It's Friday. See You In Church This Weekend.

You Know I Had To Post This. I Confess, It Made Me A Little Homesick. And A Little Misty.

"Holy" Grail

These are my recruits....I will demand of them, and demonstrate by my own example, the highest standards of personal conduct, morality, and professional skill.

- from the Drill Instructors' Creed

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This blogger has been educated by a variety of teachers, some formal, some decidedly not so.  I've been a theology student in the small classroom of a Nobel Peace Prize winner, been taught chant and the manual acts of the sacrament while a novitiate in a monastery, sailed blue water with champions, about broken my fool neck trying to master The Wedge in Newport Beach, California with a motley collection of surf bums, been taught proper brush technique for cleaning pot shards by an eminent archaeologist, learned how to shape wood by a craftsman in a small shop in the middle of Ohio, and to re-build a carburetor by a master mechanic with an I.Q. of 162 ["It's been tested."]

All in all, my life's been closer to a fictional bildungsroman than I ever thought it would be.  In addition to these lessons, there are some other things I know because of one of the more specialized teachers in whose presence I suffered.  You see, in addition to the knowledge required for a teacher, priest, shade tree mechanic, and luthier, there is also that not spoken of in the polite company in which I now abide.

Namely, I know how to field and detail strip an M-16 military rifle, even blindfolded, and then use it to put a bullet through a target outline at 500 yards; I can, if required, dig a slit trench in an afternoon using only a trenching tool, make bedding so tight that the trenching tool would bounce off of it; I know how to dislocate a human throat and the fastest way to deploy a Ka-Bar in silent combat.  I even know how to use a mattress to create the perfect crease in a pair of uniform trousers overnight.

However, the most universally applicable skill that I've learned is how to remain calm when being yelled at by a lunatic.  Believe me, that has been the most useful talent in my clergy career, whether the screamer is a street drunk, bilious priest, entitled vagrant looking for a handout, or self-important vestry member.  As much of my career in the church has been spent aiding congregations that have suffered some sort of clergy misconduct, and the offending clergy too long gone to receive the full brunt of congregational fury, it was common for me to be treated angrily for something I did not do.  21st century Christians, honestly.

This calm in the face of anger is known as "bearing" and it is a terribly important quality to perfect.  In fact, once upon a time it was the very first thing we learned.

I credit my tutelage in bearing and these other skills to Staff Sergeant Grail, whose first name I was too lowly to be permitted to know.  As he was in charge of my early education, and as he had been the tutor of many, many other young men, he was known around the recruit depot as "Holy" Grail.  His realm, like that of the Knights of the Round Table, was the ultimate goal of every true warrior.


A master class in "bearing".  That's what we're talking about.

In Grail's world, one always knew when bearing had been lost, either through the cardinal sin of looking directly at a drill instructor or, worse, the mortal sin of grinning, when one would receive the dreaded "knife hand".  Even though it is not used for physical contact, it is the worst gesture ever invented in the entire history of the human race to denote shame before the community.

See what I mean?  It still makes me shudder.

Grail was the smallest member of the platoon yet the one who carried the most ribbons on his chest. He had been to Vietnam at least three times, had first been deployed during the Suez Crisis, and could still outrun recruits twenty years younger.  He did everything in double-time and expected us to do the same. Judging from the pristine appearance of his khaki uniform in the humid air, we suspected his sweat glands had been removed.  He was introduced to us that first day by the junior sergeant as "the finest man to ever wear the blood stripe on his tunic" [that's what the red piping on a dress uniform is called]. If that wasn't impressive enough, the junior d.i. stared in my direction [I swear it!] and added, "He knows more ways to kill you than you know how to die."

Definitely not something one would hear of the senior instructor in a seminary or grad school.  Maybe the monastery....

Over the weeks it became our understanding that everything we did would be judged by Holy Grail and that nothing, absolutely nothing would miss his terrifying gaze.  None of us, it seemed, were capable of mastering even the simplest duties to his expectations.  Once, because I found it an uncomfortable fit, I left the chin strap on my helmet unsnapped.  For that nearly invisible transgression, I received a royal chewing out from no less than three drill instructors with knife hands freely deployed.  In all of the cacophony, though, the worst part of it was the silent and very direct scowl from Holy Grail, especially as he was a mere twelve inches from me.

Yet, despite his fearsome appearance and reputation, I never knew an educator of any sort to be so totally involved in the development of his pupils.  He did everything that he asked us to do, displaying vigor, verve, and total commitment.  For as many times as we were met by the scowl, the knife hand, or the vicarious challenges to our bearing, we were also recognized in those moments when, in Grail's words, we "weren't a total embarrassment before God, the US Constitution, and the Marine Corps". That's in ascending order of importance, you realize.

I've been complimented by headmasters, politicians, bishops and even an archbishop, and like the men and women themselves, their words were pleasant and transient.  The best achievement was not to have embarrassed the things Holy Grail held dear.  That made all the difference.

By the third week we were more and more often not a total embarrassment to Grail's trinity; by the sixth we rated our first "squared away".  In retrospect, that achievement ties in importance with my ordination to the priesthood and the conferring of my doctoral degree in the massive chapel at Princeton University. Although it occurred nearly forty years ago, I know my life would not have been as rich, nor I quite as brave in my professional choices, if not for having faced the scowl, the correction, the recognition and, eventually, the praise of Holy Grail.

On that penultimate day, when we fitted ourselves into the scratchy olive wool of our Class A service uniforms and marched in perfect formation for some brass, Grail could be seen with his face twisted in a macabre grimace as we passed in review.  Said the junior drill instructor, "Man, I always love to see Holy Grail's smile."

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