by Laurence Binyon

With proud thanksgiving, a mother for her children,
England mourns for her dead across the sea.
Flesh of her flesh they were, spirit of her spirit,
Fallen in the cause of the free.

Solemn the drums thrill; Death august and royal
Sings sorrow up into immortal spheres,
There is music in the midst of desolation
And a glory that shines upon our tears.

They went with songs to the battle, they were young,
Straight of limb, true of eye, steady and aglow.
They were staunch to the end against odds uncounted;
They fell with their faces to the foe.

They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old:
Age shall not weary them, nor the years contemn.
At the going down of the sun and in the morning
We will remember them.

They mingle not with their laughing comrades again;
They sit no more at familiar tables of home;
They have no lot in our labour of the day-time;
They sleep beyond England’s foam.

But where our desires are and our hopes profound,
Felt as a well-spring that is hidden from sight,
To the innermost heart of their own land they are known
As the stars are known to the Night;

As the stars that shall be bright when we are dust,
Moving in marches upon the heavenly plain;
As the stars that are starry in the time of our darkness,
To the end, to the end, they remain.
Source: The London Times (1914)

It is almost time for another Memorial Day. Just a little over a month to go. I served during the time of Vietnam but never had to actually go there. And yet, it is at this time of the year that I remember just how much of a frightened 19-year-old I was when I was drafted. I was just a teenager, and definitely not yet mentally an adult. I became an adult in the Army, as I realized that death was real and people were really injured. But, it was also during my Army time that I realized that I had a calling to the ministry. Both my “adulthood” and my calling came during that frightening time. I learned to serve others. I learned to look at damaged bodies. I learned to help a Pathologist in performing an autopsy. Looking back at it, it seems strange. Before I was 21, I already knew what the inside of a cadaver looked like.

I remember the people with whom I served. Frankly, they were no angels. Some of them were very caring individuals. Some specialized in getting drunk every weekend, “for tomorrow we die.” But, they were there. I did not serve in that theater of war, but I most certainly understand the title of the movie, “We were soldiers.” Back during Vietnam, we were pictured as baby-killers, etc. Now, during an even longer war, soldiers are pictured as heroes, almost regardless of what they do. Both images are completely wrong. We were soldiers. Some of us fought. Some of us, like me, concentrated on healing those injured in the conflict. We were human beings. We were young and confused. We were not sure. We doubted. We were scared. But, we served. We bonded. We did the best we could and we still do the best we could in circumstances that are more often governed by political concerns than by solid military planning.

None of that is new. The poem from World War I quoted above tends to overly sanctify us, in some of the verses. But, the poem above also brings me to tears at times. “They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old: Age shall not weary them, nor the years contemn. At the going down of the sun and in the morning, we will remember them.” Memorial Day is not about making us into saints or sinners. Memorial Day is about remembering and saying, “we will remember them.” It about looking around solemnly and promising–on the graves of those who have passed on before us–that we will do what is possible to avoid war and to seek peace that they may rest in peace. Let war be the last resort and not the first. At the same time, let us not fear to defend the helpless and the oppressed. Those are not contradictory statements. They are the foundations of a sane geopolitical policy.

This world is not perfect. I do not believe in a just war, as I think that Saint Augustine was wrong, as do many Orthodox theologians. But, like them, I realize that war may sometimes be the lesser of two evils. We owe our less-than-perfect dead the promise that we will do what we can to avoid the evil of war. We owe the living around the world the promise that we will stand with the helpless and the oppressed. Those are not easy promises to keep, nor should they be mouthed by facile politicians who specialize in deluding us. Those promises need to be uttered by men and women of good will every Memorial Day. We also owe our dead the remembering of them as they were, imperfect but willing to serve, scared but courageous enough to go out, young but old beyond their years. We need to remember the real soldiers, as they were, for that is the best honor we can give them.