Remembrance Sunday homily, 9 November 2025, Rome San Silvestro
Fr Stephen Wang (Rector, VEC)
It’s good to be here together for this Remembrance Sunday. On behalf of all of us who are guests, I’d like to thank Fr Rory and all the community at San Silvestro for their warm welcome and hospitality.
Why are we here? I think there are three main reasons: to pray for the dead, especially those who have died as a result of war and armed conflict; to pray for those who serve in our armed forces; and to pray for peace—peace in general, and especially peace in areas of conflict today such as Ukraine, the Holy Land, Sudan, Yemen, Myanmar, and so many other places across the globe.
These are uncomplicated prayer intentions, yet it’s good to recognise that Remembrance Sunday can spark diverse and complicated reactions in people. For some, it stirs up feelings of patriotism and national pride, a love for the Crown, a devotion to the armed forces. For others, it might bring out more pacifist instincts: a fear of jingoism, a mistrust of militarism. The uniforms and military parades can stir up feelings of reassurance for some and unease for others.
It’s important to remember that this day is not in any way a glorification of war. It’s exactly the opposite. This annual memorial service was originally called Armistice Day, not Remembrance Day. The first memorial took place in November 1919, celebrating the armistice that had been signed between Germany and the Allies at the end of the First World War on 11 November 1918. Armistice Day is not a celebration of war; it’s a celebration of peace. The root meaning of the word “armistice” is to lay down your arms, not to pick them up.
Our own mixed reactions connect with the tensions that are part of the Bible and of Church teaching on war. On the one hand, as Pope Francis never tires of repeating, war is always a defeat. And it shouldn’t surprise us that Pope Leo has repeated these words and made them his own. The first rule of war is that we should do everything possible to avoid it. This becomes more urgent, not less, because of the terrifying new forms of warfare that are emerging—autonomous weapons, cluster drones, cyber warfare, and probably a whole set of other issues that we don’t even know about yet.
Why is there such a strong line of Catholic teaching against war? Because of our understanding of human dignity. St Paul says today in the second reading: “You are God’s temple and the Spirit of God dwells in you; if anyone destroys God’s temple, God will destroy him; for God’s temple is holy, and you are that temple.” He’s speaking about the Christian dignity that comes through baptism, but this rests on the wider biblical teaching that every human being, no matter what their faith, is made in the image and likeness of God. This is the evil of war: that it attacks human dignity and undermines the most fundamental human right, which is the right to life.
On the other hand, because of the tragic reality of injustice and evil, it’s sometimes necessary to take up arms. It’s our duty to defend ourselves, our families and our country, and sometimes that draws us into a conflict we would rather avoid. The Second Vatican Council taught that governments have the right “of lawful self-defence, once all peace efforts have failed”; and the Catechism states that “public authorities, in this case, have the right and duty to impose on citizens the obligations necessary for national defence.” I’m not giving a lecture on just war theory here; I’m simply highlighting how complicated the human and moral issues are—and giving you permission to feel torn and ambiguous. In fact, we ought to feel ambiguous.
I had to think about this a lot when I was a university chaplain, because quite a few students from the London universities I knew were joining the armed forces and seeking advice about their vocation and their desire to sign up. It was the first time I’d had to think about the reality, not just the theory, of someone signing the recruitment form. At the same time, a good friend of mine, Bishop Paul Mason, was made Bishop of the Forces. We had endless conversations about the armed forces, the role of military chaplains, and all the moral and pastoral issues this threw up for him.
It’s just a coincidence that today is the Feast of the Dedication of the Lateran Basilica, which is titled the “Mother and Head of all the Churches of the City of Rome and of the World”. But this feast day is relevant to these reflections about Remembrance Sunday. The first reading speaks about healing. The prophet Ezekiel has a vision and sees a miraculous, healing river flow from the sanctuary of the temple in Jerusalem across the desert into the sea. Everywhere the river flows, life springs forth: animals thrive, trees flourish, the fruit is superabundant, the leaves medicinal. And the Gospel speaks about resurrection: Jesus says, “Destroy this temple, and in three days I will raise it up.”
Ezekiel’s river is the blood and water that flows from the side of Jesus on the Cross; it is the gift of the Holy Spirit that Jesus breathes upon the Church at Pentecost; it is the grace God gives to us through the seven sacraments. The new temple is the body of Jesus Christ, destroyed by the violence of Good Friday but then raised up again on the third day—healed, restored, glorified.
Our Christian faith motivates us to seek peace and to avoid war. But if war does break out, that same Christian faith gives the hope of healing to those who have been wounded, and the hope of resurrection to those who have died.
I think that’s why the plaintive music of the *Last Post* is so moving, because it captures a theological truth as well as an emotional one. At remembrance services throughout the Commonwealth, the talking ceases and the bugle player takes centre stage. The music symbolises mourning and lamentation, but it also speaks of hope and resurrection. It’s as if the last notes from a funeral flow into the first notes of a birth, or of a baptism. The last day becomes the first day; the night turns into dawn; death gives way to life. It’s strange how a piece of music can be both funereal and festive. Even the tragedy of war can’t take away the hope of healing and the hope of heaven.