I am a boomer. My father served in the United States Army Air Corps during World War II. He was awarded a Purple Heart. When a Millennial, Gen X, or Zer says, “OK boomer!” they are usually referring to attitudes, actions, or words that could well have come from me. I acknowledge that there has been a considerable amount of privilege that has come to me from the accident of the timing of my birth. One of the things that the World War II generation did when they came back from the war was to amass a great deal of wealth. A fair amount of that wealth has now been handed down to their children. I have inherited a small portion of that wealth. Being a boomer, however, is about a great deal more than wealth. I can sense some of the differences in generations by looking at my youngest brother. Although raised as a part of our family, his birth mother was my oldest sister meaning that he, technically, is not a boomer. It isn’t clear whether the differences between us apply to others of our generations or are due mostly to family placement, but there are a lot of differences. I am not only talking about the fact that he is a way better fisherman than I.

The privileges of being a boomer are accompanied by challenges as well. It is generally accepted by psychologists that trauma affects multiple generations. Being raised with stories of trauma has significant effects on the life of those who did not experience the trauma first hand. I’m not sure I inherited much generational trauma. In the first place, many World War II veterans were reluctant to talk about their war experiences except to others who served. “Loose lips sink ships,” was a common slogan. They were trained to keep secrets and many of them took their war experiences to the grave with them, though a few revealed a lot of those secrets near the ends of their lives, often in a sort of confession to clergy, so I have heard my share of war stories.

More than the personal stories of soldiers, however, I have heard thousands of stories of various forms of heroism. Often those stories were not first hand experiences, but rather tales that had circulated through a lot of different storytellers before they got to me. The person telling the story had heard tell of something that happened. An amazing amount of those stories involve someone sacrificing life in order to protect others. A soldier intentionally falls on a grenade, losing their own life, in order to protect comrades. A pilot orders the crew to bail out and then goes down with the airplane to steer it away from buildings that house others, dying in the crash. There are hundreds of variations of the story of someone choosing to die to protect others.

I recognize the heroism in their actions, even if the stories have been embellished through many retellings. I think, however, that in real life there might be more heroism in the ways people chose to live their lives than in the way they died. My father once told me that he expected to die young in an airplane accident. He went so far as to warn my mother of that possibility before they were married. As it turned out he was never involved in a fatal airplane accident. He died a few months before his 60th birthday as the result of an aggressive brain cancer. Along the way, he gave a great deal more to others by living a life of service and generosity than might have been accomplished by dying in an accident. He was always quick to tell that his Purple Heart medal was more the product of deferred maintenance and a poor airworthiness inspection than some act of heroism on his part. He was one of the finest airframe and engine mechanics and one of the most critical inspectors of his generation. It is impossible to know how many lives he saved by being meticulous in his work on his own airplanes and those of many other pilots.

The stories of heroes who died for others remain. I hear them often. Usually I accept them as stories of the incredible capacity of self sacrifice that seems to be a part of the highest of human character. Sometimes, however, questions remain.

Yesterday I read a report of a protester who soaked themself in gasoline and lit themselves on fire at the Israeli consulate in Georgia as an extreme act of political protest. The protestor has been taken to a hospital for treatment and so far has survived, but it is clear that it was their intent to die. Reading the article immediately reminded me of those who died by self immolation in protest of the Vietnam War.

I am confused when I try to understand such actions. I suppose that the protestor believes that the action will draw attention to their cause and that people will change their minds and actions as a result. It has never been clear to me, however, how adding another death to the thousands killed in war makes things better. Because in such cases it is impossible to know what is going through the mind of the person who lights themself on fire, it is impossible to distinguish between an act of suicide and an act of sacrifice. Having spoken to dozens who survived suicide attempts, I know that part of suicidal ideation can be a belief that sacrificing one’s life somehow makes things better for survivors. Having walked with hundreds who have survived the death of a loved one from suicide, it appears that none of those deaths made things better for those who kept on living. It is not fair to judge protestors. We don’t fully know their motivation. The distinction between suicide for a cause and suicide caused by psychological illness is impossible to make.

As we mourn for the victims of the Hamas attack and for the innocent victims of the war that has followed I’ll add the victims of extreme protest to my prayers. It seems that there is a great deal of needless death. I cannot tell for sure who are and who are not heroes. I am convinced, however, that the loved ones left behind are true heroes. May God grant them understanding in a world that often seems to have gone wrong.