A Theological and Philosophical Dialogue
By Chaplain Juan Adriatico

The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want.
He maketh me to lie down in green pastures: He leadeth me beside the still waters.
He restoreth my soul: He leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for His name’s sake.
Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for Thou art with me; Thy rod and Thy staff they comfort me.
Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies: Thou anointest my head with oil; my cup runneth over.
Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life: and I will dwell in the house of the Lord forever.
 

The Soldier:
“The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want.” Those words carried me through deserts of war and across restless seas. In the smoke and chaos of battle, when everything human seemed to fail, God’s faithfulness stood unshaken. I have seen men die, dreams fall, and yet somehow—hope endured. Not from within me, but from above me.

The Chaplain:
Hope that survives war must be born of something eternal. Tell me, what did the battlefield teach you about God?

The Soldier:
That sovereignty isn’t gentle, yet it is good. I used to think faith meant safety, but now I know it means presence. Through every mortar blast and sleepless night, I felt Him there—not always protecting me from pain but guiding me through it. Jesus came not to shield us from suffering but to show love through sacrifice. War strips away comfort, leaving only what is real—and what is real is grace.

The Chaplain:
You speak as one refined by fire. Yet many ask, why must there be war?

The Soldier:
Because men crave power, and the innocent bear the price. Wars are born in the minds of politicians but fought by the poor, the forgotten, the faithful sons and daughters of this land. I’ve seen the farm boy from Kansas and the kid from the Bronx bleed for causes they never chose. They fought not for politics, but for the brother beside them. That bond, that sacred brotherhood—no game or sport could compare. Not even baseball, not the best days of my youth, matched the love forged in war.

The Chaplain:
You found ministry in the trenches?

The Soldier:
Yes. Being a Chaplain meant sharing their burdens—crying with them, praying over them, bleeding with them. When one of ours died, the loss echoed through every soul. Suicide became common, almost expected. We grew numb, but numbness is not healing—it’s survival. When I came home, home felt like another planet. People complained about trivial things, unaware of how fragile life is. I had seen how quickly breath can leave the body, how tomorrow can vanish in a heartbeat.

The Chaplain:
Did that make you bitter?

The Soldier:
At first. But I learned to ask a better question—not why it happened, but how will I let it shape me? Pain is a teacher. I prayed for wisdom, and God gave me experience. But wisdom always has a cost. Sometimes what we think is the end of our world is merely the end of our plan. God’s world keeps turning.

The Chaplain:
So, your suffering became your seminary.

The Soldier:
Exactly. It taught me to value time. I once ministered after a wreck in San Antonio—a mother lived, but five of her children died. Another soldier lost his wife and sons in one instant. These are the crucibles where theology meets reality. It’s not doctrine anymore; it’s blood, it’s breath, it’s tears. I realized suffering is universal, but response is personal. Balance—between grief and grace—is life’s hardest lesson.

The Chaplain:
You’ve learned to look past words to actions, I sense.

The Soldier:
Yes. Integrity, honesty, humility—these are rare metals in a world of rusting values. I’ve seen rich men poor and poor men rich. Wealth, I’ve found, is love—and love itself is the currency of heaven. But what is love? Across every continent I’ve visited, people seek it differently, yet all know its call. It is the language of God in human form.

The Chaplain:
And what of heaven and hell—do you see them as places or states of being?

The Soldier:
Perhaps both. But I’ve seen men living in hell long before they die. Sometimes the greatest torment is separation—from purpose, from truth, from love. And heaven? It may be that quiet moment when you hold your newborn son, when life ceases to be about you. Watching him breathe gave meaning to every scar I carried. For in that instant, I understood legacy—it is not medals or wealth, but life passed on in love.

The Chaplain:
You speak like Solomon—seeing vanity in man’s pursuit yet finding peace in awe.

The Soldier:
Solomon said, “The eye never has enough of seeing.” He was right. We chase what fades. But time, ah—time is God’s most precious gift. Our lives—seventy, maybe ninety years—are brief, and then we vanish. What remains is how we reflected His image in that time.

The Chaplain:
And after all your journeys—from Asia to the Middle East, from battlefields to chapels—what truth remains?

The Soldier:
That only God is great, and I am small. We see through lenses of culture and ego, interpreting truth to fit our comfort. But if we quiet ourselves long enough—beneath the stars or in a hospital room—we sense it: He is real, and He is near. The Shepherd still leads, even through the valley of the shadow. And though I’ve seen both heaven and hell on earth, I shall not want—for the Lord is my Shepherd.