• Rebecca Brierley

The Circle of a Girl's Arms

Updated: Mar 10, 2019

A guest blog contributed by Reverend Dave Tomlinson, a writer and preist in the Church of England. Dave gave this sermon at St Ethelburga's Centre for Reconciliation and Peace in December 2018.


Luke 1:46-58

‘The Circle of a Girls Arms’


I’ll begin with a wartime Christmas story.


Late in 1942, the German Sixth Army reached the pivotal city of Stalingrad on the

Eastern Front. Both sides knew that they must not lose the fight. Winter was setting

in, but Hitler decreed that the city had to be taken regardless of cost. The war in

Europe seemed to hinge on the fate of Stalingrad. By November the German army

was surrounded in what was one of the bloodiest and most ferocious battles in

history. Starving people fled in all directions from the devastated city. Around a half a

million Russians and 147,000 Germans were lost. Many froze to death or starved in

that icy hell.


Dr Kurt Reuber was a German military surgeon with the 6 th Army. He was also a

Lutheran Pastor and a gifted artist who deeply opposed Hitler’s regime but was

conscripted as a medic. He loved and respected the Russian people and felt great

shame at what his army was doing to them. He drew pictures of local people and

sent them back to Germany.


On Christmas Eve 1942, while working all the hours God sent in a makeshift

operating theatre somewhere in Stalingrad, Reuber gathered a group of fellow

soldiers for a Christmas service in an underground bunker: no Christmas tree or

candles, no presents or decorations. The service was nothing less than an act of

defiant hope flying in the face of horrifying reality.



On the back of a captured Soviet military map Reuber had drawn an icon, now

known as the Stalingrad Madonna which he somehow attached to the frozen earthy

wall of the bunker. He based the image on a Russian mother he saw, who like Mary,

sheltered her vulnerable child in the midst of unspeakable suffering.

After a short reading from Luke’s gospel, against the noise of the battle above, the

small, beleaguered congregation sang:


Silent night, holy night,

All is calm, all is bright

Round yon virgin mother and child

Holy infant, so tender and mild,

Sleep in heavenly peace….


With the earth trembling as bombs pounded the city, and gunfire all around, it was as

powerful a declaration of defiant hope as could be imagined. The icon on the back of

a map of that devastated land was its own Christmas sermon. Around the icon,

Reuber wrote the words ‘Light – Life – Love; in the cauldron of Stalingrad; Christmas

1942.’ There could be no more poignant protest at the hellish reality of war. It was a sign of heavenly light and hope in a dark place, and a symbol of every mother’s gift

of life amid destruction; a reminder that love is stronger than death.


The scene could be repeated today in dozens of places. The icon could be the

Madonna of Palestine, the Madonna of Myonmar; it could be the Madonna of Syria

or Iraq, of Somalia or Yeman or…you name it.


A few weeks after Reuber’s Christmas service, the surviving German troops

surrendered contrary to Hitler’s orders. Two-thirds of them died in Soviet captivity;

among them Dr Kurt Reuber who fell ill with typhus and perished. But the Stalingrad

Madonna survived. A Red Cross nurse on the last ambulance to fly out of the

besieged city took the Madonna back to Germany where it became a national icon

and eventually found its place in West Berlin’s famous Kaiser Wilhelm Memorial

Church. Pat and I saw it there a while back, entranced by its simplicity and beauty.

In 1990, the Bishop of Berlin brought a replica of the icon as a gift to Coventry

Cathedral on the 50 th anniversary of the Coventry blitz. In the presence of Reuber’s

daughter, together with the Bishop of Coventry joined the Bishop of Berlin and the

Archbishop of Stalingrad in consecrating a new chapel with its message of life and

love – now the Millennium Chapel of the Stalingrad Madonna. Visitors are invited to

sit and contemplate, to pray for peace, to kindle stubborn hope for our world, and in

this mother and child glimpse the mystery of a world transformed by love.


Things change when someone has the imagination to re-envisage their reality. In his

little book Images of Hope, William Lynch says that people in sorrow or depression

suffer an impoverishment of imagination. They simply can’t imagine a world different

from the one in which they are locked. Along similar lines, the literary critic, Hugh

Kenner, once wrote: ‘Whoever can give people better stories than the ones they live

by is like the priest in whose hands common bread and wine become capable of

feeding the very soul.’


This, in fact, is what faith amounts to: a reimagining…a ‘what if’: what if things were

different….what if I could feel differently about things…about people…what if I

decided to do something to make that difference. Faith isn’t an abstract belief in six

impossible things before breakfast; a creed is not faith; faith is the defiant act of

reimagining… asking what if…why not…how can I help to make this happen?

Our world suffers from a loss of faith, an impoverishment of imagination – people

struggle to conceive that things could be different: things in the world at large, things

in their own experience. It feels very difficult – just about impossible – to envisage

anything beyond living in a war zone, an occupied territory, or having no home to go

to, or living with overwhelming disappointment or with some illness or disability or the

unspeakable grief of losing a loved one.


This is what I love about St Ethelburga’s: it is itself a creation of reimagination. Out of

the ashes of an IRA bomb, Bishop Richard envisaged a different reality: that of a

victim of violence and brutality becoming a sign and an instrument of peace and

reconciliation.


Finally, I ask you to spend a few moments contemplating the Stalingrad Madonna.

It’s a wonderful image drawn, believe it or not, with a piece of coal which was all Karl

Reuber had to hand. Yet when his comrades entered the bunker on Christmas Eve

and saw it for the first time, they stood in silent awe, as if in the presence of Mary

herself and her child, an image which somehow filled that dark space.


The Stalingrad Madonna in the Kaiser Wilhelm Memorial Church

It pictures a mother and child, heads leaned into each other, wrapped in the hood of

the garment, which together with the mother’s arm cradling the child seems to form a

heart-shape around them. It is a sublime image of warmth and serenity, of security

and mother-love. The words from John’s gospel: Light – Life – Love (in the cauldron

of Stalingrad) articulate the defiant hope pictured.


It’s as if mother and child are enveloped by divine love. An icon is never simply a

work of art, never merely a piece to hang in a gallery, but a visual prayer which

invites the onlooker to share in the grace being communicated. Like bread and wine

in communion, an icon is a sacrament, a means of grace.


The Stalingrad Madonna beckons us to reimagine our world as 2018 draws to a

close, to write a different story, discover a different script. Philip Pullman says that

‘After nourishment, shelter and companionship, stories are the thing we need most in

the world.’ But we need to tell ourselves new stories – stories of defiant hope, of

triumph over despair. The Brazilian theologian and psychoanalyst Rubem Alves says

that hope is the insight that imagination is more real and reality less real than it

looks.


So, look again at the icon. Caryll Houselander who penned the poem we heard

earlier could almost have been looking at the Stalingrad Madonna when she wrote:


The circle of a girl’s arms

have changed the world,

the round and sorrowful world,

to a cradle of God.


She has laid love in his cradle.

In every cradle,

Mary has laid her child.


In each

comes Christ.

in each Christ comes

to birth;

comes Christ from the Mother’s breast…


Into our hands

Mary has given her Child:

heir to the world’s tears,

heir to the world’s toil,

heir to the world’s scars,

heir to the chill dawn

over the ruin of wars.


She has laid love in His cradle,

answering, for us all,

“Be it done unto me”:


The child in the wooden bed,

the light in the dark house,

the life in the failing soul,

the Host in the priest’s hands,

the seed in the hard earth,

the man who is child again-

quiet in the burial bands,

waiting his birth.


Mary, Mother of God,

we are the poor soil

and the dry dust;

we are hard with a cold frost.


Be warmth to the world;

be the thaw,

warm on the cold frost;

be the thaw that melts,

that the tender shoot of Christ,

piercing the hard heart,

flower to a spring in us.


Be hands that are rocking the world

to a kind rhythm of love:

that the incoherence of war

and the chaos of our unrest

be soothed to a lullaby;

and the round and sorrowful world,

in your hands,

the cradle of God.


You can keep up to date with Dave via his website and on Twitter - @goodluker


Views expressed in guest blogs are not necessarilly those of Reconcilers Together.

reconcilers Together

rebecca.brierley@stethelburgas.org

07453 287925​

78 Bishopsgate

London

EC2N 4AG

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©2018 by St Ethelburga's Centre for Reconciliation and Peace

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