REMEMBRANCE SUNDAY
Suddenly the sunlight which had filled a bright August morning disappeared and with it our conversation ceased. The words and laughter which had filled so many hours of our tour of Israel had been silenced by a sense of reverence for the place in which we now stood. Not the Basilica of the Annunciation in Nazareth, nor the grotto of the Nativity in Bethlehem, nor the garden of Gethsemane, nor even the Church of the Holy Sepulchre in Jerusalem. We had come to Yad Vashem, to Israel’s museum of the Holocaust and its memorial to the Jews killed during the Second World War.
We stood in the darkness of the entrance to the Children’s Memorial and, as instructed, held onto the handrail before walking in. In the centre of the memorial were five candles, and all round the building right up to and including the ceiling were mirrors, set up in such away as to reflect the light of the five tiny flames. The darkness hung in the building like a thick fog, so much so that you couldn’t see the back of the person in front of you; and yet, wherever you looked, there was light, pinheads of light diffusing the flicker of the five candles to the accompaniment of a voice slowly reading the names of those for whom the candles burned, the Jewish children murdered during the Holocaust.
One and a half million lives are symbolized by that diffusion of light. To hear every name read would take over a year.
I find it very difficult to know what to say this year on Remembrance Sunday. The complexity and the horror of the conflict between Hamas and Israel dumbfound me, as does the rise in antisemitism and islamophobia which it is provoking. It’s tempting to ignore what’s going on in the Middle East, and put ourselves on more familiar ground, confining our remembering to the sacrifice of those who grow not old as we that are left grow old. And yet it is precisely because of their sacrifice that we cannot do that.
So what are we to do? I’d like to suggest three things. First, the Children’s Memorial reminds us that being dumbfounded is not a sign of spiritual weakness or lack of faith. It is OK to be silent, particularly if we’re able to use the silence not to disconnect ourselves from what is going on, but to become more deeply engaged with it and to Christ’s presence with us as we do so.
Second, I’m reminded that lament is an important part of the Judeo-Christian tradition. It’s one which we often sidestep or, because of our hope in the resurrection, can feel guilty about articulating. On this Remembrance Sunday, let us remind ourselves that there is no shame in lament, and that, as a Cathedral, if we are to be a beacon of hope, drawing people through our doors towards the light of Christ, crucified and risen, then we need to provide space for lament in our building and in our worship.
Finally, the Children’s Memorial reminds me of our vocation to keep our eyes open for signs of light, even in times of deepest darkness. The 85-year old Israeli hostage turning to shake hands with her erstwhile captor provided a glimmer of light; as today does our remembrance of the sacrifice of those whose protest at the power of darkness led them to lay down their lives in the cause of freedom and truth. We shouldn’t be surprised at the number of people who come into the Cathedral to light candles, and particularly at the moment to do so at the prayer station for peace in the Morning Chapel. When words fail us, this symbol of hope is as powerful and articulate as any prayer.
Silence, lament, and attentiveness to the light. Whatever response our remembrance evokes in us today, may Christ encourage us to protest at the darkness as well as to hope in the light. For in him there is no darkness at all, and in his light we see light.