AS the war dead of Britain and the Commonwealth are publicly commemorated this weekend, it's worth looking back at the origins of the familiar but stirring ceremonies which every November bring the nation's political, military and spiritual leaders onto the chilly streets of central London, sporting red poppies. The rites are a strange mixture of Christian religion, civic religion and other religions.  

How come? First, remember that the horrors of war can bring people of different faiths together in strange ways. Lev Gillet, a French Christian writer, recalls a poignant incident involving the unit where he served in the first world war. A French soldier was gravely wounded and wanted to kiss a Christian cross as a final act of piety. He made the request to a comrade who looked a bit like a Catholic priest, but was in fact a rabbi. The rabbi managed to find a cross and bring it to the soldier. But by the time ambulance men came to the scene, both the wounded man and the rabbi were lying dead side by side.

With that sort of thing in mind, perhaps, many of the British leaders who planned the first public remembrance of the first world war in 1919 wanted the ceremonies to be secular and inclusive, or at any rate not exclusively Christian. For one thing, the event should take into account the fact the soldiers who gave their lives for the British Empire included tens of thousands of Indian troops who were more likely to be Hindus, Muslims or Sikh than Christian. David Lloyd George, the liberal prime minister, was especially seized of the need for an inclusive ceremony and this idea was conveyed to Edwin Lutyens, the architect of what became Britain's best-known war memorial.

As is recalled by Professor Norman Bonney in a newly-published paper, Lutyens needed no persuading. His own religious feelings and those of his wife who practised theosophy (a movement that seeks truth in all great faiths) were decidedly universalist, reflecting his strong connections with India. So the Cenotaph which he created is a simple, spare edifice of remembrance with no overt religious symbolism. It was initially built in wood and plaster, to be ready in time for the 1919 ceremonies, and then rebuilt in Portland stone. Over the next few years, as the professor explains, the Church of England reasserted its role and clawed back some influence over the ceremonies to remember the war dead which became an important annual fixture. In addition to the Cenotaph, the tomb of an unknown soldier in Westminster Abbey became a focus of remembrance and mourning.

As the professor discloses, the Archbishop of Canterbury's diary entry for November 11th, 1920 gives an idea of the secular-religious tensions that were raging at the time. The prelate recalls "some keen controversy with the prime minister and cabinet....the prime minister had wishes that the proceedings be entirely secular, alleging as a reason that Mohammedans and Hindus were among those to whose memory it stood...But I prevailed and we had a prayer and [the hymn] O God our Help...." 

Nearly a century later, the Remembrance Day proceedings are a very British compromise. The religious part of the ceremony is led by the Anglican Church but more than a dozen other faiths are represented at a senior level. There are Zoroastrians and Jains as well as Sikhs and Buddhists. We hear secular poetry, military marches and Christian prayer. The Church of England affirms its role not simply as the officially ordained religion but as spokesman-in-chief for faith in general, a position which other religions seem broadly to accept. 

Secularists like Professor Bonney feel it would be a more accurate reflection of present-day Britain, where a quarter of the population professes no religion, to have an entirely non-religious commemoration. But in practice, the present arrangements, reflecting the role of Anglicanism as a loosely established church and broker in the world of faith, will probably muddle through for a while longer—until somebody insists otherwise.