Introduction

I attended the World Council of Churches’ General Assembly in Karlsruhe, Germany, in late August and early September 2022. It was a profoundly formative time as I experienced the blessing of what God is doing around the world. The biggest highlight for many, including myself, was worshipping God in different languages with people from all over the world. It felt like a foretaste of glory.

One morning during worship the Spirit moved me (click here to view the recording on YouTube). There was a space during the service when we were asked to silently name those who helped shape our faith. My mind went to my paternal grandfather, Edwin A. Pearce.

My wife Stacey and I recently welcomed a son. We named him Aidan Edwin Pearce, partially in honor of my paternal grandfather. Let me tell you why.

Grandpa Ed

My grandfather was a veteran of the United State Army Air Corps in World War II. In 1943, during one of the most infamous air battles of that war, known generally as the Schweinfurt Raid or “Black Thursday”, my grandfather stood at the door of his B-17 bomber (nicknamed “Patches” for its rough condition) preparing to leap into the middle of the still-raging air battle. His plane had been hit and was going down. He grabbed his parachute (which he had never been trained to use) and jumped.

His 21-year-old body thrashed through the air so violently his spine would need to be put back into alignment during the captivity which awaited him on the ground below. The Nazi fighters encircled the Americans who were spread out in the air, changing the prop pitch of their planes to herd the airmen, like flying cattle, so they hit the ground in close proximity. My grandfather’s parachute had the air knocked out of it three times, and he went in and out of consciousness on the perilous descent to the uncertain future below.

For nearly the next two years, my grandfather was a prisoner of war in the Stalag 17 prison camp. His captors fed him insect-infested soup once a day, a “delicacy” so revolting my grandfather would climb above the camp lights so he couldn’t see what he was eating. Many nights as my grandfather lay in bed with the cold winds blowing through the bare clapboard walls—a single woodstove struggling to provide a semblance of heat—he shivered violently.

One night, as my grandfather lay there, body-quaking, he suddenly felt a warm sensation throughout his body. He felt drawn to the light, the same light so many people describe in near-death experiences. Then, suddenly, his body was cold again and he was back in that same prison bed he had come to know. He would remark decades later, at his own father’s funeral, that he didn’t fear death because he knew how “good it felt.”

His ordeal concluded with a forced march through challenging conditions to meet the advancing Allies and, ultimately, his liberation.

Reflections

In many ways, my grandfather’s faith was shaped by that ordeal. A fellow crewman from his plane, George Jahnke, published a memoir titled And There I Was, about the crew’s experience in that camp. Jahnke makes several references to my grandfather in the book, including my grandfather’s nickname “Preacher.” Sadly, I never knew to ask my grandfather about this nickname during his lifetime.

My grandfather became a state trooper after returning home until his retirement. He didn’t hold resentment or bitterness toward those who had imprisoned him—testified to by the fact that, later in his life, he owned a series of Volkswagen camper vans.

As I stood in worship in Germany on that day in 2022, remembering my grandfather some 77 years after he returned home, my eyes filled with tears. I thought of how the grandson of a prisoner of war was in Germany now as a servant of the Lord Jesus Christ, a minister of Word and Sacrament, and a preacher of the peace and reconciliation that is possible through Christ. My tears were mixed with two realizations: first of the peace which Jesus calls us to seek between all peoples, and second that it was only by God’s providence that I was there at all. If my grandfather had not survived that experience, not only would I not have been there, I would not be writing these words.

Prayer, Resilience, and A Name

Stacey and I settled on the name Aidan Edwin for our first-born son after a long process that coincided with almost all of his time in the womb. Aidan is for the Irish-born saint, monk, missionary, and contemplative who helped spread Christianity in what is today England in the Seventh century. Different pieces of his biography resonated with Stacey and me. For Stacey, “little fire,” the meaning of Aidan, reminds her of the Holy Spirit, which we pray is a vibrant force in Aidan Edwin’s life. For me, it is Aidan’s commitment to prayer and the contemplative rhythms of life. I pray this becomes part of our son’s journey (just as it has become part of his father’s).

Adding his great-grandfather’s name as his middle name brings with it the memory of his ancestor’s resilience and repeated prayers in the face of suffering. I pray our son knows the beauty and gift of prayer, especially contemplative variations of prayer. I pray our son experiences the presence of the Holy Spirit. I pray our son is comforted and encouraged by the faith of his ancestors—his great-grandfather faced difficult circumstances with a resolve rooted in prayer. His suffering did not end with his liberation from that prison camp. My grandfather’s son, my uncle Edwin “Jack” Pearce (and his AC-130 crew) were shot down over Laos during the Vietnam War in 1972 and never returned home alive, and my grandfather and grandmother spent much of the rest of their lives searching for answers. My cousin Jessica published a book about it titled, “What We Inherit: A Secret War and a Family’s Search for Answers.”

Concluding Thoughts

Life is rarely sown into a narrative that fits what we might envision as an ideal exemplification of the gospels lived out. Life can be messy. Sin, evil, and the realities of a fallen creation exist. Prayer is a resilience builder, where the Holy Spirit meets us in and imparts the grace to begin again (and again), in the face of those realities (and in spite of them).

During that time of worship at the WCC in 2022, after recalling the faith of my grandfather, we sang a deeply-moving song in Hawaiian and English by Joe Camacho: “Ka mana‘o ‘I ‘O” – “Faithful is our God.”

The lyrics include the words “In quiet moments, God whispers tenderly, the mystery of unending love, for God is good and holds us as we speak.”

The memory of that day sticks with me. Several thousand people, from every corner of the world (and from all different Christian traditions), sang praise to God in different languages simultaneously. Surely this was a foretaste of what awaits us one day. As we wait in expectation of that glorious day, prayer is the gift God gives us, reminding us that our God is faithful.