Lest We Forget

I am profoundly saddened to have received a letter earlier this year from my Bishop's office advising us that there’s a number of Church of England clerics who are refusing to allow Remembrance Day Services to take place in their churches this year. Their given reason is that they perceive such services to be glorifying war. How absurd!

The first ‘Day of Remembrance’ was observed in 1919. Originally it was called Armistice Day to commemorate the armistice which occurred on November 11, in 1918, signalling the end of the bloodiest war the world has ever seen. This was the first formal occasion to remember those who died.

In 1945, at the end of World War II, the British and Australian governments officially changed the name to Remembrance Day as ‘Armistice Day’ wasn’t considered an appropriate term for honouring all those throughout the world who had sacrificed their lives.

I will not hide the fact that I was deeply disturbed by the letter I received. I just as with countless others, give thanks on this day for all those who sacrificed so much, not only for our freedom and values, but for our children and their children to come.

These young men and women, often not much older than children, who left the comfort and safety of their homes, marched into the very depths of hell for us. There was no sterile tactical force, where euphemistic descriptions of ‘insurgents’ and ‘counter strikes’ were used. No, these soldiers faced their enemies, often having to look another frightened man (child) in the eye and making decisions that no person should ever be forced to make; to kill another human being.

Many left their homes as young innocent children. They exchanged that comfort and safety for mud and ice, rain, and fear. The fear was so intense that you could smell it all about you-that is unless it was replaced with the stench of death. Many of them had their bodies ripped apart. Many tried to save themselves after discovering their intestines hanging outside their bodies, only to collapse in the relentless cold mud and ice a few minutes later.

I buried a man last year who had only one arm. His other arm and both his legs had been blown off by a German grenade. But two friends of his who were at the funeral, told me that despite his legs being missing and his arm dangling beside him, only held on by threads of tissue, he refused to leave his fellow soldiers. He was firing at the enemy until they physically removed the gun from his hand.

You see, in real life when in battle, soldiers don’t fight for their country so much as they fight for each other. The rule is 'perish if you must, but save your mate first.'

These soldiers never had the chance to debate whether war was right or wrong. For all the horror stories we’ve heard over the years, we lose track of the sight that our soldiers saved lives as well as took them. They fed the hungry, tended the sick, clothed the naked and ministered to the poor.

These citizens gather each year to remember those who did not come home; families who had been robbed of everything-fathers, sons, daughters, sisters, brothers, lost innocence, lost youth, and lost dreams. And they gather to give thanks-thanks for all the gifts God has bestowed on them. These men and women know, from the depths of their souls, what hell really is and therefore they appreciate and celebrate the joys of living, as few others know how.

I will forever be in gratitude to all who have served and lost their lives in war. The very fact that I may write this today is a result of the principles for which so many have died.

On the eleventh hour, of the eleventh day, of the eleventh month, we too shall be honouring the lives of those who so courageously gave so much for our freedom, our children’s freedom, and our country’s freedom.

It is the very least we can do.

They shall not grow old, as we that are left grow old
Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn
At the going down of the sun and in the morning
We will remember them

‘for the fallen’ (4th stza) by: Laurence Binyon

posted for Fr Bill

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Baaaaa! The Old Goat...Again!

Remember Emma? (The Old Goat). I’d almost swear flowers shrivel and drop when she walks by. OK, so I’m exaggerating again…but I certainly can’t be that far from the truth. It has been a challenging past few weeks for me. 

Something happened to one of my legs. It went quite strange and I ended up in hospital again, having to get pumped up with a concoction of IV’s and Cephalexin. It looked awful and had swollen to the point that I looked like one of those trees in the Wizard of Oz that threw apples at Dorothy. (How’s that for a metaphor?) 
  
Nevermind. The dog had gone out to do whatever it is that dogs do when they’re out and it was time for him to come back in. And of course, they never do, do they? So I hobbled outdoors with the aid of a walking stick. It’s a pitiful enough sight to see a priest rummaging through shrubbery in search of a Jack Russell named Mister Piddles, but add a walking stick to the scenario and it’s quite pathetic looking. I’ll have to remember to take my trousers off and do the same thing the next time I feel like I need a ‘nice long rest.’ I’m certain someone would come take me away. In any event, I digress. Sorry.

I had to walk past Emma’s front door. Now, keep in mind, Emma is currently infirmed. She broke her heel just before Christmas and she’s still hobbling about like a cowboy whose been riding on the range for the past six months. Give her a pair of six–shooters and she’d be ready to star in a remake of a Hopalong Cassidy film! 

Bang! She swung the door open with such ferocity that it made me jump. ‘You!’ she bellowed. ‘What are you doing in my shrubs?’ As I slowly turned around I quickly tried to replace the grimace that my face had contorted into with my best ‘preacher face.’ I hadn’t realised that my shoulders were still perched high as a reaction to the anticipation of receiving a blow from behind. It made me look as if I were suffering from scoliosis. 

‘Good morning Emma,’ I smiled. ‘How are you this morning?’ Her face was already beginning to contort. ‘Harrumph,’ she snorted. ‘My bookshelf needs moving. I’ve been waiting for you to come by for over 3 days!’ She dragged out the word ‘three’ as if it were a polysyllabic word. I had no recollection of Emma ever telling me she needed her bookshelf moved, but that wouldn’t have mattered. If she thought it, then everyone should know. ‘So, why can’t you do it now?’ she glared at me. ‘I’m so sorry Emma, I’ve actually been in hospital. I’ve had a bit of a problem with my leg, as you can see.’ 

I didn’t think I needed to hold up the walking stick for her to see, I knew she had watched me from her kitchen window. And besides, had I done so, I would have done my own rendition of the sinking of the Andrea Doria. ‘I don’t know what any of you get paid for,’ she barked. ‘All of you are worthless!’ 

And on that note she slammed the door. So hard, in fact, it made her doorbell ring. You can’t miss Emma’s doorbell. St Paul’s has nothing to compare with Emma’s doorbell. She’s deaf as a doorknob, so she needs something equivalent to the ship’s horn on the QM2 to rouse her. (and I have absolutely no idea why ships have bombarded my mind this evening!) I’m so grateful that I believe in the promise of a new dawn. This way, when I see Emma again, I will have forgotten that today ever happened. 

And yes, I still love her to pieces…the old goat!

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The Power of Words