Has Anger Triumphed Over Hope? A Homily for All Souls and Remembrance Sunday

A Homily for All Souls and Remembrance, 2010
Sunday, November 7th, 2010
Trinity Anglican Church, Bradford, ON
The Rev. Daniel F. Graves
Text: John 11:21-27

“Lord , if you had been here, my brother would not have died.”
--John 11:21

Today, the threads of three different commemorations are woven together.

First we celebrate the feast day of All Souls, a time when we remember before God all those who have gone before us into the presence of God and whom we shall meet again when we all share in the Resurrection of the dead. While we remember all those who have been near and dear to us and our now on that other shore, we remember in particular those who have gone to the arms of Jesus in this past year. And so as we read those names later in the context of the Holy Eucharist, the tenderness of our hearts will certainly be touched in a special way. While it is a time to mourn our losses, it is also a time to celebrate our hope in Christ that we shall see them again in glorious resurrection bodies, with sure and certain hope that death is not the final story for them, nor for us.

A second thread, so closely woven together with the first, is the theme of Remembrance. We come to today solemnly remembering and giving thanks for those who made that ultimate sacrifice, who laid down their lives for their friends. We remember also those who offered themselves and came home, but came home forever changed. We remember even our enemies who fell in battle and lament the circumstances that made us enemies. We remember the innocent victims of all human conflict and pray to God that he will ever hold before us a different and better way. We remember our troubled past in all its moral ambiguity.

The final thread before us is the example of St. Martin of Tours, an ancient French saint who died in the year 397. It is one of the striking convergences of our secular and ecclesiastical calendars that Remembrance Day and his feast day both fall on November 11th. St. Martin was a Roman solider by profession, possibly a conscript. At some point in his early life Martin was converted to Christianity, and while he was still a catechumen (that is, one preparing for baptism) he met a poor beggar on the road. The beggar implored him to clothe him, so Martin cut his soldier’s cloak in two and gave one half to the beggar that he might be clothed. Later Martin had a vision of Christ wrapped that same half-cloak, saying, “Martin, a mere catechumen, covered me with his garment.” Martin left the army, was baptized and went on to form one of the earliest monastic communities in France.

There are times when it seems inevitable the sword must be taken up against a terrible foe, and yet there are times when Christ sets before us the frailty of our shared humanity and shows us another way. Most veterans I have ever known have wished not that we might glorify the wars in which they fought but rather that we might celebrate the peace we have known, and to work for that same peace so that we might never raise arms again. In St. Martin we meet a powerful example of just such a movement toward peace. St. Martin is the solider that stoops to help the man in need and in doing so not only demonstrates Christian compassion, but seeks eradicate one of the very causes of war, the poverty of the poor man.

At the root of most human conflict is the inhuman way we treat each other, and in particular, how we treat the most vulnerable amongst us. It is characteristic of the human condition to dehumanize the “other,” and thus we distance ourselves from all the we fear. It is the distance we place between ourselves and those who are different from us; it is the radicalization and fragmentation of peoples that comes through poverty, neglect, religious and ethnic hatred that leads us on the path of war. It is against these things that brave men reluctantly took up arms to fight. And it is against these things that Jesus stands when he sets before us the example to take the risk to reach out to those who are the most vulnerable amongst us in love and charity. By tearing his valuable cloak and handing it to the poor man, the one who was so different, the one who was so distanced from Martin in status and wealth, good St. Martin challenged the fear that drives wedges between us as peoples of this world.

The recent municipal elections here in the GTA and the mid-term elections south of the border were deeply disturbing because they were animated with so much anger. There is healthy anger, and there is righteous indignation. Any good therapist will tell you that it is good to name your anger and get it out. But if our anger is what drives us we shall never be partners in the building up of God’s kingdom. “What has happened to hope,” people are asking. Has it been replaced by anger? Anger, and its close cousin, Blaming, well always be close at hand. Indeed, out of her deep sadness and anger, Martha of Bethany blamed Jesus for her brother’s death, simply because Jesus had not come when he was called. Consider the irrationality of the anger that drives the blaming, “If you had been here, my brother would not have died.” It’s your fault Jesus; death is your fault. Has hope been replaced by anger?

And yet we know the rest of the story, that even in the midst of the anger of Martha of Bethany, in even as she accuses Jesus, resurrection is proclaimed, and Jesus calls out “Lazarus, come forth!” and hope is restored. God repaid anger and blaming not with the sword but with new life.

God looked upon the brokenness of this world and chose not to send a flaming sword to destroy it, but rather to clothe himself in humility, in human flesh, as Jesus of Nazareth, and offer himself in vulnerability to this broken world. To those of us languishing on the side of the road, in the poverty of our humanity, suffering the nakedness of our anger, hate and prejudice, he stretched out his hands in suffering and wrapped us in the torn cloak of his divinity, that we might know his perfect peace, the peace that surpasses all understanding.

We live in an imperfect world. It is a world in which people die. It is a world in which people take up arms, out of malice to harm and out of valour to protect. This is the reality in which we live, but there is another reality which is breaking through, and that is the reality the reality of the sacred cloak in which we are wrapped that reminds us that this imperfect world is passing away and we are being enfolded in the Resurrection of Jesus Christ, just as those who have gone before us, whom we remember today, have already tasted.

c. 2010, the Rev. Daniel F. Graves

I Have Called You Friends -- A Sermon for Remembrance Sunday

Homily for Remembrance Sunday
Sunday November 9th, 2008
Holy Trinity Anglican Church, Thornhill, ON
The Rev. Daniel F. Graves
Text: John 15:12-17

"I have called you friends."
John 15:15

Upon my shelf sits a multi-volume history of civilization, inherited from my paternal grandfather, The History of Civilization, by Will Durant. Toward the opening of his first volume, he writes: “Civilization is not something inborn or imperishable; it must be acquired anew by every generation.”

As the nazi juggernaut moved forward, and as political appeasement failed, a generation of men and women searched their consciences and rose to answer the call of the day. They stood against a machine of death because they valued life and chose life for those of us who were to follow. For the sake of civilization, each of them made a sacrifice, and for the sake of civilization, many made the ultimate sacrifice. For the men and women of the day, participation in the War was beyond the acquisition and appropriation of civilization for themselves, it was about the very survival of civilization. And hoping to see the end of the war, it was about the hope that a better day would ultimately dawn. To them we owe a debt that can never be repaid. To those who came home and to those who fell our humble gratitude is annually extended upon this day.

“No greater love has this, that a man should lay down his life for his friend.” Surely this is the one Scripture that interprets the sacrifice made both by those who fell and by those who came home. Surely these are the words of Jesus to which we have annually turned to understand both the offering and the loss of that courageous generation. To lay down one’s life can mean so many things. There are those who sacrificed unto death, but there are those who came home came home changed forever, physically scarred, emotionally scarred, psychologically scarred. There is not one who went that did not lay down his life in one way or another… all for the love of his friend.

“I have called you friends.” What shall a man who did not live through the War say on such a day? What have I to offer to the many here lived through such times? I am afraid that I have little or nothing to offer. Over the past couple of weeks I have discussed today’s reading from St. John with many friends. One wrote me to say that in the context of Remembrance Day the focus on this text from John is, of course the words of Jesus, “No greater love has this, that a man lay down his life for his friends.” Other sayings of Jesus that form a part of the passage, such as “I have called you friends,” are for another time. Yet, I wonder... for while I may have little or nothing to offer on such a day, surely our Lord, in his full perfect and sufficient sacrifice, once offered, continues to offer himself to us. How exactly does he do that? He does it day-by-day, in times of war and in times of peace with these simple words, “I have called you friends.” These are words that cut us to the core. These are words that express a reality so revolutionary and so beautiful. These are words that change me. These are words that change us. Because when the spectre of evil looms and those around us, especially the weak and vulnerable, become the victims of unjust threats and violence, who amongst us is not moved to put our very being on the line to see the forces of darkness put in abeyance? God himself felt this way about us, and so in friendship he offered up himself tasting pain and tasting death that we might be called friends. God understands the pain and anquish of our souls, and yet, he redeems it.

The rhetoric of good and evil and light and darkness is so much a part of the conflicts we face today. I did not live through the War. I’m told that they were simpler times and that moral judgments were easier to make. I shall leave that to the consciences of those who lived through such times. However, I am compelled to speak to the consciences of those who live in the present time. I note, for myself at least, how easy it is to rise in righteous indignation when I feel under attack. But are we too quick to make judgments about the evil in another and stand against so-called darkness when we have not stopped to examine the darkness within ourselves? Whether it be wars in far off lands or wars within the Church, we perceive ourselves to be the defenders of what is right and the “other” to be part of an axis of evil, against which we must valiantly fight. We see ourselves as taking up the torch bequeathed to us from our fallen fathers.

“Take up your quarrel with the foe:
to you with failing hands we throw
the torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with those who die
We shall not sleep…”

But is their battle our battle? Do we blindly take a torch without understanding what it is that we are carrying? Are we under the delusion that the wars we fight and the battles that we wage are part of the same war fought so long ago? Do we examine what we fight and why we feel we must fight? They discerned the call of God and did what they felt they must do to be a civilized people in their own day? What is God calling us to do today?

I cannot judge the consciences of the people of another generation. I believe that they in good conscience saw a foe and rose against it, to the end that they took Jesus’ words very seriously and laid down their lives for their friends. However, I must judge the consciences of men and women of my own age – my own conscience included -- and begin to ask the question: who, or what, is the foe?

Who, or what, is the foe of our age against which we are called to stand? Is the foe not our human ignorance and fear of those who are different from us? Is not the foe our own impatience with a world changing faster than we can understand? Is not the foe our inability to listen to the voices of those from the margins? Is not the foe our vengeance and thirst for retribution? Is not the foe our sense of entitlement? And yet we do not recognize the foe. Again and again we mistake our brother or sister for our enemy, and in lashing out at them, we destroy ourselves. In doing so we choose not to acquire civilization for this generation but to destroy it. Will Durant is also reported to have said, “a civilization is not conquered from without until it is destroyed from within.”

So my friends, as we press on to the future (with the deepest admiration and respect for those who have taken up the battle in their own day), we must ask ourselves, what is the torch that is passed from failing hand? As we lay hold of the awesome responsibility of taking that torch in our own day, let us be clear not only about the foe against which we must constantly make a stand, but about the very nature of the torch itself.

Is it not the light that shines in the darkness, which the darkness cannot – can never! --overcome? Is it not that battle against evil in whatever form it takes? Is it not the battle against war itself, the greatest evil created by human hands? Is it not the battle against the deep sinfulness within us that compels us to destroy each other? Did our fathers fight that we should take up arms or did they fight that we should lay them down?

“I have called you friends.” Did Jesus lay down his life that we should continue to stand against each other, or that we should stand together as friends? Jesus saw in the midst of his less than perfect company of followers not sinners, but friends. He saw past the surface, past the tarnished visage, past the tax collector, past the revolutionary zealot, and yes even past the betrayer, and called them friends.

The terrorist. The Wall Street embezzler. The corrupt politician. Can I see past the labels and the visages? Of course I cannot. I am but a man. But Jesus can and does. What is more he calls them friends. He calls each of us friends because when his light shines upon us, all that darkens of our souls is washed away by his brilliance and his love. The brilliance of his light is given to us in our creation and is restored to as he seeks us out again and again as we ever fail in our struggle to be a civilized species.

What is it that is passed on from Flanders Field? Note that it is not a sword but a torch, a light. It is a light that illumines the darkness in which we all walk; a light that reveals the true darkness, the true enemy, the true foe -- the darkness of our own hearts; and it is a light that vanquishes that darkness forever. The torch has been passed from Flanders Field, yet, it is but a shadow of the torch that was passed not on battlefield, but on hill, lo those years ago, from other failing hands, pierced hands, and arms stretched wide in suffering and in love. From the hands nailed to the Cross, into the hands of a company of friends, His light – and not only his light but his very presence – is carried into the world.

Let us keep faith, then, with the one who died, or rather, may he keep us in His faith that all people might be called friends and not enemies; brothers and sisters and not strangers; beloved, not hated; precious, not reviled. Through His grace may we love each other as He has loved us. His love alone, the love that laid down its life for us, can cut through our prejudice, hatred, and anger… search your conscience. Is it not so?

After fifty years of chronicling the history of Civilization, Will Durant stated his final lesson, gleaned from his amassed learning: “Love one another. My final lesson of history is the same as that of Jesus.”

May it be so. Come, Lord Jesus.

Text copyright 2008 by the Rev. Daniel F. Graves. This homily may not be reproduced or redistributed either in whole or part, by any means, without the express, written permission of the author.