In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.
We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie,
In Flanders fields.
War. It is almost Remembrance Day, the day we are asked to remember war. Not because it is good, but because we must not forget. We must not forget these young lives, who danced and laughed, who “felt dawn, saw sunset glow”…who “loved and were loved”. We must not ever, ever forget these short, snuffed out lives, now lying, wasted and buried, under the blowing poppies of Flanders fields.
Sometimes the commemoration of war becomes the glorification of war. I have a sister, Kat Rae, who served in the army for 20 years, before coming an artist. She has a series entitled Hall of Memory, which casts an eye at the way we memorialise. What stories do our memorials tell? Do they feign remembrance, but in fact serve to support the institutions of war? Do they speak of poppies and the unforgotten dead, while simultaneously bringing glorification to the military? Whose stories are not told, in our commemoration?
This Sunday we will be reading the story of the poor widow, who gives everything she has to the temple treasury. Jesus contrasts her to the rich important people, who make a great show of throwing in lots of money. But, he says, they give out of their abundance, while she gives her all.
The poor widow is an example of true sacrifice and discipleship. But there are no statues built to memorialise her. Hers is a shadow cast by the great stones erected to commemorate the rich and powerful. She is the silent figure of protest, claiming that this country, this system, is not as great as is claimed.
Who will we venerate? The machinery of war, of greed, of arrogance, of destruction? Will we raise up the mining magnate, the successful politician, the beautiful socialite, the decorated war hero? Or will we remember this poor widow? Or, the young people still lying buried in Flanders fields?
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