Leipzig, 9 October 1989: when the church led a peaceful revolution

Sermon preached at All Hallows by Trish Davie on 13 October 2002

Do you remember the cold war? Strange how it seems such a long time ago now, and yet it only ended 12 years ago. The images of missiles on each side of the iron curtain pointing at the other, and of their leaders each with a finger on the nuclear button, seem forgotten now, as Russia joins the G8 and more and more former eastern-bloc countries seek to enter the European Union. Yet the threat of war in Europe was very real and frightening.

Germany of course was at the centre of this theatre of war, divided since the Second World War into two states, one in NATO, the other in the Warsaw Pact. Perhaps this added pain of their divided nation, where villages and communities were literally cut in half by the border, strengthened the protest on both sides against the stationing of medium-range missiles on German soil. Integral to this protest movement were the prayers for peace, which started as a decade of prayers every year — but in Leipzig it was decided that once a year was not enough, and so from September 1982 prayers for peace were held in St Nicholas’ church — the Nikolaikirche — every Monday, with the words of the Beatitudes, which we heard in our gospel reading, central to the worship.

Under the East German regime, political meetings were of course forbidden, but the churches had an agreement with the state whereby, at least in theory, they were allowed to continue practising their faith unhindered — the reality was very different, as the regime desperately tried to quash the churches’ influence, and succeeded in many ways.

In 1986, though, the Nikolaikirche became a focus of hope through its support of people desperate to leave the GDR, which was forbidden. The church held a discussion as part of the prayer meeting on ‘Living and staying in the GDR’, and hundreds of people came, not just from Leipzig but also from other cities. So the Monday prayers became a place where all kinds of groups came together to express their longing for change.

In January there was the first big demonstration of ordinary citizens joining the opposition groups on the streets. The police responded by arresting opposition leaders and people who handed out leaflets. Tensions rose as week upon week more people came to the Nikolaikirche to find out what was going on. They attended the prayer service, then simply stood in the big square outside the church. Flowers were stuck in the grille covering the windows, with notes demanding the release of prisoners. As word spread beyond Leipzig about the Monday meetings at the Nikolaikirche, the authorities became more unnerved, and reacted in May by sealing off all access roads to the church, including nearby motorway exits. But the numbers of people attending the prayers grew and grew, and the sign outside the church saying ‘Open to all’ became a reality, as members of the Stasi — the much feared State Security Police — gathered to spy on the Christians and non-Christians, regime critics, environmentalists and simply curious who were drawn to the church.

On 4 June the news came of the brutal events in Tiananmen Square in Peking — mockingly the name means ‘the square of heavenly peace’ — where tanks met pro-democracy demonstrators, killing and injuring many students. This was a stark and chilling reminder to the people of East Germany of what could happen there. Six days later, on 10 June, police broke up the street-music festival in Leipzig. People stood weeping as musicians were forced with their flutes and double basses into trucks and taken away.

As the GDR approached its fortieth anniversary celebrations on 6 October, the regime was becoming more and more anxious to calm a situation which was out of control. Thousands of its citizens were escaping across the Czech border to Hungary, which had opened its borders to the West, and attempts to stop this resulted in more angry protests and police using water cannons and batons to drive back the crowds.

The next Monday prayers were due on 9 October, and the numbers of both police and demonstrators had been steadily growing. Both the demonstrators and the authorities knew that 9 October would be decisive. Leaders on both sides began to make preparations. An article appeared in the press saying that force must be used if necessary to put an end to the so-called counterrevolution. Documents from the time reveal that this was not just a threat. A force of eight thousand police officers, soldiers and members of the dreaded security police was assembled with batons and firearms. Specialists in the treatment of gunshot wounds were told to prepare for casualties.

Meanwhile, the pastor at the Nikolaikirche urged three other inner-city churches to open their doors and hold the peace prayers, so that as many people as possible would be inside, protected from the police. A university professor travelled to Berlin to urge the authorities to avoid bloodshed. Local dignitaries, including the director of the Leipzig Philharmonic Orchestra and local government officials, met to prepare a plea for non-violence to be read out over the public address system. The area bishop prepared his own appeal for non-violence, which he would read out in each of the four churches.

And thousands of ordinary people left their homes, said goodbye to children and partners, and converged upon the city centre. Eye-witnesses tell of the turmoil of emotions they felt: terror, as they wondered if they would be returning home, and yet at the same time a determination arising out of the despair of knowing that if they stayed at home nothing would ever change. ‘Demokratie, jetzt oder nie’ — ‘Democracy, now or never’ — was both the slogan and the feeling on 9 October.

There’s an amusing story amid all the tension. The Pastor at the Nikolaikirche, Christian Führer, walked into the church at 2.30 pm to find the nave full with over a thousand people. He recognised at once who they were, and was amused. These were party officials and Stasi members who had been told to fill the pews of the Nikolaikirche where, according to their sources, criminals and troublemakers (the Germans call these Rowdies) were banding together to stage a counterrevolution. Pastor Führer wanted them to know that he knew exactly who they were, so he addressed his impromptu congregation: ‘The Nikolaikirche is open to everybody, and it really means just that, with no exception. You are most welcome. I’m just a little surprised that you are already here at 2.30, when the working proletariat can only come after 4 o’clock, which is why we have the prayers at 5 pm. But still, you are very welcome. But you will of course understand that we are keeping the gallery closed, so that a few of the working population, and a few Christians, can get into the church.’ … And so the party officials and secret police sat quietly in their pews and waited for the Rowdies to storm the church.

5 pm came, and this is what they heard:

The irony — and the wonder of this — is not lost on Christian Führer. ‘I always appreciated that the Stasi members heard the Beatitudes from the Sermon on the Mount every Monday. Where else would they hear them?’ The following day, these people actually came to thank him for the peace prayers.

It’s worth quoting the powerful words of the preacher that evening, Gotthard Wendel:

The Reverend Christian Führer describes what happened as the service ended with the bishop’s blessing and urgent call for non-violence:

I could stop there, and we could all bask in the afterglow of an amazing story with a happy ending. But this story speaks urgently to us here and now. I don’t know about you but I’m scared. I’m scared because we live in a world, particularly since September 11th, where not only do we have nowhere to go to protect ourselves from terrorists, but we no longer seem to have the power to defend ourselves from the crazed logic of our rulers. As an American politician said recently, the world is not so much frightened by what the terrorists might do as by what we are going to do. The democracy that we are supposed to be fighting for seems powerless to stop the madness, which threatens to destroy us all. The world is crying out for a new understanding, for a lasting, true peace.

It’s so easy to fall into despair and its close relative, apathy. But we have just heard a remarkable story that can truly inspire us. It teaches us that prayer is action. Not sabre-rattling, not getting in our retaliation first, not building more defences — but prayer. Out of a tiny mustard seed of prayer and eventually the unlikeliest team of worshippers, a peaceful revolution was born: some were there to spy, some half-listening, cynical, some committed, some believers, many unsure. We too can plant a mustard seed: ourselves, our prayer, be it mixed up with doubt and fear and helplessness. Jesus said: ‘Blessed are the poor in spirit’, not ‘Happy are those who rely on their own certainty’. The God we worship is a vulnerable God, vulnerable like us, vulnerable with us. Our shaky, faltering steps towards hope, when we are full of fear but choose not to rely not on our own strength but to listen to truths that we know deep inside ourselves, are an act of peace. Prayer is like the drop on the pond, sending ripples far and wide — or like the steady drip which gradually wears away the stone. Prayer and action become one. The people in the Nikolaikirche left the peace prayers and went onto the streets chanting ‘Wir sind das Volk!’ — ‘We are the people!’ ‘Keine Gewalt!’ — ‘No violence!’

When I was in Leipzig in August I visited the Stasi museum, which is housed in the original State Security Police building. What struck me was how pathetic these power freaks really were. In order to keep control, or convince themselves they were so doing, they invented all sorts of silly contraptions that look like something Mr Bean invented, to listen in and spy on their people and intimidate them. I could hardly believe the ridiculous make-up and wigs, false eyebrows, noses, moustaches etc that the secret police used as disguise. It gives you a really good picture of how weak and little these people really are, and how flimsy are the structures on which they build their illusion of strength. When Bush came to power, I often thought he resembled a helpless little boy. It is interesting how he too has developed his mask so as to appear strong and mighty.

In his recent sermon to mark the 20th anniversary of the peace prayers, the Reverend Christian Führer challenged the American people and their president to reflect on the bronze sculpture entitled ‘Swords into Ploughshares’ outside the UN building. He then exhorted us to respond to the fear within and the violence around us in the words of St Paul: ‘rejoice in hope, be patient in tribulation and remain constant in prayer’.

Amen.

Copyright © 2002 Trish Davie

This page was last updated on Sunday, 13 October 2002

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