Remembrance Sunday is one of those difficult Sundays. It’s one of those Sundays that I don’t really know what to do with. I (unlike most of you I would imagine) did not grow up hearing about the war. World War Two is not my war, it was not my father’s war, it was my (long since dead) grandfather’s war. But then it wasn’t really even HIS war either, he was very cynical about the whole thing. He worked as a chief, so he didn’t have to fight. After the war he never marked the occasion, he never wore a poppy, he didn’t have any war memorabilia in his house. If he felt no need to mark the occasion, why would I feel any need? My grandfather was a quiet man. Every Sunday morning, he would go to Mass at his local Catholic Church. Every day he would sit at his dining table after work, smoking his pipe and reading the Morning Star. He must have had some very interesting views concerning politics and religion, and yet to my dad’s knowledge, he never spoke of them.

There’s an old lady in Tunbridge Wells. She’s watching television. To her disgust she sees a man on the BBC not wearing his red poppy. Dear the BBC... Principles really are the last refuge of old gits. And yet, we must remember, ‘lest we forget’, lest we repeat history. Lest we be drawn into another war, with more death, and more killing. I wonder how many more ‘lest we forgets’ we need before the wars end. I have a prayer: a prayer for understanding, for peace and reconciliation. That together we might forge a new, lasting, creative and perpetual peace. And when it comes to what’s on your lapel – frankly I don’t give a damn. Jesus said, a man is not defiled by what enters his mouth. Likewise, a person is not defiled by what is or is not pinned to them. Measure us by our fruits, that we would be peacemakers, and seek for love and justice.

Remembrance is by its very nature, personal. The associations and significance of the day’s various images and tropes will be different for each one of us. As such, to judge one another, by our adherence to ‘the poppy’ say, strikes me as being beyond wrong. You’re no longer operating as a conscientious individual by that point; you’re a thug perpetuating an ideology. This is a time for Remembrance. A time to reflect upon the horrors that have been perpetrated, that we might imagine together a better world. Corporate acts of remembrance, corporate mourning, makes sense when there is a corporate experience of loss. That is not the England we live in anymore. Nevertheless, being aware of our history, I can salute the sacrifice of the fallen and injured which so shaped the 20th and 21st Centuries, those who had the courage to hang a little fascist out to dry. I light our chalice this morning then, in remembrance of that blood which was spilled. Red blood spilt in the Two World Wars, and subsequent wars. Spilt as a plea for peace. I light our chalice for Peace.

Amen.

Address

I am bewildered by the spectacle. When I think of the World Wars I don’t think of stories I have heard, because as I said, I did not grow up with them being told. I don’t think of poems like the poem David read out, expressing something of one man’s horror in the trenches, or other more famous poems – In Flanders fields the poppies blow / Between the crosses, row on row. I picture the large tank obstacles on Omaha Beach. I picture Soviet officers, firing at Russian soldiers attempting to turn back from the bloody front. I picture the men upon the beach at Dunkirk, waiting to be evacuated. I picture frail men and women, being shuffled into gas chambers. I picture these things because in computer games, or films, I have been to all these places. In reality though, of course I have been to none of these places. I am under the illusion that I understand, but I don’t really understand. I can’t understand. Nothing is directly lived. It is all representation.

There was an interesting story this week, about an indigenous American model who had some photographs takes for a fashion magazine. Of course, fashion magazines are infamous for perpetuating a false image, particularly of the female form. Blemishes are airbrushed out, images are distorted to make waists thinner, lips fuller, colours more striking. And yet, the woman lodged a complaint because her hair, symbol of her indigenous American culture, was airbrushed out. Now this is a 21st Century scandal: an image we all know is distorted, we all know does not represent reality, is doctored to represent one illusion as opposed to another, and people are outraged. We no longer know what reality is. The social relationship between people is now almost solely mediated by image. Image is what drives opinion, political discourse; it is our new sense of reality. The word is not nearly enough. Show me a picture.

The spectacle is the bad dream of a modern society in chains, compelled as we are to look, but never to respond. The spectacle is superior to reality. If it can be seen, we know it is real. Through social media, through Facebook, we become masters of perpetuating our own spectacle. Images with filters, images carefully curated to project an illusion of self. We are increasingly separated from the world. The closer our lives come to be our own creation, the more excluded from life we are. As such, normative tropes, or behaviour, or images, by virtue of being normative must by definition receive the most critique. They must be examined constantly, lest we be swept up into the spectacle, and blinded to all else. We must re-enter the present, into a present dialogue, and not allow that conversation to be framed by the spectacle. A very difficult feat. Our opinions, so often, are just gut responses to the spectacle.

A lot of art represents authentic dialogue within the world. How could we live as the artist, see the world as the artist? The real world is replaced by a selection of images projected above it. The Spectacle. Within the Spectacle, it is ‘commodity’ that dominates all living experience. Shallow representation of our human experience is packaged, and broadcasted back to us, by way of the spectacle, accompanied by the commodity. The commodity is imbued with a false identity.

Camera pans down from Spitfire. I feel such pride. Frame the single tear. That’s lovely… Okay down. Red Poppy. And pan back, British flag. Okay that’s a wrap.

The spectacle, like society itself, is at once united and divided. That’s why it’s so hypnotizing, there is an illusion of authentic dialogue in there. The polls of the conversation are defined for you, so you don’t have to think, you just have to follow your gut. You’re either with me, or you’re against me. Unity is presented as divided. Division is presented as unity. We don’t know what reality is. Behind the glitter of spectacular distraction there is a tendency towards banality which dominates modern society. Every commodity fights for itself. It avoids acknowledging the existence of other commodities, and attempts to impose itself everywhere. The spectacle is the epic collage of these various commodities fighting for dominance. There is an illusion of social unification through the act of consumption. The illusion of unity, despite catastrophic division. There is no obvious solution to the problem.

We resist this banality in sectors of society in which people knock up against one another in real time. Particularly when the spectacle, the algorithm, has not determined that meeting, as is often the case in modern society. We date, find jobs, go to gigs, get an education, all at the behest of the algorithm, the spectacle. All circles are directed towards round holes, squares to square holes. Church is in part in opposition to this model, though often dialogue within church is directed by the spectacle. In encountering the other, we at least present the possibility of authentic connection, between parties not playing out the spectacle’s predetermined scripts. One must at the same time not alienate oneself from normative society, conforming just enough that your presence is tolerable, and yet be at odds enough that you don’t become alienated from reality, and yourself. To use the images of society, but not be defined by those images. Fluidity helps us navigate. Hold loosely to your gut reaction in the face of the spectacle, and you may walk the tightrope between being alienated from yourself or the other.

Part 1

When it comes to Remembrance Sunday, the Church of England has a big advantage. With its liturgy, its pre-set prayers, maybe a bit of Scout involvement, the old timer in uniform reading today’s Bible lesson, a nice bit of pageantry – you can quite easily get through the entire Sunday without ever actually talking about what we are doing. I, however, do not have the luxury anymore of avoiding it.

The first world war had an enduring impact as it marked a level of violence previously unexperienced. It crushed an optimistic belief that the 20th century would be a time of progress: onwards and upwards. Colossal events of this nature cannot help but be politicised. They are naturally hijacked by one group or another to further one agenda or another. Following the end of WWI, Armistice Day was thought of on very different terms than when compared to today. It was about the Christian valour of British soldiers bringing militarism to a close, dying not in vain, but ushering in a new era free of war. Great derision was always levelled at those who expressed a belief in the futility of the war; the establishment, both church and state, furthered a narrative of sacrifice for a higher purpose. I wonder now, in retrospect, what was the higher purpose of that war. There has been no end to war, the military machine has not been reigned in. In 1930 the parliamentary Peace Committee asked if the name of the 11th November service could be changed to the ‘peace and memorial service’. ‘Unthinkable!’ cried the war office official. ‘We get more recruits for the army in the fortnight after the Armistice ceremony than at any other time of the year.’ Now why is that? There has historically been an undeniable, unspoken even, blurring between the respecting of the dead, nationalism, and the glorification of war, a romantic view of war. We are now asked not to question why people died, but to simply accept that it was worth it, and that when the time comes it will be worth it again. Remembrance Day is used to perpetuate a myth that war is inevitable, however regrettable, and sometimes necessary. Today then, as I stand here wearing my red poppy, I want to call us back to the lofty hopes of those British soldiers returning home after fighting on the Western front. Let these blood red poppies be a reminder not of war’s glory, but of war’s futility. Let us strive to match their efforts, not for war, but to bring about peace, love, and a more just world.

Part 2

You know things are about to get serious when I start talking about superheroes. Let’s think about Batman for a minute, I promise it is very relevant. Who is Batman? He is a fictional character obviously. He has two identities, as many superheroes do. By day he is the businessman, philanthropist, billionaire, and womaniser, Bruce Wayne. By night, he is the Dark Knight, the caped warrior, bringing vigilante justice to the underbelly of Gotham City. A billionaire who solves his problems with violence; solves his problems by violently oppressing the most down-trodden within society - I wonder if that reminds us of anyone? Another person who in his own way is larger than life, not with big ears, but big hair! Although admittedly, somewhat less cool, and more orange. The character of Batman conforms to a recurring literary theme – The Myth of Redemptive Violence.

This notion of recurring myths, characters, tropes, and images which emerge within history and society over and over, is the Jungian idea emerging forth from our collective unconscious. Jung’s technical term is ‘archetypes’. The Myth of Redemptive Violence is one such ‘archetype’: ideas which just keep coming back again and again. Other examples are the wise old woman, or the hero, or creation, or the devil, the scapegoat, good vs evil, the quest, the magic weapon. And so on… Ideas which emerge independently in disconnected cultures and religions since the dawn of humanity. Because these ideas are somehow in us already – that’s the idea. The Myth of Redemptive Violence is the idea that violence is an efficient way to solve problems, or bring about prosperity. And note: I’m using the word ‘violence’ in broad terms, not simply the inflicting of physical pain on others, but oppressing, or limiting freedom, or limiting movement, or denying rights. This type of violence can often be worse than the physical kind. So, The Myth of Redemptive Violence: this archetypical theory was developed by the theologian, the late Walter Wink. It’s a story the dominant in society tell their subordinates. It enshrines the belief that violence saves, that war brings peace, the might makes right. It’s a narrative structure found all over the place – in the Bible, in cartoons, in computer games, in films. There is a central character, a hero; he suffers, he seems hopelessly doomed, until miraculously the hero breaks free, vanishes the villains, and restores order. It perpetuates an idea of natural chaos, that humanity is incapable of peaceful coexistence, and therefore, order must continuously be imposed from on high: men over women, master over slave, rulers over the people.

It is the divine duty of the dominant to subdue any who would threaten tranquillity. The Myth of Redemptive Violence is the story of order bringing victories over chaos, by whatever violent means necessary. The violent means are justified in the end. So we, look at these fictional heroes: Batman, the Jedi, James Bond, Popeye, and so on, and knowing they are good, they are on the side of the good, we identify with them, which in psychological terms allows us to project our darker selves, our repressed anger, our violence, on the bad guys. And through taking it out on them, we are, as it were, cleansed, or saved. Saved through violence. This happens in fiction as I have said, but it also happens in organised sport, in nationalism, in the media, in militarism. This becomes the lens through which we see the world – we always locate evil not within us, but out there in the other, in the Mexican, or the woman, or the Muslim, and we are affirmed in our own goodness when they are beaten, repressed, driven from our land. They are scapegoated for the wrong in our world, and the god of order is glorified.

This week the Myth of Redemptive Violence, in all its vulgar stupidity, had a very significant victory. Jesus calls us to turn the other cheek, to go the extra mile, to resist evil in the most challenging way of all, by not becoming evil. By not responding to violence with violence, in the broad sense. By not becoming the Dark Knight, or the caped warrior; that is not the way of Jesus. You have heard it said, an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth, but I say to you, do not resist evil violently. Do not mirror evil. Do not let your opponent dictate the terms of your opposition. Resist evil in non-violent ways. Through dialogue, through discussion, through substantive debate - something we’re seeing very little of at the moment. And so, this morning, we affirm peace. We deny the Myth of Redemptive Violence its ascendancy. We wear our symbolic poppies as the reminders of peace they were meant to be, and we strive after a message of hope. Hope is not idealistic or silly. It is not naive to believe we can bend the arc of history towards justice. Because it’s been done before. And it will be done again.

Amen.