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Humans of HOA: From pulpit to battlefield
U.S. Army Chaplain (Maj.) Danny Hughes, Combined Joint Task Force - Horn of Africa director of religious affairs, stands with a Bible at Camp Lemonnier, Djibouti, April 23, 2025. Hughes was highlighted in CJTF-HOA’s Humans of HOA feature, where he shared his story about his early years and powering through tough times. (U.S. Air Force photo by Airman 1st Class Synsere Howard)
Photo by: Airman 1st Class Synsere Howard
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Humans of HOA: From pulpit to battlefield
U.S. Army Chaplain (Maj.) Danny Hughes, Combined Joint Task Force - Horn of Africa director of religious affairs, dons his Chaplain patch at Camp Lemonnier, Djibouti, April 23, 2025. Hughes was highlighted in CJTF-HOA’s Humans of HOA feature, where he shared his story about his early years and powering through tough times. (U.S. Air Force photo by Airman 1st Class Synsere Howard)
Photo by: Airman 1st Class Synsere Howard
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Humans of HOA: From pulpit to battlefield
U.S. Army Chaplain (Maj.) Danny Hughes, Combined Joint Task Force - Horn of Africa director of religious affairs, looks back at family photos at Camp Lemonnier, Djibouti, April 23, 2025. Hughes attributes his family and faith as his motivation to keep pushing forward. (U.S. Air Force photo by Airman 1st Class Synsere Howard)
Photo by: Airman 1st Class Synsere Howard
Photo 4 of 4
Humans of HOA: From pulpit to battlefield
U.S. Army Chaplain (Maj.) Danny Hughes, Combined Joint Task Force - Horn of Africa director of religious affairs, stands with a Bible at Camp Lemonnier, Djibouti, April 23, 2025. Hughes was highlighted in CJTF-HOA’s Humans of HOA feature, where he shared his story about his early years and powering through tough times. (U.S. Air Force photo by Airman 1st Class Synsere Howard)
Photo by: Airman 1st Class Synsere Howard
The air was heavy that day - not just from the summer heat, but from the weight of loss that clung to everyone in the room. Families sat close together, shoulders brushing, as if physical proximity could offer some small measure of comfort. Outside the chapel, the faint hum of military vehicles was a distant reminder of the larger conflict at hand. Inside, however, time felt suspended. It was just us, the grieving, and the silence.
I stood at the pulpit, delivering words meant to heal. These were not unfamiliar words; I’d said them countless times in my career as a pastor. But that day was different. That day, two Army chaplains stood alongside me. They were there to honor the life of a Soldier who would never again feel the desert sun or hear the laughter of his buddies. It was their quiet strength that caught my attention. They moved with a sense of purpose, not rushed but deliberate, as if every gesture was meant to offer peace. I remember thinking, How do they carry this burden and still stand so steady?
When the service ended, one of them approached me. He didn’t push, didn’t recruit. He just said, “You’d be a good chaplain. Ever thought about it?” I smiled politely, shook his hand, and said I’d think about it. I wasn’t sure I meant it. I was in my forties, comfortable in my church ministry, and the idea of entering the military seemed like something I’d left behind long ago. Still, his words stayed with me. Another funeral came a few days later, another chaplain. This time, it wasn’t just the words — it was a feeling. A sense that maybe I wasn’t done yet, that maybe God was opening a door I hadn’t considered.
Months passed before I took the next step. I talked it over with my wife, whose encouragement gave me the nudge I needed. By the next year, I was standing in formation as a chaplain candidate in the Oklahoma Army National Guard. My early days in uniform were humbling. I was older than most of my peers and had to learn to navigate a culture that was entirely new to me. Yet, as challenging as it was, I began to envision the unique role I could play. The Soldiers I met weren’t just Soldiers, they were individuals with stories, struggles, and questions. They didn’t always go to church back home, but out in this environment, they’d stop by my office, pull up a chair and talk. It was then I realized, this is where I’m supposed to be.
Seventeen years later, that realization has only grown. My first deployment overseas taught me that even in the midst of dust, heat and long hours, people still search for connection and hope. Now, in the Horn of Africa, I see it every day. I’ve baptized Soldiers in a camp pool, counseled those battling homesickness and helped others find the strength to carry on.
People ask me, “How do you keep doing it? How do you not break under the weight of all that sadness and hardship?” The truth is, I don’t do it alone. Faith is my foundation, the anchor that allows me to hold steady even when the burdens are heavy. My family is the hope that pulls me forward, the joy that waits for me at the end of this chapter. It’s what I think about on the long days, what I hold onto when the nights feel endless. It’s not about always feeling strong, it’s about remembering I’m part of something bigger. My role isn’t just to serve Soldiers, it's to remind them and myself there’s hope, even here. It’s about filling my own spiritual tank so I can help others fill theirs.
At the end of the day, I’m still the same pastor who stood in that chapel years ago. But now, my congregation is scattered across continents. They’re in mess halls, on patrols, and in the quiet corners of this deployment. I may not always see the impact I have, but I trust the seeds I plant will grow and the light I offer will shine long after I’m gone. That’s what keeps me going. That’s why I put on this uniform.
(Editor’s note: This story is based on interviews with Army Chaplain (Maj.) Danny Hughes.)
