Against Pelagius (probably)

Preached Remembrance Sunday (12th November) 2023, St Michael's Stockwell

Amos 5.18-24
Psalm 70
1 Thessalonians 4.13–end
Matthew 25.1–13

There is a lot of about justice in the readings today, and in context of today, today’s war, indeed any war, justice is hard to locate:

• Where was the justice on the 7th October when Hamas killed women and children.
• Where was the justice yesterday, and plenty of others, when Israeli forces bombed hospitals where children are under care.
• Where indeed is the justice when this conflict has been on the headline of every bulletin for a month, yet there are twenty other conflicts running that killed over a thousand people last year.

These positions are complex, and murky, and need a better political analysis than I am capable of, or than I am intending to give. They, and every war, are the backdrop to our thinking about justice, and about remembrance. It throws our readings into sharp relief.

And they made me think of two distinctly unbiblical quotations. The first is from the 1970s US comedy MASH, set in the Korean war, where there’s an argument about whether war is hell. No, ‘War is war, and Hell is Hell. And … war is a lot worse.’ Sinners go to Hell, but “There are no innocent bystanders in Hell, but war is chock full of them.” Divine justice is simpler than human justice. You know who the baddies are. And we long for the simplicity of divine justice: here is Paul who tells us that living and dead will receive their reward; here the Psalmist who talks of the coming of the Lord. They are waiting for divine justice.

The other quotation that came to me while I was preparing for today I first encountered in an Agatha Christie murder mystery (Hercule Poirot’s Christmas - an excellent seasonal read). It’s actually 2000 years older, about the time of Jesus: the mills of God grind slowly, but they grind exceedingly fine. That’s the justice people think they they are looking for. In the Second World War, both Churchill and Roosevelt quoted that line when promising retribution for the extermination of the Jews. Divine justice is transmuted into human vengeance.

But they are rather assuming that they, we, will be on the right side. And I think we all should be reading the book of Amos more closely. Amos is one of my favourite prophets. Not that he thinks he is a prophet. He is a shepherd – he tells people this several times in the book. He is an outsider. He stands apart from the establishment.

And he hates everyone: he hates the leadership of Israel, the pre-Christian northern Kingdom, not this one; he hates the priests; he hates the people: 'I despise your festivals, and I take no delight in your solemn assemblies …. I will not listen to the melody of your harps.' He hates the complacency of the Psalmist: 'Alas for you who desire the day of the Lord! Why do you want the day of the Lord? It is darkness, not light.'  The standard of divine justice may be simpler, but it's much much higher than human justice, and everyone fails.

It’s the same in the gospel. The bridesmaids who fail are not enemies. They do not face the bridegroom across a fortified border. They are part of the wedding party. They’re us. And they have failed. And they are locked out. We long for justice, but we will not be ready when it comes. Slightly annoyingly, the very next verse of Thessalonians is the famous one that says that the ‘the day of the Lord comes like a thief in the night.’ It seems a missed opportunity. We should prepare, we will try to prepare, but we will not be ready. We will fail.

Where does that leave justice? And where does that leave remembrance?

Firstly, this doesn’t negate the striving. There are bridesmaids with flasks of oil. People should and will do the right thing. The Nazis were wrong. We should remember those who faced war and didn’t come back, and those who did and were marked by it forever. Every year, every news headline, I am conscious of my vast privilege of living away from war for my whole life – not the case for everyone here. I honour that. We should not be putting our judgement aside.

But we should also remember the limits of human justice and human action. We should think of those who were just in the wrong place, which at times is everyone. The fourth century heretic Pelagius is felt to have argued that humanity has autonomy enough to choose not to sin. Amos would say otherwise. When we think of war, we must recognise that human justice, however effective, has its limits. People cannot do the right thing all the time. We are remembering people who tried, not people who were perfect. People will fail.

Amos believes in justice. He believes it’s going to come. He just doesn’t think we’re going to pass. But listen to how he describes it: let justice roll down like waters, and righteousness like an ever-flowing stream. He does not reach for the metaphor of the refiner’s fire – that’s Malachi – but water. Justice is broad, not narrow, replenished, not spent, cleansing, not destructive, and life giving, not deadly. It is not just retribution, but bounty.

So, knowing we will fall short. But also knowing that righteousness will come. We remember. And we hope for the ever-flowing stream of the love of God.