A Call To Service – John-Annie Glenn

(Homily by Rev. William E. Mullins ’02  University Chaplain)

Seventy-five years ago yesterday a young college student by the name of Annie Castor sat poised on the organ bench in Brown Chapel.  Seventy-five years ago yesterday the blue-green waters of the Hawaiian Islands churned under the whirl of hundreds of plane propellers, minutes later the bombs fell, the swift and sudden attack came, the smoke billowed and the sirens screamed.  Seventy-five years ago yesterday a young college student by the name of John Glenn sat in this Chapel and waited, listened and hoped.  For it was love that hastened both John and Annie into this space, their love of God, their love of music, their love for each other.  Both of them, John Glenn and Annie Castor would enter Brown Chapel on Dec. 7^th 1941 with love and they would exit in service.  Seventy-five years ago yesterday the deafening explosions in and around Pearl Harbor called men and women to run, to seek shelter, to race towards cockpits and to quickly heave themselves behind anti-aircraft guns—the noise of war called each of them to act and many died.
Seventy-five years ago yesterday the fleet sank and the chaos, the fire, the oil-soaked water and the black smoke took hold of the Hawaiian Islands and thousands of Americans died within minutes. Seventy-five years ago yesterday Brown Chapel’s organ billowed with notes true and warm, with sounds deep and resonant as one young college student named Annie played her best, her fingers raced along the keys, her feet padded the many pedals in time.  The music emerged and filled the space.  The music swelled and rose, the music dived and dipped.  The music hit its mark of the tender human heart. More powerful than fighter planes, more durable than artillery fire and more lasting than the shock waves of war’s vengeful madness.  Annie played and John heard.  God’s call to service could be heard in and through the music of Rheinberger, Mozart and Sibelius.
Seventy-five years ago yesterday, the winding way up from Main Street towards Brown Chapel snaked in front of John Glenn as he drove to Annie’s organ recital.  The radio played music and John listened.  The music cut out and the news came, America was at war, Japan had attacked Pearl Harbor.  When John walked into Brown Chapel 75 years ago yesterday, his heart was troubled—the gravity of that day’s news beckoned him towards a grim and determined reality.  When he slid into the pew for what should have been a moment of celebration and excitement, he felt the uncertainty and the trepidation that so many Americans felt that day.  God did not leave John to wallow in trepidation and uncertainty.  The music Annie played reached him and nudged him, “Be Still My Soul,” the notes carried these words to a place deep within John that had been nurtured, formed and shaped on the sloping hills of Muskingum.  Seventy-five years ago yesterday Annie played the organ and a call to service came with a mysterious peace and a calming clarity.  The events of that day bears witness to the most important education that any one of us could ever hope to receive—the learning of what to do when evil strikes and so much is at stake.  John said it best when he turned to Annie after the service and said “I have to go.”  John remembers holding her hand with tears in her eyes as he spoke these words.
Seventy-five years ago yesterday two people in love stilled the raging waters of separation and the reality of war by choosing to serve, by believing that this tiny, small, schoolhouse on the hill had prepared them to move mountains, to overcome their struggles, and to endure in the face of tragedy set before them. Seventy-five years ago yesterday in this space God spoke and John and Annie listened, for in this spot the eternal nagging question of who shall we be and what shall we do was so beautifully answered, so steadfastly pursued, so unwaveringly sought—this son and this daughter of New Concord set out that day to love, to inspire, and to serve.  And now 75 years and a day later, we each of us this day hear the echoing strain of two lives so profoundly well-lived.  Amen.