National Memorial Day

Berlin, Reminiscere (Memorial Day),
February 21, 1932

The year 1932 was a grim time for Germany. Its new postwar republican government was struggling amid inflation, unemployment, and poverty. Hitler’s movement, along with Communist and socialist movements, was underway. Bonhoeffer shared in the fears for his country’s future, but he also foresaw suffering for the church. German theologian Günther Dehn (whom Bonhoeffer refers to in this sermon as a “seer”) had questioned the appropriateness of placing war monuments inside churches. This pacifist question had fanned the already widespread resentment among the German people over Germany’s loss of honor in the Treaty of Versailles. Bonhoeffer now believed that to mourn the sacrifices of war in the church did mean proclaiming Christ’s commandment in the Sermon on the Mount to be peacemakers. The church, Bonhoeffer said, was being called to Christ’s way of the cross.

Bonhoeffer delivered this sermon in Berlin on Germany’s National Memorial Day, observed on the second Sunday in Lent, Reminiscere.

Matthew 24:6–14: And you will hear of wars and rumors of wars; see that you are not alarmed; for this must take place, but the end is not yet. For nation will rise against nation, and kingdom against kingdom, and there will be famines and earthquakes in various places: all this is but the beginning of the birth pangs.

Then they will hand you over to be tortured and will put you to death, and you will be hated by all nations because of my name. Then many will fall away, and they will betray one another and hate one another. And many false prophets will arise and lead many astray. And because of the increase of lawlessness, the love of many will grow cold. But the one who endures to the end will be saved. And this good news of the kingdom will be proclaimed throughout the world, as a testimony to all the nations; and then the end will come.

The church does not leave anyone alone. None of you who have come here today in mourning, no one who is really looking for consolation and not just a ceremonial memorial service should remain alone today. You can seek consolation in all kinds of different places, in solitude, in nature, in work, in social life with friends. In all those places you can search for consolation. But you can only find consolation in the knowledge of God. Any of you, in the face of that which distresses you, which is incomprehensible to you, which keeps frightening and disturbing you all over again, who seek to know the will of God and only want to bring your suffering and your questioning obediently to a place where you can hear God yourself, you are in the right place here in the church. But only if you are that person. Every other person who is interested in something else besides Christian knowledge of God and God’s will is in the wrong place here.

Memorial Day can be observed in very different ways. It is something different if the bereaved families, something different if the state, something different if the church is observing it. In the families on a day like this, all our thoughts may be centered on the person of the one torn from our midst by the war, and it may be that here all our love for this individual person is reawakened, and our mourning is a mourning out of love. And if in great public or state memorial celebrations, the historically great German actions and sacrifices are commemorated, our mourning may be proud mourning. Finally, if everywhere else human beings and our achievements take a central place—and truly it is important enough that today we also are reminded of great human deeds—all of this, though, is something different from what the church of Christ has to say here. When the church observes Memorial Day, it must have something special to say. It cannot be one voice in the chorus of others who loudly raise the cry of mourning for the lost sons of the nation across the land, and by such cries of mourning call us to new deeds and great courage. It cannot, like the ancient singers of great heroic deeds, wander about and sing the song of praise of battle and the death of the heroes to the listening ears of enthralled young people. The church should not expect the laurels that decorate the great singer, for it does not itself make laurel wreaths for any human being. How gladly it would do so. It is hard not to be allowed to do that.

On this day the church stands here so strangely without ceremony, so little proud, so little heroic. The church is like the seer of ancient times who, when all are gathered to commemorate a great deed of the nation, is wholeheartedly present but suffers because he sees something that the others do not see and must speak of what he sees, although no one wants to hear it. We all feel it: People don’t want any disturbance here. People don’t want any discord. People want everyone to participate without exception. People don’t want anyone to see anything different that others do not see. And if it happens anyway, you have to try to get rid of a person like that. And so it happens then that such seers are thrown out of the celebration, chased away with scorn and contempt by the very people they want to help, whom they love like nothing else in the world. But especially because they love them so much, they have become seers. The one who loves the most is the one who sees deepest, sees the greatest danger. A seer has never been popular. That is why the church will also not be popular, least of all on days like this.

Today the German people remember the years 1914–1918, the time in which millions of German men and boys showed that one can and should love one’s fatherland unto death. They had to show that under conditions unheard of in human history up to then. And what would be more authentic and more human than to stand in silence here, in deep gratitude, and to affirm with great decisiveness what they intended? There are still millions living among us who, like the others, have seen death—a special, unrecognized army of men who are marked by death, in silent communion with one another and with those who have passed over into death. For us younger ones always a new reason for seriousness, for being still and becoming humble, for the older ones a source of strength when facing death, but for us all a reminder that cannot be ignored: Do not forget, never forget, that your people, that you yourself live on land that was bought with the blood of your brothers! Mourn, German people, give thanks and hope!

What Christian would not want to speak and feel this way? Who would not want to stand together in the gathering with all the brothers who know that they are united? Who would want to dare to sow discord here?

But—we must ask further—what Christian would not know that the church, which is built on the gospel of Christ, would have more to say here, because it sees more? Precisely because every human being as a human being must subscribe to what we just said earlier, that is why the church of Christ must know how to say more and say more profound things, things of more ultimate importance. The monument in the Neue Wache [“New Guardpost”] tells everyone everything we said at first: “Do not forget, and thank you”—that is what the memorial wreath says, cast from the medals of the fallen brothers. “Hope”—that is what the opening to the sky says. But no cross stands there. It is a national monument, but it is not a Christian symbol. It is not a church, in which the suffering, dying brothers are joined with those who have completed their life journey in the sign of the cross. Thus it is not Christian mourning that unites the people there; it is not Christian hope that arises out of this mourning; it is not Christian consolation that is preached here. And perhaps that, in its own way, is quite proper. But we, who perhaps just this morning stood at the Neue Wache, before one war memorial or another, and this evening came from there to the church, have a right to expect to hear in this place what Christian mourning is and what Christian consolation and Christian hope are.

Especially those among us who take things seriously are repeatedly confronted and plagued on this day by the question of where, from a Christian perspective, they should stand with regard to what happened from 1914 to 1918. We want to know how we as Christians—and not only as Germans—should see all of this. There may be some among us whose Christian conscience quakes when they think of the war and its victims and who are unsure about how they should reconcile themselves to it morally. And who among us, after all, is not among those? Who could be so clear and sure, so completely convinced of the holy cause of war if he knows of the commandment of peace, if he knows that God is a God of peace, that of Christ it is said: He is our peace [Eph. 2:14]. Who would not again and again be disturbed and would have to ask themselves: What do the events of 1914–1918, the millions of dead German men, mean for me, for us today? How is God speaking through them to me? That means once again very simply asked: How can I bring together in my mind God, Christ, and the events of the war? Should I say it was God’s cause? Or shall I succumb to despair and say: Here God’s power was at an end? Here Christ was far away?

For such questions we must be very determined—and what would be more natural at the beginning of the season of Lent—first of all to look at what happened on the cross of Golgotha. And now doesn’t exactly the same question come up here, only incomparably more sharply and urgently: How can I bring together in my mind the cross and God?

And is not precisely here the answer given that stands over the whole Christian message: Christ goes through the cross, only through the cross, to life, to the resurrection, to the victory? It is the wonderful theme of the Bible, so frightening for many people, that the only visible sign of God in the world is the cross. Christ is not carried away gloriously from earth to heaven but must go to the cross. And exactly there where the cross stands, the resurrection is near. Exactly there where everyone begins to doubt God, where everyone falls into despair about God’s power, there God is fully, there Christ is alive and near. Where it hangs by a thread whether one will desert the cause or remain faithful, there God is, there Christ is fully. Where the power of darkness wants to overpower the light of God, there God triumphs and judges the darkness. So it is now as well, when Christ thinks of the day his church-community will face. His disciples ask about the signs of his coming again after his death. This is not a one-time coming again but an eternal coming again. The end time in the Bible is all the time and every day between the death of Christ and Judgment Day. Yes, the New Testament sees the death of Christ as so serious, so decisive.

But Christ, who knows that his path leads to the cross, knows that the path of his disciples also does not lead peacefully and safely straight into heaven; rather, they too must pass through the darkness, through the cross. They too must struggle. That is why the first sign of the nearness of Christ—strangely enough!—is that his enemies become great, that the powers of temptation, of apostasy, of unfaithfulness become strong, that his church-community is led close to the brink of doubting in God. The first sign will be that his enemies hide behind the name of Christ and only under the guise of Christianity seek to lure us away from him. Oh, the name “Christ” doesn’t do it. And how easy it is in times of confusion like today to fight in the name of Christ against the real Christ. But then, once the spirits are confused, the power of the world will break loose openly, unconcealed. The powers that want to tear the disciples away from him, that try to show them that it is madness to go with him, that Christ has no power, only words, but that they, the powers of reality, speak the language of facts; and this language is more convincing than the language of Christ. The world gangs up on the spirit of Christ. The demons rise up. It is a rebellion against Christ. And one great power of this uprising is called war! The others are called pestilence and famine. So war, sickness, and hunger are the powers that try to take Christ’s dominion away from him [see Rev. 6:8], and they are all led by the archenemy of Christ the Living One, by death. It already seemed as if with Christ the victory had been won, as if Christ had conquered death. But now these powers scream: We are here. Here, see us and be terrified! We have power. Our power has not been taken from us. Christ has not conquered; we conquer. Christ is dead. But we are alive. Our names are war, sickness, hunger. Why are you letting yourselves be enthralled by this false prophet who speaks of peace and love, of God and his kingdom: here we are!

And they attack the nations and drag them in. And death goes around and reaps its harvest. It mows down millions.

And now comes the great disintegration of Christianity. Its ranks are broken up and torn apart. For a terrible uncertainty and fear come over the followers of Christ. They have to realize that all these attacks are basically attacks on Christ and his word and that this word apparently has no power against them. The past war caused thousands, caused millions to doubt Christ, and among them especially those who took his word seriously and now saw themselves so bitterly disappointed. Read wartime letters, read a collection of statements from our working-class people about the church and Christianity recently published by a pastor in Berlin. These things are written there so that everyone can read them. “The war has shown me that Christ is not right.” “The war robbed us of our faith in God.” “Since the war I know that faith is madness.” Those are clear words about war, war and the church of Christ.

It’s very hypocritical to simply say here: Oh, well, they didn’t have real faith anyway. Dear friends, one has to have real faith to be able to notice so clearly that one’s faith has been destroyed. And which of us would say that we have such real faith that it could not be threatened by anything at all? If we think we have faith like that, we should think very hard about whether this faith has not become indifference, which cannot be aroused from its lethargy by anything. So be careful with such hypocritical criticisms. Didn’t those millions also have a right to Christ, who has now been torn away from them in this way? What should we say about that, we who ourselves were also dragged into these events of 1914–1918, who also share responsibility for their faith having been taken from them? And seen from here, things look very different. What a self-satisfied, hard Christianity we would be if, under such circumstances, even the most loyal, those with the strongest faith were not also struck by a nameless anxiety that Christ was being torn away from us?

If only the true people of God were not troubled to the very core, and if even the frightened church of Christ, under the plague of war, did not have to cry out: “My God, why have you forsaken me?” [Matt. 27:46; Ps. 22:1]. Even Christ himself cried out like this on the cross and, according to the story told by one Gospel writer, died with this cry. Oh, it is all too understandable that millions became unfaithful, that faced with so much hate their love grew cold.

Our situation would truly be desperate if not for the word of Christ: “When all of this comes over you, see that you are not alarmed. For this must take place.” Jesus had to tell his disciples so often: “Do not be afraid, for I am with you” [see Matt. 28:20]. “Do not be afraid, for I have called you by name” [Is. 43:1]. Even the Old Testament said this already. “Do not be afraid,” the angels call to the frightened shepherds [Luke 2:10]. “Do not fear, only believe” [Mark 5:36], Jesus says to the leader of the synagogue. “Do not be afraid, little flock, for it is your Father’s good pleasure to give you the kingdom”[Luke 12:32]. “When you see this, see that you are not alarmed; for this must take place, but the end is not yet” [Matt. 24:36]. We ask: Why must this all take place? Because Christ himself must pass through and beyond death, because where Christ, where God himself really is, the darkness rises up most terribly and nails him to the cross. That is why we too must pass through this. This must all happen so that the end can come.

God’s way in the world leads to the cross and through the cross to life. For this reason do not be alarmed, do not be afraid—be faithful! But what does being faithful mean here other than standing and falling with the word of Christ, with his preaching of the kingdom of peace, than knowing that despite everything Christ’s words are stronger than all the powers of evil? What does faithfulness of the church-community of Christ mean here other than calling out into this furious raging again and again—unto exhaustion, unto humiliation, unto martyrdom—the words of Christ that there should be peace, that there should be love, that there should be blessing, and that he is our peace, and that God is a God of peace? And the more they rage, the more we should call out. And the more we call out, the more wildly they will rage. For wherever the word of Christ is truly spoken, the world senses that it is either ruinous madness or ruinous truth, which endangers its very life. Where peace is really spoken, war must rage twice as hard, for it senses that it is about to be driven out. Christ intends to be its death.

But all the more passionately, all the more loyally, the church of Christ will stand by its Lord and preach this word of peace, even though it must pass through scorn and persecution. It knows that its Lord also had to go to the cross. But now it understands the promise that Jesus has for it. The war will not be the end. Rather, it must take place so that the end can come. The gospel of the kingdom will be preached as a witness to all nations, and then the end will come. And here now our view broadens out; our eyes are suddenly drawn up to the Lord who directs all things, whom even the demons and the forces of hell must serve. War, sickness, and hunger must come, so that the gospel of the kingdom of peace, of love, and of salvation can be spoken and heard all the more keenly, all the more clearly, all the more deeply. The power of enmity and of stirring up conflict between nations must serve to cause the gospel to come to all nations and be heard by all, must serve the kingdom to which all people shall belong. War serves peace, hate serves love, the devil serves God, the cross serves life. And then, when that has been revealed, then the end will come. Then the Lord of the church will lay his hand on the church, blessing and protecting it as his faithful servant.

Memorial Day in the church! What does that mean? It means holding up the one great hope from which we all live, the preaching of the kingdom of God. It means seeing that which is past, and which we remember today, with all its terrors and all its godlessness, and yet not being afraid, but hearing the preaching of peace. It means knowing that all of that has to happen so that the end can come, so that God remains Lord. It means that we can really mourn for the dead of the world war only if we, with the same faithfulness in which they stood out there, now pass on the message of peace, for the sake of which their death had to be, and preach it all the more loudly. It means looking out beyond the borders of our own nation, across the whole world, and praying that the gospel of the kingdom, which puts an end to all war, now may come over all nations and that then the end may come, that Christ may draw near.

Memorial Day in the church! That means that God in the cross is near to us. That means pointing to Christ on the cross, who won the victory through the cross. Memorial Day in the church means knowing that Christ alone wins the victory! Amen.