I'm Coming Home.

Remembrance Sunday has come round again. Across the nation the BBC will broadcast the ceremony of our Queen laying a wreath of poppies at the Cenotaph at Whitehall, along with the rest of the Royals, Government ministers, war veterans and other noted personnel, together with the marching sound of the military band. The time will be 11.00 am, the exact time Armistice was signed, ending the Great War on the 11th November, 1918. Also at our church, at 11.00 am, I will be standing in silence with the rest of the congregation, showing my respect and thanking those who gave their lives for our freedom during those two world wars.

 

 

 

What would go through my mind? Possibly the mass deaths at sea, such as on board the ship HM Lancastria, when one afternoon on June 17th 1940, she was bombed three times by a German warplane, and sank with approximately 2,800 men on board who lost their lives. It was said that while the men stood on deck, they sang two songs while the ship went down: There'll Always Be An England, and Roll Out Red Barrel  - about the very English brew; Watneys Ale in its trademark barrel, most popular at the time in all British pubs and bars. Then there was the tragedy of the submarine HMS Thetis which went down during trials in the Irish Sea a year earlier in 1939, with 99 hands who died of asphyxiation. Not to mention many, many more deaths on the battlefield and among prisoners of war.

I think of how each mother must have felt when news came in of her son's death at war. Was she proud that her son died a war hero? Or did she break down in tears at his demise, remembering the day she gave birth and suckled him on her breasts, then watched him grow through all the stages of boyhood and adolescence? Then the men who went off to war. How did they really feel? Despite all this English bulldog bravado and stoicism, I heard through TV interviews with veterans that many had a longing to be at home under the loving care of their mothers. There were some who had only just married, and were called to war soon after their marriage was consummated. As they marched off, did they have the vivid image of their bride looking sadly into their eyes, as if pleading not to leave? I wonder how many cheeks were wet with tears as they marched on stoically? Never mind that the British constitution claimed to be Bible based, with the Law of Moses declaring that no groom should go to war for a year after their wedding, this was not considered by the British military. Grooms must have departed with broken hearts, realising the possibility of never to see their brides ever again.

And so it happens. Imagine, for example, being trapped inside a sinking submarine. The power shuts down, all the lights go out, and you are in this thick impenetrable darkness. You grope for the door locking wheel and unable to locate it, the icy sea water rises to your neck, you tread the water to keep your head above the surface, only to hit the solid metal ceiling. As the water covers your face, once again you are seeing yourself vividly comforted by Mum, running around in the garden, or you feel the kiss of your beautiful bride on your lips before passing away forever.

All for the freedom of England and the continuation of the British culture you gave your life for. You were a hero. So as I think about as I stand in silence for those two mere short minutes. For the continuance of British culture - a pecking order we call the class system, in which this week I felt myself once again at the sharp end during my normal window cleaning rounds.

Why such a hostile look from one daughter of a client whose windows I cleaned on a routine schedule? Or the curt answer from her sister, after knocking on the door, as she keeps her mouth as if glued to her mobile phone, while her parents were out? Why am I such a pariah to them? All I was doing was earning my own living in a honest manner. Then at another house in the same street the girlfriend of one of the residents recently moved in. Before then, I served a brother-and-sister residence owned by their father, whom I got to know reasonably well. For the past year or so, I got on well with the two offspring, even served with a cup of tea by the sister. When the brother's girlfriend moved in, it was she who terminated the agreement, therefore losing a customer, vital for the business.

Her rather bureaucratic explanation for the loss was because her landlord no longer wish to pay the fee, despite recalling his daughter digging into her own purse. Then again, I was wondering, could it be that difficult for three professional pen-pushers to pay a single-figure monthly fee? I have customers who willingly pay more than double that amount, and are grateful for my regularity in calling. It is also interesting to note that some of the most generous and kindhearted clientele have non-British origins. But with this house, it was not the money, nor the lack of it. Rather, the loss of it was due to social status - as if in this land of homeowners, there is something distinctively shameful about being tenants. I, for one, have been a tenant to the borough council since 1976, the year I flew the nest. I'm very happy to hold this status. Did you know that if the roof begins to leak, it would not be my responsibility to pay for a private contractor to repair it? It would be the responsibility of the landlord, the borough council, to fund the repairs, as long as I don't let the rent go into arrears, something which had never occurred in the past 37 years of tenancy. Furthermore, I have no shame whatsoever in being a tenant and bypass the many headaches involved in ownership, when in reality, the real ownership would be in the hands of the creditor whose mortgage I'll be paying.

What is it about the obsession with home ownership, the sense of low status as a tenant, the adoration of the celebrity, the respect due to the well-educated professional, and the contempt towards those with humble occupations? Not long ago, while I was sitting in the sauna, I heard a story of a female office worker say with a degree of contempt to a colleague; Oh, he's just a cleaner. This attitude has brought cleaners like myself to the brink of tears. Is this the Britain those men of war had sacrificed their lives for?

Much to my surprise, a pattern here is beginning to emerge. Going by experience, it looks to me that young women seem to be far less fair than men of approximately the same age. Over the years as a window cleaner, many a son was more amenable, even making an effort to pay me at his parent's absence. This had been quite a revelation to me! Then again, I grew up believing that the female is more emotional than the male, more compassionate, more sympathetic, more soothing to the hurt than the man, who would more likely say in effect to get a grip on yourself, and man up! Even religion backs this; for many centuries Roman Catholics worshipped and adored the Virgin Mary, asking her to be the motherly mediator between the worshipper and a rather distant, emotionless and disciplinarian male God. Far more shrines of Mary than those of Jesus are to be found in Catholic countries. Even in ancient Ephesius, there was the temple dedicated to Diana, whose threat to her deity by the apostle Paul led to a city riot.

All these things has made me ask what is really going on in the modern office, what kind of a culture is to be found therein. Are women office workers really feeling their self esteem to be under some kind of threat? Is there a gender contest of some kind in the office? Could there be some truth to an idea I had, that God calls Christians to work in the office environment mainly for their presence to keep evil in check? A bit like salt of the earth, perhaps. Having never seen the inside of an office, I realise that these are only speculations, but those based on what I have seen and heard.

To add to such humiliation I felt at work, this has been a dismal week. We had rain, which does not do the business any good, and I have returned home cold and drenched to the skin. Then having changed clothing, I head off to the station to catch a train to Reading, where my wife lies ill in hospital. Within 48 hours there were two signal failures on our line, resulting in delayed and cancelled trains, and frustrated waiting on cold, wind-blown platforms. As a result, much of the week was spoiled by disrupted journeys. It was when I was feeling so low that a thought touched my mind, causing me to look up. I am alive. Let's thank God for the breath of life!

This, for me, is a vital reality. We live in a country where education is king. I have one graduate friend in our church who goes to Africa two to three times a year, and one of our elders, also a graduate of course, had today flown out to India for ten days to help out setting up an Indian Bible festival, similar to Spring Harvest or Newday festivals we have here. Then there is a third member in our church who wishes to be a missionary in Turkey. So he is studying for a degree as a mature student in order to fulfill the post. It looks to me that holding a degree is the door to opportunities abroad. In turn, in the 1990s I once volunteered to teach a class on the Second Coming of Christ, and eschatology in general, after suggestions from others in the congregation. The elder at the time flatly refused to let me give a talk at least. As he said, let a better educated person teach. Since then, this particular elder was defrocked by the rest of the congregation for supporting an adulterer and concealing his sin, and has now moved across the Atlantic to Florida.

There were times in the past that living in snooty, class-ridden England had tempted me to suicide. But God, in his mercy, had shown me that England is not my real home. My real home is in Heaven, where Christ is seated on the throne, and one day I shall be like him, for I shall see him as he is. This is the glory to look forward to, and such a destiny is available to all who believes in his heart that Jesus is Lord and God has raised him from the dead.

This is the real secret and power behind why I don't mind spending the rest of my life as a tenant in a rented property. There is a rent-free, mortgage-free property awaiting me in Heaven. That makes life worth living for.

 

Why We Remember The Price Paid For Our Freedoms

This morning at Ascot Baptist Church I stood in solemn silence with the rest of the whole congregation for two minutes commencing at 11.00 precisely. Just like the rest of the nation. It was Remembrance Sunday, or Poppy Day, as we call it here in the UK. It is always the nearest Sunday to Armistice Day, marking the 11th hour, of the 11th day, of the 11th month of 1918 when the Armistice was signed by the Allies and Germany at Compiegne, France, marking the end of the Great War (World War 1). Armistice Day this year fell on a Friday, two days previously. This may be why some journalists, such as Daily Mail columnist Simon Heffer, believes that the two-minute silence should be observed on that precise moment, when all work should stop, all other activities cease, and even trains stop wherever they are. This, according to Heffer, will get every person's mind to remember the human sacrifices made for our freedoms, and not on a Sunday when much of the nation is slumped on the armchair.

Maybe I can understand how Heffer feels. Much to the credit of many, including employees at the Lloyds Bank in the City, together with a public gathering at Trafalgar Square along with a few Scottish veterans at a cenotaph at a remote area, as with many other locations across the nation, people stopped what they were doing to give a two minute silence of respect at exactly 11.00 on the Friday morning, and this, as far as I know, without any order or even a suggestion made by Government, Royalty or Church officials. Little wonder that Heffer feels that Remembrance Sunday is farcical and Armistice should be the day for remembering. For you, Heffer, the 2012 Armistice will fall on a Sunday, thanks to it being a leap year.

Images of World War II

In the Great War, between 1914 and 1918, an estimated 20,000,000 people, mostly in the military, died defending our freedoms. The casualty toll for World War II was much greater, with more than 16,000,000 of the Allied military dead, along with 45,000,000 of civilian deaths, giving a total of more than 61,000,000 casualties.

But our remembrance Sundays are not confined to the two World Wars. As we stood still this morning, our latest casualties who were killed in Afghanistan were also considered. At this point of writing, 385 of our British soldiers were killed defending our country, which is more than one soldier for each day of the year.

We sometime forget what a very fortunate generation we are! As we revel in our materialism, our high education and careers and our advance in Medicine and healthcare, along with the knowledge that we weren't, nor will we ever wear a military uniform, try to think of yourself as one barely out of your teens, out in a trench, across the Channel from home, on a freezing cold day. During a respite your heart pines for home, the nearness of your mother and perhaps girlfriend, or your wife is due to give birth and you know that you won't be around. Instead as the firing re-starts, bullets from the enemy frontline whistles within inches past your cheek. Your best mate right next to you is hit, and slowly dies. If he is lucky enough, he is ferried back to quarters. Otherwise he dies in the trench and left there for the duration of the shooting. Meanwhile, your crushing desire is to be anywhere but here.

In the Daily Mail newspaper, columnist Max Hastings gives a graphic account of one 17 year old serving on the battle-cruiser Hood in 1940. The youngster writes a letter to his mother begging those in the Admiralty to give her son a reprieve from the ship and offer him a shore job at Rosyth. He concludes his letter with the words:

You know, tell them you have got two sons away and that. Be sure to tell them my age. If only I could get off this ship it would not be so bad.

Not much later, in May 1941 the ship Hood went down with nearly all hands, including the lad who wrote to his mother a few months earlier. He was one of the 16,000,000 military casualties.

On the other hand, there is enough evidence to prove than many who voluntarily join the Forces, particularly in the present day, do so for want of adventure and a life of daring challenges of frontline warfare. In the same article, Hastings relates of two individuals who finds putting their own lives at risk very exhilarating, along with a report that nearly every front line soldier in Helmand was guiltily proud of the casualty rate which, according to them, "was six times higher than at Iraq" as they testify as the most dangerous and exhilarating game that had ever been invented. I wonder whether it was love and loyalty to Queen and Country which had motivated them to travel far from home to fight the Taliban, or was it a way to escape the crushingly dull, mundane day-to-day existence in the office, stuck with a dead-end desk job, and equally stuck in rush hour traffic every morning and evening. An offer of an alternate life in the Forces promises much, much more!

But whatever the motive, wherever it is to fulfill a duty to the country or seeking a dangerous thrill, sacrifices were, and are constantly made. The price to pay for our freedom from a foreign dictatorship such as Hitler, or freedom from terrorist attacks from such as the Taliban, is human life. And once a year we set two minutes of our lives to remember those whose lives were paid for our freedoms.

And it was while at church this morning that one of our elders, Dave Rogers, likened the sacrifices made by our fallen heroes to the one Sacrifice made by Jesus Christ on the cross also for our freedoms. But this freedom gotten for us by Jesus Christ is the eternal freedom from sin and death, to eternal life in the Kingdom of God. Here there will be fullness of joy, when we will partake in the everlasting love which had always existed between Father, Son and Holy Spirit. All one need to do is to believe that the Cross of Christ will be effective and trust in its saving power.

When Jesus Christ hung on that cross, his motive was not a reluctant duty under obligation to a King or country like the teenager on board the battleship. Neither was it an exhilarating thrill seeking experience like it was to those two fighting in Afghanistan. Rather it was an act of love, the love God has for mankind, and a love which God allowed his Son to suffer and die as a once-for-all sacrifice to bring reconciliation between God and mankind.

And there are a multitude of martyrs who willingly gave their lives for the cause of the spread of the Gospel. Sure, we do have All Saints Day (1st November) but that is much more remembered for the evening before, Halloween, than for the day itself. At least for the better known martyrs, such as St. Peter, St. Paul and St. James, churches and even hospitals were named after them.

This issue has, to me, brought up the question: what are the spiritual state of those who died in warfare? Are they in Heaven? In Hell? Where is the poor soul of the teenager who drowned when the Hood went down?

Author Dave Hunt once wrote of an experience of standing at a large war cemetery in France, contemplating the souls of all those French soldiers who died in warfare. Hunt assumed that the vast majority of them are in Hell. With much sorrow and grief of heart, he then cried out in prayer, "Why, oh God, did you create man?"

But although I have much respect for this brilliant Bible scholar, whose books played a role in shaping my own Christian life, still I don't agree with all his assumption of the French soldiers. Yes, I agree that each person is saved by God by grace - undeserved mercy - through faith alone, and not by human grace or courage, neither by human sacrifice. But it is not for us to judge or decide who is in Heaven and who isn't. This matter is solely between the person's heart and God. Only God has that right to release or bind a person. In other words, there could be a lot more saved souls from that French cemetery than Hunt would speculate.

The same applies to our British fallen. We have no idea of the whereabouts of their souls. Only God knows. But we can be sure that these people died to defend our freedom. In a parallel sense, it was Jesus Christ who sacrificed his life for our freedom from sin. This is something always to remember and rejoice in, and hoping that by the grace and undeserving mercy of God, the souls of many fallen in warfare are now enjoying eternity basking in God's love and joy.

Now that is worth a poppy or two.