My grandfather won two Military Crosses in the First World War: as a chaplain he left the trenches and went into No Man’s Land and dragged bodies back to safety, not knowing if they were alive or dead. My father spent a year in hospital in Beirut in the Second World War, before crossing to Italy and manning a huge gun that fired shells dozens of miles, no doubt killing hundreds of people; he could never hear properly again. Neither ever spoke about their experiences. Meanwhile my mother was a refugee from Hitler’s Germany; and my Great Uncle was interned, later to die, in one of Stalin’s gulags.
Four faces of war: four experiences of pain, dislocation, fear and courage. Remembrance Sunday isn’t about victory, triumph, glory or honour: it’s about re-membering what war has dis-membered, about reassembling what war has left dishevelled – about learning to listen again after war has left you hard of hearing.
We keep two minutes’ silence because really, even a hundred or eighty years later, there really is nothing to say – and silence remains more poignant than words. We wear poppies because the red reminds us of the blood that was shed, the lives that were laid down, the loves that were shattered; and because we recall the poppies of Flanders fields, fighting for air amid bullets and smoke, proclaiming that in God’s good creation, life and beauty eventually prevail over hatred and death.
Ultimately Remembrance Day imprints on our imaginations, should we need reminding, Jesus’ words, ‘No one has greater love than this, to lay down one’s life for one’s friends.’ Just as killing is a terrible affront to the gift of created life, so being prepared to die is the most profound affirmation of the primacy of love. War generates indescribable horror – yet also discloses unmatchable beauty in sacrifice, kindness and tenderness. Before we speculate, analyse, comment or compare, we must simply do one thing: bow our knees in gratitude.
Revd Dr Sam Wells
