Memorial Day began as "Decoration Day" at the end of the civil war. The day was set aside to honor those who were killed in the war between the states. After World War I, the tribute was expanded to include all those who had died during war time service. Tomorrow, we will honor the dead veterans of all wars and military conflicts in which our country has been involved, from Bull Run to Afghanistan. The world in which we live is such that as older veterans are forgotten, there seems always to be a new battle or a new war which replenishes the stock with veterans for whom the mourning is painfully fresh.

Our nation celebrates Memorial Day collectively as a holiday. We pay tribute as a nation with parades, speeches and somber ceremonies. But as individuals, many of us celebrate Memorial Day by embracing the memories we have of other individuals, servicemen or women who participated in our lives, and allowed us to participate in their's, until they were taken away. That is what I want us to do today. Call to your mind the faces of those friends or family who died in war while I tell you about one friend of mine.

Billy Tittle was a Cuban American boy with whom I grew up in West Palm Beach. If you think of the stereotype of the passionate Latin American male, a Ricky Ricardo, that was Billy. He was a little taller than me; he had dark skin; and all of the girls I knew loved him instead of me. Billy had a unique talent. He sang like an angel. He had a tenor voice that already was mature in high school. The girls that I wanted to like me, swooned when Billy sang. He really did have an unfair advantage.

Billy also was a Christian. He loved to sing in worship, especially when our sanctuary choir backed him up. Whether in the sanctuary or down at our church's outdoor amphitheater on Lake Worth, Billy's voice filled our souls, brought tears to our eyes, and goose bumps to our skin. On graduation from high school, Billy enrolled in Baylor on a scholarship in the school of church music.

Too soon, the time came for Billy to leave Baylor. His student deferment was gone. Rather than be drafted, like many of my friends, Billy joined the military (he chose the Army) so he would have some control over his own destiny. Billy went to school, became a helicopter pilot, and then was sent to Vietnam. He was not there long. Billy was flying at 5000 feet between Long Bin and Saigon when someone on the ground fired a shoulder held missile and blew the helicopter up. It was August, 1969. I was standing on the edge of a rice paddy on Panay Island in the Philippines when the telegram was delivered to me, letting me know that my friend Billy was dead.

On this Memorial Day, I will remember and mourn Billy again. I know that you will remember and mourn again your friends and family members who gave their lives in the service of our country. Remembering keeps them in our lives. But remembering serves another purpose, as well. Remembering makes us face the reality that the world is not wonderful. Billy was a good person. Hurting someone else hurt him. But as a member of the military doing his duty, a duty that he was doing for us, he was forced to kill others who were determined to kill him. My friend Billy died, as did all of the other veterans we honor, because they served with honor in an imperfect world.

In a 1939 sermon entitled, "Learning in War Time," C. S. Lewis wrote, "If we had foolish un-Christian hopes about human culture, they are now shattered. If we thought we were building up a heaven on earth, if we looked for something that would turn the present world from a place of pilgrimage into a permanent city satisfying the soul of man, we are disillusioned[.]"

On this Memorial Day, the world seems even more imperfect; we are even more disillusioned. Terrorism has taken human culture to a new low in which innocent death is the goal rather than a consequence. And once again, facing a force impossible to comprehend, we have turned to those in military service to stand in our place in harm's way. They need our prayers today, and they will have them.

And so, I salute Billy Tittle. My friend, I can still hear you singing.

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