[This is the first in a series of four articles about “hard things” in the Christian life.]
Recently I watched a movie that covered one of the largest rescues from a prisoner of war camp in the American military; the movie is called The Great Raid. Before I highly recommend it to blog readers [which I do] I need to note that it is not really “my type of movie”. My favorites tend to be movies that combine strong philosophical themes with great acting and high artistry: Out of Africa, Hero, The Usual Suspects, The Mission, and many more.
But I am very glad that I watched this one, not only because it is a good movie, but for other reasons I’ll talk about later.
The events that the movie portrays took place near the end of WWII. The U.S. had abandoned the Philippines near the beginning of the war, and the result was that some 75,000 U.S. soldiers and Filipinos were captured and held by the Japanese. Those that survived the Bataan Death March were held in three POW camps on the islands, one of them Cabanatuan.
Towards the end of the war, the Japanese had instituted a “Kill All” policy for remaining POWs; a part of this policy was apparently in order to eliminate possible witnesses for war crimes trials. The policy was confirmed by the sole escapee from the island of Paluwan’s camp; he survived after 150 POWs were herded into Air Raid shelters, sealed in, doused with gasoline, and burned alive.
During the raid, 127 members of the Army’s 6th Ranger Battallion [Army Rangers, the 6th Battallion described in the movie by its Lieutenant Colonel as “the best trained and least tested fighting force ever” in 1944] moved behind enemy lines through forests and fields over a period of days, and with the help of the Filipino guerrilla forces [which had, incidentally, continued fighting on the islands for three long years, facing defeat against hopeless odds], raided Cabanatuan and released 511 POWs. Only two of the battallion were killed. More than 500 Japanese soldiers were killed, and many thousands held off by the Filipino forces, which guarded the main road and bridge while the raid took place.
It was a simply spectacular feat by U.S. Special Operations, and one of their finest hours.
The movie observes different groups involved in the raid, including the Filipino Underground movement [led by, of all things, an American woman], the Filipino guerrillas, the Army Rangers, and the POWs. It is with the POWs that we observe the standard Japanese treatment of their enemies.
That treatment, historically, had worsened alarmingly in the 1930s [historians can compare Japanese military actions from the 1800s onward, which attempted at least to accord with international law]. This was due in part to the new militaristic dictatorship of Japan, their long culture of honor, shame, disgrace, and victory, and much more. POWs of the Germans, for instance, had about a 3% chance of death prior to the end of the war; POWs of the Japanese had about 30% chance of death. All in all, if you were a U.S. military man, you hoped to be captured by the Germans, not the Japanese. My own private judgement about the differences between the two cultures is that the Germans were ruled by their rationalism, Darwinism, utilitarianism, and scientism—the end result of the Enlightenment; the Japanese still seemed to be ruled by their mediaeval history, culture, and militant nationalism. The results of both, without the gospel, are the same—a furious disregard for human life, brutal attempts at control of others, made more brutal the less successful it is, and a cruelty, savagery, and barbarity that—with just a few minutes of surfing of the actual facts of the millions dead and tortured in a very small period of time—should fill each one of us with horror and sickness.
I think the movie is an important one to see. For one thing, we need to be reminded of our past, and of the men and women who saw and accomplished more than most of us will ever understand. We need to be reminded of all that they suffered and died for so that we could sit here reading a blog, while drinking a cup of coffee. We are a fortunate nation, and never more so than when we have such people with us who are willing to fight for the freedom we hold dear.
For another, we need to be reminded of what sort of sacrifice it takes to hold evil in check—who has to die, who has to hurt, who has to starve, who has to lose loved ones, who has to go down in complete and obliterating defeat—dying before victory is ever seen or known. It’s as if, somehow, Americans are embarrassed, in all of our civilization and comfort, to admit that sometimes things are so bad, so wicked, so vile, that it takes enormous will and strength and courage to defeat them. I think our lack of willingness to look these things in the eye and think on them is because we want to deny evil’s presence—and because we have lost the idea that anyone at all should be willing to confront or judge evil, if it is ever discovered.
As Christians, we should be well aware of the need for sacrifice. After all, we know the Ultimate Sacrifice—the one who had to die, hurt, and go down in complete and obliterating defeat—dying before victory was seen or known—in order to confront, judge, and defeat evil.
The main reason why I am glad that I watched this movie, though, is a bit more complex and it has to do with my Christian growth and a “first understanding” I had while watching it. I’d like to share that with you, in case it is helpful to you too.
In one particular scene, the Japanese commandant fulfilled a long-ago promise. He had promised that if one person attempted to escape, 10 of the remaining prisoners would be shot. Throughout the movie, you know that one prisoner has a near obsession to escape. He struggles against it mightily—and you inwardly hope that he will resist the urge. But in the end, he is not able to, and he duly escapes, is recaptured, and the Japanese commandant fulfills his promise. At the appointed day, he walks down the lines of POWs and selects the 10 he wants, lines them up, kneeling on the ground, along with the escapee, and one of his soldiers proceeds down the line, shooting each man in the head.
The scene is very silent and matter-of-fact. There is no wailing, or oath-making, or attempts to run, or recriminations, or threats.
One moment, the prisoner is alive, blood pumping through his veins, organs fed by oxygen, lungs inflating, cells dividing, and the body bursting with all the breath and creativity and life of God’s spirit. The next moment, like a puppet whose strings are cut, the body collapses, evacuated of all that had animated it moments earlier. The last shot comes to the escapee, the best friend of the POW’s senior officer.
I had the strangest sensation while watching this scene. It was a scene that we have actually seen before, in fact, in movies—it was the way of the Japanese military, and nothing about it was unsurprising. I usually identify with the victims of such scenes, try to imagine what it would be like, how I would behave, how scared I’d be.
But this time, I identified with those left behind. As I looked at the remaining POWs and their faces as they watched this take place in front of them, a depth of compassion for them—especially their afterlives, after all of this was over and they were freed—overtook me and swamped me utterly. I imagined first of all, the sheer helplessness of the scene, the powerlessness of observing a great evil like that. And I imagined what would be there, under the surface, overwhelming grief and loss and shame—and beneath all of that a fierce implacable rage that is consuming and burning and long-lasting; it is the emotion that accompanies the cry for justice.
Most Christians speak about grace and mercy—but it is justice that is as fundamental and thirsty a need as anything. We are uneasy at speaking about justice as Christians—after all, we know that if we get what we deserve, it will be justice, and justice won’t be pretty for any of us.
But like the law of gravity, justice is woven into the fabric of the nature of the universe. As gravity keeps the planets in place, justice holds and supports any knowledge of right, love, and mercy, all the foundations of civilization and society that we hold precious. Without justice, it is merely strength and power that wins; without justice, strength and power are de facto, The Right and The Good.
Gravity causes people to fall down, sometimes to die—and justice does that too. Human beings—when justice is served on them—decry justice, and shake their fist at God, as if God should come down and enter into human history and cause apples not to fall from trees, cause the universe to defy the law of gravity, cause the universe to temporarily abandon one of its laws. He should, we believe, put a temporary hold on that particular law of the universe, when convenient for us. The truly canny ones among us recognize that God the Creator Himself made the universe and its nature—and when pressed, we will decry the way He made the universe. He should start again, and remake it all, only this time without justice.
But when justice is denied us—when we are wronged and every cell and tissue and fiber and muscle cries out for justice—we recognize that justice is the great cry of the wronged.
We must have it.
Both the good thing and the bad thing about justice is that . . . justice will be served. It is the nature of the world, and justice will always come, inevitably and inescapably, with the pale, calm face of truth. We fear it, and we rejoice in it. But no matter with what emotions we greet it, justice will arrive and look us in the face.
With all of the above acknowledged—both the horror of those moments for those POWs, and many other such moments besides that, as well as our need for justice—the thing that led me to tears was the immense struggle that those men would face, once fed, tended, and home again. They would be left with those memories forever, and all of their attendent emotions. They would replay those scenes over and over, seeing them again in living color, and struggle with their own responses.
Most importantly, they would face the greatest struggle that I know of—the struggle to forgive unforgiveable actions by other humans. When I say “unforgiveable” I do not mean that word as a trite euphemism. I mean, that there are actions that are unforgiveable.
It is ironic that, though the universe was made with justice as one of its fundamental building elements, still we must forgive even in the absence of justice. Setting aside altruistic motives or matters of human character or fruit of the spirit, the pragmatic reason we must forgive is because of the poison that we ourselves ingest when another person wrongs and violates us irretrievably and permanently.
Every time a person sins it harms not only the sinner but the sinned against. And it is not merely the open, visible, and scarring flagrant harm of the actual sin, but the hidden, secret, invisible response of the victim to the sin and the sinner that is inevitable and deadly.
Ironically, the gross abuses, violations, and blows that most humans have experienced at the hands of others are both unforgiveable—and utterly necessary to forgive. It is the final insult of the abuser—the overt harm, and the hidden poison, for which the tonic required is that which it is impossible to manufacture.
The most crushing recognition of my introspection during and after this movie was the realization that these men would be sent home, with a task that was simply impossible—to forgive that man who coldly, calculatedly, and with malice took the lives of their friends. It would be the Great Struggle of the rest of their lives, and some would not ever rest from it. Without such forgiveness, the poison would seep into every activity and relationship of their lives—their marriages, their roles as parents, their workplace, even their play.
It is, as we know, not possible to forgive an action like that.
It is inhuman.
We are not able.
We are confronted with something monstrous and inconceivable—forgiveness for that person or persons who has done us unspeakable and unforgiveable harm.
It would take a miracle.
It does take a miracle.
Forgiveness is a gift that comes from outside of us, from a Giver, in a miraculous way. That does not mean that it does not encompass some hard work on our part. But we can work and work for years, and without the Gift from God of the antidote, the poison remains within us.
Those of us who have just recently been through Lent have seen again how Jesus was the Great Sacrifice. How Jesus entered into human history, and satisfied the Law of Justice. How Jesus experienced the submission of powerlessness, overwhelming grief and loss, terrible injustice, and immense suffering. How Jesus had justice served upon Him, and experienced the implacable laws of the universe, for someone else’s sins. And while experiencing these things, forgave freely and generously and simply.
Not easily, but simply.
Other than recognition of that unique fact of human history—a unique and history-turning fact—I do not have any easy answers for those of us who need the gift of forgiveness. It is not possible. Yet it is utterly necessary. Given the fall of man, it is an inhuman act, in response to inhuman acts. Yet a perfect human modelled it for us. It is a miraculous gift, like rain that falls on the dry cotton fields in June. And yet it does not come easily. For some of us, rest from the great struggle never comes.
Perhaps you are not struggling with this issue right now, but I can guarantee you that someone else you know is. Someone else has experienced terrible betrayal from a spouse, cruelty from a parent or loved one, a violent crime by a stranger, the death of a child by the hands of another, and the poison has entered their bloodstream. I hope that you will reach out to them, not offering easy, trite answers, nor downplaying the depth of wrong done to them, but holding on to them amidst the waves, and offering them a strong right hand of friendship.
May we turn our faces to God, and ask Him for this impossible, miraculous, great gift of forgiveness.
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Warmly recommended on this excellent topic is The Railway Man, by Eric Lomax.
Christi sit lectoribus pax