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I imagine I am not the only Christian of my
generation that, at this time of year, reflects on the lives of our
fathers, the wars they fought and the sacrifices they made. My own father
served in the siege of Malta and, given his diffidence in my growing-up
years, I only know from books what he and his mates had to suffer in
that terrible place. Surely I am not the only Christian in this comfortable
western culture to feel a little guilty at having it so good at such
great cost to them. Not the only one to feel I have cheated somehow
and do not really know what it is to face death daily and consider eternity
every moment. Such 'reality' is still known by men and women even today
both in military conflict and in other types of conflict, battlegrounds
of the faith - but not me. I am thankful and wear a poppy.
These things don't feel so close to me as it did to that generation,
and there is the danger. Peace and prosperity easily breed a culture
of ease and complacency and I wonder what we might learn from that generation
about duty and constancy to apply even in our own lives. After all,
we will all die and we will all face judgement - it just doesn't seem
that way right now. I have been looking through some old WWI poetry
and found the following by Revd Geoffrey Kenedy MC, CF, who served in
the war as a padre and was better known as Woodbine Willy. It impresses
me because it reflects the thoughts of a man who looked death in the
face every day as he walked the trenches handing out woodbine cigarettes,
offering comfort and burying the dead. He had no time for frippery and
complacency in matters of faith and spent his life and ministry bringing
God's message to the poor and disaffected ignored by more 'respectable'
Christian ministers.
Well!
Our Padre were a solemn bloke,
We called 'im dismal Jim.
It fairly gave ye t' bloomin' creeps,
To sit and 'ark at 'im,
When he were on wi' Judgment Day,
Abaht that great white Throne,
And 'ow each chap would 'ave to stand,
And answer on 'is own.
And if 'e tried to charnce 'is arm,
And 'ide a single sin,
There'd be the angel Gabriel,
Wi' books to do 'im in.
'E 'ad it all writ dahn, 'e said,
And nothin' could be 'id,
'E 'ad it all i' black and white,
And 'E would take no kid.
And every single idle word,
A soldier charnced to say,
'E'd 'ave it all thrown back at 'im,
I' court on Judgment Day.
Well I kep' mindin' Billy Briggs,
A pal o' mine what died.
'E went to 'elp our sergeant Smith,
But as 'e reached 'is side,
There came and bust atween 'is legs,
A big Boche 5.9 pill.
And I picked up 'is corpril's stripes,
That's all there was o' Bill.
I called to mind a stinkin' night
When we was carryin' tea.
We went round there by Limerick Lane,
And Bill was a'ead o' me.
'Twere rainin' 'eavens 'ard, ye know,
And t' boards were thick wi' muck,
And umpteen times we slithered dahn,
And got the dicksee stuck.
Well when we got there by the switch,
A loose board tipped right up,
And Bill, 'e turned a somersault,
And dahn 'e came, and whup!
I've 'eard men blind, I've 'eard 'em cuss
And I've 'eard 'em do it 'ard,
Well 'aven't I 'eard our R.S.M.,
Inspectin' special guard.
But t'other night I dreamed a dream,
And just twixt me and you,
I never dreamed like that afore,
I arf thinks it were true.
I dreamed as I were dead, ye see,
At least as I 'ad died,
For I were very much alive,
Out there on t'other side.
I couldn't see no judgment court,
Nor yet that great white throne,
I couldn't see no record books,
I seemed to stand alone.
I seemed to stand alone, beside
A solemn kind o' sea.
Its waves they got in my inside,
And touched my memory.
And day by day, and year by year,
My life came back to me.
I see'd just what I were, and what
I'd 'ad the charnce to be.
And all the good I might 'a' done,
An' 'adn't stopped to do.
I see'd I'd made an 'ash of it,
And Gawd! but it were true
A throng 'o faces came and went,
Afore me on that shore,
My wife, and Mother, kiddies, pals,
And the face of a London whore.
And some was sweet, and some was sad,
And some put me to shame,
For the dirty things I'd done to 'em,
When I 'adn't played the game.
Then in the silence someone stirred,
Like when a sick man groans,
And a kind o' shivering chill ran through
The marrer ov my bones.
And there before me someone stood,
Just lookin' dahn at me,
And still be'ind 'Im moaned and moaned
That everlasting sea.
I couldn't speak, I felt as though
'E 'ad me by the throat,
'Twere like a drownin' fellah feels,
Last moment 'e's afloat.
And 'E said nowt, 'E just stood still,
For I dunno 'ow long.
It seemed to me like years and years,
But time out there's all wrong.
What was 'E like? You're askin' now.
Can't word it anyway.
'E just were 'Im, that's all I knows.
There's things as words can't say.
It seemed to me as though 'Is face,
Were millions rolled in one.
It never changed yet always changed,
Like the sea beneath the sun.
'Twere all men's face yet no man's face,
And a face no man can see,
And it seemed to say in silent speech,
'Ye did 'em all to me.
'The dirty things ye did to them,
'The filth ye thought was fine,
'Ye did 'em all to me,' it said,
'For all their souls were mine.'
All eyes was in 'Is eyes, - all eyes,
My wife's and a million more.
And once I thought as those two eyes
Were the eyes of the London whore.
And they was sad, - My Gawd 'ow sad,
With tears that seemed to shine,
And quivering bright wi' the speech o' light,
They said, ''Er soul was mine.'
And then at last 'E said one word,
'E just said one word 'Well?'
And I said in a funny voice,
'Please can I go to 'Ell?'
And 'E stood there and looked at me,
And 'E kind o' seemed to grow,
Till 'E shone like the sun above my ead,
And then 'E answered 'No
'You can't, that 'Ell is for the blind,
'And not for those that see.
'You know that you 'ave earned it, lad,
'So you must follow me.
'Follow me on by the paths o' pain,
'Seeking what you 'ave seen,
'Until at last you can build the "Is,"
'Wi' the bricks o' the "Might 'ave been."'
That's what 'E said, as I'm alive,
And that there dream were true.
But what 'E meant, - I don't quite know,
Though I knows what I 'as to do.
I's got to follow what I's seen,
Till this old carcase dies.
For I daren't face the land o' grace,
The sorrow ov those eyes.
There ain't no throne, and there ain't no books,
It's 'Im you've got to see,
It's 'Im, just 'Im, that is the Judge
Of blokes like you and me.
And boys I'd sooner frizzle up,
I' the flames of a burning 'Ell,
Than stand and look into 'Is face,
And 'ear 'Is voice say - 'Well?'
I imagine we could pick over the theology and argue with the phraseology.
But I simply ask us all one question - are we prepared to face 'Im as
though it might be today? Do we, like 'Willy', determine to take seriously
the message of salvation and take it to the lost and dying? May we set
out this week determined to build the "Is" of our lives with the bricks
of "Might 'ave been" and learn to serve such that we can say with Paul:
I have fought the good fight, I have
finished the race, I have kept the faith. Now there is in store for
me the crown of righteousness, which the Lord, the righteous Judge,
will award me on that day - and not only me, but also to all who have
longed for his appearing (2 Timothy 6:7-8)
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