Art of Faith - A Tattoo Tale

by Craig Clapper

I have a tattoo. It’s small, high up on my right arm, and seldom seen. It’s faded now, given it has been some fifty years since it was etched into my skin. I got it when tattoos weren’t so popular, especially on ministers. Parishioners have always been a bit surprised to find that their pastor sports a tattoo. They’re naturally curious; they want to know what my tattoo says and what it looks like. And although it’s faded, you can still make out four black letters, USMC, inside a green banner. Like all tattoos, mine tells a story.

I graduated from high school in 1968. Back then, as an eighteen-year-old, I was kind of a lost soul with no real plans, but Uncle Sam had plans for me. The Vietnam War was on, and so was the draft. I assumed I was going to be drafted soon, so I figured I ought to just get it over with and volunteer. Maybe I would find my soul there in the military.

Well, if I was going to do it, I determined I should do it right. They were drafting into the Marine Corps then, and without telling my parents (or anyone for that matter), I went down to the recruiting station and volunteered to be drafted into the Marines. The recruiter was very pleased because I had helped him meet his quota. My parents were less than pleased. My father told me I had done another dumb thing. I’d been doing quite a few dumb things lately, which was in large part why I wanted to go into the military. I thought the change would do me good. And it did. That’s the tale my tattoo tells.

I arrived at Parris Island Marine Corps Boot Camp in the middle of the night, as recruits always do. By dawn, I had to agree with my father that I’d probably done another dumb thing. The next few months were a whirlwind: graduation from boot camp, a month of intensive combat training, a month stationed in Quantico, Virginia, for riot control in Washington, D.C. (where I got my tattoo), and eventually orders for Vietnam.

However, when it came time to go, my orders were suddenly changed. A riot had broken out in Okinawa, and Marines were called in to quell the riot. We would first stop the rioting in Okinawa and then proceed to Vietnam. The riots continued, and I never did make it to Vietnam, but every night for a year I went to bed knowing that the next day I could be in Vietnam in the infantry as a “grunt” as we were affectionately called. That possibility had a way of keeping me awake at night. What if I were shot, perhaps even killed? I guess the next thing would be to “meet my Maker.” I didn’t believe that meeting would go well. So, I stole a Bible. Well, sort of. Let me explain.

I had been raised in the church. I attended Sunday school, Vacation Bible School, and at ten years old was baptized, dunked all the way under the water in a river. But it didn’t seem to take hold. I just “went down dry and came up wet” as they say. I’m sure it was my fault and not anyone else’s. I was not just doing dumb things; I wanted to do dumb things.

With the prospect of death hanging over me, I thought the Bible might hold some answers for preparing me for that possible meeting with my Maker. I went down to the chaplain’s office to see if I could obtain a Bible. He wasn’t in, but there was a stack of New Testaments on his desk, so I took one. Although it is an exaggeration to say I stole my first Bible, I like to say I did. It makes for a better story.

At first, I hid the New Testament in my fatigues and read it when and where no one would know what I was doing. I spent inordinate amounts of time in the “head” (a military term for a bathroom stall) and alone on the roof of the barracks. I was glad the New Testament I swiped was written in a newer translation without all the “thees and thous.” I actually understood it. And it understood me. Reading it was convicting and yet compelling. I hadn’t realized that the first four books were all about the life of Jesus.

I especially liked the second and shortest book, Mark. There’s no genealogy or Christmas story recorded in Mark. Jesus just suddenly appears as a man at around thirty years old and is baptized by his eccentric cousin, John the Baptist. Mark moves quickly through Jesus’ next three years of ministry to the crucifixion and resurrection. By quickly, I mean quick. I’ve since learned that the word “immediately” appears forty-one times in the book of Mark. Jesus is constantly on the move, meeting the needs of whoever crosses his path. He touches and heals lepers, eats with notorious and not-so-notorious “sinners,” and is even labeled a “friend of sinners” by his enemies. He’s accused of drinking too much. False accusations of drunkenness, I am sure, but I still like that it was said about him. Marines are accused of that indulgence, too, but it tends to be true more often than not.

This was not the Jesus I had learned about in Sunday school. Or maybe it was, but I just wasn’t ready for the message, or wasn’t listening. I was ready and listening now. I decided to give my life to Jesus and become one of his followers. I was no longer a lost soul. I began reading my New Testament out in the open, in my bunk rather than in the bathroom, and in the barracks instead of up on the roof. Soon after, I had other Marines coming to me for counsel. I didn’t know much, but I shared what I knew and that seemed to be enough to be helpful. I was amazed that they were drawn to Jesus as well and found great fulfillment in sharing what I had discovered about Jesus with them.

After that year in Okinawa, I returned to the States, became a civilian (although once a Marine, always a Marine, as we say), went to seminary, and spent the next forty-five years as a minister. I don’t believe I’ve ever had a Bible stolen, but I’ve given quite a few away.

I don’t know what happened to that first Bible. I’ve had several since. The Bible has given me direction, and Jesus has been my guide throughout life. I now look forward to “meeting my Maker” (but not right away). I don’t do as many dumb things (my father would be proud), and have lived what Jesus called an “abundant life.” That is what the green banner with USMC on my arm represents: new life that I found in Jesus during my time in the Marine Corps. Volunteering to be drafted wasn’t such a dumb thing after all. That is my tattoo tale, and I’m sticking to it.