This sermon was delivered on Remembrance Sunday at Lady Margaret Hall, Oxford.
What a week.
I knew a great old lady—she died just a few months ago, aged 105—and while she had no memory of the beginning of the Great War, she could remember Armistice Day. She also remembered the day she was brought by friends and family to a political rally in Bavaria, where she was on holiday in her early 20s. She was told to pay no mind to the buffoon speaking: he couldn’t possibly go far. The next year, he became the Führer.
What a week.
I remember 9/11 like it was yesterday. It’s one of those events that get seared into one’s memory. The coronation was one for many of a previous generation. The assassination of JFK. The first moon landing. The death of Diana.
I was up all night, waiting for the news that after 240 years, there would finally be a woman in the White House, leader of the free world. Given her training and experience, she was the most qualified presidential candidate in the nation’s history: the choice should have been easy. Instead, the American voting public, with the help of a bizarre electoral college system, chose a sexist, racist, xenophobic buffoon, whose ad campaign ended with two minutes of criticism of the financial establishment featuring video clips of prominent American Jews. It is no wonder that neo-Nazis and the KKK support Donald J. Trump.
I’m going to remember the morning of November 9th 2016 for the rest of my life, for all the wrong reasons.
There is a curious ambivalence in the Bible. On one hand, there seems to be a sort of naïve optimism. The sun of righteousness will rise with healing in its rays., says the prophet Malachi. Everyone will hate you because of me. But not a hair of your head will perish. Stand firm, and you will win life., says Jesus. The same Jesus who, of course, gets arrested, beaten within an inch of his life, ridiculed, spat upon, nailed to a cross to die, and stabbed. As for his followers: by tradition (if not legend), all but St John were martyred. By the late second century, Tertullian could write that “the blood of the martyrs is the seed of the Church”. The rhetoric of triumphalism is therefore tempered, to say the least, by the reality of failure and death. Of course, the Church finally did triumph in the usual sense of the word: it became the Roman imperial religion by the later 4th century, and thereby spread both gospel and tyranny around the world. It turns out that we don’t behave well when we win.
81% of White evangelicals voted for Donald Trump. The figures are 58% for Protestants more generally, and 52% for Roman Catholics.
If my Facebook feed is any indication—and, of course, we know what bubbles we live in—Christians say the most sanctimonious, condescending things when things like this happen. They tell us to play nice. They tell us—as, indeed, both Malachi and Jesus do—that it’ll be alright. God is still sovereign, they say; some might even say that Trump is in power only by the will of said sovereign God.
Perhaps it will be alright. But even so, this is no reason to acquiesce, to accept the new status quo. That convenient option is the luxury of those who can afford to wait for things to pan out in the long run. The convenient option is very rarely the Christian one. No. Stand firm, he says. Which is to say, don’t back down. Turn the other cheek, to be sure; speak the words given unto you, or remain silent, even as Christ himself was. But don’t you—don’t we—dare stand by, stand back and let bigotry win the day. You will win life, he says, and if his own life and death are any indication, it is the lives of others that we must put before our own.
We must never forget the sacrifices that have been and still are made by the women and men who gave up their lives in unnecessary wars that they did not start. Today, perhaps more than ever, when we have outsourced our violence to the poor, we must not forget. It is the poorest schools that are most targeted by army recruiters. On both sides of the Atlantic, there is a socioeconomic gap between us and those whom we send to kill and die for us.
But this “not forgetting” is not a matter of entertaining pious thoughts about our grandfathers or the armed forces in the present day. Remembrance, Christianly conceived, is about changing the world. It is about changing the world so that nation shall no longer lift up sword against nation, neither shall we learn war any more.
We have seen this kind of demagoguery before, which has pit peoples against peoples. Time and time again, we have blamed the Other for our woes. For the bubonic plague, we blamed the Jews. For the unemployment rate, we blamed the Polish. It’s the same play, over and over, sometimes even with the same characters. And the same is happening across the ditch. According to news reports, the violence has already begun, particularly against Muslim Americans. Again, this is familiar to us: Brexit was not so long ago, with its own subsequent spike in xenophobic hatefulness. Regardless of how you voted and why, we are all culpable for propping up the culture that has enabled such things. And as any social scientist worth her salt will tell you, and kindergarten teachers: violence begets violence. Therefore, the beating of swords into ploughshares, spears into pruning hooks, is not so much a symptom of the end of war as it is a remedy, a cure.
We must not forget. And Christian remembering—eucharistic remembering—is about changing the world. Our celebration of the this most holy sacrament is, of course, our central act of remembrance and, at the same time, our central act of sacrifice, in which we are ourselves offered in Christ to be broken for the hungry and split for the thirsty.
We must not forget, but we must stand firm to win lives, allowing ourselves to lie down only if it is a laying down of ourselves for the sake of others.
This morning at Sunday School, the children were told about the brave women and men who were so brave and gave up their lives for us in times of war. And they were asked how they too could be brave. In our times, the answer could not be more obvious. We must be brave against bigotry and bullying, standing firm with and for those about whom the angry mob cries “Crucify, crucify—immigrants, Muslims, Blacks, Hispanics, LGBTQ—even if it, God forbid, inconveniences us. Their lives must win, must trump hate.
The mass ends with an exhortation to go, to go out into the world, bellies full of Christ, to go in peace, to love and serve the Lord. And what a world it is now. We have our work cut out for us.