Category Archives: Volume 21 Number 4 (December 2015)

Letter from the Editors: December 2015

Contemporary Church History Quarterly

Volume 21, Number 4 (December 2015)

Letter from the Editors (December 2015)

By Kyle Jantzen, Ambrose University

Greetings friends,

As Advent begins, it is our pleasure to publish once again a new issue of short articles, book reviews, and notes on the contemporary history of German and European religious history. This issue is focused on the two individuals who receive more attention than any other figures in twentieth-century German religious history: Dietrich Bonhoeffer and Pope Pius XII.

Zingsthof, first home of the Confessing Church seminary directed by Dietrich Bonhoeffer. Source: https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Zingsthof_06_2014_005.JPG

On Dietrich Bonhoeffer, Kyle Jantzen provides a long overdue assessment of the work of Ferdinand Schlingensiepen, and suggests that his biography of Bonhoeffer encompasses both liberal and conservative views of the dynamic theologian. Matthew Hockenos follows that with a review of a multi-author volume considering the relationship between Bonhoeffer’s theology and his resistance activities.

Three of our editors assess works on Pius XII and the papacy in the era of the two world wars. Lauren Faulner Rossi reviews John Pollard’s The Papacy in the Age of Totalitarianism, 1914-1958, while Beth A. Griech-Polelle evaluates The Pope’s Dilemma: Pius XII Faces Atrocities and Genocide in the Second World War, by Jacques Kornberg. Then Mark Edward Ruff tackles Mark Riebling’s much publicized study, Church of Spies: The Vatican’s Secret War against Hitler.

Bookending this issue of Contemporary Church History Quarterly are two very different sorts of articles. Our first article is a contribution by guest contributor Hartmut Lehmann, who considers what it means to celebrate the 500th anniversary of the Protestant Reformation in an increasingly secular Germany. (We have also included a note about recent German Studies Association panels devoted to the life and thought of Lehmann.) At the close of the issue, Andrew Chandler reflects on three church historians who passed away far before their time–Markus Huttner, Marie-Emmanuelle Reytier, Huamin Toshiko Mackman–remembering not only their work but also their lives.

As always, we hope you find this issue of Contemporary Church History Quarterly interesting and informative. And now let me wish you a Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year!

On behalf of the editors,

Kyle Jantzen

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The Quincentennial Commemoration of the Protestant Reformation in Secularized Germany

Contemporary Church History Quarterly

Volume 21, Number 4 (December 2015)

The Quincentennial Commemoration of the Protestant Reformation in Secularized Germany

By Hartmut Lehmann

Germany is one of the most secularized countries of Europe and in fact of the world. In particular in the Eastern part of Germany, that is the region of the former German Democratic Republic, the Christian churches hold very little influence. For our purposes, it is important to note that these regions were also the original sites of the Protestant Reformation, for example the cities of Eisenach, Erfurt and Wittenberg.

Of the roughly eighty million inhabitants of Germany, a little more than one-third are registered as members of the Roman Catholic Church, a little less than one-third as members of one of the Protestant churches, and the last third as non-church members. Of the Catholics, with some local variations, about ten percent are actively involved in church matters, while about three percent of Protestants can be considered as active church-members. In other words: the vast majority of Germans do not attend church regularly and are not interested in church life. The social and cultural value of attending church has been declining dramatically, in particular since the late 1960s. Today, cultural and sporting events often take place Sunday morning during the same time as church services. As the up-keep of churches is expensive, both established churches have begun to sell church buildings. [1]

In recent years, the number of people who decide to officially leave the church has remained high. Motives vary. Catholics who leave their church often claim that they do so because they are disturbed by cases of child molestation; Protestants who leave the church often cite financial reasons. I should add that the number of parents who decide to have their children baptized is also declining. Couples who still marry in church mostly do so not because of religious reasons, but because churches offer such an impressive atmosphere. The one indicator of church involvement that remains relatively strong is church burials with a pastor or priest.

In our context, we should also take into account that Germany has become a country of immigrants. Currently about ten percent of the adult population is of non-German background and between one-quarter and one-third of school children have immigrant parents. In some school districts, children who come from a household with a different cultural tradition make up the majority of students; in others they are a small minority. Approximately half of immigrants to Germany come from a Christian background; the other half are Muslim. Not all, however, actively practice their religion. When discussing the possibilities of commemorating the quincentennial of the Protestant Reformation in Germany, these statistics must be kept in mind.

The preparations for the quincentenary began in 2008 when the German federal government, several state governments, and several cities with a special connection to the history of the Reformation, together with the Evangelical Church of Germany, created an organizational framework for the upcoming event.[2] Moreover, the organizers proclaimed 2008-2017 the “Luther decade.” Each year a special aspect of the Protestant Reformation’s heritage, and of Martin Luther’s legacy, is highlighted.

During 2008, that is in the first half of the Luther decade, several motives characterized the collaborative actions of the state and church. First, the organizers of the quincentennial commemoration consider the Protestant Reformation a watershed event in the course of German history, indeed, as one speaker noted, of world history. For instance, the bill introduced in the German federal parliament for financing some of the preparations was called “Ein Ereignis von Weltrang”, that is, “an event of universal importance.”[3] The speakers who proposed the bill believed that the beginning of the Protestant Reformation was nothing less than a turning point in world history. They supported their view with arguments based on culture rather than with theological or religious considerations.

A second motive was somewhat more pragmatic: the organizers sought to support tourism in those regions in Eastern Germany where the Reformation had its roots. The argument that the Reformation could be used to generate tourism was not new. In 1983, when the East German government celebrated Luther’s five-hundredth birthday, it hoped to attract thousands of tourists from around the world. For representatives of the so-called Luther lands, this argument is still valid today. Politicians do not hesitate to emphasize the economic value of the commemorative events leading up to 2017. For representatives of the church, the tourists from abroad constitute a kind of international pilgrimage to the original sites of the Reformation. Both politicians and church representatives agree that these original sites should be preserved as best as possible. In fact, most of the money granted by the federal government is invested in preservation projects.[4]

In 2008, in addition to a board of trustees (Kuratorium), state and church officials also created an academic advisory council (Wissenschaftlicher Beirat zur Lutherdekade). This body, consisting with few exceptions of Protestant scholars from Germany, suggested that each year within the Luther decade should have a special focus with themes covering the arts, music and politics. The board advised that each theme should be understood broadly rather than by simply focusing on the events of October 1517. Doing so would highlight the contribution of Protestantism to the development of the modern world. In keeping with this goal, the advisory council also issued a number of theses, twenty-three in all, which expanded on this argument.[5] Readers of these theses were told that Protestantism had strongly influenced much of the progress within the Western world including civil political liberties and progress in the arts, economics, and social justice. For Catholics and other non-Protestants, the twenty-three theses intimated a strong message of Protestant triumphalism.

From the beginning, representatives placed the life and work of Martin Luther into the very centre of the campaign. Politicians and church officials followed the advice of experts in the advertising field who argued that a successful campaign needed a distinct personal face. Everyone agreed that there was no alternative to Luther’s face.

To whom did these actions appeal?[6] By 2013, if I am not mistaken, when half of the Luther decade was over, the various regional and local actions had reached primarily two groups: tourists who visited Wittenberg, among them many devout Protestants, and educated middle-class Protestants. The Wittenberg tourists enjoyed local guided tours and local events. The most popular event was a public meal similar to Luther’s 1525 wedding dinner. Members of the educated Protestant middle-class (the typical “Bildungsbürger”) enjoyed superb concerts and exquisite art exhibitions. Many of the concerts played the impressive music of Johann Sebastian Bach; many of the art exhibitions included paintings by Luther’s contemporary, Lukas Cranach.

In other words, after five years of preparing for the 2017 event, the activities arranged by the quincentennial commemoration organizers only appealed to non-Protestants and non-church members if they were attracted by music or art. In addition, if I am not mistaken, no special effort was made to communicate the heritage of the Protestant Reformation to groups of non-German origin. No doubt, this would not have been an easy task. What I deplore, however, is that neither the state nor the church officials in charge of preparing for the big event in 2017 developed a concept and program to reach the members of those groups who are not well acquainted with the German Protestant tradition. Moreover, organizers made no effort to address the members of Free Churches in Germany and elsewhere.

Since 2013 – halfway through the Luther decade — some changes and new motives are emerging. For reasons yet to be clarified, church officials among the organizers of the quincentennial commemoration are making an even stronger effort to strengthen the profile and the identity of their own flock: that is of those Protestants for whom Protestant church life is still important.

For example, church officials decided to hold a Protestant church congress (Deutscher Evangelischer Kirchentag) in 2017, together with the festivities of the quincentenary. With this decision, they ensure that a sizable crowd of faithful Protestants will attend the commemorative events. I should add that there was also the possibility to stage an ecumenical church congress (Ökumenischer Kirchentag). Such an ecumenical church congress would have given a completely different focus to 2017. Obviously, this possibility was exactly what the Protestant church did not favour, making it seem as if they wanted to claim Luther as their exclusive property.

In this same spirit, in 2014 the Protestant Church published a small book titled Rechtfertigung und Freiheit (Justification and Liberty).[8] The title is indicative of the content: It suggests that only Lutherans possess the correct understanding of the doctrine of justification by faith alone, and that only Protestants can claim to have contributed substantially to modern civil liberties. In contrast, the progress in ecumenical activities since the Second Vatican Council is not mentioned.[9] A few months earlier, a commission consisting of members of the Lutheran World Federation and the Pontifical Council for Promoting Christian Unity had published a treatise with the title From Conflict to Communion: Lutheran-Catholic Common Commemoration of the Reformation in 2017.[10] While the Protestant church representatives in Germany distribute their own booklet in large numbers, they completely ignore the joint Catholic-Lutheran statement.

Let me add that leading members of the Protestant church in Germany regularly stress their intention to celebrate the quincentenary from an ecumenical perspective (“ökumenische Perspektive“). Two leading bishops have travelled to Rome and invited Pope Francis to come to Germany in 2017. It is not known whether he will accept the invitation. Moreover, Protestant and Catholic church officials organize an ecumenical service as part of the festivities in 2017. Both churches have announced that this service will take place on March 11, 2017, in Hildesheim and will be devoted to the “Healing of Memories”. Local churches are encouraged to organize ecumenical services of their own. Also, Protestant and Catholic bishops intend to undertake a joint trip, a kind of ecumenical pilgrimage to Jerusalem. Details of all of these events have yet to be made public, and this at a time when the complete program for 2017 has already been printed on high-gloss paper and distributed.

Before concluding, let me turn to a specific problem. Although it is certainly correct to characterize the Germany of today as a highly secularized country, one should also note that religious sensibilities still play a critical role in German society. There are widespread feelings of xenophobia, of which religious prejudice seems to be a strong element.

Two groups are targeted more than any other: Jews and Muslims. Antisemitism has a long tradition in Germany just as in many other countries. After Nazi atrocities that culminated in the Holocaust, Germans with political or cultural responsibilities have attempted to ensure that antisemitism never again plays a role within German public life. But, as some antisemitic incidents demonstrate, their efforts have not been completely successful. In recent years, as the number of immigrants with a Muslim background has increased, islamophobia has also captured the minds of some Germans, especially in the former East. In turn, some young Muslims living in Germany have become particularly antisemitic.

In our context, these observations are important because Martin Luther – and please remember he is the person who has been put into the very center of the campaign for 2017 — wrote some strident and highly controversial tracts both against Jews and against Muslims. We cannot deny that these writings are an inseparable part of Luther’s heritage and we should not attempt to ignore or suppress them as we approach 2017. As one can easily understand, within the Germany of the post-Holocaust era, Luther’s writings against the Jews are extremely disturbing, in particular because the Nazis used Luther as a voice of authority in their policy of racial extermination.[11] If one considers the Holocaust as a fundamental rupture in modern civilization (“elementarer Zivilisationsbruch“), Luther’s standing and Luther’s reputation are deeply affected.

It is therefore not surprising that the board of trustees of the Luther decade has asked the academic advisory council to prepare a memorandum discussing the context and the background of Luther’s diatribes against the Jews. For two reasons, this memorandum, published in 2014, is a remarkable statement. On the one hand, the authors make crystal-clear that they distance themselves from Luther’s antisemitic writings. On the other hand, they claim that Luther’s anti-Jewish resentments were not at the very center of his theological teachings, adding that Luther respected other views and that the secular authorities within the new Protestant states did not follow Luther’s advice.[12] Most recently, however, this view has been revised. In a long article about Luther’s perception of Jews in context of his theology, Dorothea Wendebourg demonstrates that Luther’s hostile attitude towards Jews was an integral part of his theology.[13] More importantly, the members of the synod of the Evangelische Kirche in Deutschland, in their meeting on November 11, 2015, unanimously passed a proclamation in which they distanced themselves most strongly from Luther’s anti-Jewish writings. They state that Luther connected central elements of his theology with anti-Jewish paradigms; that German Protestants followed Luther’s antisemitic arguments for many centuries; that they are ashamed and deeply deplore this failure; and that out of this failure they feel a special responsibility to confront any kind of hostility against Jews.[14]

By contrast, as of now, Luther’s writings against the Turks with their horrendous statements about Islam and the prophet Muhammed have not become part of the public debate in Germany.[15] The academic advisory council has not been asked to discuss this issue. I should like to add that Luther has also written about other topics in a way that cannot be reconciled with the political and ethical opinions in Western societies at the beginning of the twenty-first century. Let me just call to your attention Luther’s most disturbing statements about people with disabilities, his verdict of humanist scholars like Erasmus, his condemnation of the peasants who did not want to live as slaves, or his sharp rejection of those Protestants who believed in baptizing adults. From today’s perspective, these writings are obviously politically incorrect.

In conclusion, let me say the following: It is, no doubt, an enormous challenge to commemorate the beginnings of the Reformation and the legacy of Martin Luther in a secularized society shaped by widespread religious prejudice. As of now, neither the state representatives nor the church officials engaged in preparing the festivities in 2017 have been able to meet this challenge fully. One may deplore this situation, as I do, or one may see it as a pragmatic answer to a challenge which may be almost impossible to meet.

Yet there is another possibility: We could try not to look back but to look at the political and moral challenges of our time. Recently, a group of American Lutheran pastors and bishops, following a proclamation by the Lutheran World Federation, have demanded that eco-justice, that is the ecological preservation of God’s creation, be placed in the very center of all activities in 2017. For the Christians of Europe, helping refugees from developing countries could be an action of similar magnitude. Luther wanted to reform flagrant grievances in the Christianity of his time (not only in his 95 theses against the misuse of indulgences of 1517 but, for example, also in his “Address to the Christian Nobility of the German Nation“ of 1520). Christians today should not try to imitate the reforms that he proposed some 500 years ago but attempt to do away with the flagrant deficiencies, and intolerable injustice, in today’s societies. The quincentennial commemoration of the Protestant Reformation would be a unique opportunity to do exactly that.

Notes:

[1] For a recent analysis and assessment see Detlef Pollack, “Wie steht es um die christlichen Kirchen in Deutschland? Eine Einschätzung aus soziologischer Sicht,” Forum Loccum 33, Nr. 4, 2014, pp. 9 – 15. For the political and social context see Hartmut Lehmann, Das Christentum im 20. Jahrhundert. Fragen, Probleme, Perspektiven. Leipzig: Evangelische Verlagsanstalt 2012, pp. 175 – 181; id., “Ein europäischer Sonderweg in Sachen Religion,” in: Hans G. Kippenberg, Jörg Rüpke, Kocku von Stuckrad, eds., Europäische Religionsgeschichte. Ein mehrfacher Pluralismus. Vol. 1. Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht 2009, pp. 39 – 59.

[2] My comment at the time: Hartmut Lehmann, “Die Deutschen und ihr Luther. Im Jahr 2017 jährt sich zum fünfhundertsten Mal der Beginn der Reformation. Jubiliert wurde schon oft,” Frankfurter Allgemeine Zeitung, 26. August 2008, Nr. 199, p. 7. Also in: id., Luthergedächtnis 1817 bis 2017. Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht 2012, pp. 297 – 304.

[3] “Das Reformationsjubiläum im Jahre 2017 – Ein Ereignis von Weltrang. Antrag der CDU/CSU-, der SPD-, der FDP-Bundestagsfraktionen und der Bundestagsfraktion von Bündnis 90/Die Grünen,” Deutscher Bundestag, Drucksache 17/6465 vom 6. Juli 2011.

[4] Arguments can be found in: “Reformationsjubiläum 2017 als welthistorisches Ereignis würdigen. Antrag der CDU/CSU und der SPD-Bundestagsfraktion.” Deutscher Bundestag, Drucksache 16/9830, 26. Juni 2008.

[5] Perspektiven für das Reformationsjubiläum 2017. Published in Wittenberg by the office of the church and the office of the state in charge of “Luther 2017 – 500 Jahre Reformation,” undated.

[6] Hartmut Lehmann, “Fragen zur Halbzeit der Lutherdekade,” Kirchliche Zeitgeschichte/Contemporary Church History 26/2. 2013, pp. 447 – 454; id., “Unterschiedliche Erwartungen an das Reformationsjubiläum 2017,” Berliner Theologische Zeitung 28/1, 2011, pp. 16 – 27.

[7] See Hartmut Lehmann, “Vom Helden zur Null? Die Fünfhundertjahrfeier der Entdeckung Amerikas im Jahr 1992 wurde jenseits des Atlantiks ein Reinfall. Ob es hierzulande mit der Fünfhundertjahrfeier der Reformation im Jahr 2017 wohl ein besseres Ende nimmt?” Frankfurter Allgemeine Zeitung 27. Oktober 2014, Nr. 249, S. 6.

[8] Rechtfertigung und Freiheit. 500 Jahre Reformation 2017. Ein Grundlagentext des Rates der Evangelischen Kirche in Deutschland (EKD). Gütersloh: Gütersloher Verlagshaus 2014.

[9] For example the Catholic-Lutheran declaration concerning justification (Erklärung zur Rechtfertigung) issued in 1999.

[10] Leipzig: Evangelische Verlagsanstalt and Paderborn: Bonifatius 2013. In German: Vom Konflikt zur Gemeinschaft. Gemeinsames lutherisch-katholisches Reformationsgedenken im Jahr 2017.

[11] Thomas Kaufmann, “Luther unter den Antisemiten. Den Wittenberger Reformator zum Zweck des Judenhasses zu vereinnahmen war möglich. Bei ihm finden sich Wendungen, die das zulassen. In Deutschland wie in vielen anderen Ländern stellen sich die protestantischen Kirchen diesem Erbe.” Frankfurter Allgemeine Zeitung, 29. Dezember 2014, Nr. 301, S. 8. See also id., Luthers ‘Judenschriften’ in ihren historischen Kontexten. Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht 2005; id., Luthers ‘Judenschriften’. Ein Beitrag zu ihrer historischen Kontextualisierung. Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck 2011.

[12] Die Reformation und die Juden. Eine Orientierung. Erstellt im Auftrag des wissenschaftlichen Beirates für das Reformationsjubiläum 2017. Wittenberg 2014. See paragraph 17 about the relative importance of Luther’s anti-Jewish statements. This paragraph represented the majority opinion within the academic advisory council; a minority did not agree. For the minority, Luther’s antisemitism had deep roots within his theology.

[13] Dorothea Wendebourg, “Ein Lehrer, der Unterscheidung verlangt. Martin Luthers Haltung zu den Juden im Zusammenhang seiner Theologie,” Theologische Literaturzeitung 140, 2015, pp. 1035 – 1059.

[14] Kundgebung der 12. Synode der Evangelischen Kirche in Deutschland auf ihrer 2. Tagung: “Martin Luther und die Juden – Notwendige Erinnerung zum Reformationsjubiläum.” Bremen, 11. November 2015. Signed by the Präses of the synod, Dr. Irmgard Schwaetzer. In my view, this statement was long overdue. One sentence in this text which I quote in German: “Die Tatsache, dass die judenfeindlichen Ratschläge des späten Luther für den nationalsozialistischen Antisemitismus in Anspruch genommen wurden, stellt eine weitere Belastung für die evangelische Kirche dar” should have been supplemented by the remark that many Protestant pastors and many Protestant professors of theology strongly supported Hitler and the Nazi Party’s antisemitism. See Manfred Gailus, ed., Täter und Komplizen in Theologie und Kirchen 1933 – 1945. Göttingen: Wallstein-Verlag, 2015.

[15] Hartmut Lehmann, “Martin Luther and the Turks”: Studies in Church History VI. Christians and the Non-Christian Other. Vilnius: LKMA 2013, pp. 71 – 75.

 

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Ferdinand Schlingensiepen and the Quest for the Historical Bonhoeffer

Contemporary Church History Quarterly

Volume 21, Number 4 (December 2015)

Ferdinand Schlingensiepen and the Quest for the Historical Bonhoeffer

By Kyle Jantzen, Ambrose University

The Quest for the Historical Bonhoeffer [1]

In recent years, the field of Bonhoeffer studies has been dominated by debates about two biographies: Eric Metaxas’ Bonhoeffer: Pastor, Martyr, Prophet, Spy and Charles Marsh’s Strange Glory: A Life of Dietrich Bonhoeffer.[2] While members of the popular media and Christian commentators have generally lauded these stylish works, historians of the period as well as many Bonhoeffer scholars have generally been critical of them.

One of the reasons for this difference of opinion, argue Victoria J. Barnett and Andrew Chandler, is that many recent interpretations of Bonhoeffer have been driven by theology rather than history. As a result, often “the dramatic historical events of Bonhoeffer’s era and the individuals he encountered in ecumenical, political, church, and resistance circles serve primarily as the backdrop for the poignant personal and theological story that is center stage.”[3] Related to this is the mythology which quickly grew up around Bonhoeffer in the years after the war, when his books Cost of Discipleship and Letters and Papers from Prison established him as a serious biblical Christian and martyr, both of which were especially attractive to a North American audience. For better or worse, Bonhoeffer has received more attention than his historical roles in the German church struggle, resistance, or ecumenical world would merit. It is surely the power of his life, writing, and testimony that has accomplished this, thanks in good measure to the tireless efforts of his best friend and biographer Eberhard Bethge. Still, it means he is an easy figure to lift out of his historical context. Finally, a third factor which influences recent interpretations of Bonhoeffer is the contemporary prominence of Holocaust studies, which tempts authors to make the subject of Jewish persecution and annihilation more important to Bonhoeffer and other Protestant leaders than it actually was back in the day.[4] As Stephen Haynes argued in his 2004 work The Bonhoeffer Phenomenon: Portraits of a Protestant Saint, theological radicals, liberals, and conservatives have all identified Bonhoeffer as one of their own, a tradition only continued by Metaxas and Marsh.[5]

Schlingensiepen-DBLost in all of the attention paid to Eric Metaxas’ Bonhoeffer: Pastor, Martyr, Prophet, Spy is the fact that an English-language translation Ferdinand Schlingensiepen’s 2006 biography of Bonhoeffer was also published in 2010.[6] Dietrich Bonhoeffer 1906-1945: Martyr, Thinker, Man of Resistance is surprisingly unknown and seldom reviewed. Even this journal—dedicated to twentieth-century German church history and replete with Bonhoefferiana—failed to assess either the original German version or the subsequent English translation. Nor can this oversight be explained on account of any inadequacy in the qualifications of the author or the quality of the research. The following analysis is both a compensation for the absence of a more timely review and an attempt to reconcile differing views of Bonhoeffer through a close analysis of Schlingensiepen’s work.

In his own review of the Metaxas and Marsh biographies, Schlingensiepen echoes the criticisms of Clifford Green,[7] Victoria J. Barnett,[8] and others. Moreover, he sums up the German scholarly frustration with the two American interpretations:

Marsh and Metaxas have dragged Bonhoeffer into cultural and political disputes that belong in a U.S. context. The issues did not present themselves in the same way in Germany in Bonhoeffer’s time, and the way they are debated in Germany today differs greatly from that in the States. Metaxas has focused on the fight between right and left in the United States and has made Bonhoeffer into a likeable arch-conservative without theological insights and convictions of his own; Marsh concentrates on the conflict between the Conservatives and the gay rights’ movement. Both approaches are equally misguided and are used to make Bonhoeffer interesting and relevant to American society. Bonhoeffer does not need this and it certainly distorts the facts.[9]

As his comments suggest, Schlingensiepen’s approach to the Bonhoeffer story is shaped very much by his own history in the German Protestant church. It would be hard to find a scholar with better credentials for writing a Bonhoeffer biography. Ferdinand Schlingensiepen’s father Hermann was a Confessing Church pastor who knew Bonhoeffer, who directed one of the Confessing Church seminaries, and who participated in the German church struggle. A pastor and theologian himself, Ferdinand maintained a close, fifty-year friendship with Eberhard Bethge, Bonhoeffer’s confidante and biographer. Indeed, in the Acknowledgements, the author notes that Bethge realized his thousand-page biography was too long for most readers and asked Schlingensiepen to compose a shorter version which would update his own interpretation. Moreover, Schlingensiepen worked for former Confessing Church leader Kurt Scharf for a decade, knew various members of the extended Bonhoeffer clan, and employed the same editor as Bethge had worked with in the completion of his magisterial biography decades earlier.

All this makes Schlingensiepen intimately aware of the context in which Dietrich Bonhoeffer lived, learned, served, thought, wrote, and acted. His rich contextualization of Bonhoeffer influences the biography in two ways: first, Bonhoeffer is understood not as a lonely genius but in relationship to the many family members, friends, mentors, and colleagues who enriched in his life; second, Bonhoeffer’s theology and politics are developed in close connection to the German church struggle.

Bonhoeffer’s People

Schlingensiepen has much to say about the many people who contributed to Bonheffer’s life. His parents Karl and Paula and siblings Karl-Friedrich, Walter, Klaus, Ursula, Christine, Sabine, and Suzanne nurtured him, inspired him, failed to understand his decision to study theology, travelled with him, conspired with him against Hitler, advised him, corresponded with him, and supported him during his final years in prison. So too did his in-laws from the Delbrück, Dohnanyi, Schleicher, Leibholz, and Dreβ families. Indeed, Bonhoeffer’s entrance into the resistance movement is inconceivable without his family connections, and in particular those of brother-in-law Hans von Dohnanyi, assistant to federal justice minister Franz Gürtner, brother Klaus Bonhoeffer, a high-ranking lawyer for Deutsche Lufthansa, brother-in-law Rüdiger Schleicher, an important official in the air travel ministry, and uncle Paul von Hase, a high-ranking army officer and the city commandant of Berlin.

Beyond immediate and extended family members, Schlingensiepen weaves a host of other characters into his Bonhoeffer biography. He describes Superintendent Max Diestel as the “discoverer of Bonhoeffer” who watched over his theological development, sent him abroad for life-changing experiences in ministry and education, and introduced him to ecumenical work (33-34). In Schlingensiepen’s account of Bonhoeffer’s time at Union Seminary in New York, the author focuses on four deeply influential friends, both at that time and later. Paul Lehmann, an American of German-Russian ancestry, developed a friendship with Bonhoeffer that lasted from their student days to the war years, even though Bonhoeffer resisted his plea to stay in the United States in 1939 (63-64, 70, 230, and 267). Frank Fisher was the American student who introduced Bonhoeffer to the vibrant but marginalized black church in New York (65, 70). Erwin Sutz was a Swiss student who introduced Bonhoeffer to Karl Barth and became both an ecumenical partner and a vital communication link for Bonhoeffer in Switzerland during the war (67-70, 87-88, 262). Finally, Jean Lasserre, a French student at Union Seminary, profoundly influenced Bonhoeffer’s thinking about both pacifism and the Sermon on the Mount and became a long-running partner in international and ecumenical dialogue (70-73, 93, 173-174).

As Schlingensiepen explains Bonhoeffer’s life, thought, and work, there are scores of other influential and often overlooked characters who make their appearances: scholars like Adolf von Harnack, Reinhold Seeberg, and especially Karl Barth; friends and coworkers like Franz Hildebrandt, Hermann Sasse and Wilhelm Vischer, Gertrud Staewen, Julius Rieger, and of course Eberhard Bethge; ecumenical contacts like Wilhelm Visser’t Hooft and Bishop George Bell; the patron Ruth von Kleist-Retzow; and Bonhoeffer’s students from Finkenwalde. Whether he was developing his theology, writing confessional statements, combatting German Christian opponents in the church struggle, educating theology students, engaging in ecumenical dialogue, or resisting Hitler, Bonhoeffer never worked alone. Schlingensiepen always places him among people and regularly shows how dependent Bonhoeffer was on others.

Several examples illustrate this. In the summer 1933, though the formulation of the Bethel Confession was assigned as a joint project to Dietrich Bonhoeffer and Hermann Sasse, Schlingensiepen points out how it was in fact Swiss Old Testament scholar Wilhelm Vischer who contributed the vital section on the people of Israel (134-136). Similarly, the author notes that while Martin Niemöller and twenty other pastors (Bonhoeffer included) founded the Pastors’ Emergency League later in 1933, the idea actually came from two country pastors, Eugen Weschke and Günter Jacob (137).

In 1934, Bonhoeffer spent much of his time combatting August Jäger, state commissioner for the Prussian provincial churches and the violent implementer of the German Christian takeover of the Old Prussian Union Church and attempted creation of a centralized, authoritarian Reich Church. As Martin Niemöller and the Pastors’ Emergency League fought against Jäger’s boss, German Christian leader and Reich Bishop Ludwig Müller, Bonhoeffer agitated in the same direction from London, where he was pastoring. Here Schlingensiepen introduces Bishop George Bell of Chichester, who supported Bonhoeffer by writing German President Hindenburg about Müller and Jäger. Schlingensiepen explains how Bonhoeffer wrote forcefully but unsuccessfully to his ecumenical partners in Geneva, asking them to oppose the Müller regime. It was then that Bell, who was president of the Universal Christian Council for Life and Work, sent around a pastoral letter to the member churches of the Council, denouncing the radical unconstitutional seizure of authority in various provincial churches in Germany. Subsequently, after the Barmen and Dahlem Synods, it was the initiative of Bell and through him also the Archbishop of Canterbury—both of whom spoke in person to the German ambassador to England—that pushed Hitler’s government into jettisoning Jäger (152-154, 158-160, and 164-167).

Schlingensiepen also shows Bonhoeffer’s connections to key women in this history who are generally overlooked by other Bonhoeffer scholars. First, when Bonhoeffer began teaching theology in the Confessing Church seminary in Finkenwalde, he met and became friends with Ruth von Kleist-Retzow. She was a Pomeranian noblewoman who went on to introduce him to local aristocrats, to substantially support the underfunded seminary, and to open her home to Bonhoeffer for holidays and writing retreats (180, 244, 247, and 281). Finally, in 1941, after Bonhoeffer heard about various Jewish rescue operations from his ecumenical friends in Switzerland, he returned to Berlin and told close friends about them. Among these was Gertrud Staewen, who had been his friend since the two had worked together with Karl Barth, advocating on behalf of persecuted theology professor Günther Dehn in 1931 and protesting at the Protestant National Synod in 1933 (101, 141). Schlingensiepen suggests that Bonhoeffer asked Staewen to serve as the key link in the rescue of Berlin Jews sometime in the summer of 1941—in short, to take over the work of Heinrich Grüber and Werner Sylten, both of whom had been thrown into concentration camps. Based on her correspondence, Staewen accepted this call, working together with others in Berlin to support Jews being deported and to help some of them go underground. As part of this work, she maintained regular contact with ecumenical partners in Switzerland and with Bonhoeffer, who encouraged her but could not participate in the rescue work directly, because of his involvement in the resistance (263-264). These are just a few examples of the many ways in which Ferdinand Schlingensiepen places Dietrich Bonhoeffer within the larger context of activists engaged in church-political battles, theological writing and training, and subversive political activities.

The German Church Struggle

The second noteworthy aspect of Schlingensiepen’s contextualization of Bonhoeffer is in the careful attention he pays to the German church struggle, from the Nazi seizure of power and rise of the German Christian Movement in 1933 to the end of Bonhoeffer’s leadership of the Finkenwalde seminary in 1937. The author writes of “the many fronts on which [Bonhoeffer] was fighting and the many groups of people with whom he wrestled, … a bewildering abundance of events.” Significantly, he argues that “it was during the chaotic, fateful year, 1933, that the course was set for the 12 years of Hitler’s dictatorship, and thus for everything that was to follow in Bonhoeffer’s life” (116). Having established the significance of events in 1933, Schlingensiepen goes on to describe the events of the church struggle in their necessary detail, avoiding the confusion that so often accompanies this conflict. The author begins with Bonhoeffer’s leadership speech of February 1, Hitler’s seizure of power, the rise of the German Christian Movement, and Bonhoeffer’s essay on “The Church and the Jewish Question,” in which he proposes three possible responses to state injustice: to call the state to account, to give aid to the victims, and ultimately, to not only “bind up the wounds of the victims beneath the wheel, but to seize the wheel itself” (126). The politics of the Young Reformation Movement, the rise of Martin Niemöller, the church constitution issue, the takeover of the Old Prussian Union Church government, the church elections of July 1933 and German Christian seizure of Protestant church governments, the emergence of an opposition movement, the drafting of the Bethel Confession, the fall 1933 Prussian and national church synods, and the formation of the Pastors’ Emergency League—all these are given appropriate attention in a single chapter on the year 1933.

From there, Schlingensiepen goes on to describe Dietrich Bonhoeffer’s service as pastor in London and then as director of the Confessing Church seminary in Finkenwalde. At the same time, however, he explains Bonhoeffer’s participation in the church struggle, including the campaign against the Reich Church and Reich Bishop Ludwig Müller, the Barmen Declaration and the formation of the Confessing Church, the establishment of church finance departments in the Prussian provincial churches, the appointment of Hanns Kerrl as Minister of Ecclesiastical Affairs, Kerrl’s attempt to govern the churches through Reich and provincial church committees, and the appointment of Dr. Friedrich Werner as director of the German Protestant Church chancellery and head of the Berlin High Church Council.

Especially noteworthy is Schlingensiepen’s understanding of the relationship between the Barmen, Dahelm, and Oeynhausen Synods of the Confessing Church. For Bonhoeffer and his colleagues, “the decisions of Dahlem were just the necessary ‘form’, the ordering of the Church required by the ‘content’ of the Theological Declaration of Barmen” (165). Indeed, the author argues that “there was no one in the Confessing Church who took the decisions of the Confessing Synod of Dahlem more seriously than did Bonhoeffer” (172). Bonhoeffer consistently refused to recognize the authority of the official church governments, emphasizing that the Confessing Church was the sole legitimate church government and even applying the old formula extra ecclesiam nulla salus to the situation: “Whoever knowingly separates himself from the Confessing Church separates himself from salvation” (189). He would not even make peace with Kerrl’s more moderate church committees taking the radical position that “Barmen [was] a tower against the subversion of church doctrine, Dahlem the tower against the subversion of the ecclesiastical order,” and Oeynhausen “our defence against the subversion of the church by the world as, in the shape of the Nazi state, it intervenes through its finance departments, Legislative Authority and committees, and is now tearing into separate groups the church of those who confess our faith. Here we cannot and must not give in one single time!” (194). This aspect of Schlingensiepen’s account is particularly important, since the divisions within the Confessing Church between Lutherans in the “intact churches” of Württemberg, Bavaria, and Hanover who were willing to work with the German Protestant Church government and the Dahlemites who rejected any authority outside the Confessing Church are often misunderstood or ignored. And it is precisely here that we see the radicalism of Bonhoeffer, rejecting both the enthusiasm of the German Christian Movement to fuse Nazism and Christianity and the unwillingness of the Lutheran wing of the Confessing Church to abandon the state church tradition of German Protestantism. Schlingensiepen helps us to make sense of Bonhoeffer’s theological and existential journey through the events German church struggle.

The Historical Bonhoeffer

But who is Schlingensiepen’s Bonhoeffer? The author’s short answer is that Bonhoeffer’s life, actions, and death cannot be explained solely according to traits he inherited, but must take into consideration his formation as a youth at home and in university. Above all, Schlingensiepen sees three key characteristics in Bonhoeffer: “intellectual curiosity, an incorruptible sense of right and wrong, and the courage to make uncomfortable decisions with potentially dangerous consequences” (xviii-xix). Moreover, he argues we must also:

become engaged with what, for Bonhoeffer, theology was. Bonhoeffer wanted to expose theology to ‘the fresh air of modern thinking’. He insisted that the message of the Church must always apply concretely to the reality of the world. Timeless truths he considered useless, for ‘what is always true is precisely what is not true today’. (xix)

This is what is so striking about Schlingensiepen’s Bonhoeffer. His combination of curiosity, moral courage, and theological creativity makes him so utterly unpredictable, so full of paradoxes (perhaps even contradictions), and so impossible to pigeonhole.

Bonhoeffer’s Formation

Bonhoeffer’s formation surely contributed to this. He grew up in upper middle class privilege, steeped in the education and culture of a professional family. While he lost an older brother in the First World War, his own wartime service was as a 12 year-old “messenger and food scout” for the family, secretly participating in the black market trading of which his siblings disapproved (11). From an early age, he was independent minded, and surprised his non-church going family by choosing to study theology (16). Time and again, Schlingensiepen highlights the unconventional and unpredictable aspects of Bonhoeffer’s journey, whether it was joining the non-conformist Hedgehog fraternity at Tübingen or quitting the group when they expelled their Jewish members (19). Later, this independent streak showed itself in his choice of Reinhold Seeberg as his doctoral supervisor, even though Bonhoeffer had worked far more closely with Adolf von Harnack, and though Seeberg had little time for Bonhoeffer’s interest in Karl Barth’s doctrine of revelation (29-30).

Bonhoeffer’s formation continued along unconventional lines. Already while an undergraduate, he had travelled throughout Italy and down into North Africa, experiencing both Islam and Roman Catholicism. Indeed, it was Bonhoeffer’s exposure to Catholic worship in Rome that fuelled his growing interest in ecclesiology (22-25). Then, following the completion of his doctorate in 1927, Bonhoeffer experienced more of the world, serving as a pastoral assistant in a German congregation in Barcelona for a year, then studying at Union Seminary in New York for another year. There he encountered the friends who introduced him to African-American Christianity and pacifism. During this time he travelled widely in the United States and Mexico, experiencing cultures far outside his own. And even before he went to America, he had also contemplated the idea of travelling and studying in India, in part due to the suggestion of his grandmother, who believed it would give him the benefit of a non-Western and non-Christian perspective (61). Later, of course, Bonhoeffer would continue to travel widely on behalf of the ecumenical movement, giving him relationships, experiences, and perspectives far different from those of most German Protestant clergy. Once again in 1934 he thought of India, and even received an invitation from Gandhi (171). In the fateful year of 1939, he journeyed a second time to the United States, only to break off his stay and return to Germany in order to be present during the crises in church and nation.

Radical Thinking

For Schlingensiepen, this combination of personality, upbringing, and educational formation lies behind Bonhoeffer’s habit of pursuing radical theological ideas and church-political positions. As early as 1928 in Barcelona, Bonhoeffer lectured on the need for an all-or-nothing decision concerning Christ in “the most profound matters we are facing, namely, concerning our own lives and the life of our people” (49). When he turned to the question of ethics, he argued that moral decisions involved the consciousness of the commandments of God, the watchful eye of God, and the grace of God in each moment of life. For Bonhoeffer, ethics were, from the beginning, about doing the right thing in every unique circumstance, not about following abstract principles. As he put it:

There are no acts that are bad in and of themselves; even murder can be sanctified. There is only faithfulness to or deviation from God’s will. There is no law with a specific content, but only the law of freedom, that is, bearing responsibility alone before God and oneself (49-50).

Bonhoeffer carried this same radicalism into 1933 and the events of the church struggle, whether in his February radio speech denouncing Hitler’s style of leadership as seductive and idolatrous (117), in his judgment that German Protestants had “totally lost both their heads and their Bible” when it came to the Jewish question (121), or in his now famous assertion that the church might have to “seize the wheel” and engage in the direct political action of resisting the unjust state (126). In a public debate at the University of Berlin, Bonhoeffer was the lone representative of the Young Reformation Movement, facing groups of professors and students from the German Christian Movement and the church-politically neutral camp before an audience of 2000 (131). In early summer, he and his friend Franz Hildebrandt even proposed a Protestant interdict—a collective refusal to perform Protestant funeral services until the church’s legal rights were restored. When their shocked colleagues refused to consider the idea, the two men considered leaving the church (132). Still in 1933, Bonhoeffer described the application of the antisemitic Aryan paragraph in the church as a false doctrine and (with friends) distributed protest leaflets at the Protestant National Synod in Wittenberg in September (137, 141).

By the beginning of 1934, by which time Bonhoeffer had taken up pastoral duties in two German congregations in London, he had begun to adopt a prophetic tone concerning the crisis in German Protestantism (154). He fully embraced the radical stance of the October 1934 Dahlem Synod’s resolution that “the constitution of the German Evangelical Church has been destroyed” and that “the Confessing Synod of the German Evangelical Church creates new organs of leadership” (165). At the ecumenical Youth Conference in Fanø that same year, Bonhoeffer mobilized his students to pass a resolution stating “that the rights of conscience, undertaken in obedience to God’s Word, exceed in importance those of any State whatever.” A second resolution noted that the state has attempted “to become the only centre and source of spiritual life,” asserted that the church and not the state must preach the Word of God, and concluded that “the Church works within the nation, but it is not ‘of the nation’” (169). At the main ecumenical conference in Fanø, Bonhoeffer argued forcefully that “the work of the World Alliance means work of the Churches for peace amongst the nations. Its aim is the end of war and the victory over war.” In a sermon at the conference, he continued on this same theme: “What God has said is that there shall be peace among all people—that we shall obey God without further question, that is what God means. Anyone who questions the commandment of God before obeying has already denied God” (171).

Throughout the balance of the church struggle, Schlingensiepen portrays Bonhoeffer as firm in his uncompromising radicalism. He drew more and more on the Sermon on the Mount as the basis of his thinking, adopted elements of monasticism as the basis for his seminary work at Finkenwalde, argued that there could be no salvation outside the Confessing Church, refused to participate in the moderate process of church committees, looked ahead to a “coming of resistance ‘to the point of shedding blood’,” and emphasized that the obedience and belief will lead the Christian into the image of Christ, including the image of suffering and martyrdom (173-174, 182, 189, 193-194, 198, 207-208). Furthermore, he prepared to refuse an expected call into military service (with the possibility of a death sentence) and sharply rebuked Confessing Church pastors who swore an oath to Hitler in 1938 (208, 212).

In contrast to his uncompromising moral and theological resolution, Bonhoeffer found personal decision making difficult. He often wavered, feeling “again and again that all the decisions I had to make were not really my own” (39). This was true of his time abroad in Barcelona and New York between 1929 and 1931, and again in 1939 when he briefly returned to the United States. He couldn’t identify exactly why he promptly returned to Germany, but was convinced the decision was in God’s hands (230). He saw himself as a sojourner on God’s path (235, 236). This was also true of his decision to enter the resistance and the conspiracy to assassinate Hitler. More and more he came to understand that “with God we do not take up a stance—we walk along a path. It goes forward, otherwise we are not with God. God knows where the path goes, throughout its length; we know only the next step and the ultimate destination” (294).

With the beginning of his knowledge about German resistance plans, beginning in 1938, Bonhoeffer entered a new phase, theologically. Much of this is reflected in his work on Ethics, and appears in his many reflections Schlingensiepen includes on decision making, ethics, and Christian responsibility. For instance, in rejecting inner migration as a response to the early successes of Hitler’s armies in the Second World War, Bonhoeffer embraced instead an earthy, situational view of ethics. For him, the world had been reconciled to God by Christ and God had chosen to fundamentally accept the world. As a result, Schlingensiepen explains, the world “can become the place in which human beings assume responsibility, make peace, protect life and overcome murder, violence, and atrocities.” Bonhoeffer did not pursue “principles, standards or duties as eternally valid,” but encouraged people “in every historical situation, to listen anew to God’s commandments and to follow Christ” (251). As a result, Bonhoeffer could both accept the necessity of the removal of Hitler by assassination and reject the euthanasia of handicapped Germans on the basis of the commandment not to kill. The key to this was Bonhoeffer’s radical understanding of freedom. As the theologian put it:

Jesus stands before God as the obedient one and as the free one. As the obedient one, he does the will of the Father by blindly following the law he has been commanded. As the free one, he affirms God’s will out of his very own insight, with open eyes and a joyful heart; it is as if he re-creates it anew out of himself. (251)

Later, as Bonhoeffer became more deeply enmeshed in the resistance, his brother-in-law and close friend Hans von Dohnanyi asked him about the permissibility Christian participation in murder, since God’s law condemned it. Schlingensiepen summarizes Bonhoeffer’s response: “Murder is still murder, even when, in the case of Hitler, it is absolutely necessary. One must be prepared to take the guilt for this sin upon oneself. Bonhoeffer added that if he could get near enough to Hitler, he would throw the bomb himself” (274). This corresponded with his earlier advice to General Hans Oster, a fellow resister, that treason could be morally necessary if it prevented further criminal atrocities as were taking place in Poland. Still Bonhoeffer was not without his doubts. He wondered whether he could still function as a pastor, if he was among those with Hitler’s blood on their hands.

Continuing his discussion of Bonhoeffer’s thinking about guilt and responsibility, Schlingensiepen quotes the famous section in Ethics in which Bonhoeffer confesses the guilt of the church—the guilt of leaving undone what should have been done, and of doing what should not have been done:

The church confesses that it has witnessed the arbitrary use of brutal force, the suffering in body and soul of countless innocent people, that it has witnessed oppression, hatred and murder without raising its voice for the victims and without finding ways of rushing to help them. It has been guilty of the lives of the Weakest and most Defenceless Brothers and Sisters of Jesus Christ. (277)

For Bonhoeffer, this sense of responsibility and need to confess was rooted in the relationship between obedience and freedom. As one who knew those involved in the assassination plot, he wrote about “the freedom of those who act responsibly,” declaring “there is no law behind which they could take cover. … Instead, in such a situation, one must let go completely of any law, knowing that here one must decide as a free venture” (281). The free and responsible person breaks the law, recognizes his guilt under the law, and so affirms the law.

During this time, and from 1943 on, when he was in prison, Bonhoeffer’s ethics evolved into a new understanding of Christianity. In this “journey to reality,” Bonhoeffer entered what Bethge called a “turning point from Christian to man for his times.” He focused increasingly on concepts like “earth,” “reality,” and “world,” which he meant in a positive sense (293-295). He amazed himself “that I am living, and can live, for days without the Bible,” at other times drinking in Scripture, but all the while growing in “opposition to all that is ‘religious.’” He added, “But I must constantly think of God, of Christ; authenticity, life, freedom and mercy mean a great deal to me. It is only that the religious clothes they wear make be so uncomfortable” (295).

Schlingensiepen devotes a good deal of attention to these developments in Bonhoeffer’s thinking, which culminated during his time in prison. Even as his romantic relationship with his eventual fiancée Maria von Wedemeyer was growing, even as his captors continued to interrogate and torture him, Bonhoeffer worked on theology for what he called a “religionless” time (349). Schlingensiepen insists this was not the product of the earlier prison shock which had tempted him to consider suicide as a kind of ethical extension of his resistance (324). Rather, it was a new forward-looking orientation, by which he understood that the gospel was always turned towards the whole world. Here Schlingensiepen quotes his own father, who reflected on Bonhoeffer’s prison writings after the war: “This world is, even though at enmity with God or far away from God, still the world that God loves. So there can only be a church which turns toward the world” (351). Bonhoeffer himself wrote of blessing the world, declaring its belonging to God, even as the world inflicts suffering on the Christian.

Schlingensiepen explains that for Bonhoeffer, the core question which emerged was “what is Christianity, or who is Christ actually for us today?” (351). In his prison letters, Bonhoeffer began to wrestle with the concept of “religionlessness.” For him, the conduct of the German churches during the Nazi period was one more factor that invalidated traditional religious language. Beyond that, however, the older problem of the church’s refusal to face modern science and its explanations of the world apart from any reference to God meant that the church was always on the defensive, always turning God into a God of the “stopgap.” Grappling with what it meant to live in such a world come of age, he argued for the need to bring God into this very place of worldliness: “The same God who makes us live in the world without the working hypothesis of God, is the God before whom we stand continually. Before God, and with God, we live without God.” In this context, Bonhoeffer understood God as near, as suffering, as weak. Continuing, he wrote: “God consents to be pushed out of the world and onto the cross, God is weak and powerless in the world, and in precisely this way, and only so, is at our side and helps us” (353). Schlingensiepen explains that, in his religionless Christianity, Bonhoeffer understood Jesus in the idea of presence. “Being-for-others” was both the essence of Jesus and the calling of the Christian who would live in faith (353-354).

Conclusion

There are many other rich thematic veins to be mined in Schlingensiepen’s Dietrich Bonhoeffer 1906-1945 which I have only touched on: Bonhoeffer’s consistent peace ethic; his pastoral activity; his ecumenical journeys to England, Switzerland, and Sweden; his approach to theological education; his participation in the rescue of Jews; his friendship with Eberhard Bethge; his romance with Maria von Wedemeyer; his doubt- and confidence-filled incarceration; his death; and his status as martyr.

What must be clear, however, from the detailed analysis of Schlingensiepen’s account of Bonhoeffer’s relationships, his participation in the German church struggle, his unconventional formation, and his radical theological ideas, is that Bonhoeffer is exceedingly complex. No biographer will portray him faithfully without a great deal of historical and theological spade work. Schlingensiepen focuses on Bonhoeffer’s intellectual curiosity, strong moral compass, courage, and creative modern theology. I have suggested that these characteristics make Bonhoeffer unpredictable, paradoxical, and impossible to pigeonhole. Conservatives value a Bonhoeffer who teaches the Bible, stands upon confessions of faith, and takes the lordship of Christ so seriously that he is willing to kill or die for it. He is, to be sure, a serious Christian. Liberals value a Bonhoeffer committed to peace, internationalism, and ecumenical Christianity—a cultured and curious man open to literature, music, and modern life, including an intellectually critical relationship with both the Bible and confessional theology. In Schlingensiepen’s biography of Bonhoeffer, we discover a man who encompasses both of these images and somehow holds them together in a life marked by a most radical, subjective, and challenging form of Christian discipleship. Here is someone worth knowing.

Notes:

[1] Although I arrived at the title for this review article independently, I later discovered that my colleague Andrew Chandler of the University of Chichester had written a review of the Dietrich Bonhoeffer Werke (DBW) under an almost identical title. See Andrew Chandler, “The Quest for the Historical Dietrich Bonhoeffer,” Journal of Ecclesiastical History 54, no. 1 (January 2003): 89-96. It is with his kind permission that I continue to use it. I would also like to thank Victoria J. Barnett for her encouragement to examine Ferdinand Schlingensiepen’s biography of Bonhoeffer and for her helpful editorial suggestions.

[2] Eric Metaxas, Bonhoeffer: Pastor, Martyr, Prophet, Spy (Nashville: Thomas Nelson, 2010); Charles Marsh, Strange Glory: A Life of Dietrich Bonhoeffer (New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 2014).

[3] Victoria J. Barnett, “Interpreting Bonhoeffer, Post-Bethge,” Contemporary Church History Quarterly 20, no. 3 (September 2014), https://contemporarychurchhistory.org/2014/09/interpreting-bonhoeffer-post-bethge. See also Chandler, “The Quest for the Historical Dietrich Bonhoeffer.”

[4] Ferdinand Schlingensiepen, “Making Assumptions about Dietrich: How Bonhoeffer was Made Fit for America,” The Bonhoeffer Center for Public Engagement, http://thebonhoeffercenter.org/index.php?option=com_content&view=article&id=37:schlingensiepen-on-metaxas-and-marsh.

[5] Stephen R. Haynes, The Bonhoeffer Phenomenon: Portraits of a Protestant Saint (Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 2004).

[6] Ferdinand Schlingensiepen, Dietrich Bonhoeffer 1906-1945: Martyr, Thinker, Man of Resistance, trans. Isabel Best (London: T&T Clark, 2010). See also the original German version: Ferdinand Schlingensiepen, Dietrich Bonhoeffer 1906-1945: Eine Biographie (Munich: Verlag C.H. Beck, 2006). Henceforth all references are to the English edition and are noted parenthetically.

[7] Clifford Green, “Hijacking Bonhoeffer,” Christian Century, October 19, 2010, 34-35.

[8] Victoria J. Barnett, “Review of Eric Metaxas, Bonhoeffer: Pastor, Martyr, Prophet, Spy: A Righteous Gentile vs. the Third Reich,” Contemporary Church History Quarterly 15, no. 3 (September 2010), https://contemporarychurchhistory.org/2010/09/review-of-eric-metaxas-bonhoeffer-pastor-martyr-prophet-spy-a-righteous-gentile-vs-the-third-reich.

[9] Schlingensiepen, “Making Assumptions about Dietrich.”

 

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Review of Kirsten Busch Nielsen, Ralf K. Wüstenberg, and Jens Zimmermann, eds., Dem Rad in die Speichen fallen. Das Politische in der Theologie Dietrich Bonhoeffers. A Spoke in the Wheel: The Political in the Theology of Dietrich Bonhoeffer

Contemporary Church History Quarterly

Volume 21, Number 4 (December 2015)

Review of Kirsten Busch Nielsen, Ralf K. Wüstenberg, and Jens Zimmermann, eds., Dem Rad in die Speichen fallen. Das Politische in der Theologie Dietrich Bonhoeffers. A Spoke in the Wheel: The Political in the Theology of Dietrich Bonhoeffer (Guetersloher Verlagshaus, 2014), 464 pages. ISBN: 9783579081687.

By Matthew D. Hockenos, Skidmore College

A Spoke in the Wheel: The Political in the Theology of Dietrich Bonhoeffer is a collection of thirty essays first presented as plenary lectures and papers at the XI International Bonhoeffer Congress held in Sigtuna, Sweden in June 2012. The collection is structured in three parts under the headings: Political Resistance; Christian Anthropology and the Political; and Church and Civil Society. The first part, which is most relevant to church historians, contains essays that contextualize Bonhoeffer’s political resistance to Nazism historically and theologically. The second part contains an assortment of theological essays that examine Bonhoeffer’s theology through a variety of interpretive lenses, including his understanding of prayer, grace, guilt, discipleship, redemption, reconciliation, divine mandates, and his critique of religion, among other things. The essays in the third part return to more concrete matters by examining Bonhoeffer’s understanding of the relationship between the church, civil society, and the state in the 1930s and 40s, but also in particular postwar contexts, such as South Africa and Brazil. The overall quality of the essays is exceptional and the collection should be seen as a showcase for recent research in Bonhoeffer studies.

Dem Rad in die Speichen fallen A Spoke in the Wheel vonSome of the highlights of the collection include the lead essay by Wolfgang Huber in which he provides a theological profile of Bonhoeffer’s political resistance, particularly his involvement in Hans von Dohnanyi’s conspiracy in the Abwehr. Despite the limitations placed on what Bonhoeffer could put into writing during the Third Reich, Huber believes a “theology of resistance” can be teased out of Bonhoeffer’s writing during this time. His call for the Church to take a public stand in solidarity with the Jews against the repressive state; his formulation of a confession of guilt in the name of the church; his theory of a responsible life; and his trust in God’s guidance—all indicate the rudiments of a theology of resistance, Huber believes.

Josef Außermair suggests that in addition to the texts identified by Huber that more attention needs to be paid to Bonhoeffer’s teaching at Finkenwalde to understand his political resistance. Bonhoeffer’s emphasis in his teaching on witnessing to Christ in the world, Außermair argues, was his way to prepare his students to participate in the Church Struggle and to confront the political challenges of the day. Sven-Erik Brodd and Björn Ryman both maintain that Bonhoeffer’s trips to Sweden in 1936 and 1942 played a significant role in the development of his political resistance, especially through his contact with British and Swedish members of the ecumenical movement. And Gerhard den Hertog examines how the success of Hitler’s 1940 military campaigns influenced Bonhoeffer’s reflections in Ethics and his decision to participate in the conspiracy.

Andreas Pangritz, in his examination of Bonhoeffer’s April 1933 essay, “The Church and the Jewish Question,” makes several provocative and perceptive points. First, he points out that in an earlier draft of the essay Bonoeffer had inserted the sub-heading “Ahasuerus peregrinus” or wandering Jew above the section with the offensive anti-Judaic passages that have gotten so much attention. Pangritz concludes that the sub-heading “represents authentically the main focus Bonhoeffer wanted to give to this part of the final edition [of his essay].” Second, he argues that Bonhoeffer’s association of “modern Jewish Christianity” with the alleged Jewish emphasis on a religion of law leads Bonhoeffer to refer to the Nazi-backed German Christians—and their desire to implement racial laws in the church—as guilty of Jewish Christianity. Third, he believes that Bonhoeffer’s famous phrase—best translated as “to fall within the spokes of the wheel,”—comes from the 18th-century writer Friedrich Schiller and was meant by Bonhoeffer to convey an act of “counter-revolutionary resistance” against the Nazi revolution. Pangritz maintains that Bonhoeffer’s political resistance “is aimed at defending the old order against its revolutionary transformation.” Pangritz concludes, that Bonhoeffer’s theological anti-Judaism “provides an ambiguous source for political solidarity with the Jews,” although Bonhoeffer’s rethinking of the Lutheran doctrine of two kingdoms, enables him to call for direct political against the state by the church on behalf of the Jews.

Keith Clements essay focuses on Bonhoeffer and the Bruay Conference of September 1934. Clements maintains that the Bruay report, authored by Bonhoeffer and few other Germans and British representatives from the ecumenical youth movement, should be seen as more than a simple affirmation of the Fanø conference report from the previous month. Although both Fanø and Bruay call on Christians to study the social and political questions of the day and to take action “based upon the responsibility of the church members for the social order according to the Will of God,” the Bruay report offers some eminently practical—read British—steps that can be taken by church members to “reproduce the Christian life to-day.” Thus Clements believes that Bruay created “a contextual ethic of responsibility,” which foreshadows the 1937 Oxford Conference on “Church, Community, and State” and the World Council of Churches.

Wolf Krötke and Victoria Barnett both take up the question of Bonhoeffer’s understanding of the relationship between church and state and its implications for civil society. Krötke argues that although Poles and East Germans struggling for a more democratic society in the 1970s and 1980s appropriated aspects of Bonhoeffer’s theology, his notion of the state as a divinely sanctioned order of preservation has little to offer proponents of democracy. Unlike his more conservative colleagues, Bonhoeffer saw a crucial role for the church in limiting the state’s totalitarian ambitions in Nazi Germany. His understanding of the church-state relations may have provided Bonhoeffer with the foundation for his resistance to Nazism, but the more widely accepted Lutheran understanding of the relationship between the two kingdoms also provided many of his Lutheran colleagues with a theological defense of the Nazi state and after 1945, the GDR state. Krötke concludes that democracy activists would be better off embracing Bonhoeffer’s concept of “genuine worldliness” rather than his views on the state.

Barnett understands Bonhoeffer’s views on the state similarly to Krötke but focuses her essay on Bonhoeffer’s reaction—politically and theologically—to the Nazi state’s dual suppression of the church and civil society. Especially during his time at Finkenwalde and after, Bonhoeffer reflected on the nature of the church under National Socialism—not only on the church’s role in limiting the state’s totalitarian ambitions—but also the role of the church and individual Christians in fostering a functioning civil society. After the war began and Bonhoeffer joined the Resistance he increasingly reflected on what would come after the defeat of National Socialism and what role the church would play in these changes. The church, he maintained, could no longer concern itself only with its own self-preservation—it had to become a church that demonstrated its concern for “justice among human beings.” “All Christian thinking, talking, and organizing,” Bonhoeffer wrote in 1944, “must be born anew out of prayer and action.” Barnett suggests that Bonhoeffer’s nearly twenty years of wrestling with how to understand the nature of the church and its relationship with the state and civil society culminated in some of his most provocative theological concepts such as the “world come of age” and “religionless Christianity.”

This is just a sampling of the excellent essays contained in A Spoke in the Wheel, all of which deserve a careful reading. The collection brings together for the first time a wide variety of scholarly contributions to the debate over the relationship between Bonhoeffer’s theology and his role in the Resistance.

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Review of John Pollard, The Papacy in the Age of Totalitarianism, 1914-1958

Contemporary Church History Quarterly

Volume 21, Number 4 (December 2015)

Review of John Pollard, The Papacy in the Age of Totalitarianism, 1914-1958 (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2014), 560 Pp., ISBN: 9780199208562.

By Lauren Faulkner Rossi

The papacy during the first fifty years of the twentieth century is no easy subject for a historian to cover, and not merely because one of the popes is the ever-controversial Pius XII. Between 1914 and the early 1950s, the supreme leader of the global Roman Catholic Church was forced to contend with two world wars, genocide, and economic depression. Ideologies bent on achieving total control over the societies they governed, including Nazism in Germany, fascism in Italy, and communism in the Soviet Union and China, contributed to vast political and social upheaval. As John Pollard reminds us on the opening page of his book on the papacy of this era, the popes “faced challenges far greater than anything that had arisen since the Reformation of the sixteenth century or the French Revolution” two centuries later (1). This fact, coupled with the strict closure of most of the Vatican’s archival materials on the papacy of Pius XII, means that the scholarship covering the Vatican in this period is riven with division and debate, particularly during the Second World War. Pollard wades ably through this historiographical quagmire and uses sources adroitly for his own analysis. What he produces is a more balanced account of the three men who sat on the papal throne than much of what has come before.

Pollard-PapacyPollard has an imposing pedigree, which one might demand of a scholar willing to tackle such a contentious subject: he is no amateur in examining modern popes in times of conflict. He has devoted much of his professional career to the Vatican and Catholicism in Fascist Italy, and his biography of Benedict XV is one of the most significant of any language. His introduction includes several crucial definitions and a brief sketch of the papacy up to Benedict’s election in September 1914. His conclusion speaks cogently of the legacy of the period as a whole, which he refers to simply as the age of totalitarianism, and addresses its greatest legacy: bringing the divisions between Church conservatives and liberals to the fore, leading to the most radical changes in Church history at the Second Vatican Council (478).

The book proceeds in chronological fashion, beginning with the accession of Benedict XV and ending with the death of Pius XII. Each pope is fully realized as his own person, though Pollard cannot help but acknowledge the heavy threads of continuity running through Vatican politics in this era. Though Benedict is given the shortest space (only two chapters), Pollard minces no words about his significance: Benedict committed the Church to a peace-making, humanitarian role in a time of total war, and one hundred years later this remains the foundation of contemporary papal diplomacy. Whatever else might be said of Benedict – that his papal “moral neutrality” during the war was at once tenuous and dubious; his tendency towards paranoia; his unhelpful obstinacy; his lassitude in developing doctrine and liturgy – this is no small contribution to the modern papacy.

His successor was Pius XI, whose temperament was “authoritarian” (128) and who, refusing to bow to Roman custom, brought his own housekeeper with him into the papal apartment. Until nine years ago, Pius XI’s reign tended to be overshadowed by the man who worked as his secretary of state from 1930, and who himself became pope in 1939; however, the opening of the archives relating to his papacy in 2006 has allowed scholarship on “Papa Ratti” to grow. The interwar pope did not have to cope with the challenge of bloodshed in Europe, but between the advent of Fascism in Italy and Nazism in Germany, the worldwide economic depression, the outbreak of the Spanish Civil War, continual upheaval and persecution of the Church in Mexico and China, among other places, Pius XI also instituted Radio Vatican, beatified nearly five hundred people, and canonized another thirty-four (189).

Pius XI continued what Benedict had commenced with a reliance on “concordatory politics,” signing a series of important treaties in the interwar period with numerous countries that were aimed at protecting the religious rights of their Catholic citizens, notably including Italy and Germany. His papacy also heavily emphasized teaching, which is borne out by the number of public pronouncements and encyclicals he issued on subjects from Christian marriage (Casti connubii, 1930) to Soviet communism (Divini redemptoris, 1937) to the plight of the Catholic Church in Germany (Mit brennender Sorge, also 1937). His most significant challenges lay in dealing with the two totalitarian ideologies that entrenched themselves in the Soviet Union and Germany, and Pollard understandably delivers some of his sharpest criticism – of both Pius XI as well as the scholarship about him – here. He points to the obvious missed opportunity of the Vatican to have representation at the 1938 Evian Conference, when countries from across the globe met to discuss the plight of Europe’s Jews fleeing Nazism, but does not speculate about why. He acknowledges the collaborative nature of many of Pius’s encyclicals, especially the later ones, though fails to emphasize just how much of the German-language encyclical, Mit brennender Sorge, was the work of Pacelli and a handful of German bishops. (See Emma Fattorini’s excellent discussion of this encyclical in Hitler, Mussolini and the Vatican: Pope Pius XI and the Speech that was Never Made (Cambridge: Polity, 2011). Ultimately, Pollard insists, despite occasional vacillation, Pius left the papacy stronger than it had been when he began as pope, though on a basic level he remains a mysterious, somewhat elusive figure with regard to certain key issues, particularly the “modernist crisis” (289-290).

Like all scholars dealing with Pius XII, Pollard has to admit that the lack of access to key documents about his pontificate is problematic: until these archives are opened (and when this will happen has been the big question for many years now), scholars will have a difficult time contributing anything genuinely new to the debates. Pollard, though, does the historiography a clear service by summarizing the material that is available for study and by plumbing the controversies about Pius XII to provide fresh insights, especially with regards to his continuity with Pius XI. He underscores the stability within the Vatican hierarchy during the second Pius’s reign, largely due to the connections between the two Piuses – Pius XII had worked under his predecessor as secretary of state from 1930 to 1939. In fact, one argument about the papacy that Pollard makes unassailably is the importance and clout of the man in the position of secretary of state up to the outbreak of World War II. (The power of this position disintegrated somewhat when Pacelli became pope in 1939, though Pollard does not clarify specifically if this was due to the way that Pacelli ruled as pope or the personalities he chose to serve under him in that dicastery – or a combination of both.)

Pollard does not sidestep the controversy surrounding Pius XII. He states explicitly that Pius never mentioned specifically the plight of the Jews in Nazi-dominated Europe, despite the Allies urging him to do so. This was not due to lack of awareness; he estimates that the Vatican knew reasonably well about the mass murder of Jews in Eastern Europe by early 1942 at the latest (332). Rather, Pius believed he was doing as much as he could within the limits imposed on him by external circumstances. Above all – and here is where continuity shows strongly – he was committed to the policies of his predecessors, especially Benedict XV: in time of war, the Vatican had to remain neutral so as to avoid alienating segments of the Catholic population spread across the zone of conflict. To condemn the atrocities perpetrated by one side or another risked this alienation – and condemning Germany’s atrocities in particular risked isolating the sizable Catholic minority in Germany, a country dear to Pacelli’s heart (he had served as nuncio there from 1920 until he became secretary of state).

Pollard demonstrates historical sympathy in detailing the conundrum Pius XII found himself in vis-à-vis wartime atrocities, including the genocide of Europe’s Jews. Such a show of sympathy is not tantamount to an absolution, though his refusal to be more strident in his criticism will not please those ever ready to condemn the Vatican for its muteness in the face of the Holocaust. Pollard’s heaviest criticism for Pius XII – his “ugliest silence” (346-347), as he calls it – falls on the pope’s lack of reaction to the murderous campaigns of the fascist Ustasha regime in Croatia. Although the Vatican had not formally recognized an independent Croatian state when it was instituted in 1941, it declined to protest the forced conversions and ethnic cleansing that the Croats unleashed, apart from any German initiative in the area, even though Church officials had a full awareness of what was unfolding.

Moreover, of the three popes that Pollard assesses, Pius XII is not presented as the most unsympathetic towards Jews; Pius XI is. “It is impossible,” he cautions, “to understand the papacy’s relationship with the Jews of Europe in this period except within the broader context of Christian antisemitism” (472), and here he excuses none of the popes. But he singles out Pius XI as the most ambivalent towards Jews. He was continuously conflicted, showing sympathy for their plight in some circumstances but missing several opportunities to endorse a clear renunciation of antisemitism, whether found in Church liturgy or in Nazi ideology. It would take another two decades, and two more popes, before the Church finally took responsibility for its role in perpetuating antisemitism in the issuance of Nostra Aetate. Pollard categorizes this move as the papacy’s “final [divestment] of the last trace of antisemitism” (474), though one might disagree about how final it really was.

Pollard’s contribution to the subject of the popes during the age of totalitarianism has not definitively resolved any outstanding controversies and debates, but he has provided a judicious, nuanced, and well-informed examination of Benedict XV, Pius XI, and Pius XII. Expertly using a truly impressive array of materials in multiple languages, including the most recent scholarship, he grounds these popes in the contexts of both great political crisis and upheaval in Europe as well as the Church’s institutional development and growth as a political and diplomatic player. Without drawing attention away from the experience of the victims of Nazism, he quietly reminds the reader in his conclusion of the impact of communism across the world, from Asia to Europe to North America (Mexico), on Catholics and the Church: “This period of the persecution and martyrdom of Catholics must be ranked alongside those under the Roman emperors, during the Reformation and wars of religion of the sixteenth century, and in the years following the French Revolution of 1789” (460). All three popes under scrutiny made mistakes, some grievous, but their terror of widespread communist victory, which was consistently at the forefront of their thinking and behavior, perhaps makes their actions more human, and more understandable. It is to Pollard’s credit, as historian and writer, that he has made this perspective available to his readers.

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Review of Jacques Kornberg, The Pope’s Dilemma: Pius XII Faces Atrocities and Genocide in the Second World War

Contemporary Church History Quarterly

Volume 21, Number 4 (December 2015)

Review of Jacques Kornberg, The Pope’s Dilemma: Pius XII Faces Atrocities and Genocide in the Second World War (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 2015), 405 Pp., ISBN 9781442628281.

By Beth A. Griech-Polelle, Pacific Lutheran University

“When Words are not matched by Actions”

“The Pope at times cannot remain silent. Governments only consider political and military issues, intentionally disregarding moral and legal issues in which, on the other hand, the Pope is primarily interested in and cannot ignore…How could the Pope, in the present circumstances, be guilty of such a serious omission as that of remaining a disinterested spectator of such heinous acts, while the entire world was waiting for his word?” (301)

These are strong words, uttered by Pope Pius XII to Dino Alfieri, the Italian Ambassador to the Holy See. Which heinous acts was the Pope willing to denounce? In this case, Alfieri had explained to Pius XII that Il Duce was displeased that in May 1940, Pius had sent a letter of commiseration to Belgium, Luxemburg, and the Netherlands upon their invasion by Nazi Germany. In The Pope’s Dilemma, Jacques Kornberg takes the reader on an odyssey to examine the reasons why Pope Pius XII might have chosen silence and inaction over outright condemnation of Nazi atrocities committed during the Second World War. Kornberg’s work represents a monumental compilation of materials, both primary and secondary sources, reflecting a lifetime of study on the role that organized religion plays in our world. Written clearly and argued persuasively, one might hope that this work would be the definitive end to the “Pius Wars,” however, one can assume that this just might engender further responses from both sides of the battle.

Kornberg-PopesKornberg takes on both sides of the Pius War, questioning the various ways in which scholars have sought to either support Pius’s reactions to the Nazi regime or have tried to find fault with Pius’s response (or lack thereof). At the book’s outset, Kornberg asks the fundamental question that has frustrated both sides of the scholarly debate: “why was the pope unable to deal with radical evil?” (3) Kornberg argues that, in his view, the papacy of Pius XII was a moral failure out of “calculated acquiescence;” meaning that the pope willingly allowed Nazi atrocities to happen “because of his own priorities and responsibilities as head of the Roman Catholic Church” (8-9). Kornberg then tracks how Pius’s reputation drastically plummeted in the 1960s, in no small part to the wildly successful play by Rolf Hochhuth, Der Stellvertreter, (The Deputy) which depicted a cold, calculating Pius who sat silent in the face of Nazi crimes for “reasons of state” (16). With this incendiary play, debates raged: was Pius complicit with the Nazi regime due to his silence or was Hochhuth’s play no more than a deeply flawed portrayal of the Pope? Kornberg takes the reader through the play, the reactions and counter-reactions to it and links this to the role of Vatican II in further sealing the demise of Pius’s reputation. A new era was opening up for the Church under the leadership of the charismatic and charming Pope John XXIII and Kornberg dryly notes that in this new climate, “it was inevitable that Pius XII’s reputation would sink like a stone” (35). At issue here was the question of mission: what was the Catholic Church’s role? Was it to serve as a voice of morality to the world, was it to concern itself primarily with pastoral care, or was it to be a mixture of both of these? Raising these questions allows Kornberg to move on to his next chapter, addressing the options of Eugenio Pacelli and his role in the drafting of the Reichskonkordat.

Kornberg takes readers through the historiography of the 1960s-1970s debate between Klaus Scholder and Konrad Repgen. Scholder denounced the role of then Cardinal Secretary of State Pacelli for sacrificing Catholic opposition to the Nazi regime in his single-minded quest for a treaty between the Holy See and the German Reich. On the other side of the debate was Konrad Repgen, who interpreted Pacelli’s actions in a much more favorable light, arguing that the Cardinal Secretary of State was attempting to keep the Catholic Church’s institutions protected in the face of a ruthless dictatorship. Kornberg neatly walks readers through the works of other prominent historians, such as Ludwig Volk, Hubert Wolf, Gerhard Besier, Martin Menke, and many more to summarize their findings that Pacelli, and his predecessor, Pope Pius XI, had both determined that the Vatican’s top priority was to find guarantees that the institutions of the Church would go on. To achieve that end, they followed the German Catholic populations’ lead, deciding to reach an accommodation with Hitler’s regime. This allowed German Catholics to believe that they could be both “good Catholics” while simultaneously behaving as “good Germans.” But, how were German Catholics to behave in the face of war?

Kornberg’s third chapter analyzes Pope Pius XII’s wartime papacy. Cardinal Pacelli was elected pope in March 1939. Two weeks later Hitler seized control of what was left of the Czech state. For the new pope, he was now face-to-face with the totalitarian aims of Hitler and Mussolini and, as war raged, how would the new pope respond? Chapter Three focuses on Pius’s interactions with some of the Catholic belligerent states- Slovakia, Croatia, France, Italy, and Hungary, with the premise that the pope was revered there and should have had some kind of palpable influence over Catholics living in these territories. What emerges, in each case, are examples of local church leaders expressing concern–or even outrage–that Catholics of “Jewish descent”(converts to Catholicism), were going to be impacted by anti-Jewish legislation and deportations. Pius XII feared moving too far ahead of local Catholic popular opinion, so he chose not to challenge Catholics, never urging them to go beyond defending narrowly defined Catholic interests. In each country Kornberg presents, Pius listened to local church leaders, thought about local Catholic consensus, and opted to not alienate Catholics and risk losing them for the Church. Reinforcing the structures of the church, providing sacramental care for local Catholics, trumped publically intervening to save the lives of persecuted minorities such as the Jews. Perhaps the most indicting of all the examples in this chapter, refers to Pius moving heaven and earth to protect Rome from destruction. While Jews of Rome were being deported, Pius spoke out eloquently against the potential destruction of the seat of Christianity. To Pius, Rome was sacred, eternal, and it was his mission to use his spiritual and moral authority to become “the Savior of the City” (121). Through his actions, Pius XII had ensured that Catholics would have access to the instruments of the sacraments, preserving the institutions of the Catholic Church all while remaining silent regarding the round ups of Jews throughout Rome.

Chapter four presents the special case of Poland, an overwhelmingly Catholic country, site of unimaginable brutality during the war- against both Catholic Poles and Jews. Surely, the pope would have an obligation to condemn Nazi aggression and the consequent victimization of the Polish population at the hands of their oppressors? Kornberg reveals, however, that the pope opted to hold back, carefully weighing his concerns. Foreign diplomats pressed the pope to utter an open, forthright condemnation of Nazi aggression against Poland, yet, when the pope did speak out, on October 20, 1939, his words were primarily a prayer for Blessed Mary’s intervention in Poland. The pope’s silence was incomprehensible to many who were suffering, but the pope maintained that German retaliation such as was being carried out in the Warthegau region of conquered Poland, kept him from saying more. Again, as in chapter three, we see the pope following the lead of local bishops, the general Catholic consensus, and opting to keep Catholic institutions functioning so as to provide pastoral care to those Catholics who desired it. The pope feared more than anything else that the Church would not be able to provide care for the souls of the people (155) and people was defined as Catholic people, not Jews.

What were the attitudes of Pius XII towards the Jews? This has been hotly contested by historians since at least 1964 when Guenter Lewy argued that traditional antisemitism precluded a true sense of moral outrage in Vatican circles. Beginning with an exploration of Pope Pius XI’s attitudes towards Jews, Kornberg unpacks many of the statements issued by Pius XI (pope from 1922-1939) and his Cardinal Secretary of State, Eugenio Pacelli. For both men, Kornberg demonstrates a strong linkage between fears of communism and Jewishness added on to the pre-existing Catholic Church beliefs in supercessionism and charges of deicide. Both men also used condemnatory language regarding modern day Jews rather than trying to emphasize to their listeners that Catholicism and Judaism had a shared heritage. At a time when Jewish lives were in extreme peril, Pope Pius XII chose to speak only in general terms of suffering where all involved in war were victims. Anti-Jewish decrees were seen as a way of protecting Christian society from the “harmful influences of the Jews” and did nothing to inspire Catholics to protest the transformation of Jews into second class citizens in whatever nations they lived. Pope Pius XII “continued to speak of the guilt of the Jews and their continued hostility to the church. In doing so he did nothing to prevent Catholics from looking upon Jewish distress with indifference, and to continue to acquiesce to the German government’s persecution of the Jews, and ultimately to the destruction of European Jewry” (184).

Because so many historians have accused Pius of silence in the face of such utter destruction, Kornberg looks to earlier popes and their responses to similar crises such as the Armenian genocide or the use of poison gas against civilians in Ethiopia. What Kornberg presents is strong evidence that Pius was one of a piece- examining the policies of Leo XIII, Benedict XV, and Pius XI reveals that each of these popes, when faced with mass atrocities, weighed the advantages and disadvantages to the Church and always chose the option that promised Catholic unity and reinforced papal authority. In one exceptional case, that of the French occupation of the Ruhr in 1923, then Pope Pius XI issued an ambiguously worded letter, which then led French Catholics to declare that they were immune to papal influence and that the French state was a sacred concept to them. In this instance, papal authority was shown to be without teeth and the limits of papal authority had been revealed. In the case of Italy’s invasion of Ethiopia and its use of mustard gas against civilians, Pius XI urged conciliation on the part of Ethiopia, recognizing that the Italian people supported the conquest and he feared a further weakening of his authority over Catholics in Fascist Italy. Towards the end of Pius XI’s life, he began to publically address the racism of the Nazi regime. In an encyclical, Mit brennender Sorge (With Deep Anxiety), in March 1937, the pope condemned the exaltation of one race over another, stressing the common humanity of all, but the true intent of the encyclical was that Pius linked Nazi racism with an effort to establish a national church based on German blood, thus supplanting the Roman Catholic Church in Germany. Racism had also by this time been uncoupled from antisemitism as Pius had argued that Catholics had a right to defend themselves against the corrupting power of secular, liberalized, emancipated Jews (226).

What then were Pius XII’s priorities? Why did he refuse to condemn Catholics who participated in atrocities or those who sat passively by the side allowing such despicable acts to be implemented? Here again, Kornberg takes the reader through the historiography of papal apologists as well as papal detractors. Did Pius XII favor Germany due to his trepidation regarding the spread of Communism? Kornberg argues effectively that, no, Pius encouraged American Catholic support of lend-lease material to the Soviet Union, that he refused to press Germany for a separate peace in the face of growing Communist power, that he engaged in an active plot to unseat Hitler from power. If Pius did not view Germany as a bulwark against Communism, was he silent about Nazi atrocities in order to preserve his role as diplomatic mediator at war’s end? Here again Kornberg argues that no, Pius XII’s diplomatic efforts to avert war ended in failure and that, following the invasion of Poland, his diplomacy was largely ignored. Another explanation offered by the pope’s defenders with regard to his silence is that he worried that if he spoke out, then worse things would happen to the victims. Kornberg examines Pius XII’s own explanations for his silence and finds that Pius cited two different reasons: as “common Father” to all Catholics on each side of the war, he thought he had to remain impartial; the second explanation, regarding potential retaliation against victims of Nazi aggression as it turns out referred to the suffering of the Polish Catholic Church and the threatened loss of sacramental life in Poland.

So, what were the pope’s priorities then? Kornberg places Pius’s top priority in his pastoral responsibilities of a universal church. His goal was to not alienate any Catholics from the Church and, hence, from potential salvation. Therefore, he concluded that he could not challenge Catholics to choose between their loyalty to the Church versus their loyalty to their State. Taking the long view of history, the Pope was envisioning a time when the war was over and Catholics from all of the warring nations would have to be reunited in the Church. Any Catholics who had participated in atrocities could receive forgiveness and salvation if they were truly repentant. Kornberg concludes that a great sacrifice was made in this decision: “Pope Pius XII looked the other way when human rights were being trampled on, and when Jews were deported to face unprecedented horrors, and continued to look the other way when Catholics participated in these crimes” (264). Religious values of the “good” trumped the moral imperative.

Finally, Kornberg brings the reader back to his opening question: why did the pope retreat before radical evil? To that, Kornberg responds with a thorough examination of Church doctrines ranging from the creation of the early Church under the Apostles, to the writings of St. Augustine, to the time of Pope Pius XII. The manuals that would have been available for Pius to consult would have been the culmination of centuries of teaching, and those manuals would have stressed that human beings are prone to sin and weakness but, through the power of the sacraments, provided by the Church, salvation was still a possibility. For Pius, as head of the Church, his primary responsibility as he saw it, was to provide access to the sacraments so that the faithful could be saved. This meant that the Pope could not overly burden the consciences of ordinary Catholics whose weak faith might result in their damnation. Weighing ‘greater evils” versus “lesser evils,” this type of casuistry led Pius XII to engage in “calculated acquiescence to mass atrocities when committed by fellow Catholics in order to hold out to them the prospect of God’s forgiveness and grace” (274).

Pius XII, at the war’s end, could feel that he had done his duty: he had preserved the institutions of the Church. Unfortunately his claims of being a moral authority who spoke truth to power and encouraged Catholics to resist evil were only words. Words not matched by actions.

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Review of Mark Riebling, Church of Spies: The Vatican’s Secret War against Hitler

Contemporary Church History Quarterly

Volume 21, Number 4 (December 2015)

Review of Mark Riebling, Church of Spies: The Vatican’s Secret War against Hitler (New York: Basic Books, 2015), 375 Pp. ISBN 9780465022298.

By Mark Edward Ruff, St. Louis University

That Pope Pius XII was involved in several failed plots to kill Hitler has been publicly known since the 1960s, if not since the close of the Second World War. But there have been few investigations into the actual cloak and dagger. Mark Riebling’s methodically-researched detective story, cast in the genre of a thriller, deserves widespread attention for the light that it sheds on this clandestine world of intrigue and terror in which the pontiff played a central role.

Riebling-ChurchIn the detail given to the spy rings operating out of the Vatican, Riebling’s account goes far beyond earlier accounts like those of the American scholar, Harold Deutsch. It adduces evidence from published documentary collections, state, church and intelligence archives in Britain, Germany, Poland and the United States as well as the extensive interview transcripts found in Harold Deutsch’s papers in Carlisle, Pennsylvania. In light of the fragmentary nature of the evidence and the sheer volumes of conspirators, adversaries and agendas, this research is one that only a historian of intelligence could have pulled off so compellingly. Shaping the contours of this book is Riebling’s broad range of experiences as an editor for Random House, security expert and terrorist analysis. This is simply the finest work on the subject in print.

At the heart of Riebling’s sleuthing are three plots in which Pius XII served as an intermediary between German plotters and British diplomats with whom he held midnight meetings. The Vatican, he makes clear, was one of the world’s oldest spy services. He tells how Pius XII had Guglielmo Marconi, the inventor of the radio, secretly install a secret audio recording system. Such technical expertise notwithstanding, all three plots were unsuccessful or aborted. In late 1939 and 1940, German generals were supposed to assassinate Hitler, but both they and the British got cold feet. In 1943, two bottles of cognac filled with explosives failed to detonate on board Hitler’s airplane. In 1944, Stauffenberg’s bombs only wounded Hitler. Riebling describes the unraveling of these plots and their aftermath, a gruesome litany of interrogation, torture and execution.

In many ways, however, the star of the show is not the pontiff but a Bavarian lawyer and future co-founder of the CSU, Josef Müller. Pius himself features in less than half of the chapters; it is the world of the plotters, and most notably Müller, that takes center stage. From his home in Munich, Müller was one of the masterminds, a courier bringing reports of Nazi persecution of the churches to Robert Leiber, SJ and Monsignor Ludwig Kaas, an influential German Jesuit and the former Center Party leader residing in the Vatican. At the same time, Müller, though his base in the Abwehr, the military intelligence branch of the Wehrmacht, developed strong ties to well-known plotters like Wilhelm Canaris, Alfred Delp, SJ and Hans Oster, all of whom perished following the failure of the assassination plot of July 20, 1944. True to its genre as a historical thriller, this book closes with a final revelation, how Müller, languishing in concentration camps, was given a last-minute reprieve from the gallows.

Riebling makes it clear that this is largely a Catholic story, the Protestant theologian, Dietrich Bonhoeffer serving as the lone exception. The Catholic plotters quickly discovered that they could not persuade Lutherans in the highest ranks of the army and church to go against centuries-old traditions of obedience to state authority, those anchored in Romans 13 and Luther’s doctrine of the two kingdoms. Riebling somewhat mistakenly attributes these same understandings to Calvinists, claiming that Calvin too deferred to state authority. In reality, Calvinists had historically proven to be far more inclined to resist unjust political authority under the maxim from Acts 5:29 that “we ought to obey God rather than man.” But even so, the resistance front was gradually become ecumenical, a part of cooperation that would infuse the founding of the interconfessional CDU in 1945.

What is missing from Riebling’s account is a discussion of how credible his sources are. What might the motives of the postwar storytellers have been in recounting their role in these conspiracies and their failures? Almost by definition, writing the history of such conspiracies runs up against two fundamental problems. For obvious reasons, clandestine plotters tend not to leave behind written records such as letters and diaries. They destroy them or better yet, never commit their plans to paper. Interrogation transcripts produced by their captors are typically unreliable, frequently the product of torture and deprivation. Even worse: ex-intelligence agents are often notoriously prone to exaggeration. Some seek to bolster their accomplishments post facto or settle scores with one-time rivals and adversaries. Nearly all are influenced by the political and ideological climate in which they recount their stories.

Josef Müller provides the perfect illustration of these problems. Riebling relies on his postwar memoirs published in 1975 and a series of interviews carried out by Harold Deutsch at points in the 1950s and 1960s. But how reliable this testimony compiled twenty to forty years after the events in question had taken place was remains open to question. Müller’s account has to be read through the lens of his own postwar political career, one punctuated by both triumph and defeat. After co-founding the CSU, Müller found himself under fire from the conservative integralist wing of the party led by Alois Hundhammer. His political opponents, in the grossest of ironies, denounced him as a former Nazi, forcing Müller to undergo a humiliating ordeal of denazification before a tribunal in late 1946. Müller was also forced to step down from his position as Bavarian Minister of Justice in 1952, having been accused of illegally receiving 20,000 DM from a Jewish rabbi, Philipp Auerbach. He also lost a race in 1960 to become the mayor of Munich. The extent to which these subsequent events colored his recollections is unclear. He was obviously driven by the need to exonerate Pope Pius XII from the allegations raised by Rolf Hochhuth, Saul Friedländer and others that the pontiff had refused to actively resist National Socialism. He was also influenced by prevailing currents that as late as the 1970s continued to see the men of the resistance movements as traitors. Most perplexing is that one of his handlers and co-conspirators until his arrest in early 1941, the Bavarian cathedral canon, Johnannes Neuhäusler, maintained a public silence about these plots until his death. To be sure, Riebling’s account, intended in so small measure for a popular audience, cannot delve into these puzzles in all of their complexity. Nonetheless, weaving the story of the ambiguous sources into the larger narrative would have lent the author’s larger conclusions even greater credibility.

For Riebling ultimately shows that under the guise of silence, Pope Pius XII was working to undermine National Socialism. The silence, for which he has been excoriated by many since the premiere of Hochhuth’s play in February, 1963, was in fact necessary for his covert activities. Riebling quotes what Müller told Harold Tittmann, an American diplomat to the Vatican, on June 3, 1945. “His anti-Nazi organization had always been very insistent that the Pope should refrain from making any public statement singling out the Nazis and specifically condemning them and had recommended that the Pope`s remarks should be confined to generalities only” (248). Müller added that “if the Pope had been specific, Germans would have accused him of yielding to the promptings of foreign powers and this would have made the German Catholics even more suspected than they were and would have greatly restricted their freedom of action in their work of resistance to the Nazis.”

Yet Riebling does not let Pius off the hook completely. “Judging Pius by what he did not say,” he writes, “one can only damn him.” (28). He had the duty to speak out – and on the whole did not. “During the world’s greatest moral crisis,” he notes, “its greatest moral leaders seemed at a loss for words” (28). Nor does he exonerate German Catholics. That it was the pontiff who would have to become involved in such plots speaks volumes about the fact that too few Catholics lower in the hierarchy chose a course of opposition.

Riebling’s masterful account will long remain the definitive account of the papal involvement in the conspiracies to topple Hitler. Yet it cannot remain the final work, the Vatican not yet having made fully available the papers from the wartime pontificate of Pius XII.

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Conference Report: Panels in Honour of Hartmut Lehmann at the 39th Annual Meeting of the German Studies Association

Contemporary Church History Quarterly

Volume 21, Number 4 (December 2015)

Conference Report: Panels in Honour of Hartmut Lehmann at the 39th Annual Meeting of the German Studies Association (GSA), Washington, DC, October 1–4, 2015

by Rebecca Carter-Chand, University of Toronto

The most recent German Studies Association conference featured a series of panels that celebrated the career of renowned historian of religion, Hartmut Lehmann. Organized by Doris Bergen, Benjamin Marschke, and Jonathan Strom, the five panels and their participants reflected the wide-ranging contributions and temporal and geographic scope of Lehmann’s career. Participants included colleagues, students, and friends from Germany, Austria, Israel, Canada, and the United States.

Lehmann PosterThe panel participants began the conference with a dinner to honour Hartmut and his wife, Silke Lehmann. James Harris spoke about Hartmut’s life and career trajectory, emphasizing his close ties to the United States, which began with a high school exchange program and continued through many visiting positions at UCLA, Chicago, Harvard, and Princeton. In 1987 Lehmann became the founding director of the German Historical Institute in Washington, DC, returning to Germany in 1992 to serve as director of the Max Planck Institute for History in Göttingen. He has been professor emeritus at the University of Kiel since 2004, while continuing to visit the United States often, most recently as a visiting professor at Princeton Theological Seminary.

One thread that ran throughout the panels was Lehmann’s ability to bring people and ideas together. Sometimes it has been countries that have come together, particularly Germany, the United States, and Israel; in other cases it has been institutions, like universities, governments, and foundations. But Lehman’s own research and publications have connected different fields that typically remain separated: early modern and modern history, religious history and social history, and the history of European Christianity and global Christianity, to name but a few.

The first panel, chaired by Peter Becker and commented on by Robert Ericksen, offered a timely reflection on Luther memory and commemoration—a topic on the minds of many historians in anticipation of the 2017 Luther year. Greta Kroeker’s paper discussed Luther’s relationship with Christian humanists and the implications of their very different views on eschatology. Christopher Close examined the first centennial Luther commemoration in 1617, contrasting local commemoration in Strasbourg and Ulm. He showed how commemoration was instrumentalized to shape a particular memory of the Reformation. Manfred Gailus contextualized Luther’s “On Jews and their Lies” within German Protestantism during the Nazi period, warning us not to overemphasize Luther’s infamous tract in shaping German Protestants’ antisemitism. Thomas Brady also considered the instrumentalization of Luther by discussing three different constructions of Luther: Luther as a Protestant hero by nineteenth century liberals; Luther as a German reactionary by nineteenth century socialists; and finally Luther as a teacher of progressive politics in the GDR.

The second panel, chaired by Richard Wetzell, with a comment by Doris Bergen, engaged the notion of secularization, suggesting some level of skepticism about its pervasiveness with the title, “Secularization? Secularism, Religion, and Violence.” Carola Dietze’s paper was premised on the idea that usual narratives of secularization are specific to European history, and offered a very different narrative with the case of the American abolitionist John Brown. Anthony Roeber’s paper placed Hartmut Lehmann’s work in conversation with the Canadian philosopher Charles Taylor, discussing both scholars’ contributions in moving forward discussion on secularization. Victoria Barnett discussed the Kirchenkampf in a global context, considering how Christians outside of Germany viewed the German Church Struggle through the lens of a struggle between ethno-national religion and internationalism.

The third panel turned its attention to Pietism in a transnational context. Chaired by Kelly Whitmer and commented on by by Simon Grote, this panel included papers by Benjamin Marschke, Jonathan Strom, and Manfred Jakabowski-Thiessen. Marschke revisited the question of how to define Pietism, questioning whether we should speak of Pietism as one reform movement, and making a plea for “many pietisms.” Strom considered the role of British conversion narratives in eighteenth century German Pietism, noting that influence flowed in both directions, although more strongly from Britain to Germany. Jabobowski-Thiessen discussed the importance of networks among Pietists, in this case Württemberg Pietists in Denmark. Several of the panelists reflected on Lehmann’s contribution to Pietist studies, praising his transnational approaches.

The fourth panel, titled “Germany and America,” was chaired by Silke Lehmann; the comment was given by Andreas Daum. Martin Geyer spoke about nation building and international technical standards (including currency and standards of measurement), and the meanings that people infused into them in the nineteenth century. James Melton gave a paper on slavery, Johann Martin Bolzius, and the German-speaking Pietists who migrated to Georgia in 1734. Claudia Schnurmann’s paper explored Martin Luther in the American biographical imagination from 1799 to 1883, bringing together many of the themes from the series of panels, including Luther memory and transatlantic exchange.

The fifth panel considered Harmut Lehmann’s works and influences and was chaired by Roger Chickering. Doug Shantz offered a reassessment on Lehmann’s 1969 work, Pietismus und weltliche Ordnung in Würrtemburg. Frank Trommler spoke about “the Lehmann era in Washington” (1987-1993) and Irene Aue-Ben-David’s paper spoke to the contribution of the Max Planck Institute for History in German-Israeli research cooperation. Hartmut Lehmann concluded the panel with some brief remarks, expressing his gratitude to all of the participants and the organizers of the series of panels.

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These Church Historians of Our Time: Markus Huttner, Marie-Emmanuelle Reytier, Huamin Toshiko Mackman

Contemporary Church History Quarterly

Volume 21, Number 4 (December 2015)

These Church Historians of Our Time: Markus Huttner, Marie-Emmanuelle Reytier, Huamin Toshiko Mackman *

By Andrew Chandler, University of Chichester

In these days of professionalism and of stolid institutions of higher education we seldom think of the work of the scholar as possessing much of the quality of a vocation. If we live and work outside the academic sphere we tend to assume that all is well within it, or at least as well there as it is anywhere else. The difficulties of finding a steady place in a world of university departments might be obvious to those who haunt its corridors, but we do not glamourize them. If the young scholar who cherishes a vision comes and goes we might enjoy them while they are here but we do not worry about them unduly when they have gone. They may not go on to quite the career they would ideally have chosen, or written the books they would have wished to write. But doesn’t that go for us all?

The modern university, like any other institution, exists to give the theme of scholarship structure and form. But the truth is often that for younger scholars academic institutions exist as a kind of intricately structured instability, in which only the powers at the top, the elect, enjoy the confidence of position and all the solidity that comes with it, while at the bottom contracts are brief, and prospects are often bleak. In such an atmosphere of benign interest and effective indifference a great deal of vital new wisdom is lost to us, and because it never has time to ripen and reveal itself we hardly know what we miss. Although they might stand to benefit so much from such labour and such insight, churches rarely view this matter as one to concern them and while money is carefully set aside for the payment of the clergy it would hardly be considered appropriate to spend it on the ambitions of a young medievalist or a historian of religious faith in the modern age. Scholars of religious history often find that they are stranded between a university world which often proceeds on the assumption that religion does not matter very much, if at all, and churches which continue to feel that the enterprise of research and critical thought is really no responsibility of theirs.

The situation, of course, varies from one country to the next. In the world of the German university it is not only the structures that look distinctive but the degrees themselves. Not yet have they shed the lengthy progress from a first doctorate to a second Habilitationsschrift. Professors do possess power and patronage matters. It is dispensed in the context of collective research projects often funded by foundations outside the university itself. This has much in common with the working of science departments in British and North American universities, though money for the Arts and Humanities is thinner and the opportunities dimmer. In North America an aspiring academic must confront all the liabilities of the ‘tenure track’ and hope that security for the longer term will come, in its time. In such a context do many young historians spend much of their energy scrambling as best they can from one position or project to another, and in Europe it is the research project, not the institution itself, which often defines the narrative. All of this makes it exceedingly difficult to enjoy much freedom in what one writes, or indeed to build a career which possesses any clear sense of direction or cumulative character. A historian of one subject will need to become the historian of another, if that is where the money is to be had. A little like the ship-builders of the industrial age whose security lasted only so long as the present ship was emerging on the slipways of a dock, they must hope that there will come another ship-building contract when the present work is done.

The German historian Markus Huttner will have known such a landscape, its opportunities and frustrations, well enough. Born in Weilheim/Oberbayern in 1961 he graduated from Friedrich-Wilhelms-Universität in Bonn in 1990. He was already conspicuous as a student and he had taken a year abroad to study at Oxford, where he was a visiting student at Christ Church. In such places a commitment to the history of National Socialism, and its convergence with Christianity in particular, had yielded a deepening awareness of the significance of these themes in the context of wider European opinion. This would define his first doctorate and his first book. In 1995 Markus Huttner published Britische Presse und nationalsozialistische Kirchenkampf and gave to scholarship an intricate survey of the British newspapers and their interpretation of what went on in the Catholic churches of Germany in the years of the Church Struggle – one of those immense monographs which have been possible for German researchers but unthinkable almost everywhere else, and which have become the speciality of the Verlag Ferdinand Schöningh. The book shows conviction not only in the choice of subject but the disavowing of some of the theoretical and methodological approaches, by then conventional in much of German scholarship, which might well have defined it. The book established a firm claim both for its subject and its author.

Although he was soon immersed in the necessities of publishing a plethora of articles for academic journals, Markus Huttner already had his sights set on a second book, and one that might reach a wider public. In 1999 he published an innovative discussion of the great matter of religion and totalitarianism as it was argued out by Christians in both Germany and Britain during the National Socialist era. This was Totalitarismus und Säkulare Religionen. Blending theoretical and biographical approaches, Markus Huttner here developed the strengths of his earlier work and drew together a striking pantheon of critics and observers, churchmen like J.H. Oldham and George Bell, intellectuals like George Orwell and Christopher Dawson, international critics like Waldemar Gurian and influential journalists like the editor Wickham Steed, the German correspondent of the Manchester Guardian, Frank Voigt and the Times correspondent, Norman Ebbutt. At the time when the book appeared a growing number of historians were beginning to write again of totalitarianism (a word which had itself passed in and out of fashion) as a ‘political religion’, and in many ways this became the premise of the book.

In the German universities the place of this work was recognised. Established historians like Thomas Brockmann, Christian Kampmann, Antje Oschmann and Franz Bosbach had come to value the achievements and the promise of this new voice. Maintaining a fruitful relationship with Oxford and the British universities, Huttner’s work was equally known to Jonathan Wright, at Christ Church itself, and, at Leicester, by Richard Bonney, who met him at a conference in 2001 and found him eager to help his own work. But it was now a question of settling to work on a Habilitationsschrift. Working under Ulrich von Hehl at the University of Leipzig, Markus Huttner began to explore the history of the German universities across the nineteenth and twentieth centuries, new work which united the intellectual and the corporate and emphasized with a new profundity the development of professionalization and the organization of disciplines. The work prospered and much of value was accomplished. But now, suddenly, time was running out. It was in Leipzig in the spring of 2005 that Markus Huttner learnt that he was seriously ill. He was killed by a brain tumour, dying in hospital on 31 May 2006.

I never met him, but with characteristic generosity he once sent me his two books and I replied, saying that I was embarrassed that I had nothing of comparable worth with which to reciprocate. After his death, in 2007 a fine anthology of Markus Huttner’s shorter writings, Gesammelte Schriften zur Zeit- und Universitätsgeschichte, was edited by Thomas Brockmann, Christof Kampmann and Antje Oschmann. The collection does well to show the character and quality, and the range, that he had by then achieved and the promise that had become its own fulfilment. Today his contribution is barely known outside his own country. One is left to acknowledge the barrier of language and the difficulties of making scholarship truly an international adventure in which the riches that may be known in one place are equally known to another.

The academic world which Markus Huttner knew bore much in common with that of Marie-Emmanuelle Reytier. Born a decade later, in 1971, she grew up in Lyon and studied History at the Jean Moulin University there, graduating in 1993. Her next step was to the University of Heidelberg where she was increasingly drawn to the history of modern Catholicism in Germany, particularly between 1848 and 1933. Like Markus Huttner, she soon looked to study abroad and an opportunity to study German Catholicism in the Kaisserreich in Oxford in 1996 proved a striking influence, as did a short visit to Vancouver for a conference of German Studies organized by John Conway. The first time that I encountered her was in a conference of the Kirchliche Zeitgeschichte journal at Strasbourg. Very much in the background and barely making her presence felt, she maintained nonetheless a palpable intensity of interest in everything and everybody there. Her work had by now garnered plaudits and accolades, but not yet a solid foundation or way ahead. It is hard not to sense that the happiness of these stipendium and conferences, and the praise that she won there, must have given her a still more vivid sense of what she wanted but could not quite secure for herself. Lyon remained her home and it was there that she completed her doctorate on the Katholikentage in the Weimar Republic.

By now Marie-Emmanuelle Reytier had come to her view herself as a historian of religion, politics and society and a scholar of comparative histories. There was a profusion of articles in journals and collections of conference proceedings of various kinds. She was as much at home with the history of German Catholicism as she was with that of French Catholicism, but she was far more interested in the realm of lay activism than the manoeuvres of ecclesiastical powers. Her work showed that she had already become an accomplished surveyor of long chronologies and broad landscapes, but she was, if anything, more drawn to intricacies of personal and collective experience. A succession of short biographical studies was published bringing a succession of neglected figures, many of them women, into the foreground of historical appreciation. But Marie-Emmanuelle Reytier already perceived that her fortunes must be, at best, precarious in the national and secular worlds which defined the outlook of the French universities. In the European faculties of that time funding could be secured for what had come to be called ‘trans-national’ and ‘trans-cultural’ research and this offered some prospect of work on projects of various kinds. Looking to secure a post-doctoral position she turned towards the history of the international women’s movement. At a workshop in Hamburg in 2005 she met the historian, Angelika Schaser. It was an important connection. Together they were able to pursue an innovative seam of research into religious conversions in the border areas of France and Germany across the nineteenth century. But the search for a university position began to look increasingly desperate and it proved impossible to develop what had been begun. There was a brief stipendium at the University of Vechta in 2006 and then at the University of Mainz in the following year. At a meeting organized by the George Bell Institute in London she said very little in formal sessions but was rich in conversation, and here she found in the Polish historian, Dorota Schreiber-Kurpiers a new and vital friendship. This yielded another brief opportunity, this time a short lectureship, from 2007-9, at the University of Opole. Together Marie-Emmanuelle Reytier and Dorota Schreiber-Kurpiers now planned an innovative project exploring the relationship between military authorities and prostitution during the First World War, a matter never before touched by scholarship in that country. I remember well the quality of near-trepidation with which they outlined this to me, and how firmly they insisted that it was surely time that such a subject must be examined (though I should add that, for my part, I needed no convincing). For Marie-Emmanuelle Reytier the position at Opole was precious, but it also brought an immense burden of teaching. There was another flurry of applications – I remember writing many references for her, often more in hope than expectation – but to no avail. When Angelika Schaser met her again in 2009 she found her almost exhausted and dispirited, but still putting a brave face on it all. The University of Hamburg remained something of an academic home for her work.

I think I have never known a scholar who was so ardent in seeking to write and publish what she had discovered in her work; always she appeared to be hunting for a home for something just finished. No other avenue opened before her. She soon became convinced that there was no future for her, and for the research in which she had come to believe, in Europe. She had some contacts in North America and believed there might be something to favour her there. Her command of English was excellent. A modest breakthrough occurred: Marie-Emmanuelle Reytier moved to Quebec and to a position at Laval University. Now she wrote a short study of the French journalist, Louise Weiss (in French, and as yet unpublished) and another, of the German politician Helene Weber (the fruit of scholarship from the Hiledegardis Association in Bonn). An article, presenting something of her earlier research on conversions in French Catholicism, was completed for the journal Kirchliche Zeitgeschichte (but not published). It was in Hamburg, shortly before Christmas in 2011, that Marie-Emmanuelle Reytier, discovered that she had developed an inoperable brain tumour. The following January treatment began in Canada, but little could be done. Friends rallied as best they could and they found her resilient, even optimistic. Far from Lyon and from the many cities which she had known so briefly, she died in hospital on 4 October 2012.

Huamin Toshiko Mackman grew up in a quite different world from that known to Markus Huttner and Marie-Emmanuelle Reytier. She was born in 1961 in Japan, to a Chinese father and a Japanese mother. Already as a child she was familiar with international travel; because her father worked for an American airline company she frequently flew alone to the United States and to Taiwan, journeys which made her family wonder if she possessed a distinctively independent and adventurous character. At elementary school she discovered the English language, often studying it late into the night and, it was feared, harming her eyesight. Much of these young years was devoted to caring for an ill mother: there was no money for university fees, but Huamin won a scholarship and duly repaid what she owed with the first job that she secured upon graduation. For a time she was employed as an interpreter by a Chinese trading company, often flying to China on business, much to the satisfaction of her father. Her parents died within weeks of each other when she was 27.

It was soon after leaving the trading company that she began to work with foreign students in Japan. She also visited Korea and began to study its language. It was striking that in the midst of such a life she should encounter the Society of Friends and herself become a Quaker. During the early 1990s she worked for the Waseda Hoshin Christian Centre in Tokyo, developing a particular commitment to Japanese-Korean relations. It was in this context that she travelled to Britain in 1996, first to study for a brief period at the Selly Oak Colleges in Birmingham, then to return there, this time to live. These early Birmingham years found her researching for a doctorate and organizing a Centre for the Study of North East Asian Missiology with Werner Ustorf. Together they edited a collective volume, Identity and Marginality: Rethinking Christianity in North East Asia (Peter Lang, 2000). She married, settled and made the city her home.

In its heyday a renowned bastion of Christian internationalism, missionary training and education, Selly Oak was in many ways an ideal place for Huamin Toshiko Mackman to flourish. But that era had now all but passed. The financial basis of the establishment was fragile and was judged by its governors to have served its purpose in the world. Negotiations were soon rumbling in the background. When Selly Oak was effectively acquired by the University of Birmingham, salaried academic staff were adopted and given a new home in the Department of Theology while a still-peripheral figure like Huamin was stranded. Whatever the rights and wrongs of it, the end of the age of Selly Oak deprived her of an important context for her work, and one to which she could have made a sustained contribution.

At this time Huamin encountered the Birmingham Quaker and Director of the Barrow Cadbury Trust, Eric Adams. The Trust had only a few years before committed generous funds to the development of a new body, the George Bell Institute, which was run from an office at the Queen’s Foundation nearby. A modest power with modest funds, the institute promptly made her a Fellow, undertook to support her research costs and made a study available to her so that she could work, translate and write as she saw fit. Here, for two years, much was achieved. Huamin published two valuable articles in the journal of the institute, Humanitas, one a discussion of Japanese Christianity and missionary controversies in the 1930s and the other on the political dilemmas of the eminent Japanese evangelist, Toyohiko Kagawa. The library at Selly Oak housed archival treasures documenting vividly the activities of international corresponding members of the World Student Christian Federation across the first half of the twentieth century. These had barely seen the light of day for decades. This was the kind of work which would have suited Huamin almost perfectly and we often discussed what we would like to do. In these conversations the name of Marie-Emmanuelle Reytier often came up. Applications for some modest finance which might make possible some new research there simply ran into the ground. Shortly afterwards the Birmingham office of the Institute had to close altogether.

Very possibly Huamin Toshiko Mackman did not view herself primarily as a scholar, though her research was meticulous, her command of languages capable and her sense of a subject was acute, creative and persuasive. But her research spoke of a profound moral engagement with contemporary issues, many of which called upon persevering, practical qualities. She was deeply involved in various works of international reconciliation and later accomplished much for the Japanese community across the Midlands. Local hospitals called upon her when they needed assistance with Japanese or Chinese patients who spoke little English. She also committed a great deal of time to contemporary issues of justice. In particular, she monitored refugee issues as they arose in Japan itself, seeking to support those who campaigned for a more liberal policy there. At heart, she was a vigorous and assiduous Christian internationalist whose work constituted a consistent challenge to those old enemies, nationalism, militarism, imperialism and indifference in their many forms. In company she was immensely kind and wonderfully thoughtful. The impression that she made on people of very different backgrounds was striking. A quiet presence in any conclave, her conversation was given wholly to things that mattered. Huamin Toshiko Mackman learnt that she had lymphatic cancer soon after the final colloquium of the George Bell Institute, in Poland in 2012. For a time there were hopes that the disease could be controlled, but it was too strong. She died in a Birmingham hospice on 17 August 2014. She left behind her husband, Steve, and a young, adopted daughter, Rose, brought to Birmingham from a Chinese orphanage only a few years before.

These three brief lives will leave few traces. Many of those who have grown familiar with the conferences and seminars of university life hardly noticed when they were among us and barely knew that they had gone. What then of the institutions of the Christian faith, as we know them in their more solid ecclesiastical forms, their national and local hierarchies and synods, their ongoing pronouncements and resolutions? Here there will be almost no acknowledgement at all, no sense of what has been lost, no sense even of what might have been learnt. Yet all three of them were still, in their own way, Doctors of the Church

 

* My particular thanks to Franz Bosbach, Angelika Schaser and Eric Adams.

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