When somebody dies, we want to remember them. We try to celebrate all they were, what they achieved, and how much they meant to us.

In truth, this task is near impossible. How can a whole life be summed up in one epitaph, one eulogy, or one memorial? The connection that a mourner feels to their deceased is infinite, so it is hard to even imagine giving something to the dead that feels so finite.

But we do our best. Although their bodies no longer function and their souls no longer dwell on earth, we strive to honour their memories.

So Abraham did, when Sarah died. Abraham adored Sarah. She had been his fellow traveller and faithful believer for over a century. She had been brave and powerful and kind. All Abraham wanted was to show her the great respect in death that she had earned in life.

He negotiated for her the finest cave on the choicest plot of land as a burial site. He insisted on paying for it in full, despite the landowner’s offer that he could simply take it. He wanted to feel its full value. In turn, he imagined, Sarah might feel fully valued too.

Sarah had a life well-lived. One hundred and twenty seven years. At every stage, she lived fully. Without doubt, she had her faults, and made her mistakes, but she lived a life worth remembering. Abraham wanted to honour that.

At the Battle of Gilboa, King Saul fell on his sword and died fighting Amalekites. How could one remember a ruler as great as Saul? What could David, the successor king and shepherd boy, say to honour such a hero?

David wrote and taught a lament; a eulogy in the form of a song that he distributed to everyone in the ancient kingdom. That tribute remains, to do this day, a moving work of literature.

“O how the mighty have fallen,” repeated twice by David, has since become an English idiom. In its original context, it is a profound, heart-wrenching expression of grief.

“May the mountains of Gilboa know no more dew, nor showers, nor rain,” David exclaims, as if wishing for the whole natural world to express his grief.

“Daughters of Israel, weep for Saul,” David adjures the whole nation to join him in his anguish.

Thousands of years later, we can hear David’s deep love for Saul and his son Jonathan. The words give a finite conclusion to an infinite love.

And what a life Saul lived! He ruled forty-two years as Israel’s first king. He spoke with the dead and danced with the oracles. He consolidated his authority and that of God.

He erred, as any leader would. He took too much power for himself and became paranoid at being overthrown. Saul died, like a warrior, aged 70 and still battling his enemies.

Friends, we gather today on Remembrance Shabbat, the closest Sabbath to Britain’s national day of mourning for those killed in war.

At 11am on November 11th 1918, the countries of the world signed an armistice. They vowed they would no longer fight, and swore that the horrendous death toll from the Great War would mark an end to all wars.

That conflict, now known as the First World War, was unbelievably painful. In just one day in 1914, over 3,000 people were killed in the Battle of Mons. Aggrieved by the startling loss, Laurence Binyon wrote a poem on the cliffs of Cornwall.

“For the Fallen,” which we read earlier in this service, commemorated those who died on that one day, but came to form a core part of the liturgy for all memorials of that terrible time.

In the century that has passed since, we have endeavoured to remember and honour all those who died in war. Like David lamenting Saul, we have written and spoken words to commemorate their sacrifice. Like Abraham eulogising Sarah, we have laid wreaths and erected cenotaphs, so that some space will mark their passing.

Yet what distinguishes the war dead from the great lives of Sarah and Saul is how much they did not do. They did not get to live full lives into old age. Many did not even get remembered by name, but were interred in tombs for unknown soldiers.

As Binyon’s poem reminds us: “They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old: Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn.”

Those who died in wars largely did not get to enjoy the things we take for granted about ageing, like seeing weddings, blessing children, having careers, drinking with friends, raising children, and even having birthdays.

The most common age at which a British soldier died in World War 1 was 19. In more recent decades, the average age of a soldier killed in Afghanistan was 22; and in Iraq was 21. This is a loss that most of us cannot comprehend.

Like Abraham and David, we construct memorials to all those lives lost. We build our memorials from words, from rituals, from structures, and from pinned poppies.

And we commit ourselves to the memorial we most need: a world of peace. We vow to do all we can to ensure that no more young people die on battlefields. We honour those brave enough to take on military roles by doing our solemn duty as civilians: to make sure nobody has to fight. We will strive, even in these trying times, to ensure diplomacy in conflict, friendship between nations, and love between people.

On this Remembrance Shabbat, we honour their memories, and we remember to seek peace.

Shabbat shalom.