Remembrance Sunday 2024

 

Lectionary readings: Hebrews 9.24-28 and Mark 1.14-20

Jesus and his first followers lived under the occupation of the Roman Empire. Indeed, Galilee had been successively occupied, over a period of seven hundred years, by the Assyrian, the Babylonian, the (Persian) Achaemenid, the Ptolemaic, Greek-Seleucid, and Roman Empires.

Around the time of Jesus, the Roman Empire invaded Britain, defeating the indigenous tribes with whom they had previously traded, and whom they had unsuccessfully invaded, twice, a hundred years earlier.

The Romans ruled over us for four hundred years, bringing Christianity with them. Then they were summoned home to defend Rome, though many simply refused to go.

In their wake we had two centuries of Germanic migration – pagan Saxons, Angles, Jutes, and Frisians;

followed by two centuries of consolidation into around a dozen Anglo-Saxon kingdoms competing for dominance (Northumbria, Mercia, and Wessex among them) and efforts to convert them to Christianity by both their neo-Celtic British neighbours – the fabled Northern Saints – and by missionaries from Rome;

followed by two centuries of Danish migration.

Then, in the eleventh century, the Norman invasion, the most comprehensive dispossession and replacement of the ruling class.

For the next three hundred years, the boundaries between English and French were blurred and bloody, while England also laid claim to Wales, Scotland and Ireland.

The fourteenth century saw the Black Plague wipe out half the population of England.

The fifteenth century saw the War of the Roses.

The sixteenth century saw Tudor England, and a violently contested break from the Church of Rome, pulling the country back and forth, Catholic and Protestant factions fighting for dominance.

The seventeenth century saw Union with Scotland; Civil War and the state execution of a king; a restoration of the monarchy; and the Glorious Revolution, the deposition of a Catholic king.

The eighteenth century saw the upheaval of the Industrial Revolution;

the nineteenth century saw the Napoleonic Wars and expansion of the British Empire;

the twentieth century saw the First World War – as German expansion in Europe threatened Britain’s global Empire – and a Second World War, followed by rapid decolonization, and new – ongoing – waves of migration from nations we had claimed our own.

What does it mean to be British? What does it mean to be British and Christian? What do these things mean, at any given point in time?

Jesus and his first followers lived under the occupation of the Roman Empire. The emperor in Rome justified his claim to their land, and to their lives, by declaring himself to be the bringer of Good News, the herald of universal peace, the Pax Romana.

And Jesus arrives on the scene proclaiming a different kingdom, the kingdom of God, a divine rule that is not concerned with claims over nations or nationalities but is demonstrated in addressing the needs of those who experience crushing poverty, in healing the sick, feeding the hungry, standing with those marginalized by their communities.

I have a confession. I find Remembrance Sunday the most uncomfortable day of the year, because it is a day on which we are reminded of how utterly addicted we are to violence in defence of a moment in history we cannot hold on to. We have done this every year for the past hundred years, and still we are surrounded by war, and still we see the rise of neo-fascism around the world as strong men declare themselves to be anointed by God to defend Christian values, with bloodshed if necessary.

And I have absolutely no skin in this game. I am not looking for the downfall of this nation, I just know – history shows us – that it will continue to change, as will all the other nations. But as I get on with my life, as best I can, in the moment in history that has been allotted to me, Jesus comes to me and says, Follow me.

Follow me, and together we shall scoop others up into this utterly different kingdom, with this utterly different king, whom Empire put to death but whom God raised again to life.

An early follower of Jesus wrote to Christians scattered by the ebb and flow of Empire, saying the signs and symbols we see now are at best pale imitations of reality. Today we wear poppies, a flower that grew in fields that had been soaked with the blood of a generation. A symbol of life returning again, even after utter and comprehensive destruction. A symbol of the unimaginable goodness of God towards us. But the poppy can become an opiate, numbing us to good as well as pain. So, I shall wear my poppy, but I shall look to Jesus, and choose to follow him, to hold out good news to those on the underside of our society, including those maimed physically and scarred emotionally by war.

 

Remembrance Sunday 2023

 

Lectionary readings: 1 Thessalonians 4.13-18 and Matthew 25.1-13

We think of this life as light, and death as darkness, the extinguishing of light. But in fact, it is the other way round. This life is dark – just think about the rollcall of conflict in the world. When Jesus returns, we will be brought into the banqueting room, into light and warmth and joy.

When I say this life is dark, I’m not advocating a counsel of despair. Darkness is one way of describing evil and the pain it causes – if your home has been destroyed by rockets, you are living through dark days. But the dark can also be magical. That’s when the stars are visible, and – if you are lucky – you might even catch a glimpse of the Northern Lights. And dark can describe mystery, the way in which even those closest and dearest to us can be a mystery to us at times, without in any way diminishing love.

And when I proclaim the Christian hope that death is the door into light and life, I am not advocating that we give up on the gift of this dark world. Death remains a tragedy for those who are left behind. I am simply saying that death is not something we should fear or see as bringing life – true life – to an end. I am saying that however good the present can be, something greater waits for us. Think of it like this: people sometimes say, ‘Your school days are the best days of your life.’ I really hope not. I hope that your school days are happy; but I’d hate for the rest of your life to be an anticlimax. Think of this world as our collective school days, and the world to come as the rest of our lives.

How, then, should we wait in the darkness of the world? In the parable Jesus told, that we heard again today, some of the bridesmaids came prepared, and some did not. It is as if they knew the Scouting motto, Be Prepared. They had thought about their kit and made certain it was in working order. They brought lamps, and they brought flasks of oil.

Baptism is the occasion on which we become a member of the Church. At every baptism, we give the person who has just joined the Church a candle, lit from the Paschal Candle, the large candle that reminds us that Jesus is the Light of the world. Our candle is a reminder that we are called to be a light in the world. Candles only really make a difference the darker it gets. As we wait for Jesus, think how your life can make a difference, lighting the way for others, or easing their stress, or helping them celebrate.

But the bridesmaids didn’t have candles, they had oil lamps – and flasks of oil. Oil is a symbol of the Holy Spirit, the Giver and Sustainer of Life, God in us, empowering us. The wise bridesmaids told the foolish bridesmaids, whose oil had run out, to go to the dealers. After midnight! God the Father and Jesus pour out the Spirit on our lives, so we can ‘Shine as a light in the world to the glory of God the Father.’ As we wait for Jesus, we ensure that our flasks are regularly topped up by coming to God, in worship, on a regular basis.

That is what today is about. First we acknowledge the darkness; then we entrust those who live in darkness and those who now live in light to God, who rules over the night and the Day; and then we respond in hope and commitment, to strive for all that makes for peace, heal the wounds of war, and work for a just future for all humanity – as dependent on God in this as an oil lamp is to oil.

 

Remembrance Sunday 2021

 

Hebrews 10:24

‘And let us consider how to provoke one another to love and good deeds.’ (NRSVA)

‘And let us consider how we may spur one another on towards love and good deeds.’ (NIV)

‘And let us consider one another to provoke unto love and to good works.’ (KJV)

Recently Jo and I went away for a couple of nights to celebrate our silver wedding anniversary. The weather wasn’t great, and we spent some of the time sitting in the hotel lounge reading novels. Every so often a member of the hotel staff would come in, poke the fire into life, and go away again. After a while, the fire would die back down and, before it went out completely, the member of staff would appear again, prod it back into flame, and disappear once more.

We live in a time when our collective anger is regularly poked, lest it should die down and go out. We know what it is to be provoked by the sight of other people, whom we are trained to see as a threat. All the necessary conditions are in place, that lead us into conflict; past, present, or future. But the writer of the Letter to the Hebrews employs the striking image of provoking to love and good deeds, or, literally, to making something beautiful. What might that look like?

The word translated ‘to provoke’ means to jab, such that the person being jabbed has no option but to respond. The NIV expresses it well with the image of spurs. The King James Version draws out another aspect: not, let us consider how we might provoke one another to love and to making something beautiful, but let us consider one another, not as threats to provoke anger but as examples to inspire us to love and to make the world a more beautiful place. When we look at one another, let us do so through eyes of love that see beauty.

Many of you know that Jo and I are members of the Sunderland Strollers running club. We run in packs, according to ability. But sometimes we have whole-club sessions. Once a month through October to February we run the Winter Handicap, a whole club 5km (or just over 3 miles) along the sea front between Roker and Seaburn. Runners set off at 30-second intervals, the slowest starting first and the fastest, last (the first shall be last and the last shall be first). We set off from Sue’s Café and run along to Grannie Annie’s, then turn back on ourselves and head up the steep bank to the Bungalow Café on the road above. There, we turn right and head down the long gradual hill to Seaburn and the House of Zen restaurant. By the time I get there, I don’t feel very Zen. There we turn round and retrace our steps, up the long drag to the bus stop opposite the entrance to Roker Park, and on to the Bungalow, sharp left turn and down the steep bank, keep going to Grannie Annie’s and then turn back on ourselves for the final effort back to Sue’s Café.

Because we set off at a stagger, and because it is an out-and-back, for the whole of the run, runners are passing one another, catching up or being caught, slower runners passing you on their way back as you approach half-way, faster runners approaching that mark as you are now making your way back up the hill. And whenever we pass one another, we call out encouragement. Faster runners say something like, “Well done! Keep going!” to the slower runners; and slower runners say something like, “Keep going! You’re flying!” to the faster runners.

No-one says, “Huh, they’re not very good; they shouldn’t be in our club” or “They are so much better at this than I will ever be, I’m thoroughly discouraged”. As we consider one another, we choose to be inspired by one another, to share in love between us—and these really are some of the best friends I have—and together to create something of beauty (albeit not obvious beauty at the end of the run, as I gasp to draw breath).

That might seem like a very small and insignificant illustration, but it is the repeated small habits that train us, over time, to be provoked to anger or to be provoked to love; to view others as threat or as persons whose presence in the world makes it a more beautiful place.

Who can you recall who by their life inspires you to love better, and to strive to make the world more beautiful?

And is there anyone in your life who is, in turn, inspired to love more fully by your example?

Why not contact them today, and so encourage one another?

 

Remembrance Sunday 2019

Lectionary readings: 2 Thessalonians 2:1-5, 13-17 and Luke 20:27-38

Lest we forget, they say, as we come together each year to lay wreaths and give thanks for those who laid down their lives for us and to commit ourselves to live as peacemakers in a violent world. Lest we forget, the old hand down to the young. Which is not a million miles removed from Paul’s injunction to the early community of Christians in Thessalonica, ‘stand firm and hold fast to the traditions that you were taught by us’...

Those words come from a letter written to a community made up of Jews and Gentiles, of former enemies now reconciled in Christ. A letter written by Paul and Silvanus and Timothy: a Jew, a Gentile, and the child of a mixed marriage. A letter that begins, ‘Grace to you and peace from God our Father and the Lord Jesus Christ.’ The word ‘grace’ takes the common Gentile greeting, a salutation that you might find favour from the gods, and gives it a new twist: favour, from the Jewish creator god. The word ‘peace’ takes the common Jewish greeting, the invocation of rest from fear so essential for human flourishing, and gives it a new twist: rest from fear, because in Christ enemies have become friends.

A Gentile greeting and a Jewish greeting, brought together, both transformed. A new tradition, established.

And the amazing thing was the context. The Jews and their neighbours had always been enemies. Within the lifetime of the people who wrote, and received, this letter, the First Jewish Roman War broke out, as Judea tried and failed to declare independence from the Roman empire, resulting in the destruction of Jerusalem.

In other words, the focus of this letter was, how can we experience favour in profoundly unfavourable circumstances, and rest from fear in the very midst of fearful times?

For, to paraphrase Jesus’ response to the Sadducees, it has far less to do with God as insurance for after we die, and far more to do with whether or not we walk with God in this life.

There is a contrast between the man of lawlessness, the world leader who opposes and exalts himself above all else—Trump and Putin, and, dare I say it, political leaders closer to home who claim to be the one who will restore our place as the greatest nation on earth—a contrast between such warmongers and Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob, who lived their whole lives as gers, that is well-respected resident aliens, whose presence in a host culture was seen as a blessing.

As we seek to learn from God’s word, and from our own past in the light of God’s word, lest we forget what we need to remember to live well in the present moment, what might we emphasise? Firstly, we need to recognise the violence in our own society, the deep and partisan divisions between the old and the young, Brexiters and Remainers, England and the rest of the United Kingdom. Then, we must insist on what we say we agree on, that we are leaving the EU, not turning our back on Europe and our European neighbours. And so, in the Church, we must proactively seek ways of bringing enemies together, of seeing and affirming good in what those we disagree with value, and of being open to being transformed by the experience. We will need grace and peace for this. The good news is that the favour and rest from fear we so desperately need are already ours, if we will receive them.

Furthermore, we must speak out against hate speech, and xenophobia; we must affirm and honour the resident aliens living among us, both EU citizens and those from further afield, recognising that they are a blessing to us and not a threat. We are all strangers in a strange land; we are all children of God. We must pursue active partnerships that model what salvation looks like, such as the link between Durham Diocese and the Lutheran Nordkirche. Over the past days, we have joined in consultation, learning from one another about how we might better engage with children and families; and we are honoured to have Pastor Björn Begas, who has been staying with us at the vicarage, with us today.

You see, God does not give us grace and favour as abstract ideas or warm feelings, but in the form of flesh-and-blood as we truly welcome one another. This is how we can experience favour in profoundly unfavourable circumstances, and rest from fear in the very midst of fearful times. This is the way of life we recommit ourselves to afresh today, even laying down our lives for others. Lest we forget. Amen.

All Saints & All Souls

Sunday 3 November 2019

Lectionary readings: Daniel 7:1-3, 15-18 and Ephesians 1:11-23 and Luke 6:20-31

This weekend we mark both All Saints’ Day and All Souls’ Day, or the Commemoration of the faithful departed. All Saints’ Day is the day when we remember all those who have walked with God before us, in every time and place. Some are so famous, we know them by name: Saint Francis, for example, or St Theresa. But the overwhelming majority, we cannot identify. In the course of the redevelopment of Town Green taking place at the moment, five bodies were unearthed. We have no way of identifying them, buried as they were in a time of communal and unmarked parish graves (if you were considered important enough, a plaque inside the church will record your name and the words, the grave is near) and so we reinterred them, respectfully, with prayers; because part of what we remember on All Saints’ Day is the reality that being human is bigger than even our collective memory. Being human is rooted in God, who knows us better than we know ourselves.

All Souls’ Day is the day when we remember those we knew, who have gone ahead of us. In the Roman Catholic tradition, it is a remembrance of those in purgatory, the Church penitent, those being purified for heaven. Officially, the Church of England rejects the notion of purgatory (see the Articles of Religion, number XXII) but there is something to be understood in the process of entrusting those we love to God, a process that is not done-and-dusted at the funeral service. And so this evening we will remember people before God, reading out their names and lighting a candle for each one, as we recognise the in-between space that needs to be navigated between this life and no longer remembered by anyone except the God who holds us safe until the resurrection.

I’m reading a novel at the moment, set in a sheltered housing community, in which the primary narrator is being disempowered by the staff (however well-meaning) and empowered by two friends. It is a fascinating exploration of our sense of self. And there are at least three selves we possess.

Self 1 is first-person self-awareness, the awareness that I exist in the world, that I am not you nor the world, that I experience the world in this present moment from my own perspective. This has begun to take shape before our first birthday, and we never lose it. Even if I cannot remember my name, or know where I am, or put a name to your face, we never lose this sense of self.

Self 2 relates to our attributes, and our opinions attached to those attributes; to our biographies, and our beliefs attached to them. I have brown hair, but am jealous of my peers who are already silver foxes. I am a husband, a father, a vicar of sorts. I am a Christian, a member of the church. Self 2 changes over the course of our lives: for twenty-three years, I was not a husband, and for twenty-three years, I have been. Self 2 changes when we marry, when we divorce, when we are widowed; when we are promoted at work, or made redundant, or retire; when we take a chance to fulfil a dream we long thought was beyond us, and when we realise that in chasing one dream we have missed out on something that mattered more to us. Self 2 changes, sometimes incrementally, sometimes suddenly, but we carry all of our previous Self 2s with us. Self 2 is storied: when we recall the past, it is not factual recall, but the crafting of an edited story that helps (and sometimes hinders) us in the present. And Self 2 is also impacted by those things we have pushed away into the corners of the room of our life, and try to ignore. Sometimes who we are is hidden from ourselves by the stories we tell and the memories we push away, even when we believe we know exactly who we are, for now.

Self 3 is and can only constructed with others. You can train to be a teacher, but you can’t be a teacher without pupils who recognise you. You can decide to be a good friend, but you cannot be a good friend without people who recognise you as such. As we get older, Self 3 can run into difficulties. Those who have known us well become fewer, as colleagues retire, as siblings die. We may find ourselves surrounded by those who do not know our history, nursing home staff who only see a little old woman struggling to adjust to changes to Self 2. A retired headmistress, frustrated by certain losses, further frustrated at being treated like a wilfully ignorant child. Elder isolation is as damaging to us as a lifetime of cigarettes. Self 3 is where the church has such a key role to play, as a community in the world, but also as a community that stretches beyond the present through All Souls to All Saints.

It is revealed to Daniel that empires rise, and empires fall, but that ‘the holy ones of the Most High shall receive the kingdom and possess the kingdom for ever.’ Paul writes of this kingdom to the saints in Ephesus, as participating in ‘the riches of [Christ’s] glorious inheritance among the saints.’ And in our Gospel reading, Jesus declares the contours of this kingdom, of this inheritance, where the experience of weakness opens up a state of blessed union with God that the powerful can neither imagine nor know.

The world sees progression from the peak of achievement, of fame, of influence, to the unravelling of these things that begins in old age and continues through our dying and, eventually, the death of everyone who knew us or even knew of us, as tragedy. As failure and injustice. For if our identity depends on Self 2—‘I think, therefore I am’—and my thinking is compromised, I am being erased. If our identity depends on a Self 3 self that is determined solely by other humans, who are themselves being erased, then, as what you think of me is compromised, I am being further erased, until we are forgotten.

But for the Christian, this is not how we see things. The Church tells another story. Our various traditions differ in the details, but we share one common hope. We dare to believe, together, that God has given us a spirit of wisdom and revelation, has opened the eyes of our heart, so that we can know that our identity is found in union with Christ and in the ongoing and immeasurably great power of God acting for us: to remember us, to raise Christ for us and set him over all things for us, to express the fullness of Life in and through us. We are moving from death to life; from independence from God to union with God. We are not being erased, but being saved by the grace of God.

This gives us great freedom, not only to not fear the process before us, but to support those who desperately fight against the ways in which God and nature and time and eternity conspire to save us from ourselves. This also has very practical implications for how we love one another, and love our neighbour as ourselves, as we, and they, have the layers we have built up stripped away. We are discovering this more and more together, often over food and in the guise of idle gossip that steps back and forth between the present and the past, and it is a gift. And these annual All Saints’ and All Souls’ Days remind us of the hope at the heart of our faith. So come, and share in Communion, in the communion of saints, in the body of Christ, in the hope of glory. Come, and receive sustenance for body and soul. Come, and find yourself, once again, remembered alongside your sisters and brothers in Christ. Come.

Third Sunday before Advent (Remembrance Sunday) 2018

Jonah 3:1-5, 10 and Hebrews 9:24-28 and Mark 1:14-20

The tale of Jonah is a satirical short story for our times. Like Jesus’ parables, it is a work of fiction, not reportage; and like Jesus’ parables — indeed, all good fiction — its purpose is to slip past our defences. The story covers a lot of ground, beginning in Israel before heading west across the Mediterranean Sea towards Spain, and then turning back on itself and heading east to Syria. But really it is a mapping-survey of the geography of the human heart, ahead of an invasion.

Jonah himself was a known historical figure, anchored in turbulent time. King David and then his son Solomon had between them ruled for eighty years of relative peace and prosperity, but following Solomon’s death the kingdom divided in two, Israel to the north declaring independence from Judah to the south. Israel was ruled from Samaria, and Judah from Jerusalem, by two parallel lines of kings in uneasy truce with each other. Meanwhile, off-stage, other empires were rising. Assyria would lay successful siege to Samaria, and unsuccessful siege to Jerusalem. Later, the Babylonians would swallow the Assyrians — like a great fish swallowing a man whole — and lay successful siege to Jerusalem. Later still, the Persian empire would swallow-up the Babylonians.

Jonah, as I said, was a known historical figure. He was a prophet, a messenger from Yahweh, the Lord God, sent to the northern kingdom of Israel to proclaim the message, ‘Repent, or you shall be overthrown!’ Turn back to the God who brought your ancestors out of slavery in Egypt, or you will find yourselves in captivity again! But the people did not listen. The line of kings sitting in their palace in Samaria kept leading the people away from God, not back to God. And in the end the Assyrian army came and led them in the direction they had so determinedly chosen: away.

At the time of Jonah, the Assyrians were the very worst sort of people imaginable. The term Ninevite refers to the residents of their capital Nineveh; but it was synonymous with cruelty. All of which makes Jonah the perfect candidate for our story, and Nineveh the perfect destination. The word of the Lord came to Jonah, saying, ‘Go at once to Nineveh, that great city, and cry out against it; for their wickedness has come up before me.’ But Jonah sets out in the opposite direction, to the nearest port, in search of passage to the furthest edge of the world, where the Mediterranean joins the Atlantic Ocean. Fair enough, one might surmise: why go kicking a hornets’ nest? But it will transpire that Jonah does not run away because he is afraid of the Ninevites. Rather, he runs away because he is afraid that God intends to show mercy on them.

Jonah runs away to sea. God hurls a great wind upon the sea, causing a mighty storm, which is only calmed when Jonah persuades the sailors to throw him overboard. But God does not want Jonah as a dead sacrifice. God wants him as a living sacrifice. So, God sends a large fish to swallow him up, and, after three days and three nights, spew him up on dry ground. Self-chosen exile, and divinely-ordered return.

This is where we picked the story up. The word of the Lord came to Jonah a second time, again calling him to go and proclaim the message he had been entrusted with to the people of Nineveh. And it is, essentially, the same message that Jonah had been entrusted with to proclaim to his own people. But here is the satirical irony [in verses the Lectionary misses out, for no good reason]: the king of Nineveh, of these the worst people imaginable, the great enemy, rose from his throne and led his citizens in repentance.

And so, God, too, repents — that is, changes his mind, in the light of new evidence, of new circumstances, and takes a different course of action. And this — to continue with the satire — was very displeasing to Jonah. How dare the enemy of his people be more-godly than his own people!? How dare God care for the people of Nineveh on an equal footing with the people of Samaria!? The mask slips, and Jonah admits that he ran away because he did not want God to be who God had always claimed to be: a gracious God and merciful, slow to anger, and abounding in steadfast love, and ready to relent from punishing. In this moment, in these circumstances, Jonah would rather die than serve such a God.

Jonah is not alone. He isn’t a bad guy, he is a human being. And in common with all of us he is a sinner. That is not a moral judgement — you can be a righteous sinner or a wicked sinner — but, rather, it is a theological statement meaning that we are separated from God, from our neighbour, and from ourselves; and need reconciliation. That separation is expressed in our running away from God, but it is also expressed in our running to keep up with God. When Jonah runs away, he experiences the wrath of God — more theology, not irrational anger, as some fear, but that felt weight of God resisting our plans. This is as much an aspect of divine mercy and grace as is rescue and shelter. No matter how far we run away from God, when we can go no farther, we discover that God is right there.

Now, Jesus was sent with the same message as Jonah: “The time is fulfilled, and the kingdom of God has come near; repent, and believe the good news.” That is: this is a moment of crisis that demands an urgent decision, God is about to judge the nations; turn back to him, and embrace a way of relating to others that is gracious and merciful, slow to anger, abounding in steadfast love, ready to relent from punishing.

There is an urgency to the proclamation, and to the called-for response. In the verses we heard read, Mark uses the word ‘immediately’ in relation to both Jesus and his first disciples. But it isn’t rushed. There is deliberate intention at work. Mark emphasises this when he tells us that Simon and Andrew were casting a net into the sea ‘for they were fishermen’. They weren’t simply filling time, until something more interesting or exciting comes along; and their following Jesus is just as purposeful, to fish for people. In the following verses, we discover that those people were — as in the days of Jonah — the worst sort imaginable: the demonised, the sick, those considered unclean, those paralysed by their (withheld) need for forgiveness, tax collectors, sinners. And there are some upright religious people who are deeply perplexed that God should long to show mercy to people like that.

You see, in Jesus, God went to the end of the age in hope of reconciliation with humanity (Hebrews 9:26). That is, Jesus brought to its end the age of earthly empires and ushered-in the age of the kingdom of God. In his followers, sent to all peoples, Jesus goes to the ends of the earth to proclaim and act-out that reconciliation. There is something deeply poignant to the young men being called away from home, a Pal’s Battalion recruited in the cause of peace.

Here we are, once again, on Remembrance Sunday. We remember the cost of enmity in the cycle of friends-become-enemies-become-friends-again-become-enemies-once-more. We also come, as followers of Jesus, to help one another to remember ourselves, to turn from all that divides us from our neighbour, and to commit ourselves to work for peace. In this centenary of the 1918 cease-fire, the call is as urgent and clear as it was in the days of Jonah and of Jesus. Go in peace, to love and serve the Lord. In the name of Christ, amen.

Remembrance Sunday 2017

Amos 5:18-24 (and 1 Thessalonians 4:13-18 and Matthew 25:1-13)

The record of the words of the prophet Amos begins with a list of divine judgement being declared against the nations surrounding Israel. Damascus. Gaza. Tyre. Edom. Ammon. Moab. Judah. It is quite a roll call. Denouncement follows denouncement, and with each one we might imagine the cheers of Amos’ audience getting louder and louder. Hah! Despite their impressive defences, the neighbouring peoples are about to get their comeuppance. That is, of course, deeply satisfying, because there is something in human nature that likes to nurse an ancient grudge against our neighbours. The English, for example, have fought both against and alongside every one of our neighbours, in continually-morphing alliances.

Amos builds the anticipation up to bursting-point, and then drops his bomb-shell. Israel will not be spared the judgement that will befall her neighbours. Indeed, God’s judgement on Israel will be even more damning, because they have known God in all God’s loving-kindness and enduring faithfulness, in his compassion and justice and forgiveness and mercy. And they have turned their back on God, exploiting the poor and revelling in obscene wealth, all the while imagining—indeed, regularly celebrating—that their history made them exceptional and that God was on their side.

Taking great pride in their identity, the people told one another stories of the day of the Lord, of how God would appear soon and pass judgement on the other nations. But for Amos, such sabre-rattling was a source of great sadness. ‘Why do you want the day of the Lord?’ he asks, ‘It is darkness, not light.’ In attempting to describe what God’s appearing would be like, he tries this: it will be like meeting a lion, and managing to outrun it…only to stop, exhausted, and be attacked by a bear. Terrifying. But no, that doesn’t quite manage to capture it. It will be more like running away from the lion and making it home, bolting the door behind you—elated—and leaning against the wall—take deep breaths now: in…out—only to step on a venomous snake and be bitten, your raised pulse pumping the poison around your body with heartless efficiency. The cruel irony!

God is not what they expected God to be like. Not because God is unpredictable, a monster who might at any moment turn on them like a lion or a bear or a snake. But, rather, because God is reliably predictable in his unwavering commitment to justice and righteousness—righteousness being what it looks like when we love God with all our heart and soul, and love our neighbour as ourselves—and they had simply chosen to forget. Perhaps God is not what we expect God to be like, either?

The earth was crying out for justice and righteousness like a dry land cries out for reliable water. It still does.

We need to hear Amos’ words on this Remembrance Day, because we remember wrongly. We remember all the grudges we bear against our neighbours, keeping the smouldering ashes of past conflicts from going out, the fire from going cold. We remember the cost to us, and we want them to pay reparations. We remember ourselves as heroes, to be forever held in high esteem; and the other side as villains, to be forever held, at best, in pity. And while we remember these things, we forget the God who is slow to get angry at our shortcomings, quick to forgive us our sin—and who expects us to extend the same forbearing and forgetting of past sins towards others. We forget that our lives are as fleeting as the flowers of the field—the poppies of the field—and that we are to lay the past to rest in peace and look forward to God’s future. Indeed, we are called to live as if that future were already here—acting justly, seeking to love our neighbour—even while recognising that the kingdom of God is both now and not yet, has come into the world and is delayed in its coming.

It was enormous good fortune to have been on the winning side of both World Wars; but it was also a great misfortune. It has made it hard for us to humble ourselves before God. In Germany, they do not commemorate Armistice Day, but on the Second Sunday before Advent they hold the People’s Day of Mourning. This year, that falls next Sunday, and it so happens that I shall be in Germany, along with a delegation from Durham Diocese taking part in a consultation on Confirmation practice. We shall be staying in host parishes over the weekend, ahead of a couple of days at a retreat centre, and we shall be taking part in their services and the acts of remembrance that follow them. I anticipate the tone will be very different from here, and that we have something to learn from them. In any case, I consider it a great privilege to be there, to mourn with those who mourn sin and cry out to God for healing.

Amos’ vision is uncompromising, but it is not a counsel of despair. Israel will be shaken in judgement for her refusal to build a just society in which all can share fully. But after the shaking comes the restoration: not restoring what was—a return to injustice—but restoring God’s vision for his people. Go and read Amos chapter 9, verses 11-15 to hear about that. You see, the day of the Lord comes on us, again and again, unexpectedly like a lion or a bear or a snake, leaving us mauled or poisoned, picture-language for talking of the consequences of our sin. But God promises to come to raise up and repair and rebuild; to heal and restore.

It seems to me that we might appropriately employ the language of violent shaking-up to describe what is going on in our own nation at this time. Austerity has proven to be deeply unjust towards to most vulnerable, and the rich continue to shore-up greater wealth while those who have the least find themselves with less and less. Against that backdrop, the electorate has thrown us out of the European Union, and into the deep and long-lasting uncertainty of Brexit. The House of Commons—all parties—appears to be in freefall, rocked by scandal and accusation. Our institutions are being shaken, from the Church to the BBC to social services to the police.

Might it be that we are being shaken? Might this be a time to lament, and repent, and look to restoration? I think we are in this time for the long haul, but might the outcome be—in God’s grace—a hopeful one? Each time we have passed through a long and dark night, eventually the bridegroom has arrived, and the time has come to celebrate.

Is it possible that Amos, who first spoke-out two-and-and-half millennia ago, might help us to respond to God in our day; and to be ready when Jesus, the bridegroom, comes to us in the night? I believe so, and encourage you to sit with his words, and the disturbing vision of God that he holds out to us, over the week ahead. Speak to us, Lord, through the words of your servant Amos. And come to us in due course, Lord Jesus.