by Jasmine Friend
Home ---> Coventry
It all kicked off in Coventry. Okay, I know what you're thinking; a city neither in Germany, nor what you'd typically consider a hotspot for pilgrims- not a great start. But underneath the initial impression of the city as an artistic, unorthodox and maybe slightly rough around the edges kind of place, lies an extraordinary history of finding love in the depths of despair. That tale takes us to Coventry Cathedral. 
On the night of the 14th of November 1940, Coventry was bombed by the Luftwaffe in a horrific bombing raid, now known as the 'Coventry Blitz'. The city, targeted as a hub for the wartime industries, was initially separated from its water supply in the first bombing. Following this, incendiaries were dropped on the main part of the city. With little to extinguish the flames, the fire spread rapidly, taking with it the cathedral that sat at the heart of the city.
The cathedral itself was run by a Provost named Dick Howard. On the morning following the blaze he entered the ruins of the church to find the alter destroyed and in its place, two of the wooden ceiling hoists in the shape of a cross. This sparked something in Provost Howard. A man grieving for his sacred building, for his community, for the friends he had lost, yet he did not let that pain overcome him to turn into hate. The nails holding up the roof beams would later be manufactured into what is today the 'cross of nails'. This design represents the original image of finding Christ in the darkest of times and today many churches around the world that have been involved in conflict have a cross of nails made from the original beam joints.
The Coventry blitz was big news, even the prime minister of the day Winston Churchill came to pay his respects. In the days and weeks following, Howard took the opportunity of press coverage to speak out against bombing of civilian areas in Germany, and to speak out for peace over hatred in this time of great suffering. On Christmas day, BBC radio broadcasted him out from the ruins where he said that when the war was over, we should work with those who had been enemies 'to build a kinder, more Christ Child-like world.' In an increasingly hate filled world, where retribution is increasingly the answer to the pain that is inflicted on us, I really sensed God's heart for restorative justice through the words of Howard, in his desire for understanding and hope.
Coventry ---> London ---> Cologne
Next up on our journey was Cologne Cathedral, famous for being the largest gothic Cathedral in Northern Europe (fun fact: It's also where the tomb of Scottish theologian John Duns Scotus is located, though I suspect that's a rather more niche reference). On first seeing the Cathedral, the gothic design was intricate and striking, yes. Personally, I'd stop short of describing it as beautiful. Those of you who've been, may disagree and that too is completely valid. However, for me, the design of the building did not speak to the perfectly imperfect mystery of a love that we all share in, but an imperialism and materialism which displayed quite the opposite. Truth be told, while it was an amazing place, part of me was uncomfortable at the obvious garishness of it, and I couldn't help but imagine the vast amounts spent on creating such a structure whilst poverty no doubt remained rife in parts of the city. Was this really our tribute to a God of love?
Cologne ---> Berlin
Just a couple of days into the trip and already with a lot to ponder, we were moving on to Berlin. The epicentre of so much German history and culture - including being the home of Brecht, as I later came to find out (thanks Phoebe).
Our first visit was to a quaint Berlin suburb, to the house and church of Martin Niemoller. A little-known name to many, Niemoller was one of the key players in the formation of the anti-Nazi confessional church. At a time when most of the churches in Germany were either supportive of the Nazis or silent in the wake of the atrocities that they were committing, the Confessional Church was not just counter cultural, it was radical. It preached radical love of the other, radical love of a Jewish people who may be different in practices but were still human beings deserving of dignity. He sounds a great guy, right? Well... Niemoller had a rocky start, to say the least.
Initially Niemoller met with Hitler himself at the beginning of the war. At this time, he was only really worried about the treatment of the messianic Jewish Christians in his congregation and across Germany. These Jews, he argued were equal to Non-Jewish Christians. On the issue of the wider suffering of the Jewish people he stayed largely silent. As the war progressed and the net tightened around this very conservative, nationalistic, militaristic church leader, he began to become more aware of the struggles of others. Famously, he wrote the poem that goes as follows:
First they came for the Communists
And I did not speak out
Because I was not a Communist
Then they came for the Socialists
And I did not speak out
Because I was not a Socialist
Then they came for the trade unionists
And I did not speak out
Because I was not a trade unionist
Then they came for the Jews
And I did not speak out
Because I was not a Jew
Then they came for me
And there was no one left
To speak out for me
Martin Niemoller's change of heart is unfathomably hard for me to imagine. He was a man stubbornly fixed in his ways, and with all the additional threat brought in by Nazi Authoritarianism, it must have been terrifying to first admit to himself and then to others that he was wrong, before finally proclaiming it from a pulpit. I remember in the church garden there was this feeling of God drawing close to me, a thin spot my dad calls it, and I can't help but wonder if Niemoller's immense bravery and resilience in the face of fear is what makes it so.
Another big player in the founding of the confessional church was a man called Dietrich Bonhoeffer. World renown and celebrated, Bonhoeffer was the charismatic and no doubt slightly boisterous face of the movement. As you might be able to gather a very different character from Niemoller, but together they made a good team. We visited Bonhoeffer's house a couple of days after Niemoller's. What struck me was the openness of his home. Even after all these years, it felt almost as a welcome in itself, walking in through the front door. Bright and airy, it felt like it would have been an ideal space to meet people and share in fellowship. And maybe there was a lesson to be learnt in that space. Now, in a time when the social side of life is so often overlooked, brushed aside by corporate small talk and marketing meetings, I found myself wondering why I myself don't make more time to just be, with people. Present, in the moment, giving time to talk organically and not shying away from the deeper conversations that arise for fear of being shot down. I distinctly remember feeling, as I walked away that day, thankful for those around me who I got to share this experience with. What I felt God had laid on us in that time was so simple and yet so incredibly important.
We moved on to the Berlin wall. Its construction around West Berlin and the subsequent dictatorship that arose in the East caused a great deal of hurt and suffering; families ripped apart, children growing up in abject poverty, and the entire identity of Berliners shaken. We visited a site where a local church had once stood in the death strip - no man's land between the two sides. Its spire repurposed as a tower for the East German snipers to kill people trying to get across to the West side of the city. The complete lack of care for the division caused by the wall's creation was so tangibly apparent, and the case of the old church just further emphasised this, with its graveyard on the East side and the church building in no man’s land. People were cut so coldly from the graves of their loved ones and from their communities.
On the site of the old church, a new church was built when the wall did eventually come down, this too was a cross of nails church. It's designed uses wooden supports with dirt blocks formed from the carnage of the death strip, with pieces of the wall and chips of metal from what once could've been barbed wire or spikes embedded in the mud. It stood out to me as a place of memorial, that stood against needless division and death. The congregation there were so dedicated to remembering those who had passed, the names and stories of those who had died trying to cross regularly read out in services. It was a place of peace despite the horrors that had gone on there, but not an idle peace. There was nothing comfortable about it. It was a driven peace, seeking reparations through the acceptance of the pain people felt so deeply. It pulled together a community, at not just a local level but a global one.
In a little field next to the new church building, rye was growing tended by the university. At the harvest every year the flour is milled and sent all across the world to be incorporated into communion breads. Those who know me well, know that I'm big on the universal aspect of the body of Christ that we all participate in. So, this act of sending out the flour across the world felt very poignant to me. So often we've heard in times gone by of nationalism and spiritual exclusivity, and we still hear of it now. The belief that God's love exists only for western culture, for western practices, for western religions. It pains me when we confine God's love in this way. Try to trap it, eek it out under the pretence that we'll always be looked after as the only people God truly loves. That day John 13 was swirling around my head. It talks of how we are to be known by our love, and by extension how we should welcome and accept Christ's love in others no matter how different they appear to be from ourselves.
In sharing in the fruits of one small place and eating together, we represent our unity and dedication to one another, in our shared mission of love. That overall is what stood out for me most of all on this trip, summed up in one simple idea, love will always win against hate.
