For two years I lived in the English coastal town of Brighton. Just a few miles to the west of Brighton lies an ancient Sussex village known as Lewes. Lewes is known for two things: The first is for brewing, since 1794, if the studied opinion of my fellow students could be trusted, the best beer in East Sussex - a hoppy bitter known as Harvey's, served exclusively in pubs where the publican knows how to draw a proper pint of ale. And second, somewhat more notoriously, for the Lewes bonfire. Bonfire night, celebrated each November 5th, also known as Guy Fawke's night, commemorates the failed attempt in 1605 by provincial Catholics to assassinate King James I, by blowing up the House of Parliament. Few of the tens of thousands of people who gather for Bonfire night know, or much care, about the historical origins of the event. They assemble, I think, largely for the thrill of the spectacle.
Lewes is the Celtic word for hill and indeed the village is built on a series of hills. Perched on the top of one of these hills I remember my first image of the torch lit procession of bonfire societies that wound through the cobblestone streets of the ancient city below. Fueled by frequent stops at the numerous Harvey's pubs that dot the village, the bonfire society members are dressed in costumes ranging from Tudor finery to Mongol style animal skins - each member carrying a torch high above his head. The bonfire societies are reminiscent of the crues that make up a Mardi Gras parade. Street lights in the city are few and from the hills above little is visible but the winding streams of torches converging and passing in the night and slowly snaking their way to the village's highest summit.
Periodically, authorities attempt to tame the proceedings. And it is no wonder, for before the bonfire societies have found their way to the top of the city, the parades have transformed themselves into simmering mobs. The flickering light from the torches is reflected in the faces of the waiting crowd - faces filled with fear and wonderment. A sense of primitive - even primal - mass hysteria seethes throughout this crowd of normally sedate, good English folk.
High above the crowd, mounted on a platform are three English judges, bedecked in long black robes and white powdered wigs, who present the case against Guy Fawkes, the accused perpetrator of the crime against the monarch. Their deliberations are swift. They quickly find him guilty and then turn to the crowd and shout, "What shall we do with him!"
The crowd in a collective scream that seems to emerge from their souls, wails back, "Burn him!" On cue, a waiting effigy of the hated Guy Fawke, is set ablaze by fireworks and roaring flame and the crowd erupts in cheers and applause.
In short order, Pope Paul V, the head of the Roman church in 1605, is tried, condemned by the crowd, and burned. At that point another mock trial is held - this time featuring whoever the hated figure of the present day might be. When I attended the bonfire, Idi Amin, the tyrannical ruler of the former British colony of Uganda, was tried and burned. Later, a Saudi prince received the same treatment. The bonfire made international news a couple of years ago when an image of Osama Bin Laden was the object of the mock trial and execution. With each appearance of a hated figure, the chief magistrate asks the crowd, "What shall we do with him!" And inevitably, as if with one voice, the crowd shouts back, "Burn him!"
Our procession this morning, although a little chaotic, was rather milder than the processions of Bonfire Night through the streets of Lewes. And our shouts this morning to "Release Barabas" and "Crucify Him, Crucify Him" lacked the enthusiasm that I remember emerging from that English crowd on Bonfire Night. But we are, nonetheless, still part of the crowd.
We become part of the crowd whenever we fail to speak up in defense of those who suffer injustice. We become part of the crowd when we allow hatred to spread unopposed.
There was nothing particularly hateful about the individuals who make up the throng that called for the burning in effigy of reviled figures on Bonfire Night. The crowd was composed of ordinary students, merchants, craftsmen, butchers and bakers. Ordinary people, like those in our country who promote fear and hatred of Muslims, through appeals for national security. We have ordinary officials and politicians, who call for laws and policies with regard to immigrants from Latin America that have at their roots racism, prejudice, and fear of the other. And just last week in the Arkansas legislature, we witnessed a failed attempt by ordinary lawmakers to pass legislation that would have jeopardized the bond between gay parents and their children. It's just so easy for us to get caught up in the crowd. To forget that Jesus' mission on earth was to bring hope and justice and salvation to all God's people. And when we, as Christians, find ourselves complicit in attitudes and policies that bring suffering to any outsider, we do the same to the Christ. As Jesus said in Matthew 25, "Truly I tell you, just as you did it to one of the least of these who are members of my family, you did it to me." To fail to remember these words is to find ourselves, well meaning as we may be, of one voice with a crowd, who shouts, "Crucify Him, Crucify Him."