The Warrior’s Return: From Warrior to Witness
- Bobby Jakucs, Psy.D.
- Sep 13
- 11 min read
Updated: Oct 17
"In some ways suffering ceases to be suffering at the moment it finds a meaning, such as the meaning of a sacrifice." - Viktor Frankl
This is part II of a three-part series, The Warrior's Return. If you missed Part I, you can read it here: Leaving the Temple of Mars. And if you want to be notified when new content, including Part III , posts you can subscribe here.
In our last post, we explored the profound mark war leaves on the soul. Vietnam Veteran and Oxford Rhodes scholar Karl Marlantes likened it to entering the Temple of Mars, the Roman god of war. And in the temple, soldiers are both sacrifice and priest, victim and executioner.
We discussed the psychological and spiritual implications of combat. How it fundamentally changes one’s sense of identity. We also explored how returning home is, for many, even more difficult. Because the very things that heal us – community and purpose – are so hard to find in our modern world. In the absence of community reintegration rituals, as warrior cultures like the Lakota and Samurai had, modern warriors face this terrible prospect of “coming home” alone. Or so it would seem.
Because, as we identified last week a warrior’s mission does not end when the guns have fallen silent and the uniform comes off. In part, we have a debt of honor to fulfill - those of us who have returned home are obligated to our brothers and sister who did not. We are called to be their voices and keep their memories alive.
And we are also called to witness that such men and women lived. The ancients understood this well. In Homer’s Odyssey, Odysseus journeys to the underworld and meets the ghost of Elpenor, a crewmate who died unceremoniously in an accident. Elpenor begs Odysseus to return, and give him a proper burial. To live is to carry the memory of the fallen – to ensure through our actions they are not forgotten. And to continue the work they began. Because the dead do not ask only for tears, but for purpose. What a tragedy it would be if we who survived did not fulfill it.
Which leads us to the lives of the saints. One of the beauties of the Christian faith and the Catholic tradition in particular is the richness and diversity of the saints. You have saints who were humble religious, hermits, parents, doctors, lawyers, parents, priests, children, even opium addicts (St. Mark Ji Tianxiang – not just an addict. A martyr who died for Christ. A Saint. THAT after all is his eternal identity).
We also have a host of soldiers who after their time on the battlefields came to an end, they took up the new mission of saving souls. We are going to focus on three. Each was forever changed by war. Each found that their real mission began only after they stopped fighting. And, each found that it was in the very marks they carried, that they were able to heal others.
A Warrior Reforged in Prayer
Most of us are familiar with St. Ignatius thanks to one of the largest religious orders in the world (The Jesuits) and the universities that frequently bear his name like Loyola Marymount University and Loyola University Chicago. Still others may know him for the Examen and the Ignatian Spiritual Exercises. However, before he was a prayer warrior and missionary, he was a knight. Born into a noble and fiercely independent Basque family Ignatius was knighted in 1517 and was known for his rugged fighting and proud demeanor (he would have made a great Marine!).
He was assigned to guard a critical castle along the French frontier at 30 years old, the Citadel of Pamplona. He and his comrades, in horrendous fighting, repulsed a superior French army, but not before a cannonball shattered his leg.
Brought home to Loyola, where he underwent several painful operations (his leg never fully healed), he was bedridden and depressed. A brilliant military career cut short. A warrior without a mission. That is, until he picked up two of the only books available – one on the life of Christ and another on the lives of the Saints.
These stories convicted him. As he reflected on his life, imagining himself returning to battle, he found his exploits were really just vain attempts to fill the God-sized hole in his soul.
After his recovery, this noble-born warrior gave away all his possessions and set out on the road as a pilgrim. Devoting himself to prayer and developing the Spiritual Exercises, prayers meant to train the soul for the battles ahead – the spiritual battles and temporal work in the service of Christ the King.
He went on to found the Jesuit’s, meant to be “God’s special forces”, missionaries devoted to four sacred vows: poverty, chastity, obedience and “obedience with regard to mission” – the readiness to accept any mission God called them too. Their motto became, Ad Majorem Dei Glorium “all for the greater glory of God.” He is the patron of soldiers and reminds us that when our flak and evlar comes off, the real mission begins.
If Ignatius reminds us of discipline and mission, Francis shows us even wounds can become joy.
The Wounded Prisoner Who Rebuilt The Church
Look at any garden store and you will probably find a statue of St. Francis, serene, docile and surrounded by adorable animals. But what these statues miss is that long before this Saint was a man of peace, he was a warrior, a prisoner and like so many of our contemporaries, scarred with the invisible wounds of war.
Like Ignatius, Francis was born into a wealthy family (his father was a merchant) in the Italian city of Assisi. He was quite the wild-man and romantic in his youth, and dreamed of winning glory and fame on the battlefield. When war broke out between Assisi and the neighboring town of Perugia he and his friends quickly enlisted and set off with great enthusiasm.
That enthusiasm lasted only so long when Francis came face to face with the realities of war. After a stunning defeat, that left many of his close friends lying dead on the field, he was taken prisoner. He spent a year languishing in captivity. Outwardly he maintained his notable optimism, internally he was fraying.
When he returned home, he was a changed man. Like so many of our warriors today, this formerly enthusiastic young man, full of vitality and always the life of the party, was withdrawn and distant. Some accounts of contemporaries say he suffered from terrible nightmares along with depression.
When a new Crusade was called he immediately set out, in the hopes that he could make right the wrongs of the past, and win the glory he so deeply desired. But along the way he fell ill, and one night had a vision of Christ telling him “Go back home. It will be revealed to you what you must do.”
He returned home again, more dejected than the last time as now, in his eyes, he had failed twice! But on the way home he met a leper on the outskirts of town. Racked with sores, Francis was moved with compassion and embraced him.
It was ultimately this small but radical action that led to many others. He also received another vision. This time Our Lord telling him, “rebuild my church.” He initially thought it was a small local parish that was in disrepair. Over time, he was to discover it was not the local church it was THE Church –the entire Church.
He went on to found an order dedicated to spreading the Gospel and easing the temporal and spiritual ills of his fellow men. His radical simplicity and zeal, coupled with a profound joy and deep fraternal bonds attracted many fellow veterans to his order. Men who now used their experience in the shadow to witness to the light.
One biographer sums up this attraction and quotes St. Francis as saying to a fellow soldier, “My brother, thou hast long worn belt, sword, and spurs; henceforth, thy belt must be a cord, thy sword the cross of Jesus Christ, and for spurs thou must have dust and mud. Follow me.”
If Ignatius and Francis found new life after battle, Longinus shows us redemption is possible even in our darkest failures.
From Spear of Caesar to Witness of the Cross
While most of you reading this have heard of Ignatius and Francis, Longinus may be not as recognizable. However, we hear his words repeated on Good Friday where he exclaims, “Indeed, this was the Son of God!” (Mark 15:39).
The other two saints we looked at went on to found profound orders and preach the Gospel far and wide. Their stories read like tales of heroes of old. But Longinus’ story strikes close to home.
For veterans, many of us are proud of our Service. When our country called, we answered. Some of us are deeply ashamed of the things we have seen, or done. And many of us hold a tension between these two. That’s why Longinus story is so profound.
We may first hear from him at the foot of the cross but it is likely he took part in the whole Passion of Our Lord– the mocking and spitting, the crowning with thorns, the scourging at the pillar, the carrying the cross, the nailing to the cross. All of it.
And yet, in a moment of overwhelming realization he comes to see the totality of his sins. In fact, legend holds that Longinus suffered from an eye ailment and was miraculously cured when blood from the wound he inflicted on Our Lord’s body fell upon his face.
Rather than run to vice or distraction to alleviate his shame, or isolate and hide, only to die a slow death of guilt, he instead embraced the full message of Our Lord, the Good News.
Because while Longinus may have been there on Cavalry, the truth is all of us (veteran and non-veteran alike) may as well have been there. Each one of us, in our own unique way took part in that same great tragedy.
But that is only half the story. Because the full truth is that Our Lord, in His mercy came to die for each of us. In the Temple of Mars we soldiers are the victims and the priests. But the Cross fundamentally changed all of that. On Calvary hill, Christ forever became the sacrificial victim for us – yes, even those who mocked him, flogged him and nailed him to a cross. And yes - even you and me.
Perhaps, Longinus did not understand it as eloquently as we do now, with the luxury of 2000 years of tradition. But he understood its profound truth. His eyes were opened. So much so, that Longinus stood up and made his declaration of faith alongside the very same men with whom he had just engaged in the greatest cruelty in human history.
Some legends say he went on to be martyred before Pontius Pilate, others say he went on to spread the Faith in his homeland, and died a martyr’s death there. The details are irrelevant for us here today. What is relevant is that this loyal son of Rome put down the spear of Caesar, still wet with the blood of the King, and picked up the Cross. From soldier of the empire to Witness for the Kingdom in a single breath.
From Warrior to Witness
Each of these saints reminds me of a chaplain I had the privilege of working alongside. Himself an Iraq combat veteran, he described this process, this transformation to witness, as using our marks as gifts. Longinus’ story especially is a testament to that.
Because the terrible truth is what we have seen and done cannot be unseen or undone. And our minds often tell us to stop there. But we don’t have to. What we forget is it can be made into something greater. If we have the courage to let it be done.
The Saints remind us that coming home may actually be a redeployment: going from our mission to the greater mission God may be calling us to. Wounds and all. Their stories remind us that transformation in Christ does not erase our identity - it fulfills it, expands it and elevates it to its highest purpose.
As St. John Paul II wrote in Salvifici Doloris, “In the cross of Christ, not only is Redemption accomplished through suffering, but also human suffering itself has been redeemed.” And because suffering itself has been redeemed, under the cross, even our deepest wounds are not wasted. In a mysterious way our pains, our regrets, our shame become the very place where grace can take root and transform us - and the world.
Like the two arms of the Cross, our deepest desires and our most painful wounds become fused and transformed. And when united to Christ, it can bear fruit for others. As Saint Paul writes: “Therefore, I am content with weaknesses, insults, hardships, persecutions, and constraints, for the sake of Christ; for when I am weak, then I am strong.” (2 Cor 12: 10).
This is the paradox the saints reveal: that the very scars of war can be transfigured into healing. Loss transformed into witness. It is why Francis could so earnestly say:
“Lord, make me an instrument of your peace:
where there is hatred, let me sow love;
where there is injury, pardon;
where there is doubt, faith;
where there is despair, hope;
where there is darkness, light;
where there is sadness, joy.
O divine Master, grant that I may not so much seek
to be consoled as to console,
to be understood as to understand,
to be loved as to love.
For it is in giving that we receive,
it is in pardoning that we are pardoned,
and it is in dying that we are born to eternal life.”
Because what could be more noble and knightly than to form a missionary band of brothers, sworn not to a flag but to the Cross, spreading the light of Truth into the darkest corners of the world as Ignatius did?
And what could be more glorious than to humbly love the unlovable, serve amongst the poorest of the poor, and with every ounce of strength in charity seek to win even the most ardent opponents – as Francis once did, when he crossed enemy lines to speak with the Sultan himself?
And finally, what could be more worthy of loyalty than to rebel against the false god Caesar, and instead lay down one’s life for the God who became Man as Longinus did?
In each case, the identities of these men did not vanish. No - they reached their apex. Their deepest desires for honor, courage, loyalty and brotherhood were not extinguished but fulfilled. As St Catherine of Sienna, put it, "Be who God meant you to be and you will set the world on fire."
In Christ, they discovered the very mission their hearts had long desire - the mission that they were made for all along. And the wounds they carried, united to Christ, became the very tools with which they completed that mission.
The truth is these soldier-saints were sinners just like you and me – they just never stopped trying.
And in doing so, they became torches, setting a dark world ablaze.
So the question is: how will you light yours?
Next week in Part III, we’ll look at what that might look like for us: how veterans today are finding new missions and lighting bonfires. Even more, they are consecrating the very ruins of Mars’ temple - to build cathedrals.
