Would this never end? I thought to myself as I held an envelope with markings that betrayed it as official communication from the South African Department of Defense. The instructions were simple: I was to present myself for a special presentation on a Friday evening, the Sabbath!

 

The whole saga started with another official letter that arrived toward the end of my final year in high school, the call-up notification to national military service. Thus began years of correspondence with military bureaucracy—questionnaires, personal details, study plans—all laid open to scrutiny.

 

The process then took a new direction because of my intention to study medicine; my compulsory military service was to be deferred until my studies were completed. National service would then include providing medical services in underserved areas of the country.

 

But then another letter arrived, this one a call to serve the medical mission of the church in a rural setting. After debating the options of further training or specialization—including a huge tug with alluring academic opportunities—I plunged into the practicum of the adage “God does not call the qualified; He qualifies the called!” So newly married, newly qualified (and daunted by inexperience), my wife, Ros, and I sallied forth into the joys, challenges, and opportunities of our first tour of mission service!

 

Despite assurances by the Department of Defense that serving in a rural, underserved area would count as national service, the call date for military service was set. After presenting for duty, amid a frantic scramble to care temporarily for the clinic commitments, I was given a year’s grace to make arrangements in the mission office (practice) and then to report for one year of military service.

 

In the early days of my military service a new challenge surfaced: weapons were issued to all the candidate officers. I explained that it was against my conscience as a Bible–believing Christian to bear arms. This unleashed a torrent of ridicule and jeers that seared my wounded feelings but, strangely, bolstered my determination to stay faithful. The words “Put your sword back in its place . . . for all who draw the sword will die by the sword” (Matt. 26:52) and “You shall not murder” (Ex. 20:13) echoed and reechoed in my mind.

 

Amid this turmoil came the next test: Sabbath duties and privileges. Prior to reporting for duty I had submitted the required letter stating that I was a Seventh-day Adventist in good and regular standing, and requesting Sabbath observance privileges. While my Jewish colleagues were transported to synagogue on Sabbath mornings, I stayed in the camp, confined to barracks to observe the Sabbath in isolation.

 

Then came the ultimatum: a large, ruddy-complexioned regimental sergeant major (RSM) announced that an essential requirement for being a commissioned officer was a driving test each physician would have to take the following Sabbath. This wouldn’t be the first time I had to reschedule an examination so as not to encroach on the Sabbath, but the RSM was unambiguous: If I didn’t present myself for the test that Sabbath I would be the only noncommissioned physician in the army’s medical services, and my functions would be limited accordingly.

 

My tersely polite but equally unambiguous retort was “So be it!” I had a certain peace, and my heart was warmed by the almost tangible presence of God’s Spirit and His promise: “Never will I leave you; never will I forsake you” (Heb. 13:5).

 

Friday afternoon found me preparing for the Sabbath. My activities were interrupted by a written memorandum (another letter!) from the RSM ordering me to report immediately (3:30 p.m.) for the driving test, which would be completed by 4:30 p.m., a full hour before sunset! He never did say what caused him to change his mind.

 

The routine of boot camp continued: inspection, marches, campouts, written and oral examinations, and, of course, preparation for the passing-out parade, when medical officers received their rank of lieutenant and posted into military service. This parade was to show that our trainers had successfully turned these soft, civilian professionals into military medical men! Halts and turns were to be crisp; marching was to be with mechanical precision.

 

But the RSM had made my situation clear: no weapon, no parade. I had to train and practice with my colleagues, but on the day of the parade I would have to sit on the sidelines and receive my commission after the parade.

 

Four days before the parade the commanding officer of medical-services training was observing the parade rehearsal. As we marched past where he stood, he came over and called me out of the parade. “Where did you learn to march?” he thundered. A little intimidated, I informed him that I had led the school brass band and that my father, who’d had a distinguished military career during World War II, had taught me the finesse of crisp marching and soldierly bearing and posture.

 

“Where’s your rifle?” he barked. I explained that I did not carry arms on account of my faith.

 

“I am giving the order that you will be in the convocation parade; you are the smartest soldier on parade! Get back to it!” The encounter turned from confrontation into an affirmation of God’s faithfulness. I could not restrain the feeling of grateful elation when the RSM came to inform me that I would be participating in the full convocation parade. This, he said, was against his own preference, because “things just don’t happen this way here.”

 

This coincided with yet another memorandum: The government had summarily extended my term of national service from 12 to 24 months! Rebellion and discouragement ripped through me. What a waste of time; I was committed to mission service. What was the Lord thinking?

 

After denial, anger, and bargaining with God, a more settled acceptance took hold. The process of wishing away time started to take place in my mind: 22 months to go, 21 and a half months to go. Then, just as dramatically, the realization dawned on my mind that each day is a gift, an opportunity to be lived to the full.

 

This was indelibly underscored at the funeral of a young medical officer killed in action. When my own national service was extended, his was dramatically cut off! I determined that with God’s presence and blessing, every day would count. Since then I’ve never wished time away; life is too short, and there are too many opportunities and privileges not to seize each moment.

 

Opportunities to witness and serve others in the military as a physician were abundant. There was service in military units as the medical officer, and times of service in remote, rural hospitals where services were scant. In retrospect I realized that this “extended” national service was beneficial in informing my practice of medicine and, indeed, ministry, for the rest of my life.

 

The next letter came with the grid reference of the operational area to which I was being posted as battalion medical officer. The field hospital was located in the armored section. This brought into sharper relief the fact that I carried no weapons, not even a sidearm.

 

One Sunday the chaplain invited me to accompany him to conduct a service at one of the more remote camps. As we were boarding the convoy vehicles, he asked where my sidearm was. I told him I didn’t carry one, and the biblical basis for my decision.

 

The next day, when we met at the prayer parade, he was minus his sidearm. He thanked me for being instrumental in stirring his convictions, adding a little sheepishly, “I should’ve been the one setting you an example!”

 

I had been to a remote clinic the previous week and treated, among others, a very ill infant. I had promised to return the following week to reassess the child. The weather was rainy and travel was difficult. On the return trip, Sabbath at 12:45 p.m., our vehicle detonated three large land mines. Despite wearing a safety belt, I was thrown 60 feet out of the vehicle, miraculously landing on my feet but losing my eyeglasses. As I looked at my right hand, I recall saying to God, “My right hand! How does a mission doctor do surgery with a damaged hand?”

 

Then my gaze turned to my driver, who had multiple injuries. I attempted to stabilize the mangled, bleeding body of my comrade. A short time later the other two vehicles in the convoy arrived, and my medics started assisting, but not before asking, “Doc, did you pray with him?”

 

I shared that before he lapsed into a coma I was able to pray for his body and his soul. We were evacuated by helicopter to the base hospital, and both of us underwent a series of surgeries. The driver died from his injuries 11 days later.

 

Later that day I spoke by telephone to my mother. Her first words to me were “Have you been in an accident?” As we shared and shed tears, she explained that she was inexplicably compelled to intercede for my safety at 12:45 that day!

 

When I called Ros, she told me that our home church had had a potluck after divine service, and, preceding the prayer of thanks for the food, they were impressed to have a series of prayers for my safety—at 12:45!

 

Not only had my life been spared, but I had evidence that this was no coincidence! This experience has informed my ministry and lent it urgency. A residual injury sustained at the time has been instrumental in saving my life yet again in recent years, but that’s another story.

 

This brings us back to the letter that started this story. The state president had approved the award of the Southern Cross medal for “outstanding service and particular devotion to duty,” the first time the award had been made to a national service officer.

 

But the ceremony was scheduled for a Sabbath! The colonel called and described the proposed event: a parade with the appropriate “pomp and circumstance,” a special reception with as many family and friends as I wanted!

 

After reiterating that neither my conviction of the holiness of the Sabbath nor the biblical injunction to keep it holy had changed, the colonel’s tone of voice turned icy and stern: “Very well, we shall mail the medal to you!”

 

 

The general’s voice rambled on during the citation and award. But in my mind I heard the words of inspiration: “If you keep your feet from breaking the Sabbath and from doing as you please on my holy day, if you call the Sabbath a delight and the Lord’s holy day honorable . . . then you will find your joy in the Lord, and I will cause you to ride in triumph on the heights of the land” (Isa. 58:13, 14).

 

Many years have passed since then. God has remained faithful.

 

Do I have regrets about my decisions? None whatsoever! Since that day in 1979 when I was called to military service, I’ve been convinced that I was saved and spared to serve. These experiences have informed my direction and lent urgency to my ministry and encouraged my witness. If I were given the opportunity to relive the experiences, would I make the same choices? Absolutely!

 

What made the difference? My mother was a Deuteronomy 6:4-9 mother. She prayed for me. She surrounded me with Christian books and encouraged the reading of books that highlighted the singular valor of Desmond Doss and others who served with “no guns on their shoulders.”

 

War is seldom free from the tarnish of moral ambiguity. This gives us all the more reason not to pontificate, not to judge, but to sincerely continue the conversation on this subject openly, inclusively, and humbly in our homes, schools, and congregations. In the light of God’s Word, the letters we receive in life take on new and sparkling meaning.

 

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