of their loved ones? The regrets of a life cut short? The promises they would never keep?

Whatever they thought in silence, it was their actions that we know. They grit their teeth, stood on their feet and looked the Devil in the eye – and that punkass bitch blinked.

Sacrifice has often proved to be evil’s undoing. I have always thought that evil has no context for the concept of sacrifice; it was not Christ’s existence, but His sacrificial acts that puzzled Lucifer to no end. There is something about evil that abhors sacrifice in all its forms — for loved ones, for friends, for strangers. Perhaps George MacDonald had it right when he wrote that Hell has but one principle: “I am my own.”

On September 11th, evil stormed across the earth like a Kansas Tornado, seeking to kill, ruin and destroy our nation and our people. Tornadoes are vicious, dangerous things, random and merciless. I’ve seen a few of those killers in my life – blasting through buildings, chewing up the ground, monsters moving through the air – but I’ve always watched from far away.

When the men and women on Flight 93 saw those dark clouds coming their way, they didn’t duck or run, awaiting the inevitable. They grabbed a catch rope and dug in their heels – and they brought that twister down.

Williams: But if the cause be not good, the King himself hath a heavy reckoning to make; when all those legs and arms and heads, chopped off in a battle, shall join together at the latter day, and cry all, ‘We died at such a place;’ some swearing, some crying for a surgeon, some upon their wives left poor behind them, some upon the debts they owe, some upon their children rawly left. I am afeared there are few die well that die in a battle; for how can they charitably dispose of any thing when blood is their argument? Now, if these men do not die well, it will be a black matter for the king that led them to it, whom to disobey were against all proportion of subjection. King Henry: So, if a son that is by his father sent about merchandise do sinfully miscarry upon the sea, the imputation of his wickedness, by your rule, should be imposed upon his father that sent him: or if a servant, under his master’s command transporting a sum of money, be assailed by robbers and die in many irreconciled iniquities, you may call the business of the master the author of the servant’s damnation.But this is not so: the king is not bound to answer the particular endings of his soldiers, the father of his son, nor the master of his servant; for they purpose not their death when they purpose their services. Besides, there is no king, be his cause never so spotless, if it come to the arbitrement of swords, can carry it out with all unspotted soldiers… if they die unprovided, no more is the king guilty of their damnation than he was before guilty of those impieties for the which they are now visited. Every subject’s duty is the king’s; but every subject’s soul is his own.

 

Henry V Act IV, Scene 1

This brief debate, held on the muddy ground of France the night before Agincourt between a disguised King Harry and a British soldier, strikes me as a good summation of the two distinct philosophical positions about death and the conscience of a nation. Let’s leave out the intradenominational issues surrounding the process salvation, and focus on the issue of responsibility for a moment.

The soldier’s position grants that there is a judgment made by God concerning the responsibility for death, whether in battle, or in any other context. The soldier points to the King (or the Nation) as the responsible party, and argues that, on the day of judgment, the ghosts of perished soldiers and bereaved wives will point their bloody hands toward the leader who urged them on.

King Harry’s position, on the other hand, states that the ultimate judgment is not made in a corporate manner, but based on the state of the individual. Therefore the King — the Nation — is no more guilty of the sin of causing these deaths in battle than he is of the sins perpetrated off of the battlefield by his fellow citizens. There are only the individual consciences to worry about — no national one.

There are several important questions here, ones that I think can particularly be drawn to bear in the case of our current national dilemma. This is about more than just, can the United States be held responsible for the death of its soldiers in battle — it strikes at the very heart of our attitude toward our public policy.

In the latest interview published by Bob Woodward, the President repeated his articulate defense of a foreign policy based not just on strategic interests, but on humanitarianism. He clearly views the encouragement of new democratic regimes around the globe not just as a shield against terrorism or being in our economic interest, but as an agent of change in favor of increased human rights.

The moral argument that stopping human suffering around the world is one of our reponsibilities as a world power is familiar as an anti-protectionist position favored by neoconservatives. And to some extent, it relies on the broad-based theological teaching of love for our neighbors, defending and supporting widows and orphans, feeding and healing the sick, etc.