Jazz, Nazis and Bluegrass
Dragons Can be Beaten — an Advent Story Ep 3
The first episode of this story can be found here.
Spotify podcast episode can be found here 👇
As I continued West along the road the Knight had pointed out for me, I reflected on my visit with the first of my teachers, Julian, the Teacher of Hope. I had begun to understand why she was first — that all other virtues fail without hope. She had said, “Hope does not depend on us. It depends on the one who loves the universe and holds it gently like the hazelnut.”
I had two teachers to meet before I was ready to confront the dragon. My next teacher was to be the Teacher of Integrity, and I wondered aloud who it was. Immediately, I heard music, specifically Jazz, coming from further down the road. I picked up my pace, and the music grew louder and louder, a trumpet trading off notes with a piano and a driving rhythm section. Eventually, it sounded like the music was near me, so I stopped and looked around. Things started to take shape around me — another city, but much more modern — possibly early twentieth century? Across the street, the facade of a church came into focus, and a street with both automobiles and some horse-drawn traffic. The people of the city were busy, rushing to and fro. Most of the faces were those of people of color. They were dressed smartly, in suits and bowlers for men and dresses of varying degrees of finery for women. I took in the sights and the now-developing smells of this unfamiliar urban place until I was interrupted by a polite “Hello” from someone behind me.
I turned and saw I was standing in front of a small cafe with seats outside. At the table near me was a youngish man with a round face, round wire-framed glasses, and blond hair wearing a tan three-piece suit. He was looking at me over the top of a very thick book with a long name in German. He quickly put the book down, stood up, smoothed his vest, and buttoned his jacket. “I am Dietrich,” he said, extending a handshake to me with a winsome grin. “You must be the one I was told to expect.” “You are the Teacher of Integrity?” I asked, “And you’d be Dietrich… Bonhoeffer?” He made a curt German bow. You could almost hear his heels click. “I AM Dietrich Bonhoeffer, and I am supposed to teach you, but whether or not I am the ‘Teacher of Integrity,’ well, if you would like a ‘guilty martyr’ as a teacher, then I suppose I am.” “Why do you call yourself a ‘guilty martyr?’ Weren’t you part of the Operation Valkyrie plot to assassinate Hitler? How could you possibly be guilty?” He paused momentarily, then said, “Perhaps we can get into that. I assume you’ve just come from the Teacher of Hope? Who was that for you?” “It was Julian of Norwich.” “Ah, Julian, a formidable woman. Nonetheless, I beat her to the Golden Halo in Lent Madness in 2016.”
He gave a sly grin and pointed to the chair across from him. I sat and then looked around again. “But where are we, and why are we here?” I asked. He gestured around. “We are in Harlem in New York City, around 1930. This was the most formative time in my life.” I took it in — the vibrant culture around us. The music. The pure energy that seemed to suffuse the place. “This is the Harlem Renaissance, isn’t it?” I asked. “The great explosion of creativity and art in Harlem? Langston Hughes, Duke Ellington, and Louis Armstrong?” “It is indeed,” said Bonhoeffer, “and so many more talented black artists, writers, and poets. I was here.” He leaned forward in his chair. “You see, when I became a theologian in Germany, it was all academic. Studying theology was really about becoming more and more knowledgeable so you could rise to the top of your field. And I was good. Very Good. I was already an adjunct faculty member at the University of Berlin in 1930 at the age of 24. I received an invitation to study for a year at Union Theological Seminary in New York. To be truthful, I was more interested in New York City than Union Seminary, as I was utterly convinced America had nothing to teach me theologically.” He chuckled a bit. “I was half right. Union had not as much to teach me, but I was expected to do field work while I was there, and I ended up at Abyssinian Baptist Church there right across the street.” He pointed at the church behind me.
“What I found there changed my faith. The Christianity of my youth was academic and dry and, by definition, had no connection to politics and very little to ethics. The Christianity at Abyssinian was intricately connected to the American black experience. They saw Christ as identifying with suffering humanity, always standing with the oppressed and poor. For them, Jesus was not an abstract, moral example whose sermons had to be interpreted to a modern audience; he was a real, living presence who empowered his followers to work towards justice in the midst of a hostile society. Jesus had led them from slavery through failed reconstruction to a new era in Harlem, where they continued to struggle for justice.”
He sighed, “Before I came here, I was ensnared in much of the common thinking among German clergy after World War One. I preached about ‘Volk, and Blood and Soil,’ the kind of things the Nazis later twisted further to their use. But here, I saw that all those constructs had no power in front of Christ, who reminds us that we are all one and demands that we treat one another justly. I was a changed man — I sometimes question if the name ‘Christian’ truly applied to me before I came here.” “You were here for such a short time.” I asked, “How was it when you returned to Germany?” “I went back with different eyes. I had opposed the Nazis before for political reasons, but now I felt their White Supremacy was an abomination in the sight of God. Unfortunately, I was not the only German studying in America. The Reich had sent lawyers to American law schools to study your racial segregation laws and the laws by which you denied your American Indian population citizenship. The Nuremberg laws that began the campaign against the Jews in Germany were based on those. In 1933, the ‘German Christian Movement’ began, which was a pro-Nazi version of Christianity that denied the Jewishness of Jesus and sought to put all of the German churches under government control. Myself and several other pastors opposed this and formed what was labeled the ‘Confessing Church.’”
“And the Confessing Church opposed the oppression of Jews and the later Holocaust?” He got a faraway look in his eyes, “I wish that had been more of it — most pastors were not interested in the so-called ‘Jewish Question.’ They were upset about the nationalization of the church and loss of the church’s power. They didn’t see the stark demands of the Gospel to protect the Jews as human beings made in the image of God. I found myself a radical within my own circles for insisting that we should be doing more for the Jews in Germany. There was so much disinterest that I even began questioning whether I was wrong. Then, in 1939, I had an opportunity to visit America again and lecture at Union Seminary. I was asked to preach at Abyssinian Baptist. It was an incredible, spirit-filled service. They reminded me of the lessons they taught me. We are all Brothers. Christ stands with the oppressed. Christianity is not a mental game but a life lived in radical obedience to Christ’s teachings. I had considered remaining in America to weather out the conflict I knew was coming, but I knew I had to return as a witness to my country, even if that would be costly.”
“And you became involved with the Valkyrie Plot to kill Hitler?” Bonhoeffer sat back and grinned widely. “Scholars of your time debate how involved I was in that. Some try to portray me as a pacifist who was reluctantly turned into an assassin. The truth is, while many around me were directly involved in the plot, I was arrested earlier for a scheme to get Jews out of the country. When the assassination plot failed, my colleagues were arrested, and I was executed for guilt by association.” “So, were you involved?” He smiled again, “I am the Bonhoeffer in YOUR story, so I don’t know more than you do.” “Then why do you call yourself a ‘Guilty martyr?’” “Because whether or not I pulled a trigger, or whether or not I helped build a bomb, I nonetheless conspired with people who planned a murder.” “Yes,” I exclaimed, “But the murder of a monster who killed millions!” He paused a minute. “Yes. But a man nonetheless. My question always was, ‘Will this do what people think it will do?’ Had Hitler been assassinated, Heinrich Himmler, the head of the SS might well have become Führer, and that might have been even worse. Think back. What did Julian tell you about Christian Hope?” “She told me that hope comes from God and not from within us.” “Exactly — and when we decide we know who should live and who should die, we insist we are the center of the moral universe and not God. We lose hope.”
He sighed and leaned forward again, looking intently at me. “I am a guilty man who was an accomplice to attempted murder and also a martyr who followed Christ and tried to save people from the death camps. If I am your ‘Teacher of Integrity,’ then know that integrity is costly. Basing your life in the teachings of Christ and standing with the helpless and oppressed will always cost you, no matter the politics of your time. It may cost you your life, but more likely, it will cost you respect, power, family, friends, or even the self-conception you treasure. It cost me all of these. Cheap grace is that grace which we bestow on ourselves. Grace from God is never cheap.”
“Especially in a time of evil, which is so especially evil because it is no longer threatened by truth from within, eh, Dietrich?” The voice came from a man who was strolling in from down the street — a youngish, handsome man with a tonsure and dressed in the habit of a Monk. “Ah, Thomas,” said Dietrich, “I see you’ve come to spare our student some walking.” I stared. “Thomas Merton — you’re the Teacher of Perseverance?” “Well, I managed to walk here from Kentucky, so that’s pretty persevering,” he laughed, “And I wouldn’t say I’ve spared him a walk — he still has a ways to go to confront the dragon. We could talk on the way.” “Just one more thing before you take him, Thomas,” said Dietrich, “Show me the sword.” I stood and pulled Veritas from its scabbard and presented it to Bonhoeffer. He placed his palms on it. “Just remember that Hope stems from God and not from us. Integrity is remembering that and acting accordingly. Stand with the weak and not the strong, for such is the kingdom of God. Sometimes, the answer is not the obvious one, especially when it comes to violence.” The sword glowed with a golden hue for a second; then, I returned it to its scabbard. “Are you ready?” asked Thomas, “The last part of your story here awaits.” “Thank you, Dietrich.” I said. “Auf Wiedersehen, and go with God.” I turned and started walking away from Dietrich Bonhoeffer with… well… Thomas Merton. We seemed to be strolling down a path through a field of high Kentucky bluegrass, and the sights and sounds of Harlem faded quickly.
The Fourth and final episode of this story can be found here.
The Rev. David Simmons, ObJN is the Pastor of St. Matthias Episcopal Church and First Presbyterian Church, Waukesha. He is an Oblate of and confessor to the Order of Julian of Norwich, and was a Dungeon Master for years before he became a Christian.
Jazz, Nazis and Bluegrass was originally published in Preaching from the Rood Screen on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.