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Klaus Bung: The spell of Christmas |
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Klaus Bung:
The spell of Christmas
Part 2
I have since spent Christmas in many countries and the occasions have often felt distant, alienated, cold or melancholic: I have not grown up with the traditions, tunes and texts of those countries.
If texts are to appeal to the emotions, they have to be ***exactly*** those that have been anchored in memory. 'Hört' will not do in place of 'Höret', 'Herr' not in place of 'Lieber Herre Gott', just as it will not do to omit a beat or a bar of a piece by Mozart. The exactness of a phrase is more important than its 'meaning'. I do not want a paraphrase, I want 'the text'. The foreign texts 'mean' (in the sense of irrational response to exactness) something to the natives of those countries but not to me, however well I may translate.
The meaning may be meaningless anyway, but the text will always be the text and no less. The text *** is *** the meaning, even if it is meaningless or I no longer believe in what the text asserts. Even the assertion is only a symbol or a metaphor, so I must at least stick with the text.
I have experienced many Christmases in England and heard the English carols on the radio and in the shops. That did not teach me the texts, but the tunes now speak to me of Christmas, even though they were usually only background music. But I have never "believed in English". Therefore they do not speak as strongly and 'truly' as the countless German chorales, the Catholic ones which I learned as a child or the Lutheran ones which I acquired as a teenager and which now are equally or even more strongly rooted in me.
I have never spent Christmas in an English *** family ***, and the very thought embarrasses me because I fear to witness customs with which I am expected to sympathise while being emotionally unable to do so: it is too late.
I am grateful to my parents for having been so firm, straight and single-minded in their convictions, so that I could associate myself with these sub-rational traditions, which can still give me pleasure today because they were so early and firmly implanted.
If I had been brought up with doubt before it forced itself upon me, if I had been given merely information ***about*** religion or religions from which to choose later on, there would be nothing to cling on to now (and also nothing that I could have so strongly rejected as an adult): there would be merely ignorance and indifference and superior rationality which can teach us nothing that is really important.
Paradoxically, in religion, I consider excessive and unsubtle reliance on reason as simple-minded, naïve and self-destructive: Reason (and its twin sister, belief) miss the essence. All discussions based on reason are a waste of time. Religion is not something to be discussed but something to be practised.
This applies to those who want to accept and follow a religion as well as to those who reject it.
I prefer what I have: a deeply rooted
memory, something I once strongly believed in, that I could later
reject with good reason, and that is still, in a strange way, very
important to me.
Without the teaching I received from my parents, I would have nothing but a cold set of assertions about God and man which may be declared as true and false, believed or not believed, and which often pass for religion in simple-minded people. This includes the intelligentsia and most Christian theologians. Such assertions must of necessity be rejected by people (our future atheists) because they mistake religion for a set of beliefs or assertions which may be true or false and, the way they are formulated, must needs turn out to be false.
In this theology of clever simpletons, God is proudly presented (like a toddler presents his potty) as a person and as a transcendent creator (and our missionaries swarm into all the world to propagate this great discovery). His love and power are praised and considered an essential feature of God.
But ***must*** God be thought of in such childish, rationalist terms? Must he be so anthropomorphic? God = Superman? Is there no possible concept of God that is more elemental, more powerful, more pervasive? Is the Christian God the only God one can reject (or accept)? If we have rejected the Christian God, have we rejected God? Are they the same?
The short-coming of the 'Western atheist'
is that he bases his denial of God on the Christian concept of God,
which is the most untenable concept imaginable, as if there were not
entirely different approaches to religion, different concepts of God
available for consideration and rejection.
Such is the pernicious and destructive influence of Christianity in the world that its naïve and worldly categories of thinking are considered fundamental, inescapable properties of the human mind. Therefore even non-Christians (atheists and members of other religions) have been contaminated by Christian thought and feel compelled to think, and pose their questions, in these terms. Christian atheism therefore also drives members of more subtle religions into atheism! Christianity being mistaken for the paradigm of religion destroys religiosity as such and thereby all other religions.
The religious formulae are important whatever they are supposed to mean, they are great and real comforters, and we need them. They must be implanted in early childhood when we are still capable of responding with curiosity and affection to anything we hear for the first time.
Giving a child ***information*** about a religion is giving him nothing. What we all need, once in a lifetime, atheists and believers alike, is *** experience *** of religion. This can be had with no more than one religion at a time. This time is childhood.
Parents should not give their children
information about several different religions so that they can choose
later. There are good arguments for that policy, but for that very
reason they are naïve. They mistake the very nature of religion. One
religion is sufficient. The child can reject that religion when he is
older if he wishes. He can easily pick up another when he wishes,
provided he has once understood in simple unambiguous terms what it
means to practise a religion.
A religion is not something we should learn about or talk about, but something we may practise and should enjoy. Comparative religion is not for children. Once the child has 'learnt' one religion and the principles of religious practice through that one religion, he can easily learn what he wishes to learn about another when the time comes. If it is too late for him to become happy with the new religion, still no harm is done. He can stick with his maternal religion (for if he is not strong enough to reject it, it cannot be all that bad for him), or he can abandon religion altogether. None of these possibilities will do him any serious harm.
Parents should not be too eager to give their children options. Children who are, as young adults, so intellectually weak that they depend on being given options rather than taking them anyway, do not deserve the options and are no asset for any other religious community. Converts are usually not worth having anyway.
This year I was given a modern book of
Christmas tales for children. I expected some nostalgic pleasure. Most
texts were by modern authors. They were written in plain and simple
German. They should have spoken to me since I do not mind reading
children's stories. But they didn't, they left me cold, for I had no
previous association with them and was no longer as open as a child who
is fascinated by anything new that is presented to him. The child
demands and enjoys repetition and after a while enjoys the text or the
tune regardless of the fact that he already knows what it says, or does
not understand it at all. Modern German children who grow up with this
book and these stories will probably be able to associate pleasant
memories with them, but I cannot. It is too late.
Audiatur et advocatus diaboli: I do not agree with his conclusions because he too treats religion (like most of the simple-minded and pseudo-learned supporters of Christianity) as a set of propositions which can be verified. But he makes his point so brilliantly that it is worth listening to him, for the sake of 'his text'. This is from Arno Schmid: 'Aus dem Leben eines Fauns' (From the life of a faun), first published in 1953, Part 3, p 131 f; Fischer Taschenbuch, Frankfurt/Main; Publisher note: This passage may still be Copyright! ???). The scene is set in 1944 (Nazi period).
| Ein Kinderchörchen sagte brav auf: "Händä
falltänn. Köpfchänn sänkänn: / Imma an dehn Führa dänkänn!/ Dea uns
giebt unsa Täglischbrot.: / Unt uns befrait: aus Allanoht!"; und ich
konnte nicht anders, ich mußte hin zur Hecke, und besah mir die
fünfjährigen Wesen, in bib and tucker, wie sie da auf den dünnen
Holzbänkchen saßen. Die Schwester (die die verruchten Verse
vorgesprochen hatte), gab Jedem einen kleinen gläsernen Bonbon ins
blecherne Henkeltöpfchen, und da drehten sie ihn mit den Löffeln, und
<kochten> ihn tüchtig: was ist das für ein Regime, das
dergleichen aussinnt?! (Aber mir fiel sofort ein, daß ich damals ja
auch als erstes Liedel gelernt hatte "Der Kaiser ist ein lieber Mann
(sic!)/: er wohnet in Berlien"; und das ist dann also scheinbar überall
die unvermeidliche Art, <Bürgerkunde> zu betreiben!: Oh, die
Schweine Alle!! In die wehrlosen, zart-unwissenden Wesen solche
Wortjauchen zu pumpen! Oder das gleich sinnlose Geleier von "Christi
Blut"!: bis zu 17/18 Jahren müßten Kinder in vollkommener geistiger
Neutralität aufwachsen, und dann ein paar tüchtige Lehrgänge! Könnt
ihnen ja dann abwechselnd die Wunderwippchen von der "Heiligen
Dreieinigkeit" und den Lieben Männern in Berlin vorlegen, und zum
Vergleich Filosofie und Naturwissenschaften: da würdet Ihr Dunkelmänner
Euch ganz schön umsehen!). |
A chorus of children recited sagely: "Hände falten, Köpfchen senken: / Immer an den Führer denken!/ Der uns gibt unser täglich Brot / Und uns befreit aus aller Not!" (Fold your hands, / lower your little heads:/ always think of the fuhrer / who gives us our daily bread:/and puts an end to all our woes!); and I couldn't help it, I had to go to the hedge, and I inspected the five-year-old creatures, in bib and tucker, how they were sitting there on their thin little wooden benches. The kindergarten teacher (who had recited the pernicious verses for them) put a little glass imitation sweet into the little tin pots which each of them had, and the children were turning it with their spoons and were <boiling> it thoroughly: what sort of regime is this which can think up such games?! (But I remember straightaway that when I was that age, the first cheerful song I had learned was "Our Emperor is a lovely man (sic!)/: and he lives in Berlin"; so this seems to be everywhere the unavoidable way to teach <civics>!: oh, those pigs, all of them!! To pump such verbal sewage into the defenceless, tenderly ignorant creatures! Or the equally meaningless bla-bla of "Christ's blood"!: until children are 17 or 18 they should grow up in perfect intellectual neutrality, and then a few thorough courses! Then you present them in turn with the miracle frauds of the "Holy Trinity" and of the Lovely Men in Berlin, and for comparison filosofy and science: then you obscurantists can be sure of a surprise!). |
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REM (Personal note: Not for publication)
Der Kaiser ist ein lieber Mann
(Tune: Üb' immer Treu und Redlichkeit, or:
Ein Mädchen oder Weibchen, from Mozart's Magic Flute)
Lied "Der Kaiser", dessen Text in den preußischen Schulfibeln um 1900
abgedruckt wurde:
Der Kaiser ist ein lieber Mann,
er wohnet in Berlin,
und wär' das nicht so weit von hier'
dann ging' ich heut noch hin.
Und was ich bei dem Kaiser wollt'?
Ich gäb' ihm meine Hand
und reicht' die schönsten Blumen ihm,
die ich im Garten fand.
Und sagte dann: "In treuer Lieb'
bring' ich die Blumen dir!"
Und dann lief' ich geschwinde fort
und wär' gleich wieder hier
endREM
France, Portugal,
Jamaica and Spain
I have spent some Christmases in France with an adult clan, but without religious associations, without chanting and without going to church. For me, something was missing. These were cheerful pleasant occasions, socially interesting too, because my hosts were charming and belonged to a big conservative and interesting family, but they remained secular and did not move me. The same happened during a Portuguese Christmas when I did not even sample a church and Portuguese singing and organ playing. The only French Christmas music I can respond to is Marc-Antoine Charpentier's 'Messe de minuit pour noel', which is based on ancient French carols, and this year (2000) at midnight mass in Tréguier Cathedral, I was fortunate to hear parts of it again and be reminded of pleasant times. However, the choir was out of tune and at times went off like a run-away train or rather a stampeding herd (completely in unison with itself though), much to the consternation of the conductor, and of the organist, who did not know whether to yield and jump to catch up, or to insist on his score, which would have resulted in a cacophony right through to the final solution, also known as 'cadence' or 'Twilight of God'). No English cathedral choir would have put on such a shambles, nor would it have happened in even medium-sized churches in Germany.
How much discomfort a single unbeliever
can cause the church even in modern times is demonstrated by the
emotions (and continuing pranks) surrounding a statue that stands
outside Tréguier Cathedral.
Tréguier is the birthplace of Ernest Renan (1823-1892), who became famous for his excellent French prose and infamous for his book about the life of Jesus (which is still in print as a paperback), in which he asserted (like Albert Schweitzer) that Jesus was the son of man, completely the son of man, and nothing but the son of man, which convinced the clerics of the time that Renan was the son of a bitch, completely the son of a bitch, and nothing but the son of a bitch. The cathedral square (la place du Martray) belongs to the liberal (i.e. anti-clerical, Don Camillo and Peppone) City Council. The cathedral chapter could therefore not prevent the Council from erecting, in 1903, a colossal statue of a sedentary Renan outside the cathedral so that every church goer has to pass it. They put three then provocative quotes from Renan's works on the monument:
| 1 On ne fait de grandes choses qu'avec la science et la vertu. | Great things cannot be done except through science and virtue (courage?). |
| 2 La foi qu'on a eue ne doit jamais être une chaine. | The faith which one has had must never be a chain. |
| 3 L'homme fait la beauté de ce qu'il aime et la sainteté de ce qu'il croit. | It is man who infuses with beauty that which he loves and with holiness that in which he believes. |
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The council ordered that every churchgoer
has to raise his hat when he passes the statue. The chapter countered
with introducing a preparatory rite to all its masses. The faithful now
arrive hatless and, as they pass Renan, they spit out, that the
scripture might be fulfilled which sayeth: 'And they that passed by
reviled him, wagging their heads' (Matthew 27:39). For many years, the
clergy refused to take the Holy Sacrament to the deathbed of people who
lived in the 'rue Renan'.
In 1904, the church got its own back by buying a tiny piece of land on the river promenade, just on the stretch where the atheists most love to walk and take counsel together against the LORD and against his anointed. On 19 May 1904, in the presence of Cardinal Labouré, they erected a 'calvaire' (crucifixion group), officially known as 'Calvaire de Réparation', 'commandé par les catholiques en signe de protestation contre l'érection de la statue d'Ernest Renan sur la place du Martray' (as a plaque for tourists says), ordered by the Catholics in protest against the erection of the statue of Ernest Renan, and equipped it with a tablet which says, in Latin, Breton and French:
'Truly this man was the Son of God.'
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VERE HIC HOMO FILIUS DEI ERAT
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E GWIRIONEZ AN DEN-MAN A OA MAB DA ZOUE
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CET HOMME ÉTAIT VRAIMENT LE FILS DE DIEU
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(MARC 15:39) |
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Here too people spit, of course. So the
church provided spittoons. During Holy Week, however, (its date is the
only thing the liberals want to know about Christianity), the liberals
erect a kiosk on the promenade where they sell vinegar, sponges and
bamboo canes, and Coca-Cola-Registered-Trademark.
When I visited Tréguier cathedral on Christmas Eve, someone had surrounded the Renan statue with grave lights: a posthumous conversion of the old bugger, an attempt to draw him willy-nilly into the Christian community, an indication that the next Popess is planning to canonise him...? Who knows? Pranks on the statue continue to this day. Some time ago, somebody had draped the statue in toilet paper, and when I visited Tréguier again to copy the quotations on the Calvaire, someone had stuck the branch of a tree under his arm.
And so the disgrace continues.
I spent one Christmas on a Jamaican beach and felt lonely and outcast because of the personal circumstances which had brought me to the island.
I was lucky in Spain because I had learnt
and enjoyed some villancicos, had learnt them so thoroughly, that they
spoke to me.
| 1. Hacia Belén
va un borrico, Yo me remendaba, yo me remendé, cargado de chocolate. Lleva su chocolatera, Yo me remendaba, yo me remendé, Yo m'eché un remiendo, yo me lo quité, su molinillo y su anatre. Maria, Maria, ven acá corriendo, que al chocolatillo se lo están comiendo. |
1. Towards
Bethlehem goes a donkey, I remember, I remember, laden with chocolate. It carries its chocolate-pot I remember, I remember, I remember, yet I forget, its chocolate mill and its stove. Mary, Mary, come here running, because they are eating up all the chocolate. |
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This is, of course, a far cry from our
German oh so theological tradition. I spent that Christmas in the
warmth of a family in which the mother was pious, whereas the two adult
children and the father were atheists. I could not sample church since
I did not wish to make a point of it. I like to visit the catacombs
secretly so that I have to share my experiences neither with eager
believers nor with naive outsiders. I prefer to look, listen and absorb
without comment and without a companion. The heroic father followed the
will of his wife and, for sixteen years, he went to church without fail
and without faith every Sunday with her and the children, until
***they*** refused to go any longer. On that day, the father resolutely
stopped too. He had only been waiting for that moment, had gone merely
to keep up appearances for the sake of the children. From now on the
wife went alone.
I spent one lonely, snowy Christmas in a cheap and cold boarding house in an industrial suburb of Munich where I had a holiday job with a transport company while studying at Innsbruck University. I spent most of the time in pubs in order to keep warm, reading books and writing settings of Christmas carols and drinking mulled wine, while listening to the jukebox and the pop songs of the day.
This was a perversely attractive time, enjoyable loneliness combined with the alien social environment, so much time to think about so many things which I do not remember, and so much time to observe new things. I often think back with nostalgia to the hardest and most unpleasant times in my life, such as my very first years in London, as a young man. Perhaps it is these harsh environments which are also (luckily for me) rare and unusual, and therefore interesting.
I tend to be disappointed when I go to services in foreign churches, presumably because I do not know the music, the texts or the ritual. Yet I keep going, religiously (sit venia verbo), in the vain hope to experience a pleasant surprise. Presumably it will happen on the last Sunday before my ascent to heaven (Eternity Sunday). Until then I will keep trying.
I spent a strangely lonely Christmas in
Capri while my girlfriend and her daughter in Naples, just a mile away
across the sea, was for some reason unable to have me, or had *** I ***
demanded to be alone in Capri at Christmas? I was the only guest in the
little house in which Erika Mann stayed regularly in summer. There are
no winter tourists on Capri. I walked to the little church by the
Piazza above the harbour and went to midnight mass. I was unable to get
involved. My fault.
High in the Mountains above Locarno, in the Ticino, the Italian-speaking part of Switzerland, on the Mediterranean side of the Alps, is the hamlet of Fusio, where I spent a memorable Christmas with Pilar.
Fusio had been dear to me for many years, and whenever I needed a refuge, a few totally free days, undisturbed even by my own thoughts, I would go to Fusio. On several occasions, I had spent three days there to systematically brush up my Italian before joining business battle in Milan, Bologna and Naples.
To get there, one takes a coach of the aptly named regional transport company "Ferrovie ed Autolinee Regionali Ticinesi", whose logo, FART, is prominently displayed on the rear of all its vehicles. I had known Fusio only in spring and summer. There were a few inns and hardly any tourists. Fusio is the highest inhabited point of a small side valley, and there is no through traffic.
On that memorable Christmas Eve, we had
spent most of the day sightseeing in the spring-like climate of
Locarno, and had paid our respects to the Madonna del Sasso, before
taking the last of the three daily coaches for the two-hour trip to
Fusio. For about an hour, the coach runs on a large level road
alongside a river in a wide valley, then branches off into a side
valley. The road begins to rise and becomes ever steeper until, in yet
another side valley, the bus has to climb up the hillside through
serpentines and narrow hairpin curves, which it takes at dizzying
speeds. Pilar was terrified when she looked into what appeared to be an
abyss and saw deep down below her a stretch of road we had traversed
only a few minutes ago.
When we arrived in Fusio, three natives and us, the natives went home, the bus turned back not to return till tomorrow lunchtime, and we were left with our suitcases in the deep snow and silent darkness. I left Pilar with the luggage and went scouting. All inns were closed: no strangers are expected in winter. On a hillock, slightly raised above the village and surrounded by tall fir trees was the hotel which I knew from previous visits: the hotel was closed but its lounge was warm and open. There were rooms at this inn, but they were not "on offer", for they were not, and could not be, heated, the water in the taps was frozen -- but we could have one. I negotiated a discount: I never miss such a chance.
I am reminded of the mother of a German
girlfriend, who went to Genova for a dirt-cheap holiday when the town
had been struck by a cholera epidemic, was shunned by tourists, and 80%
discounts were offered by the desperate hoteliers. "These are offers,"
she said, "too good to refuse!" By God's grace she survived, proof yet
again for the existence of a loving father in heaven.
Pilar usually insists on certain minimum comforts and is not fond of backpacker hotels, for which she has coined the term "hotel romantique". But she had no choice: accept this room, stay in the snow, or go begging for a stable and a manger.
We carried our cases up the hillock and entered the lounge. Six curious faces on the bar stools, five men and one woman (there is always just one sad and lonely woman out on Christmas Eve to brighten the bars), turned towards us. It was warm and smelt of smoke, beer and wine.
We stayed in that warm room until closing time, Pilar drank mulled wine and I had hot chocolate. Then we put on layers over layers of clothes; we used all we had: several pairs of socks, underpants, vests, tracksuit ***and*** jeans, pullovers, scarves, an anorak, a knitted cap, gloves (gloves in bed!), and thus chastely overdressed, a Christmas Eve and a Christmas Adam, we lifted the frozen quilt (which immediately snapped in two places), climbed into bed, huddled together, chastely kept apart by the five inches of clothing that separated us, and comforted each other by breathing into each other's faces.
If Pilar, who comes from the Philippines,
had been less plucky, less willing to fight to overcome her own fear
and prejudice, she would have insisted that we catch the one coach at
lunchtime on Christmas Day to return to warm and sunny Locarno, where a
young Italian-Swiss had tried to chat her up by saying, in his
incomparable English: "Hi, Chinatown, want to join me for a drink?"
However, when she had seen Fusio in daylight, the snow-covered mountain
tops surrounding us, sensed the prospect of an afternoon walk up to the
reservoir a mile above the village, had breathed the crisp air, seen
the fir trees, heard the silence, she decided not to bail out but to
explore and enjoy this God-given place for another twenty-four hours
and put up with sleeping again "fully overdressed" in our unheatable
room.
It was Christmas Day. We walked through the village to look for the church. Every house had a small presepio standing on the snow-covered sill outside the window. We arrived well in time and sat among the congregation of 50 which just about filled the church. The priest was white-haired and kind. The third mass, the Missa in die, was being said.
The main gospel of the Missa in die is the beginning of St John's Gospel, "In principio erat verbum, in the beginning was the Logos," a gospel which is so important that, at that time, it had to be read at every mass throughout the year as the final, the closing, gospel, but therefore also was never chosen as the text for a homily. It was part of the furniture, no longer noticed. Luckily so for the priests, for it is not easy, and it is risky to preach about this gnostic gospel for agnostics, this atheist gospel that has managed to slip undetected into the canon of the theists. But today our plucky priest had chosen to talk about this text to a village congregation, a congregation of simple believers.
He spoke about the Logos, the pure spirit,
pure consciousness that existed in the beginning, unmanifested, that
was uncreated, without beginning, eternal, that was therefore
"existence" as such and for whose existence, therefore, no cause or
explanation needs to be sought. That Logos did not create the
manifested world, it is not a "she" or a "he" that is apart from her
creation. Everything that came into existence, like us, came into
existence "***through*** that Logos" (omnia per ipsum facta sunt), but
was not "made ***by*** that Logos": "Et verbum caro factum est, the
Logos became flesh", it became manifested in the visible world.
That event of manifestation is what people popularly call "the creation of the world", but since the manifested world is not a creation *** outside *** the Logos but a transformation, a manifestation, *** of *** the Logos, we all *** are *** the Logos. The Logos has become flesh in us.
The child in the manger symbolises the fact that the unbounded spirit, the Logos, God, who is nothing but conscious existence and has no form manifests as visible, material, limited and therefore "humble" ***form***.
When we are called "brothers of Jesus" or "children of God", this is only another way of saying that we *** are *** God, the Logos, which is the only thing that really and immutably exists: whatever we ***see*** in the world is merely his reflection and manifestation.
We need not believe in that God, and we
need not doubt his existence. The question does not arise. Nothing else
exists. We do exist and are aware of it: our awareness of existence is
His consciousness in us, and that consciousness is the only thing that
is permanent. We cannot believe in our own existence and deny the
existence of God, the Logos: for we and the Logos are the same; only
the names are different: the Logos *** as such *** is unmanifested: ***
in us *** and in all the so-called "creation" the Logos is manifested.
The Logos does not exist *** outside *** his "creation". If the
creation ceased to exist (as opposed to becoming unmanifested), God
would cease to exist. But nothing that "exists" in that sense can cease
to "exist".
We cannot conceive the non-existence of the material world. Therefore we cannot conceive the non-existence of God.
*** We *** are the child in the manger, and it teaches us that "We and the Logos are one", as Jesus said later: "I and the father are one". That insight means the end of fear, the end of real suffering, it means immortality and victory over death. "And the word became flesh," said the old priest and bent the knee, "Amen".
During the holiest part of the mass, there
was an interruption: The old priest observed something on the steps of
the altar, tried to suppress a giggle, in vain, and soon was shaking
with laughter. He explained something to the congregation which made
them laugh but which I did not understand: all I can guess is that the
altar boys had played some prank on him. A truly merry Christmas, I
thought, and in Italian the true nature of God is easier to understand
than his jokes.
I continued reflecting on the sermon, repeating to myself what I had heard and spinning out its implications. Perhaps it was a good thing that neither the Pope, nor the Bishop, nor the learned Fathers Of The Church, nor Torquemada, nor any Jesuit or any Dominican, nor any member of any theological faculty was in that mountain church. None of the people capable of understanding the old priest were in that church, which was filled only by people who, like the shepherds, would mainly remember the prank and the priest's uncontrollable laughter, who would take comfort from his words without understanding them, from the message which is so simple that no more books on God have to be written, no more disputes can arise, and all theological faculties can be closed.
Therefore there is no need to distinguish
between atheists and believers or for one to convert the other, for the
Logos exists whether we believe in it or not. Atheists and believers,
each with his own religion, are both fools, each in his own way. Belief
in God presupposes that we are distinct from God, that we are the
subject (the ones who believe) and he is the object (the one who is
perceived through faith). But since only God *** is ***, God is the
only perceiver, the only observer, and all he can perceive is
"himself". He has no parts (unlike I who have my eye which can see my
hand), and nothing but him exists. Therefore for him "perceiving" can
be nothing but "being conscious". He is therefore "calm", nothing can
ruffle his "equanimity". This infinite calmness is called "bliss". The
Logos is existence, is consciousness, is bliss. The more we learn to
perceive our identity with that Logos, the greater our calmness and
bliss will become. A good religion will lead us nearer that insight if
we co-operate. But no religion can simply *** give *** us that insight.
Obtaining it is a matter of effort, time and grace.
This God has no attributes and does not talk. That is the reason why there is so little to be said about him.
The Logos does not listen to us. If we
need a confidant to talk to, daily or in extremis, e.g. when we are in
the dentist's chair, in ecstasy or the depths of despair, we can invent
God in any form we like, in our imagination, our words, our
speculations, or as a graven image. Graven images are best, especially
as some rationalist smart-ass has so gravely forbidden them. The Logos
will manifest in the form in which his devotees prefer him: a traffic
surveillance camera, as a baby, a young hippy, a criminal on the cross,
with balls or with boobs, as a piece of bread, as a golden calf, a
pigeon, a sheep, or as a vacuum in the sky.
Even the vacuum is a God, the reverse side of a coin, so to speak, the Logos who is "existence per se" is also "non-existence", but the vacuum is, perhaps, not the most comforting God to talk to. If so, why not choose another? There are plenty on offer and we can invent more. And they shall be called 'designer gods'.
After mass was over, I waited for the priest, to thank him for his sermon. He was delighted, introduced himself as Dr Erasmi and invited us for Christmas lunch. It turned out that he spoke English fluently.
He was born in the centenary year of 1900 and was seventy when I met him. He had studied in Oxford, Marburg, Göttingen and Freiburg (Breisgau), met Friedrich Heiler (1892-1967) and Rudolf Otto (1869-1937) personally and heard their lectures. He had read (Friedrich) Max Müller (1823-1900) and dipped into the Upanishads and, at the beginning of the century, sympathised with the Modernists, with George Tyrrell (1861-1909), Alfred Loisy (1857-1940), and he had visited Baron Friedrich von Hügel (1852-1925) in his Hampstead villa shortly before he died.
Modernism is, of course, never dead but
rises from the dead, like the plague (Camus), when the Pope least
expects it, currently in the guise of Küng and Drewermann (was hat man
dir, du armer Papst, getan, weißt du es wohl?) and their supporters. It
is the yeast that keeps the church alive.
Vor der Kathedrale steht ein Drewermann,
Hört nicht auf den Bischof, drewert, was er kann.
(Outside the cathedral Drewermann's in sight,
Challenges the bishop, drewers with all his might.
REM Personal note; not for publication:
This ditty was inspired by:
Drüben hinterm Dorfe steht ein Leiermann
Und mit starren Fingern dreht er, was er kann.
Barfuß auf dem Eise wankt er hin und her
Und sein kleiner Teller bleibt ihm immer leer.
The source of "Weißt du es wohl" is Goethe's
"Kennst du das Land".
endREM
Father Erasmi admired Friedrich Heiler for his tolerant understanding of both the catholic and the evangelical form of religiosity. Heiler had, as a young man, converted from Catholicism to Lutheranism, motivated by exceptionally strong sentiments, by profound love for Christianity in the form he considered ideal. Instead of becoming an aggressive opponent of the Catholic Church, as 'apostates' so easily do, Heiler continued to work for mutual understanding of the two denominations and showed much sympathy with Catholicism. Father Erasmi appreciated that but chided Heiler for his belief that it was vital to make up for the 'inadequacies' of Hinduism by sending Christian missionaries to India. "Heiler's brain was obstinately set in Christian ruts of thinking."
"How important is Christ to you? Are you a Christian?" asked Father Erasmi.
"No."
"And yet you came to church. Why?"
"Wherever I am, I will follow the religion
and the customs of my hosts as best I can -- if they let me. Therefore
on high festivals I like to go to church. And if I pass a church and
have the time, I will enter it for a minute or two. But I prefer to do
it secretly. I can never call myself a Christian because I would be
ashamed for anyone to think I belong to that crowd."
"That is strong language. You sound convinced. Why?"
"Because a Christian, good Christian or bad Christian, conservative or progressive, liberal or orthodox, believes that Christ is absolutely essential for any religious practice worth its name. Even Christians who are unhappy with their churches, or with the Pope's views on birth control, or with certain dogmas (e.g. papal infallibility; bodily assumption of the Virgin Mary into heaven), etc., believe that. In spite of their dissent with their churches, or the doctrines which have been superimposed on his person, they feel they have to salvage at least the original Jesus, or Christ, if they want to salvage a religion worth having, since, on no account, do they want to become atheists or heathens.
"I know many dissenting theologians like that," said the priest.
"So do I. And some years ago I met a
woman, very intelligent in her profession, also lonely and
introspective, and therefore drawn to "new-ageism" or what not, even
more ridiculously called "esoterics", i.e. a syncretistic show-off
religion for sick and idle women, whose sitting-room and kitchen was
full of strange oriental books, symbols, images and names (one would
have thought that she had converted to some non-Christian religion!),
but again and again, the name Christ cropped up in her museum of
religious names / concepts. "Ohne Jesus läuft bei mir nichts," she
declared, in a rather flippant, slightly aggressive, German idiom, when
I expressed my surprise. ("Without Jesus, I won't do any business";
i.e. none of my religious practices are valid if Jesus is not involved.)
I intensely dislike that notion. Christianity can be made effective (practised intelligently) without reference to other religions. This is what she can try to do. Or, if she doesn't like Christianity and if another religion makes her happy, she should turn to that religion and practise it properly as its "native" followers do, without excesses, no better, no worse: in which case she doesn't need Jesus: he is not indispensable, except in Christianity."
"What do you think of the historical Jesus? Doesn't he set a good example for the world?" suggested Father Erasmi.
"I will not make a desperate effort to
salvage Jesus, the teacher, or Christ, the Saviour, for a doubting
world," I replied. "He was not the best teacher of ethics and he was
not a saviour in any meaningful sense of the word. The world, and
especially the followers of other religions, can manage perfectly well,
and better, without him and should do so. There is no point in trying
to restore the "real Jesus" by freeing Christianity of all the
doctrines, customs and superstitions, of all the interpreters, priests
and power structures that have, over two millennia, accrued around
Jesus.
I often have reason to think about Christianity. I then make the effort of showing a more relaxed approach towards Jesus and Christianity not because I think Jesus is in any way "essential" in absolute terms, but because we are now saddled with him and Christianity, our minds and modes of thinking are conditioned by it, and we cannot possibly universally adopt a more rational religion. Therefore we might as well make the best of what we have got, rather than casting out religion altogether (which many people, especially the ill-informed young, are doing now) or trying to introduce another one, which we can never do with universal success. It is important that the larger part of a community have the same religion in common, e.g. have the same notions of right and wrong, the same the stories to refer to, the same ideals. Even a bad religion is better than no religion at all."
"You are saying some daring things which
it is better even for me not to think and even less to say."
Father Erasmi had once been destined for a prominent career in the church but had fallen out with the authorities because of his unorthodox views, and been banished to Siberia, so to speak, the end of the world, to this little village where people would not take him seriously and where therefore he could do no harm. His confratres called him 'Dr Con Fusio', to which he replied: "Thank God they don't know French, and they don't even know all letters of the alphabet: Can't they at least grant me a 'z'?".
I told him about my upbringing: "Without the strict and straight way in which our parents taught, lived and nourished religion, I would not be as open-minded and perceptive towards other religions (including the great religion called 'atheism') as I am now. They developed my sense of what Rudolf Otto called 'das Heilige', 'The Idea of the Holy', which is even more important for the perception of reality than so-called belief in God itself."
This reference excited the old priest and he showed me proudly a copy of Rudolf Otto's 'The Idea of the Holy' (Das Heilige) (1917), with a dedication by Rudolf Otto himself. Two passages were marked in red:
- "The numinous, the awe-inspiring element
of religious experience, evades precise formulation in words. Like the
beauty of a musical composition, it is non-rational and eludes complete
conceptual analysis; hence it must be discussed in symbolic terms."
- "We are dealing with something for which there is only one appropriate expression, mysterium tremendum... The feeling of it may at times come sweeping like a gentle tide pervading the mind with a tranquil mood of deepest worship. It may pass over into a more set and lasting attitude of the soul, continuing, as it were, thrillingly vibrant and resonant, until at last it dies away and the soul resumes its 'profane,' non-religious mood of everyday experience... It has its crude, barbaric antecedents and early manifestations, and again it may be developed into something beautiful and pure and glorious. It may become the hushed, trembling, and speechless humility of the creature in the presence of--whom or what? In the presence of that which is a Mystery inexpressible and above all creatures."
Father Erasmi told me about a visit to Kendal (Lake District, England) where he had spent two weeks with a Quaker family. His host had once told him:
"We, like most other people, know in broad
outline, what is good, and we try to behave accordingly: we should help
and not hurt others, not steal or kill, not go to war, not quarrel
unnecessarily, not cheat the taxman, not be greedy (therefore we do not
gamble), help anyone who is in trouble (that's why our ancestors in
America sheltered fugitive slaves)... The bible cannot make us do
things which we believe are wrong (e.g. to stone unbelievers, heretics,
adulterers, blasphemers, witches, apostates, homosexuals, girls who
have pre-marital sex and persistently disobedient children [Leviticus
20:27, 24:16; Numbers 15,35; Deuteronomy 13:11, 17:5, 21:21, 22:21,
22:24]) nor give us excuses to indulge into our vices after clever
interpretation (casuistry). The bible is neither our tyrant nor our
alibi. We do not do things "because the bible says so". The bible is
not God's word, but it says many inspiring or comforting things. If we
find a sentence inspiring, we take it to help us in our efforts. If we
find the bible unhelpful or wicked, we simply ignore it, as we do when
we see a believer, in *** any *** religion, break its or our ideals.
Our task is to become better and happier people, not to 'assess'
scriptures, other people or other religions. We follow our religion in
our pursuit of happiness. We avoid that which makes us unhappy .
We listen in silence and try to perceive the spirit of God. We allow the bible to inspire us but not to rule us. We take what encourages us in our efforts or what comforts us in our need; we ignore what is useless or contrary to the spirit. Religion is a toolbox for people who try to live well and be content. We choose the tools we need."
Father Erasmi had been to the headquarters
of the Salvation Army in Camberwell too. I told him about my admiration
for them: "They do not hold to dogma and feel that doing charitable
works is a better way of honouring Christ than holding the correct
beliefs about him. When they collect money, they always get a
contribution from me. When I was a young and inexperienced man in
England and my daughter Lisl was on her way, I found out that I had
forgotten to book a hospital bed for my wife sufficiently in advance.
The doctor told us, my wife could not be accommodated anywhere in the
National Health System. Someone told us about the Salvation Army's
'Mothers' Hospital' in Clapton (East London) and they gave us a bed. My
wife, Gloria (in excelsis Deo; nomen est omen), was suffering from high
blood pressure; she was in a dangerous condition. To save her life a
premature birth had to be induced. Lisl spent the first weeks of her
life in an incubator. Both mother and daughter survived. I owe that to
the Salvation Army. They did me a good turn, and I will never forget
it."
I told Father Erasmi about the simple lessons of Lesskow's 'The Beast'. He knew Lesskow and had an Italian translation of his works.
"It is not dogma or belief that matters but only the works that result," I said. "If the atmosphere and environment of Christmas, be it in Church or at home, makes a person receptive for the message of 'Das Tier', to give just one example, or any other message that is 'useful' today, then
- it is quite irrelevant whether Jesus was
or was not the son of god, as Albert Schweitzer and Ernest Renan
argued, or whether he, as George Wells more convincingly demonstrates,
never existed at all and is as legendary as Little Red Riding Hood, as
the Christmas story of St Luke and the childhood stories of the
apocryphal gospels,
- it is quite irrelevant what the official Christmas prayers or texts actually say or mean (as long as they are faithfully recited, preserved, kept alive and handed down, by believers and unbelievers alike),
- it is quite irrelevant whether the birth of Jesus or his existence 'in heaven' makes any real difference in the world and whether he can or can not hear our prayers,
- and it is quite irrelevant what the priest actually says in his perhaps poetic but probably confused and not quite convincing sermon, but he must say 'Hoc est enim corpus meum' and not 'Hocus porcus fidelibus'
- it is irrelevant whether we believe that a graven image *** is *** God or that it *** represents *** God, even though, of course, it *** is *** God
- it is irrelevant whether we have the right belief or the wrong belief as long as we act right
- it is irrelevant whether he lived sub Pontio Pilato and whether the Holy Ghost procedit filoque or not
Nothing matters, as long as the result of
all this is something good that happens in the individual, even though
it cannot really be predicted or caused by the words and the rituals.
This also means that it is pointless to argue about truth and falsity in different religions or between believers and non-believers, to say nothing of trying to convince or convert anybody or, even worse, exercise any form of pressure as happened during the times of the inquisition, during the Calivinist regime in Geneva, and in many other far too clever religions and denominations all over the world."
"It is nice to talk to someone for a change who does not treat me as Dr Confusio," said the old man with a trembling voice. "It can get lonely up here, in these spiritual heights. I have been banished to the end of the world, -- well not for much longer."
"I agree with much of what you say," said the priest. "It does not follow, of course, from the fact that many believers are bigots and hypocrites, that every atheist or humanist is automatically a saint or a superior moral human being. But you did not want to say that, did you? I think a religious education can help to instil a desire for virtue and self-improvement in young people that may remain even if later on they turn into non-believers. Therefore the effort in childhood has not been in vain.
I let myself go during my sermon today,
talking more to myself than to my congregation. But sometimes one has
to articulate one's thoughts, and it helps to have a listener, even if
the listener does not understand. It can get terribly lonely. Anyway,
it was my sermon that brought you along and made you wait for me, quite
unexpectedly, so my words were not completely wasted, not even for me.
I know that talking isn't really important. I can just help and encourage my parishioners from time to time, help them not to sin too much and cope with their guilt, and listen to their worries. And sometimes my stories, my Christian stories, help me to do that."
He fetched Lesskow's story 'At the World's
End': A young and inexperienced bishop is keen to convert the nomadic
people in Siberia who at present are Buddhists or Shamanists to
Christianity. After having visited a tribe, he realises that conversion
is pointless. People have their religion, it works, and they should be
left alone with it. Ours is not superior. These people will not
understand the Christian doctrine, even if they understood it, it would
be irrelevant, and their notions of right and wrong, and their
behaviour, are better than those of the Christians. He has nothing to
teach them. The old monk Kiriak, who has known this all along, says to
the bishop: "You cling to words like a lawyer. What for? Every word is
a lie. I condemn nothing. Consider what makes me so rich: it is love
and not hatred. Be patient. You and I have been baptised, that's like
receiving a printed invitation for a big party. We attend because we
know we have been invited, we have our ticket. Then we see someone
without a ticket going to the same house. We think: 'Look at the fool,
he's wasting his time, for he won't be admitted. When he arrives, the
security guards will get rid of him.' As we arrive, we see the security
guard is about to chase him away, but the host sees it and lets him
enter, saying: 'What do I care whether he has a ticket. I know him
personally. Please, come in, my friend, I am so happy to see you.' He
leads him into the house and treats him better than those who came with
a ticket.' " (Chapter 5)
"God does not need believers even though
he has to put up with them," I said. "If he has any sense, he will
prefer atheists (especially those who hate him with all their heart,
and with all their soul, and with all their mind, who are not lukewarm
like the believers, whom he will spue out of his mouth) for they tend
to be more sincere, and God, being pure existence and consciousness,
does, unlike us, not depend on the presence of an observer or admirer.
He can do as well without us as we can without him."
"Revelation 3:16," smiled the old priest, "I wouldn't go so far as to encourage people to hate God, that would really get me into trouble with Rome, but I can see your point. You cannot hate God unless you fervently believe in him; thus a person who hates God is very close to him. Atheists and unbelievers do not hate *** God ***. If they hate anything, they hate bigots, unpleasant believers, the church, its doctrines, its rituals, the hierarchy, its representatives. You can "love" God without believing in him because, in the church, "loving God" is the done thing, so it is easy to go through the motions of loving God without even really believing in him. People who commit crimes do not do so because they hate God but because they are greedy, want to satisfy some desire or other. Only those who hate God are sure to hate with conviction, and they are therefore very rare; I have never met one."
Father Erasmi opened Max Müller's autobiography and found a typed piece of paper which he gave me to read:
"I read Gita 3:11, on the interdependence
of gods and men. Idea: gods and whatever is said about them, ditto
rituals, prasad, sacrifices, vibrations, nadis, karma, etc, are not
descriptions of reality but MODELS (like those of physics, psychology,
mathematics, cybernetics) which help us to get through life without too
much pain or confusion, and to make sense of the world, of the events
we observe. Blessed are those who take these models as literal truth.
They may have their way (i.e. we may leave them alone) provided they do
not abuse these models (their limited understanding) by deriving (as if
by irrefutable logic) other "facts" from them or deriving "laws" and
norms of behaviour from them which they try to impose on the rest of
mankind. If they merely do their own thing, they deserve to be
protected and supported.
"Those who are misled by the modes of nature get attached to the works produced by them. But let no one who knows the whole unsettle the minds of the ignorant who know only a part." [cf Gita 3:29]"
"This allows," said Father Erasmi, "for literal believers and 'enlightened' believers to co-habit in the same religion: why not in the same church. It requires tolerance of those 'enlightened' souls who know better. They must keep their 'superior' knowledge to themselves."
"Yes," I said, "but it also requires
constraint by the naïve believers. They cannot have it entirely their
own way, as at present they often do. If they try to gather followers
for their narrow views or throw their weight about, they should be
mercilessly ridiculed by those who know better. We all must permit and
accept ambiguity or uncertainty. This is not the same as declaring
nonsense to be literally or historically true and then defending the
truth of the unjustifiable nonsense by declaring it to be a divine
mystery and particularly adorable (valuable) at that. The "quia
absurdum" is an absurd creed."
"I cannot quarrel with that," said Father Erasmi, "even though you are challenging a Father of the Church."
"Jews, Christians and Muslims are not the only monotheists. Jews: One God. Christians: One God, three persons. Muslims: One God, one person. Hindus: One God (Brahman), 999 persons ± one million -- nobody has seen any point in counting yet. What a happy people, what a cheerful approach to God," said the old priest.
The priest had a harmonium and I played a few chorales for him. I ended with variations on the New Year chorale.
| 10. Hilf gnädig allen
Kranken, Gib fröhliche Gedanken Den hochbetrübten Seelen, Die sich mit Schwermut quälen! |
Be with the sick and ailing, Their Comforter unfailing; Dispelling grief and sadness, Oh, give them joy and gladness! |
|
|
On the Feast of Stephen, Pilar and I sat in our coach to return from the extraordinary world of the spirit to the plains of our daily work. I had much to think about. The tune of the New Year chorale kept turning in my head.
"We, the atheists," I thought, "need the believers and the priests to keep the churches warm, the organs sounding and God alive. They need us to stop them from becoming too confident and overbearing. It is a symbiotic relationship. I thank God every day that not everybody is as smart as me. Otherwise who would pray for me, just in case? A God who is not worshipped dies, as happened to the gods of Egypt, Greece and Rome, who were once as real as God Father Son And Holy Ghost. A God-forsaken church building, however artistic, without prayers, music and incense becomes a sight, and a pretty sad one too."
| 11. Und endlich, was das
meiste, Füll uns mit deinem Geiste, Der uns hier herrlich ziere Und dort zum Himmel führe! |
Above all else, Lord, send us Thy Spirit to attend us, Within our hearts abiding, To heaven our footsteps guiding. |
| 12. Das alles woll'st du
geben, O meines Lebens Leben, Mir und der Christenschare Zum sel'gen neuen Jahre! |
All this Thy hand bestoweth, Thou Life, whence our life floweth. To all Thy name confessing Grant, Lord, Thy New Year's blessing. |
|
|
+ Here endeth this story +
Alternative titles
A German Christmas
Christmases of an outcaste (Weihnachten eines Unbehausten)
A lifetime of Christmases
Christmas Memories
And the Word became Flesh