The 11th hour of the 11th day of the 11th month
Armistice. While less than 90 years ago, perhaps more ages have come and gone since than did before it. 1918. Women could not vote. A railroad carriage. Joseph F. Smith, Hyrum’s son, had one week left to live. The beginnings of peace. Gordon Hinkley was eight years old.
Consider those whose name adorns this day. The killers and the killed.
It was a new war with new ways to die. Fritz Haber invented an industrial method for manufacturing chlorine gas. The old ways, too, remained – ten more years until penicillin.
They are martyrs for our freedom. But, was it our freedom that was bought with such a price? 15.1 million dead and it was just the beginning.
There are poignant stories of the quick and the brave and I feel very much as I did five months ago. I also have this hope – that the Lord shall judge among the nations, and shall rebuke many people: and they shall beat their swords into plowshares, and their spears into pruninghooks: nation shall not lift up sword against nation, neither shall they learn war any more.
Thanks, J. I had almost forgotten about today. One of the things I miss about living in England is the wearing of poppies by most everyone around this time of year. We call today, “Rememberance Day.”
To this day, and despite many efforts, I have yet to understand World War I. To take nothing away from the brave men who died, to speak of them “fighting for freedom” does honour to the war rather than the men. The men were brave; the war, however, was a colossal evil, an apalling waste of blood and treasure, and a painful scar on Europe’s soil.
Comment by Ronan — 11/11/2005 @ 8:00 am
If you’ve never heard Benjamin Britten’s “War Requiem” with traditional Latin text and poetry by Wilfired Owen, you ought to give it a listen.
Note this passage:
So Abram rose, and clave the wood, and went,
And took the fire with him, and a knife.
And as they sojourned both of them together,
Isaac the first-born spake and said, My Father,
Behold the preparations, fire and iron,
But where the lamb for this burnt-offering?
Then Abram bound the youth with belts and straps,
And builded parapets and trenched there,
And streched forth the knife to slay his son.
When lo! and angel called him out of heaven,
Saying, Lay not thy hand upon the lad,
Neither do anything to him. Behold,
A ram, caught in a thicket by its horns;
Offer the Ram of Pride instead of him.
But the old man would not so,
but slew his son, –
And half the seed of Europe, one by one.
Comment by Keith — 11/11/2005 @ 12:30 pm
Thank you, Jonathan for these tender thoughts.
Comment by kris — 11/11/2005 @ 12:34 pm
Kieth, that is one of the most poignant descriptors I have ever read. Thank you.
Comment by J. Stapley — 11/11/2005 @ 2:16 pm