Dedication of the War Memorial Plaque of Servicemen of the Parish who died of their wounds in November and December 1918, Sourton, 31/3/2012
An expression we all know is that history is written by the victors. What that means is that those who have garnered the most power and influence in a society, are able to use their influence to ensure that their version of historical events becomes the official, accepted one.
But we also know that there are other versions of history, less heralded, unpromoted, which are just as true in their own way, perhaps truer, than the sanctioned ones, and these are the stories of ordinary people, their history told not from the top but from the underside, where things often look quite different.
Our generations – of those who have lived through and in the aftermath of the twentieth century’s two global wars – we are notable for having brought these hidden histories to the surface. For we are people for whom remembrance, in all its forms, is important. And in particular, remembering those who have served their country in war, valuing their achievements, however modest, giving thanks for their character, however unknown outside of their family, their parish, and their military unit.
Increasingly in recent times people have found it important to record the names of those who had been otherwise forgotten – who had not been granted a place in the official histories, because of some administrative error or bureaucratic negligence. So that their service will be remembered, so that their lives will be recalled. So that their stories will be told.
And so that is what we are doing here today – writing history, on a stone plaque which will prove to be as lasting as all the other rocks piled up on this ancient granite hillside. It is good to be cementing the memories of family, friends, companions-in-arms, by placing their names on this memorial plaque. Generations to come will see them written there, and some will enquire of them, do research on them, and their hidden histories will be revealed again.
It is so fitting to be doing this in a church – rewriting history from the perspective of the previously unrecorded, revealing the stories of the previously forgotten – because churches are storehouses of a community’s history: look around you at the other plaques on the wall – each an icon conveying the chapter headings of someone’s life, latent with background stories, the source of endless fascination for visitors interested in unearthing the life histories these memorials hint at.
It is fitting to be writing the history of these local servicemen in this church in this way because it cements the lasting ties with local families. Their life histories are tragically short, theirs is a story of sad untimely loss, and this church is a fitting place to grapple with the pain and difficulty of conflict and loss, for its very name is of a man who became the victim of a political assassination – St Thomas of Canterbury, murdered in his own cathedral in the year 1170, by four knights including two Devon men. Their descendents gave this church its name, perhaps as an act of penitence for their ancestors’ brutality.
It is fitting to come into any church to remember the victims of conflict, for in churches, in prayer, the bereaved and conflicted can encounter the Spirit of God, who is for us, not against us, a God who we can call out to in distress in confidence that he will hear us, ‘Christ Jesus, who died, yes, who was raised, who is at the right hand of God, who […] intercedes for us’, in the words of St Paul.
It is fitting to come into church to remember those otherwise forgotten by history, for in the scriptures we read here we realise that the story of Jesus is the story of an outsider, whose history was far from the sanctioned version of events, a history told not from the top but from the underside, as he travelled among the ordinary folk of the outlying villages, preaching, teaching, and healing, accompanied by a ragtag bunch of everyday followers, and especially as he hung on the cross, the innocent, if willing, victim of an execution by society’s powerful ones, under the watchful eyes of the Roman military guard.
The most remarkable chapter in the hidden history of Jesus is that of his resurrection, a world-changing act which outshines any human conquest – the act of love overcoming hatred, good overcoming evil, for all time and eternity. The hidden history of the crucified and risen Christ is quite unlike any history written by a conventional victor – and yet the victory of the resurrection is at the very hub of human history. It changed things for us all, forever.
Whether the brutality of Jesus’ unjustified execution, or the terrible loss of the servicemen we honour today, St Paul tells us that ‘in all these things we are more than conquerors through him who loved us.’ Because of the resurrection he had the confidence to say that ‘I am convinced that neither death, nor life, nor angels, nor rulers, nor things present, nor things to come, nor powers, nor height, nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God in Christ Jesus our Lord.’
Ultimately that is why it is good to dedicate this memorial plaque in Sourton church today. Because the plaque affirms this great truth: that the stories of these honest and honourable servicemen intertwine with the story of the Son of God himself, who suffered alongside them in his crucifixion, died along with them on the cross, and offers eternal life to them through his resurrection, as he does to each one of us.
