"Sermon for Memorial Day"

There was a time when people were hopeful that some day we would put an end to war forever. In 1898, a book called "The War of the Future," written by Ivan S. Bloch, a Russian, "argued that war had become so costly, so murderous, and so complicated, that it was impossible to win, and war was therefore bound to become obsolete." That's what I think - though now, over a hundred years later, with no progress having been made, I sometimes wonder if I am wrong.

But Bloch was right about what war is. War is still costly; as we all know from its plundering of our national budget. It is still murderous; in Iraq alone, it has claimed over eight hundred Americans, one hundred and ten coalition troops, and somewhere around ten thousand Iraqi civilians. Complicated - more than ever; unless you subscribe to an over-simplified explanation, reducing everything to good against evil. And impossible to win - just how impossible, we are beginning to understand.

Wherever you stood when this war began, whether you considered it a sober necessity or a travesty of justice, we all can agree that its consequences have been tragic. We come together now, as people came together for the first Memorial Day, grieving and wishing we didn't know what kind of cruelty humankind is capable of inflicting on each other.

Ever since its inception after the Civil War, Memorial Day has been a time to mourn the dead of all sides, a time to honor their sacrifice, and a time to feel remorse - not pride - for what we have done. I am sad today, feeling the weary weight of each day's news, the sorry fact of all these deaths. With the recent warning that something big is coming this summer - a terrorist plot to "hit us hard," as we were told - I feel not only sad but anxious as well. Where will all this end? And when? Will we ever celebrate that war is at long last obsolete?

Social historian Theodore Zeldin writes in his book, "An Intimate History of Humanity," that war has never been "a wholly efficient method of achieving one's aims." We haven't yet found an alternative, however. "So far," he writes, "humans have used three strategies to deal with their enemies: fight them, run away or somehow manage to love them. But none of these methods," he observes, "has been particularly successful, and the world is full of enemies."

The world is indeed full of enemies - some living as close as San Diego, according to the "Los Angeles Times." Since we cannot run away and only a few spiritually inspired pacifists believe we can ever love them, it would seem that all we can do is fight them. And watch the casualties grow, and the cruelties pile on top of each other, until we ask ourselves what has become of our humanity.

It sounds grim, because it is grim. The propensity towards war is not something a few hawkish politicians goad and coerce, it is a part of human nature in each of us - all too easily exploited by others, perhaps, but very real. The animals of the West African bush, according to our children's story, observed the human display of aggression and decided to part company with us then and there. The man shot one of the elephants. Then he asked, "Wasn't that strength?" "No," the animals concluded. "That was DEATH." As the animals saw us, we are the ones who do not know the difference between strength and death. Perhaps the need to make war is part of our nature. "Humans have continued to fight wars," Zeldin explains, "not merely because they cannot agree, but even more so because so many have loved the exhilarating sensations it created." With danger comes an awareness of being fully alive, a bond with one's comrades that is akin to love, and a survivor's sense of grace that is as close to transcendence as anyone can get.

"Animosity against enemies has been a steadfast substitute for positive goals in life," says Zeldin. Hate comes more easily to us than the desire to understand another's differences. Hate is simple, while the desire to understand brings ambiguity, empathy, and a reluctance to confront with hostility.

What makes it possible to do the things war asks us to do is not knowing anything about the other, and not wanting to. To go to war requires us not to see our enemy as human. That's all it takes to bring out the part of ourselves that the animals fear.

We have been shocked to see the spectacle of the abuse inflicted on the Iraqi prisoners. War leads people, especially desperate people, to commit horrific acts. The revulsion we feel may seem to serve no good purpose. Yet in the end it may save us.

Revulsion shows us the way to compassion. How can we not look at those pictures of frightened and humiliated prisoners, without becoming sensitive to their humanity? Whatever was going on in the soldiers who perpetrated the torture - whether it was the deviance of a few bad actors or, more likely, a practice condoned by their superiors and nurtured by hatred and fear - in the end, it drew our attention to the need for decency, for respect, for compassion. If it made war less acceptable to the public, it has been instructive.

Compassion makes war difficult to consider and impossible to carry out. It challenges us to look for alternatives; it lowers our tolerance for injustice; it makes us look more deeply inside ourselves. And when we look, we see that our own humanity is connected to the humanity of others.

There is no war in us when we sleep, as we heard in the meditation this morning. We are all like children then, innocent and vulnerable. "If only we could talk with each other then," Rolf Jacobsen writes, "when hearts are like half-open flowers," we might learn how not to hurt each other. And know what to do about our differences.

Whatever differences there may be - and there are many differences, unfathomable, mind-boggling differences - we are still linked in this human way. If we treat them as less than human, we know what that makes us. And this is not what we want to become.

Our Unitarian Universalist principles and practices address this challenge directly. They appeal to the part of ourselves that aspires for mutual respect and dignity, the high road in human relations. We all are capable of the low road, at times, under duress, indulging ourselves in the simplicity of hatred. Our faith helps us to avoid hate and grow towards compassion.

It is a spiritual discipline to live up to the ideal of the inherent dignity and worth of every person. Yet we name it and work towards it. It makes us better people - though not perfect people; better than we might be without it. And it invites us to think about others - not as the enemy, not as an element to be eradicated, but as people to be understood.

According to Theodore Zeldin, understanding others is the alternative to war; it is the social frontier and ultimately, our salvation. "Understanding others," he writes, "is the great adventure . . . more ambitious than the ancient obsession with conquest. Exploring the mystery of other people's thoughts and feelings is the new spiritual quest. Finding empathy is the new reward of intimacy."

This idea gives me hope that humanity is capable of evolving in ways that will someday take us beyond war. Understanding others and developing empathy and compassion are goals we achieve in community - communities such as this one, with our ideals of mutual dignity and respect. Deeper than mere tolerance, and humble before the unknown, our effort is taking us where we need to go. "A new adventure has begun," Zeldin writes, and "though old habits survive," new patterns of behavior lead us to the possibility of a better world. With renewed hope and faith in our humanity, we may still find our way to peace.

Statistics about American casualties are readily available, but the Iraqi toll is less well known. The source I used is http://www.iraqibodycount.net, which places the number of civilians killed at somewhere between 9187-11046. They admit that this number is probably low, but they are recording only documented deaths.

The other reference used for this sermon is Theodore Zeldin's delightful "An Intimate History of Humanity" (New York: Harper Collins, 1994).