11 o’clock on 11 November 1918 marked, as we know, the signing of the armistice at the end of the First World War. It was, they said, the war to end all wars. The Manchester Guardian reported on the first two minute silence in London:
The first stroke of 11 produced a magical effect. The tram cars glided into stillness, motors ceased to cough and fume and stopped dead, horses too as though they knew. Someone took off their hat with nervous hesitancy, the rest of the men bowed their heads also. Here and there a soldier could be seen slipping into the posture of attention. An elderly woman, not far from me wiped her eyes, the man beside her looked white and stern. Everyone stood very still…. The hush deepened. It had spread across the whole city and became so pronounced as to impress one with a sense of audibility. It was a silence which was almost pain. And the spirit of memory brooded over it all.
Sadly as we also know it was not the war to end all wars. The brutality of violence and the horror of death continues to ravage our world. Ukraine, Gaza and the Holy Land, Lebanon, Sudan and conflict and tensions in Syria, Yemen, Burkina Faso, Mali and Niger, the Democratic Republic of the Congo, and Somalia-and civil war in Myanmar. This last year has made us so very aware of the cost of war and filled so many with such profound despair as we have seen the ever-developing sophistication of the weapons of war- the drones, the missile strikes, shelling and bombing- multi-storey buildings flattened with residents inside concertinaing into graveyards of layered concrete dust and rubble. Hospitals and refugee camps targeted. Terrified communities fleeing in search of safety that does not exist, help that does not come and sanctuary that every nation increasingly denies. And we who do not know the answers or how to respond; have wanted to turn off or turn away.
But perhaps the meaning of remembrance is that we cannot look away. We too must share the wound of solidarity with those who suffer. We must never give up on the hope of ‘never again’- the hope of peace. Remembrance Sunday is not after all giving thanks for war it giving thanks for those who through their courage, their sacrifice and the offering gave their lives, and all those who continue to give their lives, so that we may live in peace.
Where does our salvation come from. It is at the very heart of our Christian faith. It is the very heart of the incarnate God- the God who in Jesus Christ who gives his own life- who knows personally and in the wounds and violence to his own body- knows the sins and brutality of the world. Jesus the Son of God who also lived in occupied territory- who also knew a religion that abandoned him, took him hostage, tortured and condemned him, knew political leaders that not only failed to protect him but sentenced him to death- and knew what it meant to be betrayed by his closest friends, who said they loved him and would never leave him. Jesus who become the victim of the mob. Jesus the one who predicted his own death and yet could still gather his followers around him and in today’s Gospel proclaim: ‘You have heard what was said: “You shall love your neighbour and hate your enemy.” But I say to you love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you’.
The Christian Gospel at its heart is not only about how we offer life to our own but how we also offer life to the alien, the stranger, those we may fear- even those the Gospel tells us we consider our enemies. It’s a calling first and foremost to recognise the call to be life givers. Today we are here to remember the cost of war but that which we celebrate is the cost of peace. This involves the way we defend not only ourselves but all people from further tyranny, violence and harm.
As many of you will know I have just returned from the Solomon Islands. I remember many years ago in these islands visiting a remote village which had converted to Christianity through the example of the Melanesian Brotherhood the community I served. The village chief was a man called Lulawai and I asked him what had made him decide to become a Christian. He told me how in the past they had lived isolated from others. ‘We lived in fear he said- fear of other tribes, fear of strangers- fear of evil spirits. That fear kept us captive. We knew the evil of blood feuding, head hunting and violence. When the Brothers came I thought they would never stay- but they came and stayed with us- I gave them the hill which was known for its evil spirits- they will soon be frightened off I thought. But they weren’t frightened they stayed WITH us. They sung, and they prayed, and they welcomed us into the household and the chapel they built- it was the children who recognised the hope and the joy they bought. I was one of the last to be convinced. But now I too have become a Christian. What was it that their God Jesus Christ taught me? He taught me not to fear the stranger- he taught me forgiveness. Before they brought Christ – there was no forgiveness.’
At the headquarters of the Melanesian Brotherhood two weeks ago we celebrated 100 years of the community and more than 15,000 people gathered to celebrate- the peace and the hope the Christian Gospel brought. Indeed celebrate that that this community are indeed peace-makers. ‘Blessed are the peacemakers for they shall be called the sons and daughters of God.’ During that celebration a man came up to me and said: ‘Do you remember me?’ I tried to remember. I recognised his face. ‘I was the young boy who used to run to meet you every time you came to the village of Kolina on the weather coast of Guadalcanal.’ Suddenly I remembered him; a young 10 year old who each time I visited that village and came ashore in the rough sea and waves would run to meet me with such joy and lead me back to his village by the hand to welcome me. ‘Gibson- you are Gibson,’ I said. ‘Yes,’ he said. And I remembered the last time I had seen him, during the ethnic conflict which has led to such violence and death. I remember I had come ashore on that beach- our canoe counting the waves and this boy running through the waves to meet me and asking if we were going to stay. ‘No,’ I said sadly, ‘we cannot stay.’ ‘You must go,’ he said, ‘go now.’ His village was very near where the rebel leader and his militants had their headquarters and only a few miles from where three months later seven of our brothers would be murdered coming ashore.
‘I remember you Gibson,’ I said, ‘and for all these twenty years I have wanted to say sorry to you that when I last saw you and came ashore I did not stay- you looked so sad and afraid that we were leaving you.’
‘No,’ said Gibson, ‘I was afraid for you. Fearful when you came ashore that you would be killed because the rebels had warned us no one should come ashore. I ran to meet you because I wanted to warn you and save you.’
I remembered those twenty years ago as I got back in the boat and left I had thought it was me abandoning this young boy and his village and yet it was him- a ten year old- who had been protecting me- wanting to save me from a threat I had not realised. ‘I have not forgotten you,’ said Gibson, ‘I came today to meet with you. I wanted you to know,’ he said, ‘that I am now an Anglican priest. I became a priest because of you.’
I have learnt that even in the midst of danger and pain- Christ is indeed present- perhaps most present- it is from the wounds that we see the meaning of resurrection. Greater love hath no one than to offer one’s life in love for others.
Last Tuesday The British Palestinian Families Network held an ecumenical gathering here in this church called Remembering Gaza. It was a deeply moving gathering of great dignity and humanity. Many different people spoke. I remember the words and prayers of the Jewish Rabbi who without mentioning the suffering of his own people spoke of his sorrow for all those who had died- He spoke of us rather than them. He said ‘When we humanise the other, we humanise ourselves when we recognise the life of the other we give life to ourselves too.’ When the Muslim Imam spoke, he spoke of the way that true faith, our shared Abrahamic faiths- Jews, Christians and Muslims inhabit the space between fear and hope. ‘We must learn not only to count each other when we die but to count each other as the sons and daughters of Abraham when we live- live together.’ People of faith must become the bridge-builders. Who is my neighbour Jesus is asked. Your neighbour is the one, whoever that neighbour may be, who can save your life.
Sam Wells also spoke movingly and this is what he said:
‘In 1986 when I lived in Nablus and taught English to boys in Balata Refugee Camp on the edge of town. My fellow teacher, Mohammed, gave me a handkerchief on which while in prison he’d drawn an image of a dove, breaking out of the bars of the cell. I’ve pondered that image these last two years. What it tells me is that we’re all in prison – those who’ve died, the injured, the bereaved, those who wait and watch helplessly from afar; but also those who kill, who’ve become engulfed in an ideology that says such killing is ok, necessary, even good. What my co-teacher didn’t, I think, realise is that the image of the dove escaping the prison bars represents the image at the centre of the Christian faith; that of the dead and buried one emerging from the prison of the tomb after violent death with the stone rolled away.’
Sam spoke of Martin Luther King’s mentor Howard Thurman who wrote ‘Christianity is for those with their backs to the wall.’ He described how the early church in the first century lived in occupied territory under the Romans. He insists that Christianity’s fundamental context is living in occupied territory.
And Sam said- this points us to our most important lesson of remembrance. We must never let our hearts, our minds, our souls become occupied territory. Our bodies, our futures, our families, our friends may dwell in occupied territory; but we must never give in to hatred, the bitterness, to fury, that make our hearts, our minds, our souls occupied territory. May we never allow our very selves to become occupied territory. And may that dove of hope break through the bars of our prison.
Today we remember the wounds of the past and the courage and the offering of those who gave us and continue to give us life. And today we remember the one who preached love and practiced hope and stands in the midst of every conflict soaking up the pain and transforming it: ‘Father forgive them, they do not know what they are doing.’ Yes we too must continue to give our lives, resisting evil, standing up for justice, in our ordinary lives- protecting the afraid, comforting the wounded, upholding the weak Hope begins when we come to this table as equals each receiving from Christ our freedom each becoming the people we are called to be with God- and with one another each of us like Christ giving life to the other –knowing that it is our neighbour whoever that neighbour may be – who gives life to us. This is why each week we perform this act of remembrance-this act of communion- for the one who died, for the one who lives in us and for the one who will come again with his resurrection gift of peace.
