Sponsored by the Peace Pledge Union, and symbolizing pacifism and non-violence, the White Poppy became enormously controversial about twenty years ago. I remember impassioned debates about its alleged lack of respect for the fallen, and the casting of sharp aspersions upon its wearers’ patriotism. So I was surprised to see one being worn in the parish this week. Surprised, because in the last decade there has been a palpable upsurge in the observance of Remembrance Sunday.
The two minutes silence has returned on Armistice Day, whenever it falls, as well as on the Sunday nearest to it; red poppies decorate the mastheads of certain newspapers as well as the lapels of politicians of all persuasions; and for the first time in its history the Church of England has authorized liturgy for the day. The climate is even less favourable to the white poppy movement today than it was in the mid-80s. Had it ever been thought to have gone away, Remembrancetide is back.
Why is that? Allow me to attribute it to three phenomena. The first is the passage of years and the simple but unimaginable fact that a few years from now no veterans of the Great War will be living. The Great War, of course, gave birth to the Remembrance movement, and its themes and images have dominated it ever since. The particular horrors of the trenches and the poetry that they prompted have held the public imagination captive for nearly a century. Yet soon there will be no living link with that generation.
Then there is the age in which we live. Once again the armed forces of the Crown are serving overseas in difficult and dangerous conditions. Once again we hear of casualties every week and live with the grief and anger of suffering families. Once again, to a greater or lesser extent, we believe our cities at risk of armed violence.
Lastly - and please don’t think me cynical - I suspect that Remembrancetide is growing because it is, or can be, safely secular. Society is multi-cultural, multi-faith, and suspicious of organized religion. Our leaders, or at least their subordinates, have less and less contact with the Churches and consequently less and less understanding of them. They increasingly perceive the symbols and expressions of religious faith as inappropriate focuses around which to gather people. Yet there is precious little other language or ritual available. In these circumstances Remembrancetide meets a number of needs admirably. It brings people together to honour the fallen and to pay tribute to their surviving comrades, causes with which few could disagree. It has its own rites – Binyon’s lines, the silence and the Last Post. And it has no need at all of God, of any God. Of course, the Bishop of London will be at the Cenotaph this morning, but the occasion could proceed perfectly smoothly without the Episcopal veneer he will bring to it. Remembrancetide offers the rare possibility of a unifying and secular liturgy.
If I am right about this then another question is unavoidable. Why do we observe it in Church at all, when civic observances around the country’s plentiful war memorials might seem more appropriate? Are we not colluding with a movement which has its own momentum and is at best agnostic in its approach to the Christian Gospel? Various shades of Church opinion favour a divorce. There are the Christian pacifists, white poppy wearers, who dislike today’s alleged militaristic undertones. At the other end of the scale there are liturgically purist Catholics, who resent today’s interruption of the worship of God, worship which can only be carried out in the prescribed fashion and cannot admit of silences and bugle calls.
Well, I will have none of it. Neither of these opinions is mine. I am glad to be here; I am glad that we are here.
First, I think, because for the Church to retreat from Remembrancetide would be for the Church to do what it has done throughout its history, and always to disastrous effect. To retreat from Remembrancetide would be to retreat from real people and real life. There is a popular desire to honour the dead and show support for those who suffer. The Church can choose to be with people as they do that, or it can choose not to be. It can take flags, drums and the Royal British Legion in its stride, or it can withdraw yet again into its increasingly little ecclesial shell, isolating itself as it has done on so many other issues, and so betraying the radical openness to humanity’s need to which we are called by Jesus Christ.
Secondly, I think, because the Church brings something to Remembrancetide, something of which I hope it is not ashamed. That is prayer. Remembrance here is not an intellectual activity or sentimental self-indulgence. Remembrance here is a part of our vocation as disciples of Jesus Christ, who calls us to pray for his world. We cannot refuse to pray for the fallen in war; or for those who still suffer as a result of war; or for those who are in peril today. We can scarcely refuse to pray for the peace of the world or refuse to pledge ourselves to work for its realization.
Lastly, I think, we are here because there is nowhere else that we can be. War is a failure and a sin, whatever the motives with which it is begun. It has been the cause of unspeakable cruelty and limitless pain; it has been the cause too of the best of which men and women are capable in heroism, forgiveness and sacrifice. Where can we go with the unwieldy mass that is war, the unwieldy mass that is raw human emotion and dire human need, that is filthiest dirt and brightest glory, that is life and death – where can we go but the altar of God? ‘To whom shall we go?’ says Peter, patron of theis Parish, to Jesus ‘You have the words of eternal life’. Here, in the Word made flesh among us, there is hope, dare we say the only hope, for warring humanity. Amen.
Remembrance Sunday,
11 November 2007
Monday, 12 November 2007
All Souls 2007
Remember, remember, the Fifth of November,
gunpowder, treason and plot.
I see no reason why gunpowder treason
should ever be forgot.
In England it’s almost impossible to walk to an All Souls night service without sniffing woodsmoke in the air and without hearing the crackle of fireworks far away (or not so far away). Up and down the country people are gathering around bonfires in remembrance of the great conspiracy of 1605.
At the heart of the celebrations are the fireworks, the wonderful combinations of light and sound that entrance both young and old. Their colours light up the night sky; their warmth drives away the seasonal chill; their fizz and sparkle thrill our hearts. And yet, when morning comes, all that is left are the empty cases and cartridges, their bright colours charred and their purpose spent.
Remember, remember. That is why we are here, of course, and as we remember those we love but see no longer the image of fireworks is powerful. The lives of the departed once lit up our skies; the warmth of their company banished our loneliness; the fact of their presence brought joy and meaning to our days. For we who are left behind it is difficult to avoid the sense that this and every day is the morning after Bonfire Night, when the colours of the night before have faded, the rapturous excitement has been banished, and all seems quiet and somehow empty.
Remember, remember. Around the bonfires we remember the story of Guy Fawke. Around the altar we remember the story of Jesus Christ. Around the bonfires we enjoy hot-dogs and baked potatoes. Around the altar we break bread and pour out wine, and around the altar there is never an empty and joyless morning after, for we take bread and wine in the faith that they will bear for us Christ’s living presence.
The remembering we do around the altar is a different sort of remembering, for the one we remember is not trapped by the chains of history. He is here in our midst, and when we gather around his altar we gather with all who have sought him and served him in every age and place. Around his altar heaven and earth are one, and we are one with those we love, because they are one with him.
Remember, remember. Ten years after the discovery of the Gunpowder Plot Richard Baxter was born. His are the words with which I will close. The rhyme with which I began urges us to remember. Baxter tells us how.
As for my friends, they are not lost;The several vessels of thy fleet,Though parted now, by tempests tost,Shall safely in the haven meet.Still we are centred all in thee,Members, though distant, of one head;In the same family we be,By the same faith and spirit led.Before thy throne we daily meetAs joint-petitioners to thee;In spirit we each other greet,And shall again each other see.The heavenly hosts, world without end,Shall be my company above;And thou, my best and surest friend,Who shall divide me from thy love?
Amen.
The Eucharist of All Souls, Friday 2 November 2007
gunpowder, treason and plot.
I see no reason why gunpowder treason
should ever be forgot.
In England it’s almost impossible to walk to an All Souls night service without sniffing woodsmoke in the air and without hearing the crackle of fireworks far away (or not so far away). Up and down the country people are gathering around bonfires in remembrance of the great conspiracy of 1605.
At the heart of the celebrations are the fireworks, the wonderful combinations of light and sound that entrance both young and old. Their colours light up the night sky; their warmth drives away the seasonal chill; their fizz and sparkle thrill our hearts. And yet, when morning comes, all that is left are the empty cases and cartridges, their bright colours charred and their purpose spent.
Remember, remember. That is why we are here, of course, and as we remember those we love but see no longer the image of fireworks is powerful. The lives of the departed once lit up our skies; the warmth of their company banished our loneliness; the fact of their presence brought joy and meaning to our days. For we who are left behind it is difficult to avoid the sense that this and every day is the morning after Bonfire Night, when the colours of the night before have faded, the rapturous excitement has been banished, and all seems quiet and somehow empty.
Remember, remember. Around the bonfires we remember the story of Guy Fawke. Around the altar we remember the story of Jesus Christ. Around the bonfires we enjoy hot-dogs and baked potatoes. Around the altar we break bread and pour out wine, and around the altar there is never an empty and joyless morning after, for we take bread and wine in the faith that they will bear for us Christ’s living presence.
The remembering we do around the altar is a different sort of remembering, for the one we remember is not trapped by the chains of history. He is here in our midst, and when we gather around his altar we gather with all who have sought him and served him in every age and place. Around his altar heaven and earth are one, and we are one with those we love, because they are one with him.
Remember, remember. Ten years after the discovery of the Gunpowder Plot Richard Baxter was born. His are the words with which I will close. The rhyme with which I began urges us to remember. Baxter tells us how.
As for my friends, they are not lost;The several vessels of thy fleet,Though parted now, by tempests tost,Shall safely in the haven meet.Still we are centred all in thee,Members, though distant, of one head;In the same family we be,By the same faith and spirit led.Before thy throne we daily meetAs joint-petitioners to thee;In spirit we each other greet,And shall again each other see.The heavenly hosts, world without end,Shall be my company above;And thou, my best and surest friend,Who shall divide me from thy love?
Amen.
The Eucharist of All Souls, Friday 2 November 2007
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