Literature
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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the Real Universe
08/19/08 21:12 Categories: Literature and Film
Wicked
07/22/08 11:59 Categories: Literature and Film
t is a rare case when a film, play or other media form is ‘better than the book’ - at least in my humble opinion. Having just finished the book of Wicked, I find the broadway version much more impressive. The book was well written, though far more adult oriented than I had expected. I suppose there are two reasons why I liked the play more. The first reason is that it was more focused on resolution. This a pro and a con, I know, but the lack of resolution at the end of the book, particularly in conjunction with the animal rights issues drove me crazy! I suppose this is a pretty important lack of resolution, with implications in politics and civil rights, but it seems to have lost all hope of justice! That is a dangerous place to be. But then, maybe that lost hope is what created the psychotic self-centeredness of Elphaba.
The other part, which I found much more important, was what had hit me so hard in the play was lacking in the book. The play was a brilliant, even if not perfect, retelling of the Wizard of Oz story from another perspective that subverted who the good and evil characters were. That subversion was present in the book, but not as well developed (in my opinion). Instead of redefining good and evil, the book points out that everyone is completely focused on their own selfish gain and there is no one truly trying to be good - there is no one who is not selfish.
I do not mean to lessen that truth: it is true that none of us are ‘good’ in and of ourselves. We do have basic needs and selfish tendencies whereupon we demand our own satisfaction before justice or even mercy and compassion. HOWEVER, and this is a large however, the story never ends with our self-centered egos. That is just the beginning of the story. The telos of the story is that we grow from our starting selfishness into the other-focused mission of Genesis 12:2: “...I will bless you... so that you may be a blessing...”
One Hundred Years of Solitude
07/18/08 16:06 Categories: Literature and Film | Politics
Today I finished Gabriel Garcia Marquez’ One Hundred Years of Solitude. I’m still hesistant about the book. I enjoyed a great many parts of it, but I’m not sure I really understood it. There are a few interesting tidbits I noticed:
First, there is a theme in the book about the cyclic nature of history - or, we are doomed to repeat forgotten mistakes. Many of the characters are very similar to prior characters (the book follows 7 generations of the Buendia family), and repeat the same mistakes of their ancestors. These mistakes are repeated because no one has a relationship with each other where they reflect upon their mistakes and instruct children and grandchildren how to move past those issues. Implied is the idea that we will have similar characters as a our parents and grandparents and should glean what wisdom we can from them in order to live better lives.
Second, there is also a theme running though the book about the lack of trustworthiness of government. The point is not just the obvious truth that the government is not fully trustworthy, but that the government inherently requistions events and truth for its own gain. This is brought up in two significant ways. In the first half of the book, Col. Aureliano Buendia is a rebel general, who fights many battles but is eventually defeated. He is honored by the government and awarded medals, in order to innoculate him and create him into a puppet of the state. In the second half, one of the Buendias tries to organize a labor strike. The government kills all the dissenters and dumps them in the ocean, and manages to cover up the whole situation through the media. The larger point is that what people believe is the reality of a situation can be changed. Or, as it is said in Braveheart, “History is written by those who have hanged heroes” - or, history is written by those who survive.
Third, and this is what I found most compelling, is that the whole family line ends after 100 years (thus the title). It leaves on with a great many questions. The family leaves nothing behind - no heirlooms, no memories. There is even a scene towards the end where the famous Col. Aureliano Buendia is not remembered by anyone. So, Marquez is bringing questions to the floor: What constitutes a lasting change? What impact do we make, what impact can we make, what impact should we want to make in the world?