First Unitarian Society of Minneapolis

Rev. Kendyl Gibbons
First Unitarian Society of Minneapolis
May 9, 2004

It's actually not hard to say what I really want from our religious education program here at this Society. Oh, it's nice if the kids get to like each other, and have a good time together, and make some creative crafty messes, and learn something about who Buddha was, and maybe Moses. It's good if they know how to light a chalice, and put on a condom - and when - and I hope they've talked about death and birth and stars and stuff. But all I really ask is to graduate people like U.S. Army Specialist Joseph M. Darby. Specialist Darby is an M.P in Iraq. As far as I know, the guy isn't brilliant or talented or especially good looking. I don't know whether he has religious convictions, or if he does, what they are, but he's got a streak of decency in him that is worth all the rest put together, in my view. One of his buddies gave Joe a CD, you know, the tech-y sort of computer thing with pictures on it. And after Joe looked at the pictures, he sat down and wrote an anonymous letter, and shoved it under the door of the Army's Criminal Investigation Division, thinking maybe that would satisfy his conscience. But you know what? It didn't. Because something in Joe, some insistent humanity, wouldn't let him rest, and so he went back and gave C.I.D. the disk and a sworn statement, because as the report said, "He felt very bad about it and thought it was very wrong."

Specialist Joseph M. Darby didn't know that he was making history that day, or creating an international incident. The people who just do what their insistent humanity calls them to do rarely are making history; as often as not, they're tilting at windmills, knocking their heads against brick walls. But you know what was in those pictures on that CD; the whole world knows, at this point. They are pictures taken at Abu Ghraib, a prison twenty miles west of Baghdad, and a name once synonymous with the most arbitrary and sadistic excesses of Saddam Hussein's corrupt tyranny. The place was emptied by the U.S. 'liberation' of Iraq somewhat more than a year ago. Looters made off with everything that wasn't nailed down, and some stuff that was; windows, doors, bricks. But when you are liberating a whole country, there isn't always time to build everything you might need from scratch, and when a perfectly good prison is standing right there, empty, it would be stupid not to use it, right? So the Army occupation forces ran some plumbing and put down some new floor tile, and moved in - with their own prisoners.

Now, right here is where being a humanist can get you in trouble, because you may not believe it possible that the place was cursed, but it was. Oh, it surely was. And that's what we need to talk about this morning, that curse, and we'll have to talk about why collective singing is an important spiritual practice some other time.

When Jehosephat, king of Judah was trying to find a diplomatic way out of joining the coalition forces of his neighbor king Ahab of Samaria, and all the prophets employed by Ahab's court were yelling loudly and predicting instant military success, he said, "Isn't there *another* prophet we can ask?" And King Ahab admitted that there was, but he added - and you can hear the whine in his voice down through all these centuries - "but I hate him, for he never prophecies good concerning me, but only evil!" Ahab, it seems, felt cursed by the prophet Micaiah. And it turned out, as such stories often do, that Micaiah was right in his predictions; the military venture at Ramoth Gilead was doomed, and even though Ahab took pains to make himself inconspicuous, his duplicity itself ended up costing him his life. One would like to think that Micaiah, having been proven right, was let out of jail and returned to his former life in the end, but the text doesn't say, and knowing what we do about the world, I wouldn't count on it.

Popular opinion notwithstanding, there isn't really much satisfaction in saying "I told you so" when you have been predicting disaster, and disaster comes. For those who never thought that a pre-emptive attack against the nation of Iraq was a good idea, or something that the Iraqi people would be happy about - and I am one of those who was nervous and skeptical from the start - it is little comfort to see our worst prophesies realized. Like Micaiah, we predicted evil, not good, to come out of this adventure, and while the administration wasn't quite able to throw us all in jail on scant rations, there appears to me to be no reason to believe they would not have liked to, and some evidence to suggest that bread and water might not have been the worst that could have happened to us there. At this point, even some initial supporters of the effort must be feeling that the whole project is cursed; it seems like we can't get a break. Militarily, it doesn't appear that we are making much headway, and in terms of public relations, our international credibility has seldom been at a lower ebb.

Ironically, the thing that has brought frustration and disgust to a head has been the pictures. First, the pictures that the administration from the beginning wanted to make sure we never saw; the rows of coffins, covered in their anonymous flags - stark reminders of the cost in lives of this enterprise. Every one of those coffins is emblazoned with the same unseen question - "Was it worth it?" Is what we are doing in Iraq worthy of the loss of all that these young men and women on the threshold of life might have been and done, experienced and accomplished? Is it worth their parents' life-long grieving, the cutting short of first loves, the toddlers who will grow up never having known their daddy? There are great principles, essential freedoms, inalienable human rights that are worth lives to defend, if that is what it takes to establish and protect them. One of the most noble impulses of the human condition has always been this recognition, that there are commitments worthy of dying for, that our liberty is bought with the self-sacrifices of those who have laid down their lives for their families, friends, and communities. But my friends, it is a fearful thing to call for that sacrifice. It is, or it ought to be, a terrible, holy moment when we ask this ultimate generosity of one another; it ought to be always and only for a cause so self-evidently just and precious that the image of those coffins calls forth our tearful, grateful blessings, not our anguished questions and doubts. Those who would hide the bodies of our dead, who would have us not to look upon the tangible evidence of the price of our ambitions, acknowledge thereby that the purpose for which our sisters and brothers and children have died is not worthy of the loss of their lives. They know that this last full measure of devotion has been required not for the sake of love and a better world, but for pride, and greed, and deception. To know this, to stand in the presence of those coffins and know this, is to be accursed.

And then there are the other pictures - the ones that Donald Rumsfeld told congress on Friday are "only the beginning." The images that were on that CD that Joe Darby couldn't live with; the ones that show that the curse of Abu Ghraib prison was not merely the megalomania of Saddam Hussein, but something deeper, a darkness of the human heart that lies waiting to be wakened in all of us. They are pictures, in case you have put down the newspaper and turned away from the TV, not wanting to know - they are pictures of American soldiers, young men and women both, thrust untrained and unwarned into the role of prison guards in a foreign land and an alien culture, physically and psychologically tormenting the captives they have been set to guard. They are seen laughing at prisoners locked into positions of painful restraint, and observing groups of captives deprived of clothing and forced into humiliating poses of sexual suggestion. Some Iraqis are attached to wires they have been told will electrocute them; some are being forced to masturbate in public. And the Secretary of Defense tells us that there are more pictures, and testimony, and even videotapes, which will sooner or later inevitably find their way into the hands of the press, that are worse; that will show actual, not simulated rape, and finally murder, of helpless captives by members of the United States Armed Forces. They are shocking to the sensibilities, these pictures; they are scathing to our self-image as Americans; they are morally appalling. But what they are not, or should not be, is a surprise. Not if we have learned anything, since the days of Ahab and Jehosephat and Michaiah, about prophesy, and curses.

The prophet who could tell us something about the curse of Abu Ghraib is sociologist Philip Zimbardo. More than thirty years ago, in the summer of 1971, Professor Zimbardo took twenty four psychologically healthy male undergraduate volunteers at Stanford University, and randomly divided them into two groups for a study in the sociology of correctional systems. Twelve young men became prisoners, and twelve became prison guards, for a two week simulation conducted in the basement hallways of a campus building. The study, designed to investigate the influence of this mock prison environment on the personal behavior and social interactions of the guards and prisoners, was never completed. Zimbardo ended it after only six days; so frighteningly destructive was the transformation of both groups that he felt he could not ethically justify the suffering created by the experiment, and he worried about permanent psychological damage to the subjects involved. In fact, several of the volunteer prisoners had to be released even during that first six days, so severe were their personal dissolutions in response to the experience. Of more interest to us at present, though, were the equally dramatic changes in the volunteers - randomly selected, remember - as guards. The young men assigned to the role of guards were given very few instructions, except that they were told they were responsible for maintaining order among the prisoners, and they were not to physically injure the inmates. What began during the first hours as uncertainty and jocular role playing among the participants (who were, in real life, social equals) very quickly escalated into relationships of hostility, distrust, and real mutual ill-will, with rebellion on the part of the prisoners, and ever-increasing abuse on the part of the guards. In less than a week, guards were deliberately depriving the prisoners of sleep, verbally harassing and humiliating them, and among other arbitrary degradations, forcing them to play leap-frog with one another, while clad only in nightgowns with no underwear. They withheld food, blankets, and opportunities to use the toilet in response to what they took to be the prisoners' "attitudes", and sprayed them with fire extinguishers when they resisted orders. The guards cultivated an intense camaraderie among themselves, such that while a minority of them never mistreated the prisoners themselves, and would sometimes secretly try to relieve the worst of an inmate's sufferings, they never challenged the abusive guards, or complained to anyone about such behavior. Neither did any guard ever attempt to quit the experiment, unlike several of the prisoners.

The subjects of the Stanford Prison experiment actually had a number of things going for them. For one thing, captives and captors spoke the same language, and shared a cultural background. Threats, innuendo, sexual references, dress, all had relatively the same meanings to all the participants. They came from reasonably secure middle-class American backgrounds; none came into the project having experienced decades of war and oppression, with existing wounds, traumas, or suspicions. The 'guards' had no access to weapons beyond the billy clubs they carried and what they could do with their own bodies. While a minimal stipend was offered for participation in the experiment, the only person whose long-term career was involved was Professor Zimbardo. The 'guards' went home to a normal California cultural environment after their shifts, where they had ordinary contact with family and friends. Perhaps most importantly, neither 'guards' nor 'prisoners' had ever witnessed anyone identifiable with the other group killing or injuring someone they cared for, either a family member or an army buddy. No one in either group actually feared for his life; the worst that anyone had to lose was two weeks of his summer. Everyone was aware that none of the prisoners had actually done anything wrong. Above all, they all knew that it wasn't real, none of it was. It was make-believe, a pretend prison the whole time, and they knew it, and still these dark shadows flowed out of their souls with only this smallest of provocation.

The thing is, it's there in all of us in one form or another. If you think that the curse of Abu Ghraib couldn't reach out and suck you in, too, if you were there, you are either a moral genius or dangerously deluded. Our young men and women in uniform are fine people, of course; many of them are the best America has to offer, or at least just ordinary Janes and Joes, trying their damnedest to cope with a bend in the national road that none of us entirely foresaw. Joe Darby managed to overcome it, at least for a few moments, long enough to do a decent, conscience-stricken act, and that may help to changes some things in the end. But my bet is that he has his own inner darkness - each of us does - and some situation, some combination of confusion, fear, pressure from authorities, lack of leadership, and opportunity, will draw it out of us. The curse of Abu Ghraib is just this, that there lies within every ordinary person a shadow of soul that in the right circumstances makes it possible for us to do things that we could never otherwise imagine. Prisons, by their very nature, are that kind of place; there is a curse built into every prison wall, whether it is constructed by a tyrant or a saint. War, by its very nature, is that kind of enterprise; every war is a curse upon a generation, no matter how necessary, and a double and treble curse if it is not. Show me a prison in the midst of a war, and I will show you one of the ugliest faces of the human condition, no matter who is in charge of it, or how good their intentions were.

And there is yet one curse more, the one that echoes down the corridors of time to come. For from this day until every person who walked the halls of Abu Ghraib this year lies dust in the earth, and for who knows how long in cultural memory after that, there will be ordinary citizens of Iraq who will never look into an American face without thinking, "These are the people who did that unspeakable thing to me." And you and I will never look into an Iraqi face without thinking, "In my name, that unspeakable thing was done to you." I wasn't there; you weren't. We are sickened beyond speech; we are ashamed and sorry. This is not who we want to be, who we are as a nation; we are sorry, and sorry, and sorry. But in our land the prophets go unheeded still; the flag draped coffins belong to all of us; it is our government, our money, our name, and the curse is upon us all.

When, indeed, will we ever learn?

II Chronicles 18

Now Jehosh'aphat king of Judah had great riches and honor; and he made a

marriage alliance with Ahab king of Samaria. After some years he went down

to visit Ahab in Sama'ria.

And Ahab killed an abundance of sheep and oxen for him and for the people

who were with him, and persuaded him to go war against Ramoth-gilead. Ahab

king of Samaria said to Jehosh'aphat king of Judah, "Will you go with me

into battle at Ramoth-gilead?"

He answered him, "I am as prepared you are, my people as your people. We

will be with you in the war." But then Jehosh'aphat said to the king of

Samaria, "Let us inquire first for the word of Yahweh."

Then the king of Samaria gathered his court prophets together, four hundred

men, and said to them, "Shall we go to battle against Ramoth-gilead, or

shall I forbear?" And they said, "Go up; for God will give it into the hand

of the king."

But Jehosh'aphat said, "Is there not here another prophet of Yahweh of whom

we may inquire?"

And King Ahab said to Jehosh'aphat, "There is yet one man by whom we may

inquire of Yahweh, Micai'ah the son of Imlah; but I hate him, for he never

prophesies good concerning me, but always evil."

And Jehosh'aphat said, "Let not the king say so."

Then the king of Samaria summoned an officer and said, "Bring quickly

Micai'ah the son of Imlah." Now King Ahab and Jehosh'aphat the king of

Judah were sitting on their thrones, arrayed in their robes; they were

sitting at the threshing floor at the entrance of the gate of Sama'ria; and

all the prophets were raving before them. And the prophet Zedeki'ah the son

of Chena'anah made for himself horns of iron, and said, "Thus says Yahweh,

`With these you shall push the Syrians at Ramoth-gilead until they are

destroyed.'" And all the prophets prophesied so, and said, "Go up to

Ramoth-gilead and triumph; Yahweh will give it into the hand of the king."

And the messenger who went to summon Micai'ah said to him, "Behold, the

words of the prophets with one accord are favorable to the king; let your

word be like the word of one of them, and speak favorably."

But Micai'ah said, "As Yahweh lives, what my God says, that I will speak."

And when he had come to the king, the king said to him, "Micai'ah, shall we

go to Ramoth-gilead to battle, or shall I forbear?"

And he answered, "Go up and triumph; they will be given into your hand."

But the king said to him, "How many times shall I adjure you that you speak

to me nothing but the truth in the name of Yahweh?"

And he said, "I saw all Israel scattered upon the mountains, as sheep that

have no shepherd; and Yahweh said, `These have no master; let each return

to his home in peace.'"

And King Ahab said to Jehosh'aphat, "Did I not tell you that he would not

prophesy good concerning me, but evil?"

Then Zedeki'ah the son of Chena'anah came near and struck Micai'ah on the

cheek, and said, "Which way did the Spirit of Yahweh go from me to speak to

you?"

And Micai'ah said, "Behold, you shall see for yourself on that day when you

go into an inner chamber to hide yourself."

And the king of Samaria said, "Seize Micai'ah, and take him back to Amon

the governor of the city and to Jo'ash the king's son; and say, `Thus says

the king, Put this fellow in prison, and feed him with scant fare of bread

and water, until I return in peace.'"

And Micai'ah said, "Hear this, all you people! If you return in peace,

then Yahweh has not spoken by me."

So Ahab the king of Samaria and Jehosh'aphat the king of Judah went up to

Ramoth-gilead. And Ahab said to Jehosh'aphat, "I will disguise myself and

go into battle, but you wear your robes." And King Ahab disguised himself;

and they went into battle.

Now the king of the Syrian forces at Ramoth-Gilead had commanded the

captains of his chariots, "Fight with neither small nor great, but only

with the king of Samaria." And when the captains of the chariots saw

Jehosh'aphat, they said, "It is the king." So they turned to fight against

him; and Jehosh'aphat cried out, and Yahweh helped him. God drew them away

from him, for when the captains of the chariots saw that it was not the

king of Samaria, they turned back from pursuing him.

But a certain man drew his bow at a venture, and struck king Ahab between

the scale armor and the breastplate; therefore he said to the driver of his

chariot, "Turn about, and carry me out of the battle, for I am wounded."

But the battle grew too thick all day, and the king of Samaria propped

himself up in his chariot facing the Syrians until evening; and then at

sunset he died.