Belief
Jurgen Moltmann
08/26/08 09:06 Categories: Theology
From Experiences of God, p. 6-8, by Jurgen Moltmann:
“Born in Hamburg in 1926, I belong to the generation which consciously lived through the horrors of the Second World War, the collapse of an empire and its institutions, the guilt and shame of one’s own nation, and a long period as prisoner of war. Later we were called ‘the sceptical generation’. And those of us who survived those years and who came back from then on shunned the fire. We had learnt justifiable mistrust. But we were really neither sceptical nor resigned. We were weighed down by the sombre burden of a guilt which could never be paid off; and what we felt about life was ann inconsolable grief. It is understandable that there were some of us whose motto was ‘count me out’, and whose aim was to withdraw into private life for the future. But really we came back to Germany with the will to create a new, different, more humane world. Some of us found behind the barbed wire the power of a hope which wants something new, instead of seeking a return to the old.
“Our Abitur - the university entrance exam - was put forward so that we could be sent to the guns, as Air Force auxiliaries. At that time I really wanted to read mathematics and physics at the university. Of course I had become interested in these subjects at school because of some teachers I admired. The theory of relativity and quantum physics were the most fascinating secrets open to knowledge. At that time the idea of theology was as remote as the church itself. The ‘iron rations’ in the way of reading matter which I took with me into the miseries of war were Goethe’s poems and the works of Nietzche (army edition, India paper). In February 1945 I was taken prisoner by the British, and for over three years I was moved from camp to camp in Belgium, Scotland and England. In April 1948 I was one of the last to be ‘repatriated’, as the phrase went.
“The break-up of the German front, the collapse of law and humanity, the self-destruction of German civilization and culture, and finally the appalling end on 9 May 1945 - all this was followed by the revelation of the crimes which had been committed in Germany’s name - Buchenwald, Auschwitz, Maidanek, Bergen-Belsen and the rest. And with that came the necessity of standing up to it all inwardly, shut up in camps as we were. I think my own little world fell to pieces then too. The ‘iron rations’ I had with me were quickly used up, and what remained left a stale taste in the mouth. In that Belgian camp, hungry as we were, I saw how other men collapsed inwardly, how they gave up all hope, sickening for the lack of it, some of them dying. The same thing almost happened to me. What kept me from it was a rebirth to new life thanks to a hope for which there was no evidence at all.
“It was not that I experienced any sudden conversion. What I felt all at once was the death of all the mainstays that had sustained my life up to then. It was only slowly that something different began to build up in their stead. At home, Christianity was only a matter of form. One came across it once a year at Christmas time, as something rather remote. In the prison camps where I was I only met it in very human - all too human - form. It was nothing very overwhelming. And yet the experience of misery and forsakenness and daily humiliation gradually built up into an experience of God.
“It was the experience of God’s presence in the dark night of the soul: ‘If I make my bed in hell, behold, thou art there.’ A well-meaning army chaplain had given me a New Testament. I thought it was out of place. I would rather have had something to eat. But then I became fascinated by the Psalms (which were printed in an appendix) and especially by Psalm 39: ‘I was dumb with silence, I held my peace, even from good; and my sorrow was stirred’ (but the German is much stronger - ‘I have to eat up my grief within myself’) ... Hold thou not thy peace at my tears: for I am a stranger with thee, and a sojourner, as all my fathers were.’ These psalms gave me the words for my own suffering. They opened my eyes to the God who is with those ‘that are of a broken heart’. He was present even behind the barbed wire - no, most of all behind the barbed wire. But whenever in my despair I wanted to lay firm hold on this experience, it eluded me again, and there I was with empty hands once more. All that was left was an inward drive, a longing which provided the impetus to hope. How often I walked round and round in circles at night in front of the barbed wire fence. My first thoughts were always about the free world outside, from which I was cut off; but I always ended up thinking about a centre to the circle in the middle of the camp - a little hill, with a hut on it which served as a chapel. It seemed to me like a circle surrounding the mystery of God, which was drawing me towards it.
“This experience of not sinking into the abyss but of being held up from afar was the beginning of a clear hope, without which it is impossible to live at all. At the same time, even this hope cut two ways; on the one hand it provided the strength to get up again after every inward or outward defeat; on the other hand it made the soul rub itself raw on the barbed wire, making it impossible to settle down in captivity or come to terms with it.”
“Born in Hamburg in 1926, I belong to the generation which consciously lived through the horrors of the Second World War, the collapse of an empire and its institutions, the guilt and shame of one’s own nation, and a long period as prisoner of war. Later we were called ‘the sceptical generation’. And those of us who survived those years and who came back from then on shunned the fire. We had learnt justifiable mistrust. But we were really neither sceptical nor resigned. We were weighed down by the sombre burden of a guilt which could never be paid off; and what we felt about life was ann inconsolable grief. It is understandable that there were some of us whose motto was ‘count me out’, and whose aim was to withdraw into private life for the future. But really we came back to Germany with the will to create a new, different, more humane world. Some of us found behind the barbed wire the power of a hope which wants something new, instead of seeking a return to the old.
“Our Abitur - the university entrance exam - was put forward so that we could be sent to the guns, as Air Force auxiliaries. At that time I really wanted to read mathematics and physics at the university. Of course I had become interested in these subjects at school because of some teachers I admired. The theory of relativity and quantum physics were the most fascinating secrets open to knowledge. At that time the idea of theology was as remote as the church itself. The ‘iron rations’ in the way of reading matter which I took with me into the miseries of war were Goethe’s poems and the works of Nietzche (army edition, India paper). In February 1945 I was taken prisoner by the British, and for over three years I was moved from camp to camp in Belgium, Scotland and England. In April 1948 I was one of the last to be ‘repatriated’, as the phrase went.
“The break-up of the German front, the collapse of law and humanity, the self-destruction of German civilization and culture, and finally the appalling end on 9 May 1945 - all this was followed by the revelation of the crimes which had been committed in Germany’s name - Buchenwald, Auschwitz, Maidanek, Bergen-Belsen and the rest. And with that came the necessity of standing up to it all inwardly, shut up in camps as we were. I think my own little world fell to pieces then too. The ‘iron rations’ I had with me were quickly used up, and what remained left a stale taste in the mouth. In that Belgian camp, hungry as we were, I saw how other men collapsed inwardly, how they gave up all hope, sickening for the lack of it, some of them dying. The same thing almost happened to me. What kept me from it was a rebirth to new life thanks to a hope for which there was no evidence at all.
“It was not that I experienced any sudden conversion. What I felt all at once was the death of all the mainstays that had sustained my life up to then. It was only slowly that something different began to build up in their stead. At home, Christianity was only a matter of form. One came across it once a year at Christmas time, as something rather remote. In the prison camps where I was I only met it in very human - all too human - form. It was nothing very overwhelming. And yet the experience of misery and forsakenness and daily humiliation gradually built up into an experience of God.
“It was the experience of God’s presence in the dark night of the soul: ‘If I make my bed in hell, behold, thou art there.’ A well-meaning army chaplain had given me a New Testament. I thought it was out of place. I would rather have had something to eat. But then I became fascinated by the Psalms (which were printed in an appendix) and especially by Psalm 39: ‘I was dumb with silence, I held my peace, even from good; and my sorrow was stirred’ (but the German is much stronger - ‘I have to eat up my grief within myself’) ... Hold thou not thy peace at my tears: for I am a stranger with thee, and a sojourner, as all my fathers were.’ These psalms gave me the words for my own suffering. They opened my eyes to the God who is with those ‘that are of a broken heart’. He was present even behind the barbed wire - no, most of all behind the barbed wire. But whenever in my despair I wanted to lay firm hold on this experience, it eluded me again, and there I was with empty hands once more. All that was left was an inward drive, a longing which provided the impetus to hope. How often I walked round and round in circles at night in front of the barbed wire fence. My first thoughts were always about the free world outside, from which I was cut off; but I always ended up thinking about a centre to the circle in the middle of the camp - a little hill, with a hut on it which served as a chapel. It seemed to me like a circle surrounding the mystery of God, which was drawing me towards it.
“This experience of not sinking into the abyss but of being held up from afar was the beginning of a clear hope, without which it is impossible to live at all. At the same time, even this hope cut two ways; on the one hand it provided the strength to get up again after every inward or outward defeat; on the other hand it made the soul rub itself raw on the barbed wire, making it impossible to settle down in captivity or come to terms with it.”
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Belief and Unbelief
11/01/07 10:42 Categories: Theology
Sometimes it is really hard to believe in God - at least intellectually. I look around and I have a hard time thinking that there is other than my eyes can see, my senses can detect, my experiments can discern. I know that is a fallacy - we are not able to detect everything that we think exists, so why shouldn’t God be like that? But what really trips me out is that this God, who I may at the time be struggling to intellectually affirm, would really, actually do something crazy like love us enough to come down and die. God came down and died. What the hell? That is not how this God business should work. If God is really God, his will should rule and so if he wants something, like saving us, that shouldn’t cost him everything. But it does. It really leads me to one conclusion: my view of power, how it works, what it means, and how it runs must be very different from how I think it runs and from how it seems to run in the world. Here those with power and wealth distance themselves from pain if possible. God embraced it! What a mind blowing reality! Evidently how I think must continue to change.