Christmas with Bonhoeffer
Christmas some years seems precarious. Not retail Christmas, of course–that's certain and fixed, in that same hallowed category as death and taxes. The Christmas behind that one, though, the Christ-mass, the coming of God into the world, God's inhabiting of disordered reality, the babe in the manger–that one can appear a bit thin. Its warmth and joy and memories are seemingly discordant with the headlines on our screens. Maybe a star of hope once rose over Bethlehem, but we're hard pressed to find one over Paris, Colorado Springs, or San Bernardino.This tenuous Christm
as is beautifully painted in Albrecht Altdorfer's Holy Night (1511). It is a strange depiction of the baby Jesus and his parents, certainly not the stuff of Christmas cards. Although there is light emanating from the manger, it seems the light might be snuffed out by the looming darkness.What is more, what little shelter the Holy Family has is in a crumbling building. It looks as if at any moment the whole thing might come crashing down. Precarious indeed.I was unaware of this painting until recently, when I read of it in a letter from German pastor and theologian Dietrich Bonhoeffer to his parents. The letter is found in the book Letters and Papers from Prison, a collection of letters to and from Bonhoeffer during the time of his imprisonment, under suspicion for treason against the Reich. Coincidentally (or not), I came to the portion of this book which records the correspondence between Bonhoeffer and his friends and family during Advent of 1943 just as Advent was beginning this year. Bonhoeffer was despondent that he was not to be released in time to celebrate Advent and Christmas with his family; he would not sing "O Tannenbaum" or "Stille Nacht, Heil'ge Nacht"; there would be no smoked goose or poppy seed tarts.
Instead, all he could do was hum carols to himself in his cell, and each Advent night go to sleep amidst the Allied bombing of the city, wondering if his parents and siblings were surviving, and beginning to realize that his hope for release was unrealistic.In the midst of all of this, from his sparse cell, he writes to his parents and alludes to Altdorfer's painting, noting the tottering building and relating to the teetering hope there depicted.It is this hope, I believe, this teetering, tottering hope, which is the hope of Christmas. Peace on earth is a tenuous proclamation, just as it always has been. It is precarious and thin, and is so by design. God does not invade on Christmas, but rather slips in, fairly unnoticed. There is no divine dropping of the mic, because God never grabbed the mic in the first place, instead choosing to whisper those tidings of joy to a teenage girl and some dirty shepherds. Altdorfer nailed it, and Bonhoeffer got it.Will I? I ask this question honestly, and with some fear and trembling, knowing that the easier conclusion to this post would be something along the vague lines of "It's okay, there's a lot of crappy stuff happening, but God's in the midst of it; have hope." But, no. Because I know that's my default answer, shoring up my default, non-precarious life. Because I'm not in prison, I'll be with my family at Christmas, and I'm aware of all of those edifices in the world that seem to be crumbling only via this screen now in front of me and the calm voices of NPR journalists on my car radio. This is a real question for me, and perhaps for you–how do I hold on to this thin hope of the baby Jesus in a toppling building? It is a matter of prayer, one to which I hope to attend this Advent. How am I to lay hold of this precarious Christmas when my own life is anything but?Lord, speak. Lord, lead. Is there crumbling nearby that I am ignoring? Are there broken walls that I am not seeing? Are there cries for mercy that I am not hearing? Is there action to which you call me that I am not heeding? There is a thread of holy hope in the world, a thread which you have woven into your creation, and into the fabric of your children. It is to this perduring thread that I hold; it is this light in the darkness which I will seize, and by which I will act.
Tegel, Advent I, 28 November 1943
Dear Parents,
Although I don't know whether and how letters are getting through at the present, I want to write to you on the afternoon of the First Sunday in Advent. Altdorfer's 'Nativity' is very topical this year, showing the Holy Family and crib among the ruins of a tumbledown house. However did he come to paint like that, against all tradition, four hundred years ago? Perhaps he meant that Christmas could and should be kept even in such conditions; in any case, that is his message for us. I like to think of your sitting with the children and keeping Advent with them, just as you used to years ago with us. Only we do everything more intensively now, as we don't know how much longer we have (Letters and Papers, 152).