jacquelyne
04-15-2005, 01:38 AM
This is for my great grandpa who served Australia in the RAAF and died in battle in WW1 at age 24 and for my Grandfather who served in WW2 in the RAAF as a leading aircraftsman.He rode his horse form the country to sydney to enlist to go to Lae in New Guinea it was a few days on horseback for him.He was also 24 years old married and had 5 kids by then and my father was his first.In WW1 there were 9 casualties who served in my family and aredburied in memorials all over the world depending on where they died.All AIR FORCE 7 Privates, a gunner and a Battery Quartermaster Serjeant who were in the Australian field Artillery.In WW2 there were 4 casualties in my family from the airforce,Army and infantry.I appreciate and respect them for what they did for us serving and some dying for their country.I loved my grandpa he died when i was quite young and was very religious and a strong catholic.
The Dawn Service
A typical commemoration begins with a march by returned service personnel before dawn to the local war memorial. Military personnel and returned service-men and -women form up about the memorial, joined by other members of the community, with pride of place going to the war veterans. A short service follows with a prayer, hymns (including Kipling's 'Recessional' or 'Lest We Forget'), and a dedication which concludes with the last verse of Laurence Binyon's 'For the Fallen':
They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old:
Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn.
At the going down of the sun and in the morning
We will remember them.
'Lest We Forget'
The Last Post is then played, followed by a minute's silence and Reveille. A brief address follows, after which the hymn 'Recessional' is sung. The service concludes with a closing prayer and the singing of the National Anthem.
Lest we Forget: Remembering Anzac
They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old;
Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn.
At the going down of the sun, and in the morning
We will remember them.
Lest we forget.
Lest we forget. That final line of the Ode to the Fallen is repeated each Anzac Day in
much the same way as we repeat the responses at Communion. Lest we forget. Itâ??s
like a mantra that calls us to remember the past, and as we reflect we hope and pray
that we can do things better, we look forward and hope and pray for peace in a world
which has seen very little peace, and where peace seems further away than ever. Lest
we forget. These words could have been the mantra of the Hebrew people.
Remembering was an important part of their spiritual life. Their liturgies and their
stories were all designed to recall that great event in their history; the day when their
God remembered them, when they were miraculously rescued from slavery in Egypt,
and brought out into their own land. Remembering was a keystone of their lives
together, and it shaped their story, their identity, and their understanding of God.
There have been moments in my life, powerful moments when I sensed God was with
me. When life is difficult, and God seems absent somehow, then I say to myself
â??remember whenâ?¦â?? and I recall those times as a defence against doubt and
hopelessness. As we gather each week around the altar, we do so lest we forget. We
retell the story of Godâ??s love, love manifested and brought to fulfilment in Jesus
Christ. Thatâ??s what weâ??re here to do today.
Itâ??s a strange thing when Anzac Day falls on a Sunday â?? Anzac Dayâ??s not normally
one of the festivals the Church celebrates, and our liturgical order tends to pass it by.
And indeed, it would be a strange thing if we gathered around the altar today, in the
middle of the Easter season, at a time when we come together to remember the one
who said to his disciples â??Peace be with you, my peace I give youâ??, the one who died
so that wars might cease, and that enemies might be forgiven, to glorify war, or to
Lynda McMinn Micah 4:1-4; Ps 46; p2
Hebrews 10:32-11:1; John 15:9-17
engage in some kind of nationalistic triumphalism. There would be something
fundamentally incongruous about doing that.
Yet it would be strange if we didnâ??t have Anzac Day in mind as we gather today. In
Australian civil society, this day is about as special as it gets. If we believe that Godâ??s
Holy Spirit works to bring about spiritual awareness in us through all the
circumstances of our life and through our culture, that God isnâ??t separate from these
things, then we should be alert to whatever is tugging at our memory and imagination
and our emotions on a day like this. If we find spiritual value in Anzac Day, then it is
God who reveals it to us. So we shouldnâ??t be casual or dismissive about it. Itâ??s our
business to be wherever God shows himself, rather than demanding that God be where
we look or where we choose to be. Itâ??s our business to connect with the spiritual heart
of our community. Anzac Day has become a day of spiritual reflection for our nation,
a day of exposing pain and loss, of reminding ourselves about the futility of war; a
day when we pause to reflect on the complex path to peace, and to pray that it will
come about. Itâ??s in this spirit that we meet and remember here today, and itâ??s in this
spirit that the Christian story links with the spiritual narratives of our nationhood.
The other reason to remember Anzac Day, to remember all those from every nation
who have either lived through or died in those major world wars, and all those whoâ??ve
been affected by the living and the dying is this; in some measure this is where we all
are. To some extent we are all part of the dark ecosystem of violence. In some ways
our minds and hearts are all tainted by the deadliness of conflict wherever itâ??s found.
People just like you and me are doing dreadful things to each other, and having
dreadful things done to them and to their families every day â?? and itâ??s happening in
more parts of the earth than are on the front pages of our newspapers. War and
violence and terror arenâ??t only something we call to mind from the past, they
accompany our lives day by day.
History has shown us the ambiguity of heroic causes. Gallipoli has become a myth, a
significant national story, and one which stands on common ground with Christianity.
It tells of victory out of defeat, of hope that rises out of the ashes of despair, and it
speaks of freedom from injustice. It is Christ's compassion that helps us hear the pain
expressed in the Gallipoli myth, compassion for which he died. There is a sense in
Lynda McMinn Micah 4:1-4; Ps 46; p3
Hebrews 10:32-11:1; John 15:9-17
which Christians also assume a profound solidarity at the point of human frailty and
vulnerability. The passion of Christ becomes an invitation to solidarity with all who
are violated or all who suffer and an opportunity for redemption and renewed life
within the suffering.
If we take seriously Jesusâ?? claim that he has come that we might have life and that we
might live that life to the full, then we must ask whether there is an Anzac Cove in our
hearts, a Gallipoli of pain and resentment, that makes us part of that ecosystem of
violence. Hatred fuels war and distorts our hearts and fouls the spirit, while every act
of reconciliation and forgiveness brings hope, and freshens the atmosphere.
So when we gather to be part of the living embodiment of Christ â?? we do well to
remember that he said whatever was done to the least of his human brothers and
sisters was done to him. When in this Eucharist we come to commune with the God
of all life, we are also communing with those in whose sufferings Christ, and life itself
is insulted. In our prayers, as we so often do, we will pray for peace. As we do so
our praying isnâ??t just an abstraction. We are praying that the divine pity, the one who
said that first Easter, â??my peace I leave with you, my peace I give youâ?? â?? might have
entrance into all human hearts right now at this moment. One of the great Christian
truths is that we not only hope for peace like some impossible dream, but we can live
as if it were here. We live with the now and the not yet. The challenge is for hope not
to be abstract, but real, and to live in the light of that hope; to act as if peace were part
of life now and to work to make it happen.
The reading from the prophet Micah tells us of this future; in that day, he tells us, in
that day, swords will be beaten into ploughshares, and spears into pruning hooks;
nation shall not lift up sword against nation, neither shall they learn war anymore.
The Lord of hosts has spoken. These words seem remote as we look at our world, as
do the words Jesus spoke to his disciples in Johnâ??s Gospel. Love one another as I
have loved you. Our relationship with each other, people with people, nation with
nation, natural allies with natural enemies, is to be love. Impossible we think. Yet we
are to act and live as if this kind of love is present. We are called to be icons in the
world of the way the world could be, the living embodiment of Christâ??s hands and feet
and heart.
Lynda McMinn Micah 4:1-4; Ps 46; p4
Hebrews 10:32-11:1; John 15:9-17
The writer to the Hebrews puts it clearly. Recall the days when life was hard,
remember, but reflect too that on the confidence you have in Christ. Faith is the
assurance of things hoped for, the conviction of things not seen.
Today we will come with our sprigs of rosemary for remembrance, and we will place
them on the altar, calling to mind the stories of our nation, the stories of those who
sacrificed everything to ensure our freedom, and calling to mind own stories that
remind us how hope and possibility spring up from ashes and loss. We will come
with our candles, and as we light them, we will hope and pray for peace in our world
and in our lives; hope that is more than wishing or longing, hope that is fuelled by
faith that God has promised. This is our confidence; God has not abandoned the
world to violence and pain but is in and among us, bringing it to fulfilment.
Lest we forget.
Anzac Day 2004
The Dawn Service
A typical commemoration begins with a march by returned service personnel before dawn to the local war memorial. Military personnel and returned service-men and -women form up about the memorial, joined by other members of the community, with pride of place going to the war veterans. A short service follows with a prayer, hymns (including Kipling's 'Recessional' or 'Lest We Forget'), and a dedication which concludes with the last verse of Laurence Binyon's 'For the Fallen':
They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old:
Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn.
At the going down of the sun and in the morning
We will remember them.
'Lest We Forget'
The Last Post is then played, followed by a minute's silence and Reveille. A brief address follows, after which the hymn 'Recessional' is sung. The service concludes with a closing prayer and the singing of the National Anthem.
Lest we Forget: Remembering Anzac
They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old;
Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn.
At the going down of the sun, and in the morning
We will remember them.
Lest we forget.
Lest we forget. That final line of the Ode to the Fallen is repeated each Anzac Day in
much the same way as we repeat the responses at Communion. Lest we forget. Itâ??s
like a mantra that calls us to remember the past, and as we reflect we hope and pray
that we can do things better, we look forward and hope and pray for peace in a world
which has seen very little peace, and where peace seems further away than ever. Lest
we forget. These words could have been the mantra of the Hebrew people.
Remembering was an important part of their spiritual life. Their liturgies and their
stories were all designed to recall that great event in their history; the day when their
God remembered them, when they were miraculously rescued from slavery in Egypt,
and brought out into their own land. Remembering was a keystone of their lives
together, and it shaped their story, their identity, and their understanding of God.
There have been moments in my life, powerful moments when I sensed God was with
me. When life is difficult, and God seems absent somehow, then I say to myself
â??remember whenâ?¦â?? and I recall those times as a defence against doubt and
hopelessness. As we gather each week around the altar, we do so lest we forget. We
retell the story of Godâ??s love, love manifested and brought to fulfilment in Jesus
Christ. Thatâ??s what weâ??re here to do today.
Itâ??s a strange thing when Anzac Day falls on a Sunday â?? Anzac Dayâ??s not normally
one of the festivals the Church celebrates, and our liturgical order tends to pass it by.
And indeed, it would be a strange thing if we gathered around the altar today, in the
middle of the Easter season, at a time when we come together to remember the one
who said to his disciples â??Peace be with you, my peace I give youâ??, the one who died
so that wars might cease, and that enemies might be forgiven, to glorify war, or to
Lynda McMinn Micah 4:1-4; Ps 46; p2
Hebrews 10:32-11:1; John 15:9-17
engage in some kind of nationalistic triumphalism. There would be something
fundamentally incongruous about doing that.
Yet it would be strange if we didnâ??t have Anzac Day in mind as we gather today. In
Australian civil society, this day is about as special as it gets. If we believe that Godâ??s
Holy Spirit works to bring about spiritual awareness in us through all the
circumstances of our life and through our culture, that God isnâ??t separate from these
things, then we should be alert to whatever is tugging at our memory and imagination
and our emotions on a day like this. If we find spiritual value in Anzac Day, then it is
God who reveals it to us. So we shouldnâ??t be casual or dismissive about it. Itâ??s our
business to be wherever God shows himself, rather than demanding that God be where
we look or where we choose to be. Itâ??s our business to connect with the spiritual heart
of our community. Anzac Day has become a day of spiritual reflection for our nation,
a day of exposing pain and loss, of reminding ourselves about the futility of war; a
day when we pause to reflect on the complex path to peace, and to pray that it will
come about. Itâ??s in this spirit that we meet and remember here today, and itâ??s in this
spirit that the Christian story links with the spiritual narratives of our nationhood.
The other reason to remember Anzac Day, to remember all those from every nation
who have either lived through or died in those major world wars, and all those whoâ??ve
been affected by the living and the dying is this; in some measure this is where we all
are. To some extent we are all part of the dark ecosystem of violence. In some ways
our minds and hearts are all tainted by the deadliness of conflict wherever itâ??s found.
People just like you and me are doing dreadful things to each other, and having
dreadful things done to them and to their families every day â?? and itâ??s happening in
more parts of the earth than are on the front pages of our newspapers. War and
violence and terror arenâ??t only something we call to mind from the past, they
accompany our lives day by day.
History has shown us the ambiguity of heroic causes. Gallipoli has become a myth, a
significant national story, and one which stands on common ground with Christianity.
It tells of victory out of defeat, of hope that rises out of the ashes of despair, and it
speaks of freedom from injustice. It is Christ's compassion that helps us hear the pain
expressed in the Gallipoli myth, compassion for which he died. There is a sense in
Lynda McMinn Micah 4:1-4; Ps 46; p3
Hebrews 10:32-11:1; John 15:9-17
which Christians also assume a profound solidarity at the point of human frailty and
vulnerability. The passion of Christ becomes an invitation to solidarity with all who
are violated or all who suffer and an opportunity for redemption and renewed life
within the suffering.
If we take seriously Jesusâ?? claim that he has come that we might have life and that we
might live that life to the full, then we must ask whether there is an Anzac Cove in our
hearts, a Gallipoli of pain and resentment, that makes us part of that ecosystem of
violence. Hatred fuels war and distorts our hearts and fouls the spirit, while every act
of reconciliation and forgiveness brings hope, and freshens the atmosphere.
So when we gather to be part of the living embodiment of Christ â?? we do well to
remember that he said whatever was done to the least of his human brothers and
sisters was done to him. When in this Eucharist we come to commune with the God
of all life, we are also communing with those in whose sufferings Christ, and life itself
is insulted. In our prayers, as we so often do, we will pray for peace. As we do so
our praying isnâ??t just an abstraction. We are praying that the divine pity, the one who
said that first Easter, â??my peace I leave with you, my peace I give youâ?? â?? might have
entrance into all human hearts right now at this moment. One of the great Christian
truths is that we not only hope for peace like some impossible dream, but we can live
as if it were here. We live with the now and the not yet. The challenge is for hope not
to be abstract, but real, and to live in the light of that hope; to act as if peace were part
of life now and to work to make it happen.
The reading from the prophet Micah tells us of this future; in that day, he tells us, in
that day, swords will be beaten into ploughshares, and spears into pruning hooks;
nation shall not lift up sword against nation, neither shall they learn war anymore.
The Lord of hosts has spoken. These words seem remote as we look at our world, as
do the words Jesus spoke to his disciples in Johnâ??s Gospel. Love one another as I
have loved you. Our relationship with each other, people with people, nation with
nation, natural allies with natural enemies, is to be love. Impossible we think. Yet we
are to act and live as if this kind of love is present. We are called to be icons in the
world of the way the world could be, the living embodiment of Christâ??s hands and feet
and heart.
Lynda McMinn Micah 4:1-4; Ps 46; p4
Hebrews 10:32-11:1; John 15:9-17
The writer to the Hebrews puts it clearly. Recall the days when life was hard,
remember, but reflect too that on the confidence you have in Christ. Faith is the
assurance of things hoped for, the conviction of things not seen.
Today we will come with our sprigs of rosemary for remembrance, and we will place
them on the altar, calling to mind the stories of our nation, the stories of those who
sacrificed everything to ensure our freedom, and calling to mind own stories that
remind us how hope and possibility spring up from ashes and loss. We will come
with our candles, and as we light them, we will hope and pray for peace in our world
and in our lives; hope that is more than wishing or longing, hope that is fuelled by
faith that God has promised. This is our confidence; God has not abandoned the
world to violence and pain but is in and among us, bringing it to fulfilment.
Lest we forget.
Anzac Day 2004