HOW DOES IT LOOK TO YOU NOW?         Twenty-fourth after Pentecost

                                                                                          Remembrance Sunday

                                                                                                    November 7, 2010

Haggai 2:1-9

Luke 20:27-38

 

 

            The Jewish people stood in the cold morning mist looking over the barely begun reconstruction of the temple in Jerusalem—the temple that had been destroyed when they had been taken into captivity in Babylon.  They had now, under the new reign of the Persian Empire, been allowed to come home to Palestine.  To rebuild their lives.  And the temple.

 

            The work had begun four weeks before.  And things had not gone smoothly.  You know how it is—things always take twice as long as you expect they will.  Clearing away the rubble of the ruin was an enormous task in itself.  Then, too, the builders wanted to save as much of the original rock as they could—for economic purposes as well as sentimental—and that took time.  And the workers had to be organized—volunteers are wonderful, no religious community could survive without them, but they can be an unruly lot. 

           

And so, on this day, when people gathered at the temple, they gathered before a scarcely-started project.  And what they could see was that it didn’t look like the temple that had been there.  It didn’t look like much at all.

 

            Granted, there probably wasn’t anyone there who had actually seen the former temple built in glorious splendour—the palatial structure filled with gold and silver and jewels and a magnificent altar.  But those who were gathered had been told the stories—they had heard what the former temple looked like.  And this was not it.  This was not even a pale shadow of what had been.  This was a disaster, a ruin.

 

            “So...how does it look to you now?” asks Haggai.

 

“You want the truth, Haggai?  It looks like nothing.  It looks like desolation.  It looks like everything is over.  That’s what it looks like, Haggai.”

 

            In the cold, smoky, inhospitable early morning of November 15^th, 1940, a small group of people gathered in the midst of a pile of still smouldering rubble that had been, less than 24 hours before, the magnificent Coventry Cathedral, the Cathedral of St. Michael.  The ruins lay in the middle of a city in chaos—buildings flattened, some still burning.  The bombing raids of the night before had been all too successful.

 

            This small group of people stared unbelievingly around them at the ghost of what had been.  “How does it look to you now, people of Coventry?”

 

            “You want the truth?  It looks like nothing.  It looks like desolation.  It looks like everything is over.  That’s what it looks like.”

 

            On the morning of February 15, 1945, in the intense heat and damage resulting from the fire-bombing of Dresden, Germany, Dresden Cathedral, the Church of our Lady, collapsed and nearly 6,000 tons of stone plunged to the earth.  And the people of Dresden who ventured out of their safe places on that February morning, saw only ruin and devastation.  “How does it look to you now, people of Dresden?”

 

            “You want the truth?  It looks like nothing.  It looks like desolation.  It looks like everything is over.  That’s what it looks like.”

 

The Jews in front of the barely begun, second-rate restoration of the temple, the people of Coventry and Dresden standing amidst the ruins, seeing only the devastation facing them, see only that what was once glorious and splendid, can never be again. 

 

War, no matter if it is in the 6^th century BCE or the 13^th or the 18^th or the 20^th or the 21^st century of the common era, war leaves behind it devastation, desolation and despair—whether you actually were there, whether anyone you know was actually there, the horror touches everyone.

 

We don’t really want to believe that.  We want to believe that there are winners and losers in war.  There aren’t…..ever.  There are only losers.  Both sides of any war suffer loss, no matter who seems to have won.  Today we heard names read of those from these two congregations who died in war—43 people in all.  Multiply that by hundreds, by thousands and you might come near to the total numbers that died for our side in the two world wars of the twentieth century.  And then add those who died from the other side.  And then add those Jews and homosexual people and those who opposed Hitler’s regime in the Second World War.  And you come to an unbelievable number.  And that’s just two wars out of the innumerable conflicts that have happened in our own time and throughout history and, seemingly, will continue to happen.

 

I went to see the opera, Aida, earlier this autumn.  I had never seen the opera before.  But I knew a bit of the story and, of course, the music of the Grand March.  And I was expecting to see elephants and great pomp and circumstance.

 

It was not to be.  The Grand March was very different in this production.  The music was the same.  But instead of the triumphant parade of heroes, fresh from victory, the stage was littered with the other side of war—the losers, the dead and dying, the prisoners, the weeping wives and friends.  And I wondered about the Egyptians who died.  For every seeming victory, there is a defeat.

 

So is war never right, you ask?  What about those we remember today and all those others who gave their lives in wars that were against great evil?  Should we just have sat back and let the Third Reich kill everyone they wanted to?  Should we ever let tyrannical individuals and arrogant nations take over the world?  Should we ever just let evil prosper?

 

No.  Of course not.  That’s obviously not a solution, either.  But, so far in humanity’s history, neither is war.  All war seems to do is create more and stronger enemies.  All that tyranny and terrorism and the conviction that we are right and the other people or nations are wrong do, all they do is raise the stakes for the face-off.  Today we remember, as countless churches across the country are doing, the many who died who might have lived.  Yes, they fought evil and, for a time, defeated it.  And it needed to be done.

 

But it’s not a solution—it’s only the lesser of evils.  Sometimes a necessary evil.  But I keep asking—could there not be a better way to live together, a better way to respond to evil, a better way to control the megalomaniacs who prey on people’s fear of the “other,” the ones who are not like us, the ones who oppress us, who have done us wrong? 

 

I think a start comes with the examples of both Coventry and Dresden Cathedrals.  Both were eventually cleared of the rubble.  In Coventry, a new Cathedral was built beside the ruins of the old.  In Dresden, a new church was built using many of the stones from the original.  And the new Cathedral with the preserved ruins in Coventry and the new Cathedral in Dresden were dedicated to reconciliation.  People from Germany and other axis nations contributed to and worked on the new Coventry cathedral and the preservation of the ruins.  People from the United Kingdom and other allied nations contributed to and worked on the rebuilt Dresden Cathedral.

 

The altar in the ruins of Coventry is called the “Reconciliation Altar,” backed by a replica of the cross fashioned that cold November morning from burnt and blackened roof beams.  Prayers for reconciliation are recited every Friday at noon at this altar.  And a statue of reconciliation stands in the ruins.  Altar of reconciliation, statue of reconciliation, prayers of reconciliation.  And the words on the altar “Father forgive”—not “Forgive them” or “Forgive us” just “Father forgive.”  All of us.  It is an extremely moving experience to stand in this space, even for a little while.

 

The new gilded orb and cross on the top of the dome of Dresden Cathedral were made in London and one of the people who worked on them was a goldsmith whose father was a member of one of the aircrews who took part in the fire bombing of Dresden that dreadful night.  And before the cross travelled to Dresden, it was exhibited in churches across the United Kingdom, including Coventry, to be a concrete representation of the forgiveness and reconciliation that is possible. 

 

On October 30, 2005, the rededication of the Dresden Cathedral was held with people from all over the world and all sides of the original conflict attending.  The Bishop of Dresden said, “A deep wound that has bled for so long can be healed.  This restoration is a great work in the spirit of reconciliation.”  A German newspaper reported that what was once described as “a gaping wound in the heart of Dresden,” is now “a masterpiece of reconciliation.” 

 

And, in addition, both Coventry and Dresden Cathedrals belong to the Community of the Cross of Nails, a worldwide network of peace and reconciliation centres.

 

Reconciliation.  That’s the word that is used over and over.  And I wonder if, in pursuing it throughout the world and in our own corner of it, we could find the beginnings of an end to war.  If, in seeing others, not as opposition, not as enemy, not as someone or ones to be feared, to be kept down, to be exploited, but as fellow travellers on this planet, in this few years that we have together, on this journey of life.  If in seeing others this way, we might find it unnecessary to destroy others for our own protection or superiority.  We might find it repugnant to turn someone we don’t know into a fearsome enemy.  We might stop fearing that we are going to lose something if others have enough.  We might start learning to talk to one another rather than shout at one another.  We might start learning to listen instead of assuming we already know what someone is going to say because of their race or religion or political stripe or anything else that makes them different.  We might learn to forgive and be reconciled instead of immediately picking up arms and aggressively pursuing a hostile confrontation that results in only more hostility.

 

I wonder if, as individuals and nations, we approached one another with openness and without fear, we could better honour the names we heard today by creating the world they hoped would come from their sacrifice—theirs and all the many others before and since, who died or who waited or who returned forever injured in mind or body.

 

This is one of the saddest times of year for me.  For the last two years it has been especially poignant because a young man I baptized was killed by a roadside bomb in Afghanistan.  It’s sad to remember those who died, and are still dying, in war.  But it’s also sad because they are still dying.  War has not ended.

 

Forgiveness and reconciliation are not easy—especially when hundreds of thousands of your people have been killed or maimed.  But what’s the alternative?   More wars which lead to more wars?

 

Besides, we haven’t wholeheartedly tried forgiveness and reconciliation—on neither a personal nor a national nor an international level.  I wonder what would happen if we did.

 

I wonder, if the spirit of forgiveness and reconciliation were truly among us, if we would be able to answer the question, “How does it look to you now, people of the world?” with the words, “It looks wondrous, a world where there is no more war, where the earth is not blackened and beauty reduced to rubble, where children can grow up and grow old, and where the love and peace and abundance of God reigns for all.”

 

            And I pray, let it be so.  Amen.