KMAX: News of the West

Military town where minister preached peace looks to heal

By PAULINE ARRILLAGA
AP National Writer

TWENTYNINE PALMS, Calif. (AP) There is a Bible passage that brings the Rev. Joseph Matoush comfort and courage in what has been a time of trial: A prophet is not despised but in his own town, among his kinsmen and in his own house.

The verse from the book of Mark (6:4) helps him understand the sign that screamed ``Shame'' as he stood on the street in protest of war, and the note posted to his church door with caricatures of Saddam Hussein and Osama bin Laden. ``These are your friends!'' it said. ``Why don't you leave America now ...''

It allows him to endure the criticism of his church members some of whom he no longer sees in the sanctuary on Sundays.

Perhaps things would have been different if Matoush had preached peace somewhere else. But he did so in his own town: This desert hamlet that is home to the nation's biggest Marine base.

``I wanted to show the community that there were people who did not follow the company line. I got told I could do that anywhere but here. Not in this town; it's Marine Town USA,'' says the 55-year-old pastor. ``That made me feel even more that I needed to stand up.''

With the fighting in Iraq almost done, Matoush now waits to see whether peace can reconnect a place and people that never expected to be divided by the war. But is Twentynine Palms ready to forgive?

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Ask a local to describe the influence of the military in this community set amid the sand and scrub of the Mojave Desert, and the answer goes something like this: Twentynine Palms was born long before the Marines came to town, but it survives because they did.

To get a true sense of the economic and emotional bond between the two, all one has to do is take a drive up Adobe Road toward the Marine Corps Air Ground Combat Center, covering 930 square miles north of town.

Along the way are barber shops advertising Marine-style cuts, tailors that promise quick alterations of military uniforms, a tattoo parlor, a military surplus shop. These days, red, white and blue banners hang from sidewalk lampposts, and yellow ribbons drape palm trees and fence posts.

``Thank you to the 29 Palms Marines,'' reads a billboard, while a mural on the Napa Auto Parts building salutes those who fought in the first Gulf War. The parade that followed, in April 1991, drew 40,000 people the largest crowd ever assembled in Twentynine Palms.

Roughly 10,000 Marines are stationed here, half of whom were deployed as part of the current war in Iraq. Most of Twentynine Palms' 26,000 residents are active duty or retired military, or their dependents.

Once, Joseph Matoush was very much a part of the military culture that dominates town.

For 18 years, the Rev. Matoush was Lt. Cmdr. Matoush, a Navy chaplain who counseled soldiers the world over before his transfer in 1989 to the base at Twentynine Palms.

Assigned to the 7th Marine Regiment, Matoush spent six months in the Middle East during Operation Desert Storm, performing church services and providing guidance to troops. The night before the ground offensive began, he delivered a rousing speech urging his Marine brothers to ``go kick some ass.''

After retiring from the military in 1994, Matoush became pastor of Immanuel Prince of Peace, a small Lutheran church. Nearly a decade of civilian life and as a pastor changed him.

Time and distance began to temper his enthusiasm for the first Gulf War. ``There was such a massive inequality in force ... a lot of Iraqis killed that we just never even mentioned,'' he explains. ``It makes a person start thinking, `Was this necessary?'''

So, when another war with Iraq become imminent, Matoush knew he couldn't support it despite his background, despite having church members in the military.

To him, the follow-up campaign was a pre-emptive strike that contradicted a tenet of his faith that conflict is not the way to resolve anything. So when a church member voiced similar concerns, Matoush suggested they organize a peace vigil.

On a sunny Saturday in February, Matoush and dozens of protesters lined one side of Adobe Road. The minister held a sign that read, ``Win Without War.'' On the other side stood a group of counter-protesters. ``Not Here! Not Now!'' a young girl's poster said. ``Shame,'' read another.

No one could recall any other anti-war demonstration in Twentynine Palms.

The city manager, deeming the protest too controversial, initially denied a permit for the event but relented. A few days before the protest, after a radio station named Matoush as an organizer, the note aligning him with Hussein and bin Laden appeared at his church.

Residents wrote to the local newspaper, accusing Matoush of feeding Iraqi propaganda. To his face, some simply asked: ``How could you?''

And yet Matoush went further, preaching peace from his pulpit as well.

One Sunday, the congregation was asked to sing, ``Let There Be Peace on Earth and Let it Begin with Me.'' Another week, Matoush read a letter from the national Lutheran Church, urging alternatives to armed conflict. ``War is an admittance that we've failed,'' he advised.

One member warned him to keep politics out of his sermons. When a Marine's wife took home fliers about the peace vigil, her husband suggested Matoush's church might not be the right one for her.

A note posted on the church bulletin board said the vigil had divided the community. A few members simply stopped coming to services.

``I can see eyes roll sometimes when I use the word `peace,' `` says Matoush, a stocky man whose voice rises with passion whether preaching or singing a hymn.

``I personally debate, `Should I do this? Should I not? Should I rock the boat?''' he adds. ``They thought maybe I should keep my personal feelings to myself, but my personal feelings are couched in my faith. That's what this whole thing comes down to being true to your faith.''

Still, with the war winding down, Matoush wonders what will happen once his Marine church members return. He worries they may be pressured to find another place of worship.

Some in town harbor resentment.

Chris Thomas, a gunnery sergeant, called the peace vigil ``lousy.''

``I take it as an insult,'' he said as he shopped for tarps at Doc's Military Surplus. He added that others also were upset. ``This is a military town, whether you like it or not.''

If you don't, he said, ``Move out.''

Michael Collins, president of the Chamber of Commerce, worried that the demonstration would weaken the ties between the community and the Marines. Nevertheless, he added, Matoush and the others had the right to protest. He now says it's all ``water under the bridge.''

``I'm pretty certain there were friends against friends, but when it was over with, friends were still friends,'' said Collins, an ex-Marine who is already planning a welcome-home celebration for the Twentynine Palms troops. ``And I betcha a dollar to a doughnut that those people who protested will be there as proud Americans just like everyone else.''

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Just days after U.S. troops marched into Baghdad and images of cheering Iraqis were broadcast around the world, about 75 people slid into the old, wooden pews inside Immanuel Prince of Peace to celebrate Palm Sunday.

In the front row, a yellow ribbon pinned to her blouse, Brigette Siverhus listened intently. Nearby, Monica Coughlin cuddled her 4-year-old daughter. Wendy Herford sat alongside her three children.

Their husbands remain overseas as part of the war effort, and all three said they don't agree with Matoush's anti-war stance. Still, they said, they are sure he supports the troops.

``I wish everyone just supported them period,'' said Coughlin. ``But he prays for those who are serving.''

``He has his views, and I have my views,'' added Herford, who said her faith teaches there is room for both. ``It's just like marriage. You don't always agree with your husband.''

On this morning, Matoush called upon his congregation to act as ``servant leaders.'' Be willing to sacrifice, he implored, ``to stand up for what is right when what is wrong is popular.''

There was no mistaking the implication behind the message. But on this day, as church members grasped palm branches and lifted their voices in celebration, no one seemed to mind.

When the service was done, the congregation made its way out to gather for coffee and cake. One-by-one, as they filed by Matoush, they hugged their pastor or shook his hand.

And they thanked him.

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