I can’t remember where I first encountered her name; it was probably a few weeks ago on a podcast or an article I was reading. I learned that she was a German liberation theologian in the wake of WWII. I was intrigued enough to search the library for any of her books; when the search turned up empty (or only in German), I eBayed a few used books which finally arrived a few days ago. I started with her memoir: Against the Wind: Memoir of a Radical Christian.
She reflects about how German society, after WWII, had a hard to grappling with the reality of the Holocaust; it wasn’t taught in schools and public discourse about it was discouraged. When history was studied, it was in academia where it could be analyzed clinically and indifferently. But this was problematic to her. In one of the earlier chapters she writes about how she relates to Anne Frank — they were born in the same year.
It is something special to experience Anne Frank from the perspective of a German. The machinery of death to which she was delivered is one that my people conceived, planned, built, oiled, and serviced right to the bitter end. One of the passages I had underlined in my tattered copy of her diary is the following:
Fine specimens of humanity, those Germans, and to think that I’m actually one of them! No, that’s not true, Hitler took away our nationality long ago. And besides, there are no greater enemies on earth than these Germans and the Jews. (October 9, 1942)
How often I wished that Hitler had also made me “stateless”! That I did not belong to the people I belong to! Anne Frank’s distinction between “these” Germans and others gives evidence of her ability to differentiate, to express herself with precision. But for me, a German, it is not quite so simple. In the end, all who did not put up resistance were implicated, entangled in the belief systems of “these” Germans, lending them a hand and sharing in the profits. Among those who “went along,” in the broadest sense of the words, were all who had practiced the art of looking away, turning a deaf ear, and keeping silent. There has been much quarreling about collective guilt and responsibility, but my basic feeling is, rather, one of an ineradicable shame-the shame of belonging to this people, speaking the language of the concentration camp guards, singing the songs that were also sung in the Hitler Youth and the Company of German Girls. That shame does not become superannuated; it must stay alive.
As I got to know her through the opening chapters, I found her reflections on her German identity so relatable to where we are in the States. Even when I travel abroad, I don’t want to be known as an American. We’re known for being brash and callous. Our attitude feeds the narrative that we do whatever we want to get what we want — and that often leaves a trail of violence and destruction that we rarely face as a people. “These” Germans and “these” Americans.
“All who did not put up a resistance were implicated.”
“Among those who ‘went along,’ in the broadest sense of the words, were all who had practiced the art of looking away, turning a deaf ear, and keeping silent.”
If I had to extend it to my ministerial vocations and identity, it would be “these” Christians. When I say I’m ashamed to be known as a Christian, it’s not because I’m ashamed of Jesus, it’s because I’m ashamed of the church and our passive complicity in injustice. When we’re not more outraged at the flagrant violation of carrying the LORD’s name in vain.
“… the shame of belonging to this people, speaking the language of the concentration camp guards, singing the songs that were also sung in the Hitler Youth and the Company of German Girls.”
This line. I feel this shame when I hear the worship songs I’ve led being sung in the White House. I feel this when people respond to that singing with approval and victorious applause. We should be ashamed. We should be grieving that our public faith has died.
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