Explainer
Creed
Time
Trauma
4 min read

The unusual power of silently remembering together

The collective silence of remembrance acts is unusual. Listen to its powerful lesson.

Christie Gilfeather writes about the Old Testament/Hebrew Bible and its relevance to culture. She has a PhD in Biblical Studies from the University of Cambridge and is a parish priest in Hertfordshire.

Princes and army officers walk away from a war memorial while others look on.
Then Prince Charles at the Cenotaph war memorial, 2017.
Number 10, CC BY 2.0, via Wikimedia Commons.

Every year on the 11th of November at 11am, people across the UK stop whatever they’re doing and keep a two minutes silence in honour of those who have died in war. This collective silence provides the opportunity to reflect on the loss of life and cost of peace. It gives us the chance to consider the conflicts raging around the world today.   

Collective silence is an unusual thing in our culture. There are few, if any, other opportunities for silence which are as widespread as the tradition at the centre of Remembrance Day. Silence is, however, a powerful tool in relation to suffering and death. It acts as a reminder that in the face of some horrors, there is simply nothing to say. Presence becomes all that we have to offer, because words simply cannot capture the depth of the sadness to which we bear witness. And we must bear witness to them.  

No words are said. People stand alongside each other and bear witness both to the grief and to the light of hope represented by the flickering candle.   

Remembrance Sunday is one part of the wider season of remembrance in the church. This season begins with the feast of All Soul’s, when the church gathers to remember by name those who have died.  

A powerful tradition lies at the heart of All Soul’s services: the priest reads out a list of names of the dead. If you are grieving a loved one, it is a great relief to hear someone else say their name. Grief can be intensely lonely and easily forgotten by others. But the church promises not to forget, honouring the beloved memories of those missing from our communities on the feast of All Souls. In many churches, after the list of names is read a silence is held in which the congregation comes forward to light a candle in memory of their loved one. No words are said. People stand alongside each other and bear witness both to the grief and to the light of hope represented by the flickering candle.   

The value of silence is easily lost in this world which prompts us to rush to speak about everything that is happening. The Bible, though, offers us examples of the power of times of silence and the wisdom that can emerge from them. 

They did not speak, because this was not a place for words. They remained with him to bear witness to his suffering without trying to resolve it.

At the beginning of the book of Job in the Old Testament, we find the protagonist in the midst of disaster. Job has lost everything, his home, his livestock, his family and his health. When Job’s friends hear about what has happened to him, they seek him out to be with him amid his suffering. The story tells us that  

‘They sat with him on the ground seven days and seven nights, and no one spoke a word to him, for they saw that his suffering was very great’.  
There are no platitudes here. No hastily put together explanation of why this might have happened or what Job needs to do about it. The friends saw that Job’s suffering was ‘very great’ and they allowed their presence to be enough. They did not speak, because this was not a place for words. They remained with him to bear witness to his suffering without trying to resolve it. In the story this silence eventually gives way to unhelpful words, but it is striking, nonetheless.  

We find another example of silence during grief in the New Testament. John’s gospel recounts the death of a friend of Jesus. Lazarus becomes ill and quickly dies, and upon hearing the news Jesus makes haste to join Lazarus’ sisters and bear witness to their pain. There is some dialogue in the story, but the most striking part of it comes when Jesus reaches the grave of his friend. The shortest verse in the Bible is found here. It simply says, 

‘Jesus wept’.  

At this point, Jesus doesn’t say anything. He simply weeps, moved as he is by the death of his friends and the grief of those around him. Jesus weeps, even though he knows that before long Lazarus will rise from the dead.  

But Jesus does not rush to the surprise and joy of resurrection. Jesus’ silence and his weeping is an example of what it means to grieve well alongside others when they are hurting. In what is perhaps one of the purest expressions of the human condition, Jesus responds to the weight of loss and the fragility of life in his silent bearing witness to the loss of his friend.  

When we bear witness to the suffering of others without seeking to fill it with our own explanations or opinions, we honour the loss that is before us.

Within the Christian tradition there are also many examples of protest and speech in response to injustice. Silence is vitally important, but at some point, it must give way to speech and action when questions about human dignity are at stake.  

But in order to know how to engage in resistance to that which diminishes others, periods of silence are necessary. When we bear witness to the suffering of others without seeking to fill it with our own explanations or opinions, we honour the loss that is before us. That is at the heart of the national two-minute silence for Remembrance Day. In remembering those who have died in war, and considering the conflict that marks our world today, we bear witness to the fragility of the human condition. Out of silence, comes the resources to know how to speak with wisdom.  

 

Article
Creed
Identity
Nationalism
4 min read

Born in Wales, made for more

Does where we are born matter?

Rachel is a reader and writer, a coach, and an educator. 

A boat rests on a mud bank of a river, hills are in the background.
River Loughor, near Llanelli, Wales.
Sean Alabaster on Unsplash.

I know someone who drove his labouring wife several hours, in the middle of the night, to cross the English border so that their child would be born in Wales.  

Though my passport states that I am British, people (especially my sister) tell me that I am unequivocally Welsh. I was indeed born and raised in Wales, a gentle but obvious accent remains as testament, but I have lived in Oxford for almost 30 years compared with only 18 lived in Llanelli.  

What does this mean? Is my identity staunchly based on where I was born? I’m not so sure. 

The same sister is angered by my disinterest in rugby as a Welsh mother of two English sons. One of her first gifts to my newborns was a pint-sized Welsh rugby jersey followed by larger unused versions as they have grown. Whilst watching a match she will unfailingly urge them to participate by sending photos of her two dogs in their Welsh rugby jerseys.  

My sons prefer rowing, climbing and swimming – I am an apparent disgrace!  

It’s not that I am not proud to be Welsh; I am entirely neutral on the matter. I love many things about Wales as well as I love many things about England. In all honesty, I love significantly more about Norway than either of these, even though I have no reason to live there or claim it as part of my identity. If a place were an accurate reflection of a person, Norway would be much closer to the mark for so many reasons.  

There are many things that are particularly special about my birthplace – the countryside is beautiful, without doubt. I cannot tell you how much I miss mountains and hillsides from where you can sit and enjoy all the twinkling lights of a town of an evening. Oxford has its beauty, but mountains are not part of it.  

Wales is truly a place of music and song. Everybody sings and the songs come from deep inside your bones. It’s a very pure and primal sound as mellifluous and unadulterated as honey straight from the comb.  

And then there is the language which is funny and complicated in equal measure. Where else will you find both golff and Llanfairpwllgwyngyllgogerychwyrndrobwllllantysiliogogogoch? 

This brings me to the inspiration for these particular ramblings, which is the word, ‘hiraeth’ (pronounced hee-rye-th).  

It is one of those special words almost impossible to translate. It expresses a particular longing or yearning for a time and place that can never be returned to fully. It includes, but is insufficient, to think about nostalgia. It is a soul word: transcendental.  

Though my childhood was far from easy, there are things for which I feel intense hiraeth – moments with important people; the encouragement of my music teacher; the shovel-sized hands of my grandfather and the belly rock of his silent chuckles; days out cycling with my friend, Paul, and picking out the millions of bones from my mouth as I ate countless impromptu dinners offered by his lovely, generous mother made from the trout that his father had invariably caught a few days earlier.  

Those days will forever be feelings fully alive in me but invisible to others until I share them like this. I wish I could replay them on old cinefilm for others to understand but, you just had to be there to know.  

I have the same hiraeth for so many days shared with my husband and sons, not least the precious days surrounding their births. They’re not tied to places; they’re all bound with love.  

Love has nothing whatsoever to do with my passport because there is no official stamp that says, ‘Child of God’ and yet, if it did how might we each identify? Would nationality matter? Would where we were born be of any consequence at all ? I hope not.  

Sometimes, perhaps often, my hiraeth is for a time gone - before the internet, smartphones and AI, a world without guns and nuclear weapons, where, like William Morris, we had nothing in our homes that were not either useful or beautiful, an era where we ate seasonally and lived in harmony with nature… 

I wish that my children could experience that existence but, despite my longings, I must accept they are made for a different time and place. 

In his writings, C.S. Lewis uses the German word ‘sehnsucht’ to express a similar sense of longing. As ever, I find that his words explain things to me in a way that provides great comfort and challenge as I ponder:  

“If I find in myself desires which nothing in this world can satisfy, the only logical explanation is that I was made for another world.”  

So, perhaps, the best I can say is that I was born in Wales, matured in England, but made for something more.  

How about you? 

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