One of the most shameful things I’ve ever done was to write a school essay, aged nine or 10, arguing that Remembrance Sunday should be scrapped. My case, from memory, was that it all happened a long time ago, and we shouldn’t dwell on the past. My teacher wrote a rather terse red-inked rejoinder at the bottom telling me why I was wrong. These days, I’d have probably won a prize for ‘free expression’, but in the 1970s such sentiment was beyond the pale. Consider the national outcry over Michael Foot’s choice of overcoat a few years later. Why did I do it? I can’t really remember the motivation. It was probably the desire to show off and be controversial, a character trait you’ll be pleased to learn I have completely grown out of.

Not everyone has grown out of the desire to show off and be controversial. For example, Stephen Lowe, the retired Church of England Bishop of Hume, hit the airwaves last week in defence of FIFA’s decision to ban poppies from the England football team’s kit. His argument was that ‘FIFA is right’ and complained that ‘poppies are becoming compulsory’. He also launched a broadside against one-minute silences ahead of football matches whenever ‘someone drops dead.’

I met Stephen Lowe once, when he came in to the Department for Communities and Local Government representing the Church of England. His tactic was to berate the Labour government at length, and then demand a monthly meeting with the secretary of state, a request I recall that was not met. You may remember when he last hit the headlines, after banning the hymn I Vow To Thee My Country from his church, even if wedding couples had requested it.

I’m biased. I love the hymn. I had it at my wedding, and I’ll be having it at my funeral.  The music is of course Holst, but the words are a poem written before the First World War by Britain’s Ambassador to the United States, Cecil Spring-Rice. The words talk of loyalty and sacrifice both to one’s country, and to a higher calling of Christian duty. The second verse in particular, is explicitly non-militaristic and non- jingoistic, in defiance of the charge made by the Bishop:

‘And there’s another country, I’ve heard of long ago,
Most dear to them that love her, most great to them that know;
We may not count her armies, we may not see her King;
Her fortress is a faithful heart, her pride is suffering;
And soul by soul and silently her shining bounds increase,
And her ways are ways of gentleness, and all her paths are peace.’

Stephen Lowe’s little outbursts on questions of patriotism and remembrance are representative of a deeper, more considered conversation about the meaning of Remembrance Sunday. As a Labour supporter, I am conscious of my party’s historic role. In both the First and Second World Wars, the Labour Party played a decisive part in delivering victory. James Callaghan once described it as ‘saving the nation twice in the century’. Labour  ministers and prime ministers have ordered British service men and women into harm’s way, from WWII to Afghanistan and Iraq. Labour members have more reason than most to want to wear a poppy, given the work the Royal British Legion does with the modern casualties of war. Perhaps that’s why Tony Blair became the biggest financial donor to the British Legion in its history, with his multi-million pound gift.

But for me, there’s a deeper, cultural significance too. I’ve just marked Remembrance Day by standing at the war memorial in my adopted home town. The memorial is not merely a monument to those who died in the First World War. It is a statue of Nike, the winged goddess of Victory. She is holding a sword. The statue is a celebration of military success as well as commemoration. For some, Remembrance Sunday has become a time to contemplate the ‘dead of all wars.’ But it was designed to celebrate the fact that we’d won.

The Cenotaph on Whitehall was created for the London Victory Parade in 1919. It was a temporary structure, made of plaster and wood. So popular was it, that the Lutchyns-designed Portland stone Cenotaph was built in 1921. It was constructed by the same building company responsible for London’s County Hall, South Africa House, and the University of London Senate House, for which we are grateful, and New Zealand House and the Festival Hall, for which we are not.  Eagle-eyed classicists will note that the dates MCMXIV – MCMXIX translate as 1914 – 1919, when the peace treaties were signed.

Britain has no 14th July or 4th July or other national day. The closest we come is Remembrance Sunday, with its rituals and songs. I defy anyone to hear Purcell’s Dido’s Lament without thinking of wreath-laying at the Cenotaph. When I first watched the ceremony on television in the 1970s, the thousands of World War Two veterans were in their fifties, there were hundreds of marching First World War veterans, and at the front of the march-past, there were veterans of the Boer War. Today, the tangible connections to the world wars are fast disappearing.

You can’t ignore the politics. When I mark the two-minutes’ silence, I am not thinking about the concentration camp guards at Belsen, or the Japanese soldiers in Burma or the Iraqi Republican Guard. Let their own nations deal with their histories as they see fit. I am thinking about British and Commonwealth service men and women, and British civilians, and how their victories shaped our society. As we lose the personal connections to the world wars, we should re-dedicate Remembrance Sunday, not merely to the dead, but to the political ideals for which they died.

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Paul Richards is a former special adviser and writes a weekly column for Progress, Paul’s week in politics