My Soul, Find Rest in God (Remembrance Day Sermon 2018)

Psalm 62.5-12

World War I, as we know, was mostly fought in trenches, sometimes only a few yards apart, cut into the soil along the border of France and Belgium.

I used to travel through the Somme and the Pas de Calais in northern France three or four times a year when I lived in Paris and it is remarkable that the physical impact of that conflict is still visible a century later. You can see traces of old trench networks in the fields, and there are still scars from where explosion blasts crater the land.

Two weeks ago, a pair of scuba divers plunged into the River Meuse to help remove more than 5 tonnes of unexploded shells from World War I. It is estimated that there are at least 250 to 300 tonnes more still buried in the nearby rivers and rolling hills of eastern France.

They think it will take another century at least of dangerous clearance work to finally remove all these munitions and return the landscape to the way it was before the war.

So, even though the last survivor of that war is now dead, even our grandchildren will still live in its shadow. 

As we mark the centenary today of the end of those hostilities, and sure many of you will say likewise, I confess I have been very moved by features about it in the media, especially old recordings of interviews with surviving soldiers describing, or trying to describe, what years of trench warfare were like; the cold, the mud, the rats, the smells, the fear, the becoming accustomed to death, and the sheer relentlessness of it…

And how it felt when the guns fell silent at 11am on 11 November 1918. And the fact that right up until the last minute, though it was known precisely when the end of hostilities was coming, shots were still being fired and men were still getting killed.  

And then… nothing. The first time in months that there was perfect stillness and quiet. Those who were there to experience it struggled to describe even years later how wondrous it was.

Last week, as I was driving with the radio on, some of you might relate to this, I suddenly and unexpectedly welled up as I listened to a piece on the radio about the unknown warrior in Westminster Abbey.

In case you don’t know the background, in 1920 the remains of four soldiers in unmarked graves were exhumed from four different battlefields and placed in plain coffins covered by Union Flags. A senior officer closed his eyes and placed his hand on one of the coffins. The other three were taken away and reburied. The one that was selected was transported to London with great pomp and ceremony, with full honours and military salutes.

One hundred women were invited as special guests at the interment in Westminster Abbey. They were there because they had each lost their husband and all their sons in the war.

And the piece on the radio went on to say that the Ministry of Defence received hundreds of letters in the months following, all from women, all mothers who had lost their sons in the war, saying, “I had a dream, and in my dream, I learned that this unknown soldier, so grandly honoured was my boy.”

It’s this human angle, I’m sure, not so much the grandiose military monuments and mind-boggling statistics, that helps most of us to connect with a conflict none of us were alive to see.  

In order to get a better sense of what we commemorate today, I have been reading letters from the Western Front over the last few weeks. They give such a vivid insight into that appalling conflict that is estimated to have killed almost 7 million civilians and 10 million military personnel. About a third died, not from combat, but from diseases caused by the war.

The British Army Postal Service delivered around 2 billion letters during the war. In 1917 alone, over 19,000 mailbags crossed the English Channel every day, transporting letters to and from British troops on the Western Front.

I want to read some short extracts from just a few:

“Today is my 32nd day on the battlefield. The war has been at a stalemate for a few months now. Our days consist of digging trenches in fear for our lives. We could be shot at any time with a precisely aimed bullet.”

“The smell is unworldly. Illness and disease are common throughout the soldiers. Influenza, diabetes, trench foot, trench fever and malaria. The trenches are infested with rats, frogs and lice which all make the trenches filthily disgusting. The unsanitary conditions may be the reason we lose this war.”

“As write this letter, my free time is soon coming to an end. If I don't make it home just know I died a happy death fighting for my country. I hope everything is wonderful back home and hopefully I'll see you soon. So with all my love my darling Mum I now say goodbye, just in case. Try to forget my faults and to remember me only as your very loving son.”

“Dearest, if the chance should come your way for you are young and good looking and should a good man give you an offer it would please me to think you would take it, not to grieve too much for me… I should not have left you thus bringing suffering and poverty on a loving wife and children for which in time I hope you will forgive me.”

“My darling, if this should ever reach you, it will be a sure sign that I am gone under and what will become of you and the [children] I do not know but there is one above that will see to you and not let you starve. You have been the best of wives and I loved you deeply, how much you will never know.”

“If I fall in battle then I have no regrets save for my loved ones I leave behind. It is a great cause and I came out willingly to serve my King and Country. My greatest concern is that I have the courage and determination necessary to lead my platoon well. I can do no more, I give my love to you all and to Jesus Christ my Maker.”

And then this one, for a bit of light relief. “We were to have had a Brigade Ceremonial Church Parade today but fortunately it rained. I say fortunately because I don’t much care for lengthy ceremonials at Church Parade. It means usually standing about for hours and getting thoroughly bored.” (And that one was written by the son of a vicar).

British society in 1914 was very different from what it is today. About 40 per cent of people attended church at least once a month. Ninety per cent of children went to Sunday School. Just one per cent of the population called themselves atheists.

Today, the numerical strength of the Christian faith, its vibrant youthfulness and explosive growth is in Africa, Asia and South America.

But in 1914 it was in Europe and, as they lay dying, most of those we remember today will have cherished the sentiments of today’s Psalm. 

Yes, my soul, find rest in God;

my hope comes from him.
Truly, he is my rock and my salvation;
he is my fortress, I will not be shaken.

My salvation and my honour depend on God.
Trust in him at all times…
pour out your hearts to him.

And, as I end, the tomb of the unknown warrior in Westminster Abbey is very appropriately engraved with New Testament scriptures including these two:

“The Lord knows those who are his” (2 Timothy 2.19). And, “Unknown and yet well known, dying and yet we live on” (2 Corinthians 6.9).

Sermon preached at All Saints' Preston on Tees, 11 November 2018