This morning we wear our poppies, we stand in silence, we remember. We remember the lives given in war. The courage, the sorrow, the sacrifice. We remember the peace they longed for, and we recognize the fragility of peace. We remember, not to glorify war, but to maintain our ongoing yearning for peace. This morning, we gather for Remembrance Sunday. A sacred pause in our year.
And into this remembering, we hear two voices from Scripture who guide our path. The prophet Micah, with his dream of peace; and Jesus, with his warning that even the grandest of structures will fall. Two very different scenes. One filled with hope; the other, with upheaval. Yet together, they give us a message that’s deeply true for Remembrance Sunday: that even in a world of shaking and sorrow, the peace of God is still being born.
Micah lived in the 8th century before Christ. It was a time when the people of Judah were caught between empires, Their villages were trembling with the approaching Assyrian armies. It was a time of violence, fear, and uncertainty. And yet, Micah spoke a visionary word of hope: “They shall beat their swords into plowshares, and their spears into pruning hooks; nation shall not lift up sword against nation, neither shall they learn war anymore.”
To be sure, Micah’s vision is breathtaking. It is not a sentimental dream; it’s a revolution of imagination. It dares to believe that God’s future will transform the very tools of war, the weapons of harm, transformed into instruments of nurture and growth The sword becomes a plow; the spear becomes a pruning hook. Destruction becomes creation. The energy used to harm is transformed into energy to heal. And Micah adds this small, tender image: “They shall all sit under their own vines and under their own fig trees, and no one shall make them afraid.”
That’s what God’s vision of shalom looks like. It is not just a ceasefire, but a time when every person is able to live safely: to eat from their own garden, to raise their children without fear. It’s a peace that’s social, economic, and spiritual all at once. It’s peace that makes the world whole. Micah’s people had never known such peace. But he proclaimed it anyway. Because the prophet’s task, then and now, is to put into words what God imagines. Helping us begin to imagine, even when the world can’t yet see it.
Shifting to the second text, centuries later, Jesus stood in Jerusalem with his disciples. They were admiring the Temple. To be sure, it was magnificent. At the time, it was the center of faith and culture. But Jesus said something that must have stunned them: “The days will come when not one stone will be left upon another.” And he was right. The Temple was destroyed within a generation, and Luke’s community, the early church, lived through that trauma. It was a time of war, occupation, and persecution. They asked the existential question that still echoes in every age of conflict: “Where is God when the world falls apart?”
Jesus doesn’t deny the reality of suffering. He doesn’t promise that faith will spare them from turmoil. He says: “When you hear of wars and insurrections, do not be terrified…for these things must take place first.” And then he gives them this quiet assurance: “By your endurance, you will gain your souls.” The peace of Christ isn’t a calm day. It’s not a world without noise or fear. It’s the inner steadiness that holds us firm when everything else shakes. It’s the rhythm of grace that still plays beneath the chaos. In times of destruction, when nations rage and hearts break, Christ’s peace is not gone. It’s deeper. It’s within. It’s the Spirit that whispers, “Do not be afraid. I am with you still.”
On this Remembrance Sunday, we stand between Micah’s dream and Jesus’ warning. Between the hope of peace and the reality of human brokenness. Between the promise of God’s future and the pain of our past. We remember not only those who died, but also the world they hoped to build. Between a world where the swords of the battlefield would become the plowshares of peace. And so, on this day, especially…we remember, and we pray. We remember those who came home but were never the same. And we pray. We remember the civilians, the families, the refugees, the silent suffering that war always leaves behind. And we pray. And we remember, too, that peace cannot simply be remembered…it must be lived into. And we pray.
Micah calls us to imagine God’s peace. Jesus calls us to endure in God’s peace. And both together call us to become peacemakers: not just peace-wishers, or peace-hopers. But peacemakers: those who act, speak, give, and live as people of peace.
In preparation for Sunday’s service, I came across an old saying from the trenches of World War I: “Even in hell, there were moments of heaven.” Moments of compassion, courage, humanity. A shared cigarette, a letter home, a Christmas truce where soldiers laid down their weapons and sang. Even in war, glimpses of shalom still break through.
“Even in hell, there were moments of heaven” because God’s peace cannot be extinguished by human violence. “Even in hell, there were moments of heaven” because the peace of Christ still rises amid the rubble. It rises in those who forgive; in those who rebuild; in those who dare to believe, as Micah did, that a different world is possible.
And so, on this Remembrance Sunday, we do not only look backward with sorrow, we look forward with faith. We remember, and we recommit. We listen for the music of shalom in the dissonance of the present. We hold to Christ’s promise: “Do not let your hearts be troubled, and do not let them be afraid.” Micah dreamed of the mountain of peace. Jesus spoke of a world shaken but redeemed. And we stand somewhere in between: remembering the cost, and renewing our hope.
Here in 2025, the world is still learning war. But we, followers of the Prince of Peace, are called to learn a different song. God’s song of forgiveness, God’s rhythm of justice, God’s harmony of compassion. The chorus written under Micah’s vision: “They shall all sit under their own vines and under their own fig trees, and no one shall make them afraid.”
Amen.