The Rev. Noah Van Niel

The Chapel of the Cross

March 28^th, 2021

Palm Sunday (B)

It was February, 2002. The New England Patriots, had just won their first super bowl behind a no-name second year backup quarterback named Tom Brady ending a decades long championship drought for Boston sports. The city was electric, and people wanted to celebrate. So, when it came time for the victory parade downtown, my mom broke me and some friends out of school and drove us to the train so we could all go. Literally everyone and their mother was coming to this thing. The train cars were sardine cans. And when we got into the city we filed out with the masses up the escalators and stepped into a plaza already packed with revelers. It was awesome. A huge party for the entire city. But then the crowds kept coming. And coming. More and more packed trains unloading their passengers who pushed their way onto the plaza. The city police and planners had not anticipated this kind of turnout. And as people kept coming, and coming and the crush of humanity got stronger and stronger, I can remember a moment, clear as day, when I started to panic. I was powerless against the force of the crowd. I was getting crushed. I couldn’t move. I was getting pulled away from my mom and my friends. I was completely helpless. And my adolescent brain suddenly realized, “If this all turned bad, I could die. They could carry me away or crush me or trample me. And there would be no stopping them.” Luckily, I was able to keep my wits about me and push through some people to locate my mom and friends and head to the edge of the crowd and a slightly less congested place. We couldn’t really see the stage where the players were celebrating, but at that point we didn’t really care. We were safe, but all a little shaken.

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The Rev. Noah Van Niel

The Chapel of the Cross

February 28^th, 2021

Lent II (B): Genesis 17:1-7, 15-16; Psalm 22:22-30; Romans 4:13-25; Mark 8:31-38

              One of the most fascinating obituaries I have ever read was for a Japanese man named Hiroo Onoda. Now some of you may recognize his name and know his story, but I did not. And I was flabbergasted. You see, Lieutenant Onoda was an Imperial Japanese Army officer in World War II. Late in 1944 he was sent to a remote island in the Philippines to live in the jungle and sabotage the enemy. As American forces closed in in early 1945, and many Japanese officers were fleeing, his commanding officer told him to “stay and fight.” “It may take three years, it may take five, but whatever happens we’ll come back for you,” the officer promised.[1] So Lt. Onoda did exactly that. He stayed and fought. For 29 more years!! For 29 years he believed he was still in combat and he lived in the jungle fighting a guerilla war. He dismissed leaflets dropped from American planes declaring the end of the war as sneaky propaganda. He evaded search parties by hiding out in the thick jungle. He refused to believe anyone who tried to convince him the war was over. He was eventually declared dead in 1959. It wasn’t until an adventurous Japanese student went looking for him and found him in 1974, that his commanding officer was contacted, flown in, and stood before him and to relinquish him of his duty. Lt. Onoda reportedly saluted and wept.

              Setting aside the complicated ethical questions of Lt. Onoda’s actions (he reportedly killed 30 people during his thirty-year war, killings for which he was pardoned given that he thought he was still in battle) and leaving for a moment the questions of how he survived in the jungle for all those years, the main question this story makes me ask is this: Was Lt. Onoda a hero or a fool?  Depending on how you hold his story up to the light it is either an epic tale of survival and bravery, or a farce. Was he a patriot or an idiot?

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