Today is the 100th anniversary of the end of the Great War, once called the War to End All Wars, sadly relegated to the nomenclature of “World War I” when a sequel followed on its heels little more than 20 years later. The moment of the War’s end, the Armistice, was 11:00 am on the eleventh day of the eleventh month of 1918. A year later, US President Woodrow Wilson proclaimed the observance of what was then called “Armistice Day” (later, under President Eisenhower and after a second World War, renamed “Veterans’ Day”) with the following words:

“To us in America, the reflections of Armistice Day will be filled with solemn pride in the heroism of those who died in the country’s service and with gratitude for the victory, both because of the thing from which it has freed us and because of the opportunity it has given America to show her sympathy with peace and justice in the councils of the nations…”

Saint Martin lived in the 4th century, the son of a military officer. As such, he was required to take up a military career, even though he longed to serve God through leading the life of a religious. While in the military, we are told, Martin exemplified selflessness and humility, and shared what he had in terms of rations and military compensation with poor individuals in whatever village he happened to be find himself.

Martin eagerly awaited the day of his discharge from the military. However, Martin’s discharge date coincided with a German invasion into Gaul. When Martin requested that his discharge go through nonetheless (eager as he was to join a religious order), he found himself accused of cowardice. To this, Butler tells us, Martin offered that he be placed in the very front line of the battle–without armaments. Martin proclaimed:

“In the name of the Lord Jesus, and protected not by a helmet and buckler, but by the sign of the cross, I will thrust myself into the thickest squadrons of the enemy without fear.”

As it turns out, that very night the Germans sued for and obtained peace with Gaul. Martin, still but 18 years old, then left the military and went to Poitiers (in modern-day France) to deepen his faith under the tutelage of Hilary–then bishop and later also canonized.

We have, in America, taken as given that the key to our safety from the attacks of other nations is to have a military that is far larger than any other on the face of the earth. We have forgotten those words of Woodrow Wilson, suggesting that war is tragic–and should exist solely to liberate persons from oppression and to make possible joining other nations to create peace and justice. As a nation, we have no faith in disarmament, despite the contention of so many that we are a “Christian” (or, sometimes, “Judeo-Christian”) country that presumably follows a Prince of Peace.

What could it mean for us if we believed that the key to our safety lie in making as much peace and creating as much justice in this world as humanly possible, and in cooperation with as many peoples as possible? And that this is the best sure of our resources and efforts? What if we were to meet this challenge with neither helmet nor buckler–but with faith, with hope, and with love?