Part 2
This was the second turning point in Blumhardt's life. The first – the response to his cry, "Lord Jesus, help!" – had led him into grim conflicts and only through them to a memorable victory. This time the reward fell into his lap unexpectedly. Blumhardt later wrote about this important moment:
I can never forget the impression that the absolution made on that man and on me. An unspeakable joy shone from his face. I felt drawn into a completely new sphere, in which holy spiritual powers were at work. I could not yet understand it, nor did I try to, but I continued to act in the same simple and cautious way when others came along.
As the visitor left the rectory, he cheerfully told Hans, "Now I must go back and to talk to my friends. They've listened to my dirty jokes; now they can listen when I tell them how they
can find salvation." And he kept his word. The next day he was back at the rectory, bringing along another man, just as remorseful as he had been. Same procedure, same result. Soon another came, and another.
A few weeks later Blumhardt was reporting that an influx of people wanting to confess kept him constantly busy "from seven o'clock in the morning until eleven o'clock at night. Some whom I never would have expected sat in the living room for hours, silent and withdrawn as they waited their turn."
On January 27 Blumhardt wrote to Barth:
People kept coming until eight o'clock in the evening. Already sixteen people have made their confessions to me. With ten of them I am finished for the present, though I generally hold off with offering absolution. Everybody has to come at least three times, and several who did not find peace because they were still hiding something came six or eight times. Another thing: One of the town drunks has not touched a drink since last Monday. I heard it from him and from his wife yesterday morning.
Three days later he wrote again:
Yesterday, from eight in the morning until eleven at night, there was one caller after another, a total of thirty-five, all suffering severe pangs of conscience and looking for peace. Some wept so bitterly in their distress that I granted absolution the first time they came, for their hearts seemed about to burst.
In all, twenty-four have found peace. These newly awakened men and women gather every evening in various houses.
By early February Blumhardt reported that the total number of visitors coming to confess to him had reached sixty-seven. Blumhardt's manner toward his callers was gentle, more passive than pressing, but he insisted on the truth and rejected any excuses.
When I ask some people what makes them come, they say they have watched others become happy and wanted the same. Certainly, much is still lacking in these people, yet having come once, they are inevitably drawn in. How everything is changing! In every house, people are gathering and turning to God. May he help me to combine prudence and wisdom with patience and love.
The movement reached Haugstett as well. Some who mocked it at first or chided their wives for going turned up them selves a week later, shedding tears of remorse for their hostile attitude and confessing that they had found no rest or peace since.
It took some time for the prayer meeting attendees – the real pietists – to show up. In the rectory yard one evening, one of their leaders came up to Hans and said, "You know, what Pastor Blumhardt is doing now is really Catholic stuff!"
"You think so?" replied Hans, "He doesn't ask people to confess. But when they come seeking peace, he serves them as every pastor should. Have you found forgiveness for your sins?"
"Yes." "Well, then let others find it too." A few days later the man was back. He first apologized to Hans for his criticism, which he said had weighed heavily on his conscience ever since. Then, like the others, he went to see Blumhardt and returned, no longer a self-righteous saint but a contrite sinner.
Another member of the prayer meeting, a man highly respected for his devout, honorable character, called at the rectory. Meeting Blumhardt on the stairs, he said, "Pastor Blumhardt, I thought that since everybody else is coming to see you, I…"
"Is something bothering you, too?" Blumhardt interrupted.
"Well, not exactly," the man replied. "Of course not. You are the dear, good Mr. A.," Blumhardt said warmly, shook his hand, and excusing himself, bade him farewell. Early the next morning there was Mr. A., waiting to speak to Blumhardt. He had had a terrible night, in which he had been made aware of all his sins; and now he was back, not as the good and respectable Mr. A. but as one of many sinners. Later Blumhardt commented, "I thought he would come; I had him in my prayers the whole time."
Blumhardt's work kept growing. In a letter written on February 10, he said:
Every day I have people with me until half past eleven at night. The next morning at six somebody is already waiting, and this
goes on without a letup all day long. I can hardly think of anything else. At the children's service yesterday, I asked to be excused from talks because of my work for the monthly newspaper. As a result I can expect even more callers today… What am I to do about it all? It has gone beyond anything I can imagine. By now 156 people have come, shedding tears of repentance, if not the first time, then the second or third time. How I can handle it is a mystery to me. If only you knew the many sins I hear about, which often make me freeze with horror, you would be able to understand the difficulties of my position…The various gatherings are getting so crowded I shall soon have to do some organizing.
A week later, the number of repentant visitors had risen to 222. In a letter Barth wrote to a friend around this time, he recalls:
I was recently in Möttlingen and met several of those newly awakened; it was a pleasure to see them. True, among them are some who had already been members of the prayer meeting for a long time, but even they had not been single-minded. Now they have been gripped afresh by the new life. In my eyes the whole thing is a miracle.
Later Barth wrote again:
For years we go on scattering the seed – we know it is good seed, and that the seed merchant has not cheated us – yet nothing will come up, and people stay exactly the same. Still, nothing is really lost; it just takes a long time for some things to germinate. Möttlingen is the perfect example of this.
Machtolf preached ardently for thirty-seven years, after him,
Gross preached for fourteen more. I continued tilling the same old ground there for another fourteen years, hoping at least for some small harvest from the sowing of my predecessors. But that was not granted, nor did I deserve it.
Then my successor Blumhardt took the pulpit. For the first five years, things only seemed to grow worse. Moral standards declined and the spiritual life of the parish ebbed away. But now a fire has started, and it continues to spread. One person after another has been seeking out the minister. The toughest and wildest have come, dejectedly weeping, but then, after confessing their sins, they are full of the peace of forgiveness. Frightful secret sins have come to light – sins which are likely widespread. By now over 350 people have come, from eightyyear-olds down to schoolchildren, and the conflagration even has spread to the parish branch in Haugstett, which until recently appeared absolutely unreceptive. More than twenty people have come from there.
People constantly speak of the insights they had received from Machtolf, Gross, and myself, which they long tried to suppress but which they are now trying to act on. In particular, the importance of our confirmation classes has become clear, for nearly all admit to having had their consciences pricked then.
As weeks turned to months, the awakening went on and Blumhardt continued to keep his friend informed. In early
March he wrote:
Imagine! Yesterday I heard that all twenty-four members of my confirmation class have been meeting daily on their own. They sing, read from the Bible, and pray on their knees, with everyone taking a turn. The one most inspired leads the meeting and questions the others about what they have read. Everything is done in such a childlike and innocent way that one cannot listen without being deeply moved.
But even if Blumhardt was grateful for this movement of heart, he was not one to sit back and gloat. On the contrary, he felt that what he was experiencing was just a foretaste of a larger divine plan, and he yearned that others might take part in it. "I long for another outpouring of the Holy Spirit, another Pentecost. That must come if things are to change in Christianity, for it simply cannot continue in such a wretched state. The gifts and powers of the early Christian time – oh, how I long for their return! And I believe the Savior is just waiting for us to ask for them."
This became the watchword of his life: Hope and pray for a new outpouring of the Holy Spirit! Blumhardt never doubted that this spirit was constantly at work in the church, but he took issue when individual Christians claimed to possess it:
Is it really true that we have God's spirit? The Holy Spirit is supposed to be one, yet how many thousands of spirits, all priding themselves on being the spirit of truth, rule in Chris tendom! Who then has the Holy Spirit? The churches? But
which of the innumerable shades among them, all at logger heads with each other? I cannot understand how one can say that the Holy Spirit is present without being able to say where it is.
Much is known about the spirit of contention and wanting to be in the right – where one thinks one has the spirit of truth and others do not have it. But where is the other, the Comforter, the personal representative of God and Christ, who is to remain with those who have Christ…When I look at what we have, I cannot help sighing, "O Lord Jesus, is that the promised spirit for which you hung on a tree?" Where is the spirit that penetrates nation after nation as swiftly as at the time of the apostles and places them at Jesus' feet? And when we open our mouth to proclaim the gospel, where is the spirit that shakes people so deeply that they cry out, "What shall we do to be saved?"
The Holy Spirit must be tangible, even visible, as coming personally from God. It must drive out the forces of darkness from humankind, raise the disfigured human race to something better, and restrain all evil, even in the most corrupt people. That is how the Holy Spirit once showed itself, even if it does not seem to show itself now. If people want to close their eyes and think that the Holy Spirit is here, we have to let them talk. But they should kindly allow me to think differently.
If one imagines the long days Blumhardt spent in his study, and how much of what he heard there cut to his heart and de manded spiritual discernment, one realizes that his joy was
often tempered by anguished soul-searching and stress. He wrote to Barth:
Unless I close the door, I do not have a moment to myself. And so far, I have not been able to do so, for people are often so tormented that they cannot wait. Yesterday one man was sent up long before his turn; the other visitors had told him, "You are hurting the most; you had better go up first." Yesterday I also had a conference with twenty men. (There will be even more today.) It lasted three hours, and by the end we all felt we had drawn much closer together…
In general, these conferences have made splendid progress – on Monday thirty-one adolescent boys, Tuesday twenty-one men, Wednesday forty-six men. All of them spoke sincerely and warmly. On Thursday thirty-three women came, and yesterday fifty others. Everything went very well.
In early March Blumhardt wrote:
Yesterday morning I had personal talks and worked on the monthly newspaper, and so got to Haugstett a little late. There I held a prayer meeting and a confirmation class, had talks with twenty-one adults, met with twenty-six children, and arrived home around six. Here people were already waiting. It was half past eleven before I got to the paper… Then, at two in the morning the doorbell rang: an old woman lay dying. I hurried to her and was able to comfort her somewhat, so I returned home, but I had scarcely arrived when the bell rang again: the mayor's child was dying! Off I set again, only to find the child dead when I arrived.
Blumhardt rejoiced in the way the children of the parish took part in the awakening, especially their habit of meeting on their own to pray. But he opposed all affectations of piety. When told, for instance, that schoolchildren were meeting for prayer during their free time but then drifting into class late and absent-minded because of it, he said, "I would have boxed their ears if I were the teacher! What is the use of such prayer?" Still, Blumhardt was relieved by the disappearance of the "brooding" he had sensed among the village children, and refreshed by those who came to his study to receive his blessing – and, in some cases, to confess wrongdoings.
In mid-March Blumhardt wrote to Barth:
There have been many joys and struggles side by side, as it should be. No matter – every day is a day of victory, for I say, "The more fights, the more victories!" I am not one for giving in, and I am confident that everything will turn out well.
By Easter, with very few exceptions, the movement had taken hold of the entire congregation, including Haugstett. During the winter it had also spread to neighboring villages, and to some extent, even farther into the Black Forest. As fast as it was discussed – and ridiculed – it spread further. Naturally, the awakening made some of the scoffers curious, and before long they were coming, too. Crowds from other parishes began to attend his Sunday services too and even special services such as weddings and funerals. Once, arriving for the funeral of some little-known person, Blumhardt was astonished to find his church full of strangers. On April 6 he
wrote to Barth,"The churchyard can no longer contain all the listeners."
Far from being pleased with himself when members of other congregations showed up, Blumhardt was troubled, for he knew that the influx meant diminished attendance in other parishes. Writing in a church periodical, he worried:
What am I to do? How am I to channel the flood? This whole unusual movement has got me thinking. As it is taking place within the church, it should not be presumptuous to think that the Lord has a hand in it. If it is the Lord I am dealing with, rather than resist him with human considerations, I had better take upon myself whatever labor, sweat, worry, fear, misunderstandings, and conflict it might entail.
I have taken pains not to do anything designed to draw people, and nobody can say I flatter my visitors. In fact, I know of ministers who have encouraged their parishioners to go to Möttlingen. (Whether their visits have done them any good I leave for others to say.) But I am confident that before long my fellow ministers will have fuller churches than ever, and then the number of people flocking here will taper off of its own accord.
The private visits of outsiders to my home are even more burdensome. To be sure, I send those whom I can back to their own pastors, and several of these have thanked me for that. But some of my colleagues do not share my belief in the value of private confession, and that makes things very awkward. After all, some of their parishioners are so weighed down by their sin they can hardly carry it anymore.
I advise people – that is, those who do not find a receptive ear in their pastor – to open their hearts to a sincere and devoted friend, with prayer and in the presence of God, according to the words of the apostle James, "Confess your sins to one another." If they repent deeply and long for complete inner renewal, they can be assured of forgiveness.
Occasionally a visitor shares with me some incident from his life that might appear to be a confession, but I must definitely refute rumors that I treat outsiders like members of my own congregation, thus encroaching on someone else's sphere of authority. I have never offered them absolution. But I cannot say it emphatically enough: it would do to my esteemed colleagues a world of good if they would make their parishioner aware of their hidden sins, and then offer them a chance to unburden themselves.
It is hard to picture the earnestness with which this movement took hold of some people, despite the inevitable mockery that accompanied it. If a villager was known to be walking toward Möttlingen to see Blumhardt, he was likely to be teased as a "pilgrim to Möttlingen," or be laughed at: "Headed for Jerusalem? Have fun!"
Amazingly, the extravagant emotionalism often associated with so-called revivals was completely absent in Möttlingen. Nor were there the public avowals of repentance and declarations of wickedness. This awakening was much too serious for that, too deeply rooted in reality. People were driven by an inner compulsion.
Everywhere, guilty consciences were struck. Old enemies became reconciled. In several cases stolen goods were returned. In one shop, a well-dressed man rushed inside, put a coin on the counter, and rushed out again.
Not all efforts to set old wrongs right went smoothly. For example, a poor newlywed couple had barely managed to pay interest on a debt, when their creditor accidentally signed for two annual interest payments instead of one. The couple noticed the mistake when they got home and accepted it gratefully – as divine help, so to speak. Years passed. Now, caught up in the current of repentance, the couple confided the matter to Blumhardt and, following his advice, confessed the error to their creditor, asking for leniency and patience, since they were in no position to pay off the old debt. Unfortunately, the creditor responded with indignation and insisted on immediate payment.
Years later, in speaking of the motives that drive people to repent, Blumhardt shared his hopes for a movement encompassing all humankind:
A time will come when everybody will realize that they do not have what they ought to have. They will feel a painful emptiness and crave for something they don't even know. All of a sudden it will hit them: "How poor and weak we are, how miserable and depraved! How little certainty we have in what we think, believe, and hope!" Then they will look to those who appear to have what they lack.
That is how conversion begins. When the time is ripe, it will one day spread through the whole world. Then those who have what is right and true will be inundated by a flood of people yearning to have it, too. Oh, that this time might come soon!
One thing I have found to be vital in repenting is readiness to seek – and accept – help from others. The present genteel, self-loving brand of piety assumes, "I don't need anybody; I can set things right with God myself." But as long as people quietly try to work out their own salvation, they won't get anywhere. Only when they recognize the need for one another, and reach out and open up to one another will they move forward.
In a letter written in 1846 to a friend who had offered his impressions of the movement in Möttlingen, Blumhardt probed more deeply into the cause of the awakening and its relationship to the fight. This friend had suggested that the people, still in a state of shock, were primarily motivated by fear aroused by the terror of the fight. Blumhardt replied:
I appreciate your remarks about life in Möttlingen. But it is a mistake to interpret the shock you write of as a mechanical response to frightening occurrences. The relationship between the fight and the awakening is not such an outward one. If anything, the awakening was a fruit of the fight, won by it. Through battle and victory, satanic powers were broken. They can no longer work at all, or can work only feebly. Spells that darkened hearts and minds were removed; minds formerly dull and closed became responsive. But since in their
blindness people carelessly committed many outrageous deeds, it was only natural that their first reaction to the light should be one of shock at their true condition. In many cases they had never recognized their behavior as wrong, and suddenly it hit them so powerfully that they could no longer hide it from themselves.
An overview of the whole movement brings out its objectivity or, one might say, the imprint of its divine origin. There was nothing fabricated about it, either in Blumhardt or the people who came to him. They simply acted out of compunction. Blumhardt never so much as dreamed of such a movement, much less attempted to produce it.
To be sure, while embroiled in the fight he had been made aware that the power of sin lies in secrecy, and that most burdens are not lifted from a conscience until they are brought to light. And he had, in his hearty and brotherly way, begun to tell his Sunday listeners that if they had something on their consciences that robbed them of inner peace, they should come to him. As it was, he hardly needed to invite them to come to him, for he assumed they were in a repentant frame of mind. During the awakening it seemed his preaching itself uncovered the wrongs burdening his listeners, by casting a searching light into the innermost recesses of their hearts.
Blumhardt never attacked people with high-powered rhetoric to get them to repent. He disapproved of "converted"
people assailing the "unconverted" or – following the motto, "strike while the iron is hot!" – using arguments or other persuasive tactics. It scared him to see sinners thrusting themselves upon other sinners, displaying their own supposedly new and admirable personalities, and warned that it would bear nothing but bad fruit, even when it might appear to result in conversions. "When will all these 'conversions' that leave heart and behavior unchanged come to an end?" he lamented.
Though some criticized Blumhardt for his forthright manners, others felt he was too gentle. Once when Blumhardt was invited to preach in another town, and the host minister complained afterward that he had spoken too kindly. Blumhardt replied, "Everything in the gospel works toward repentance. Whatever flows from your own repentance works more repentance, but whatever does not spring from your own repentance is as effective as soap bubbles against fortress walls."
Blumhardt worried that many Christians show more concern about others' conversion than about their own: He said, "No matter how much gossip I may hear about the sins of another, they are none of my business until they are brought to me along with a plea for forgiveness. I know them only in the light of redemption. My task is never to judge, only to forgive. Christ came to save the world, not to judge it." Thus he carefully guarded the freedom of every individual. Privately, within his study, he would request
the whole truth, but he was never pushy. When asked how much one ought to confess, he would advise, "Tell that which you would rather not tell." He was sometimes reluctant to offer absolution, not because a sin was too great or guilt too heavy, but because he wanted to be sure the person was not holding anything back.
Though Blumhardt disregarded his own person, he was not self-effacing but considered himself a servant called to act in the name of his Lord. Such strength and peace radiated from him that he was said to make one feel that Jesus Christ himself had stretched out his hand to the sinners who came to him. Several were reminded of the words, "Whatever you loose on earth shall be loosed in heaven," and, "If you forgive the sins of any, they are forgiven." This was one of the distinctive features of the awakening. But there were visible effects, too, as Blumhardt himself never tired of pointing out: "Many of the repentant feel a new strength flow through them, which has a physically healing effect. It rejuvenates their whole appearance."
In a letter to Barth, Blumhardt wrote of one Möttlingen man who, after climbing the stairs from the living room to the study and receiving Blumhardt's blessing, was so overcome by the certainty of forgiveness that he fell on the pastor's neck and smothered him with kisses. This forgiveness was such a source of redemption and liberation that people did not find it difficult to avoid their former sins, even if they had to remain watchful. Former alcoholics, for
example, declared that their thirst had vanished. They now felt disgust at the sight of taverns that had formerly exerted an irresistible tug.
Perhaps the most exceptional characteristic of the awakening was its all-embracing scope. It did not give rise to two factions – the converted and the unconverted. On the contrary, partisanship dissipated. Almost without exception the movement took hold of everyone in the town. This was due in part to Blumhardt's manner. Factionalism and party strife did not flourish around him, and he made few enemies. His secret was that he trusted people – he had great confidence in the good inherent in every person. The changes he instigated, though dramatic, rarely led to hatred, quarreling, or persecution. When other preachers com plained about being persecuted, he could be scathing: "Don't imagine this is happening because of your godliness. That is highly unlikely, since you don't have much of it anyway. If one of your listeners notices that you don't like him, he has reason to be angry with you."
The fact that no one was left out shows that the whole movement – the repentance as well as the peace people found – really was a work of God. Another sure sign was its longevity. From the beginning, Blumhardt feared the awakening would go the way of every other revival: "If this movement does not continue to grow and spread, and if the Holy Spirit is not continually poured out on us afresh, it is going to fizzle." To some extent, that did happen. But when
you ask the descendants of those awakened in 1844 if that time has left no trace, their radiant eyes will provide the answer.
A report by Adolf Christ-Sarasin, town councilor of Basel and president of the Basel Mission Society, takes us into the year following the start of the awakening. On May 1, 1845 he attended the annual mission festival in Calw, and from there visited Möttlingen:
Calw was filled with people from the countryside, the towns people completely crowded out by the peasants – an estimated six thousand people. From the terrace in front we looked down on the great marketplace and the crowd surging over it.
The appearance of Pastor Blumhardt from Möttlingen was the highlight of the festival. Everyone wanted to see him. Since the awakening in his congregation his name is on every mind and lip. He delivered his address with astonishing force; his passion infused and pervaded the whole gathering. A few of his questions capture the essence of his remarks: Are we really doomed to continue in so wretched a state? Must Christian life remain so beggarly poor? Why do even believers, on
seeing the first stirrings of an awakening, say that not much of it will last? Why this lack of faith? Should not everything become new? According to Blumhardt something new must and will be given us when there is a fresh outpouring of the Spirit. We should pray for that. Then it will come, and we
shall see great things, here among ourselves and in places far away.
After the festival I traveled with Blumhardt up to Mött lingen, about two hours from Calw in a high but fertile area. It was late when we drove into the village. At every house Blumhardt had reason to send up thanks to heaven. In this one a serious marital quarrel had ended; in that one a redeemed alcoholic was standing at the door; over here a rebellious teen had become obedient; over there, old enemies had mutually humbled themselves and become reconciled. From the lighted schoolhouse came the sound of lusty singing. About two hundred men had been singing together for half an hour while waiting for their pastor. We hurried there, and Blumhardt apologized for being late.
Blumhardt's interpretation of the daily text and the prayer were unique. There was something grand about his whole manner that reverberated in his voice. I felt this minister had a true inner connection with his listeners. Afterward, the schoolteacher related how his pupils had changed – how much better and more willingly they were now learning.
There are many personal stories worth mentioning. Some people's consciences were so heavily burdened by sin that it affected them physically. One man felt so constricted that when he spoke, he had trouble breathing and gasped with anxiety. Only when the pastor assured him, with the laying on of hands, that his sins were forgiven, did he sense relief.
Another parishioner, a rough character who had boasted that all this would never touch him, came one day and told Blumhardt, "The other day I came home, and before opening
the door I heard my children praying for me so earnestly that I felt a heavy load descend on my heart. Now I have come for help." He, too, found peace.
At one meeting during the awakening, many of the villagers spoke openly of prayers being answered – particularly on the part of children. In every house married couples pray together on their knees.
Since the awakening, six elderly people in the parish found peace before they died; it was as if they had been spared to find a peace that stayed with them to the end. In each case, Blumhardt closed their eyes and sang a song of praise with those present.
Early the next morning I was in the village chatting with people, and spent an hour with Stanger. He is an elderly man, experienced and devout, and his impressions of the move ment are important. Stanger's tears flowed with joy as he spoke of those newly awakened, and he assured me that their lives had been turned around. He himself had seen the change in several formerly difficult relatives.
Later that morning I accompanied Blumhardt to his weekly Bible study at the parish branch at Haugstett. Previously, hostile villagers had spitefully blocked a footpath that shortened his way from Möttlingen. Now they love him like a father. The mayor, who had been particularly hostile, was the first to appear at the school when the bell rang. It was ten o'clock on a fine morning but even so, some 150 people came and filled the room. They did not want to miss the Bible study.
Then Blumhardt talked about the people around Jesus: "Blind, lame, lepers – what a company Jesus chose! How it
antagonized the wealthy! But it pleases us, doesn't it, to know that he associated with the poorest."
Later, while Blumhardt conversed with a few of the people, the schoolmaster told me that since the awakening the work in the fields has been going better. Previously, he said, there had been terrible cursing and swearing, but now everything is done peacefully and turns out well.
It was midday when we arrived back in Möttlingen, and people were sitting around their tables, but when they saw Blumhardt coming they got up and waved. I also saw the woman who had been possessed; she appeared to be entirely well.
Two other friends joined us in the rectory for dinner. Everything is very simple there, with pewter plates and spoons. There are four delightful children in the house, and Blumhardt's wife, Doris, who shares fully in her husband's work. In fact, the whole household cannot help being involved in Blumhardt's work, as there are often lines of people waiting to see him.
Blumhardt was not one to push people to repentance. When necessary, he could speak sharply. But "spiritual" attempts to force change through oratory or prayer made him shudder. The awakening had come of its own accord, and he would let its current carry him along at its own speed:
What I did was not anything I had sought, made, or forced, but something that came my way without my asking and completely undeserved. Actually, I was troubled, for I
considered myself a sinner and could not imagine that God wanted to make an exception of me. I found it hard to grant absolution to others for sins I felt guilty of myself, and for which I had not yet been forgiven. Because I was pressed for time, I asked the Savior to consider these sins confessed, since he knew I was ready to do so at the next opportunity. Thus I was allowed to carry on with a temporarily reconciled conscience and a joyful spirit. Before long, a fellow minister provided the opportunity I desired.
The distress that met Blumhardt from those seeking peace was real and imperative, and as he grew to realize how general and widespread it was, he began to realize that the awakening had wider significance, not only for Christianity but also for all humankind.
Some in his position might have thought, "These things are possible only through someone like me" or, "I am not surprised at the effects of my efforts. I have what it takes." Such a person might have set about founding a new denomination and once again – as in countless times since the days of the apostles – tried to establish the "true Church of Christ."
Blumhardt opposed such narrow-minded arrogance with his whole being, and perhaps that is why he was granted so much. The awakening in Möttlingen led him to bolder hopes for the whole world, but also to deeper personal humility. When the great miracles came later, each one evoked in him a sense of startled awe. When others wanted to
extort similar answers to prayers – or kept recounting in stances where their prayers had been heard – Blumhardt was apt to warn, "If you take it as a credit to yourself even once, you can expect nothing more," or, "Wanting a miracle for personal honor is the greatest obstacle to ever receiving one."
He felt certain that his fellow ministers could – and should – experience the same: "It's not as if we possess anything. Our strength comes from the divine Word, which we must pass on unembellished." How he longed for more openness in his fellow ministers when people seeking inner peace kept crowding in on him. As he wrote to Barth in April 1844:
All they have to do is to announce in church that whoever feels burdened should come and see them. Oh, things must change, for I see clearly that what has been is nothing compared to what ought to be.
Later he wrote again:
Everywhere consciences are waiting to be freed. People come streaming to me from all the villages around, and how happy I would be if I could say to them, "Go to your pastor!" I feel sorry for the people, but I am not allowed to do anything, and must turn them away. If only my Christian brothers had taken note of my concern…Oh, God knows how I feel, and how my heart burns for the whole world!
Despite the concern evident in this lament for people beyond his village, Blumhardt refused to encroach on other
pastors' spheres of authority. Because of this and because of the cool and unsympathetic attitude of many of his colleagues, what could have been a universal movement gradually took on the appearance of a local phenomenon tied to his own person. The elemental power of repentance and forgiveness that had awakened and gripped thousands ended up being put down as "Blumhardt's special theory" and some of his theological friends almost regarded it as heresy. This grieved him tremendously. To him the awakening was an unquestionably auspicious event in God's history, and he had simply been the one to experience it firsthand.
Blumhardt took particular offense to charges that he was returning to Catholicism, for he was a Protestant through and through, and deeply rooted in Luther's spirit and writings. He held no animosity toward the Roman Catholic Church – it being one of the great historic forms of Christianity. But he knew that it was the abuse of the two main factors of the Möttlingen movement – confession and absolution – that had sparked the Reformation. Ever since then Protestants have been uncomfortable with these two features of church life, even though they are based on the words of Jesus: "Truly, I say to you, whatever you bind on earth shall be bound in heaven, and whatever you loose on earth shall be loosed in heaven" (Matt. 18:18).
During the fight Blumhardt experienced something of the power with which Christ promises to work through his followers. At the time he had come to know that power as a warrior. Now he discovered it truly after the Savior's own heart: as a peacemaker – loving and reconciling. He saw how quickly and completely Christ forgives even heavy sins – murder, adultery, and theft – when they are brought to the light. And he saw how even flagrant sinners can find peace simply by confessing what burdens them.
But why the need to confess to another person? Is it not enough, to confess to God in secret? Certainly, it is important to consider all that is wrong in myself, before God to perceive it clearly and admit it to him – but God has actually known it all along. Only when something is confessed in the presence of somebody who does not yet know it, is the secret truly dragged out of the dark into the light of day.
The open manner of individuals and the wholesome tone of the gatherings in Möttlingen reflected the matter-of-fact nature of the awakening. Based as it was on repentance, there was nothing to feed spiritual pride. All who had participated in it had looked squarely at their past and opened themselves to someone else without reserve, and all were sure to be cured of any pious self-conceit for a long time. Those whose fervor had gained them a purely emotional peace, on the other hand, seemed to depend on an almost feverish degree of spirituality to keep them happy.
Blumhardt countered all criticism about confession with the evidence of Möttlingen:
Certainly, confession can be misused. One can be hypocritical, can show off one's sin, can shamelessly blurt everything out like rowdies in a pub. One could even see confession as a good deed and feel righteous. But should the devil's corrupt ing of everything cause us to throw it all out?
Christians sometimes fall into one heavy sin or another, and must be turned from pagans back into Christians. How is that to be done? Do you think one only needs to say, "I believe"? Certainly not! One needs to say, "I ought to repent." But how is one to do it? Weep for days, weeks, months, years while keeping one's guilt locked in one's heart? If we have become pagans, we must once again confess and receive forgiveness, just as at baptism. What can be clearer than that? No one can deny that such a new start brings extraordinary relief.
Blumhardt also discussed the question of absolution at length, because so many people viewed it as something they could only grant to themselves:
The effect of absolution on the people receiving it was such that they impressed everyone as completely changed persons. That was the main reason the movement kept spreading and finally encompassed both my villages.
In the case of about twelve persons, under the pressure of the moment, I granted absolution too early. These people, who had intentionally failed to bring out weighty wrong
doings, did not receive any relief through the act of absolution. Not only that; after each incident I felt tightness in my chest and some hours later a general fatigue, as if suddenly all my strength had gone. This general state of paralysis would last for two or three days. But then I recog nized my error and ever since have remained cautious in granting absolution. I could have given it up altogether, but considered that cowardice. My experience made me all the more certain that there is something real to absolution, which I may not withhold from the souls entrusted to me.
Later that same summer I visited a distant colleague who lay mortally ill. He confessed to me and asked for absolution. I granted it to him as a favor to a friend (something completely out of place in matters concerning God) and arrived home sick in the way I just described. Thus I realized what a serious matter the authority granted by God is – that what we loose on earth shall be loosed in heaven.
What I have said might seem overly bold, but after grant ing absolution to nearly every member of my congregation its biblical foundation has become clear to me. In John 20:21–23 the risen Jesus tells his disciples, "As the Father has sent me, so I send you." Then he breathed on them and said, "Receive the Holy Spirit. If you forgive the sins of any, they are forgiven; if you retain the sins of any, they are retained."
Since this power is given by God, it may not be left idle and unused, or God will recall his gift. That would explain why Christianity has, for the most part, lost this remarkable power, which is useful and necessary for building up and
preserving the Church. After all, hardly anyone believes in it or practices it.
A report from Dieterlen, an Alsatian manufacturer who visited Blumhardt shortly after the awakening and later became one of his closest friends, illustrates how the movement spread beyond Blumhardt's direct influence. Dieterlen was one of the first to pass on what he had received from Blumhardt through visits to Möttlingen and through lively correspondence. After his encounter with the awakening, he began to devote one day a week to caring for the sick in his own area. He served them with comforting words and with his money – his financial status permitted him to set out in the morning with a full purse and return with an empty one.
Dieterlen soon noticed that some of the sick, when they caught sight of him through the window, would grab the nearest devotional book and open it. So, after Blumhardt's own fashion, he tried to foster a more natural and brotherly relationship with those he visited:
When people I meet for the first time start walking along on pious stilts, I stick to the mundane and talk about their debts, their goats, and their manure, until they come down from their heights. It is wrong to burst in with edification right away. If you pounce on people with Bible reading and prayer, the honest become shy, the bad laugh, and the weak play-act.
In this manner, Dieterlen awakened something in many, giving them reason to believe again and courage to repent and turn around. He told of a poor family living several hours' walking distance from his village:
I found a consumptive, dejected woman, a man who tried to drown his misery in drink, six children in rags, and a messy, disorderly house. I showed the people compassion, repeated my visits, won their confidence, and was able to speak to their hearts. One day the man told me, "You see, sir, everybody has left us in our misery for so long, that we began to think, 'No one cares; even God has forsaken us.' We let ourselves sink lower and lower. Then you came, and came again, and we thought, 'Here is a stranger who visits us and keeps coming. And if a stranger has not forsaken us, then God has not for saken us either, and there is still hope.' And so we found new trust in God."
I I I M I R AC L E S
If the fight and the movement of repentance it sparked were of significance for the kingdom of God, as Blumhardt felt certain, then the miracles that followed held equally rich promise. Blumhardt saw each of these events as an organic outgrowth of the one before – and heard God speaking through them with an unmistakable certainty.
Already in the winter of 1844, when the people of Möttlingen came weeping to the rectory, some of them experienced the unexpected healing of their physical ailments, as well as inner peace. One, a man who suffered so severely from rheumatism in one thigh that he often fell, was healed after confession. When Blumhardt laid hands on him as a sign of forgiveness, he felt something slide from his thigh and pass out of his body, and from that moment on he felt completely well. At first he did not quite believe his good fortune, and kept quiet while he waited for the next bad spell. But it never came; his rheumatism seemed gone for good. Many such miracles came to Blumhardt's attention. Each one encouraged and reassured him, particularly since the controversy over his pastoral work had isolated him from his fellow ministers, as described in the preceding chapter.
In confessions, Blumhardt's parishioners often told him of superstitious attempts – from sorcery to subtler forms of "sympathetic" magic – to find cures for their aches and pains. This disturbed him deeply. During the fight he had acquired a horror of all such practices, and come to feel that any help attained by them violated the authority of God and gave
honor to opposing powers. Yet when Blumhardt urged people to reject these practices, they would often ask him, "But what are we to do? The doctor lives far away, and when bleeding or any other such emergency must be dealt with, we can not wait. Besides, we are too poor to call the doctor anyway."
To this Blumhardt would reply with confidence,"The Savior will do more for you than the devil has. Of course, it is always good to consider whether or not what has befallen you might be punishment for something you have done. But if it is, don't give up. Pray! And if you let me know about it, I will pray with you and for you." Recalling one instance that encouraged him to proceed in this direction, Blumhardt wrote:
One morning a mother came rushing in, beside herself. She had accidentally spilled boiling oatmeal on her three-year-old and did not know what to do. I hurried over and found the child scalded all over its body and screaming. The room filled with people, and before long someone offered that so-and-so knew a spell and should be sent for right away. But I could not allow that. Offering a few words of consolation, I asked the people to become silent and pray. Then I took the child in my arms and sighed. Immediately it grew quiet and calm and no longer seemed to feel the least pain, even though the burns only disappeared several days later.
After that, instances of divine help began to occur one after the other. The parents of a child with a severe eye disease had consulted a doctor, who declared an operation essential.
Shrinking from this prospect, they went to Calw to ask their former pastor, Barth, whether they should let the child be operated on or take him to Pastor Blumhardt. Barth answer ed, "If you have faith that the Savior can and will heal your child, by all means go to Blumhardt. But if you do not have such faith, then accept the operation."
"We do have faith," they said, and made a visit to Blum hardt, after which the eye improved so much that the child's sight was fully restored after three days.
Before long word spread and people outside Blumhardt's congregation began to flock to him in search of physical healing. Every week new people came, and they went away thanking God for the help they had received. Infirmities of all kinds vanished: eye problems, tuberculosis, eczema, arthritis, and more. Similar miracles happened within the rector's own household, though these were kept quiet. A person who was there at the time later said,"There were so many miracles that I can no longer recall the details. We felt the Lord's nearness so tangibly that they seemed natural, and no one made a great deal of it."
One Sunday a young man from a village an hour's walk away carried his younger brother, a hunchback, to Mött lingen. When they came again the following Sunday, both of them walked, though the boy was still quite deformed. A short time later, however, he was straight and healthy. When asked what had happened, he said simply, "I had something on my back, but now it's gone."
One day a university student came whose eyes were so bad that he had to be led about, and so light-sensitive that even dim candlelight caused him pain. It was a Saturday, the day Blumhardt held a weekly evening service known for its intimate character, and Blumhardt invited the young man to listen in from the dark sacristy. This the man did, and when a light was carried through the sacristy to him at the end of the service, it no longer bothered him. By Sunday morning he was seeing so well that he could walk unaided.
At Easter a garrulous young man with tuberculosis came to Möttlingen from a considerable distance, certain that he would find healing during the holidays, even though his doctor had given up on him. Before the Sunday service, it seemed that nothing could silence him, but afterward he grew pensive. The sermon had pierced his heart like an arrow and he murmured to himself,"I have got to change; I must see the pastor." Later, broken and quiet, he made his way to Blum hardt's study. In the evening he appeared again, cheerful and healthy. He stayed another day, then traveled home and resumed work – at the same unhealthy occupation the doctor had declared to be the cause of his illness in the first place. There he remained well, indeed, so happy that he sang while he worked, and held his own in every way until he died two years later of unknown causes. "He became like an angel," an acquaintance said of him.
A lady who had sought treatment at one spa after another – she had a paralyzing spinal infection – came to Möttlingen in
the summer of 1846 and took lodging in a farmhouse near the rectory. Every Sunday she had someone carry her to the churchyard so she could listen to Blumhardt's sermon. On the second or third Sunday she was there, he gave a sermon on Zacchaeus, and he spoke of two stages of conversion:
First, there is the awakening: Zacchaeus wants to reach Jesus at any cost and will not let anything turn him aside. He climbs a tree, disregarding all ridicule. There he discovers that Jesus is in fact looking for him. Zacchaeus is overwhelmed by the kindness and love shown when Jesus, opening himself to the grumbling of his own followers, forgives and accepts Zacchaeus. Many people get that far.
Second, there is the conversion: Most who reach the first stage think they have reached the goal. If they were in Zacchaeus' place, they would snub the mutterers and gloat over the attention they had received. But to acknowledge the validity of the reproaches, to change, and to make restitution – that they do not consider necessary. Having been pardoned, they become puffed-up instead of humble. Zacchaeus, on the other hand, admits that the grumblers are justified, and promises to pay back everyone he has cheated, thus proving that Jesus was right to pardon him. Only then does Jesus say of him, "Today salvation has come to this house."
The sick lady thought Blumhardt had preached the sermon especially for her, and remained in the churchyard to listen to the services that followed. After dinner the next day she
begged him to visit her, and poured out her heart to him, without mentioning her illness at all.
At five o'clock in the afternoon, Blumhardt was just setting out for a stroll with the rectory guests when the lady's attendant hurried up to him in tears and said,"I don't mean to take you by surprise, sir, but my mistress is walking!" They all set out at once for the lady's lodging, and sure enough, there she was, walking out to meet them at the top of the stairs. Everyone gathered in her room and knelt down to thank God.
Miracles involving mentally disturbed individuals were often dramatic, which may be reason to tell of such cases sparingly, but one story including both physical and mental healing deserves to be recounted at length:
A wealthy woman had been thrown into a state of depression by her husband's sudden death and was plagued by suicidal tendencies. She came to Möttlingen with her mother. At first she stayed at an inn, but following a suicide attempt, the proprietor refused to let her stay. Moved by compassion, Blumhardt agreed to take her into his rectory. He gave her a room and provided an attendant, to whom he gave strict instructions not to leave the woman alone day or night.
The sick woman was not at all religious, and had no stomach for Blumhardt's prayer meetings. Like many of the mentally ill, she also had an outspoken personal dislike for him. Still, she agreed to stay – so desperate was she for his help. One morning, while in a nearby room, Hans heard a suspicious noise from the widow's room and called for her attendant. Hearing no reply, he looked for her and found her downstairs, where she had just gone to fetch water.
"Come quick. Something is wrong!" Hans cried. Together they ran upstairs and, finding the door locked, rushed down and out into the street. From there they looked up to see an open window, and the widow hanging by her neck from the crossbar. Running back inside, Hans smashed the door with an axe and took the lifeless body down. The blows awakened Blumhardt and others, who came running. Blumhardt helped Hans loosen the scarf with which the woman had hanged herself, and they laid her on a bed.
Diligent attempts were made to revive her, but it was to no avail. Still Blumhardt refused to admit defeat,"This must not be. Let us pray!" With that he and his wife Doris, Gottliebin, and Hans knelt down and prayed. Next, Blumhardt asked Hans to hold open the woman's mouth, and he breathed into it. After first the woman drew a few breaths; then she seemed lifeless again, finally she broke into a drawn-out, wolf like howl.
Blumhardt had already notified the district physician by special messenger. When the doctor arrived, he listened to
woman's howling, examined her (she was still unconscious) and declared that she was as good as dead. As for her continued howling, he claimed that it could be understood as an expression of pain, but not as a sign that she would recover. He then left the house, having apparently given up hope. The woman relapsed into a coma. Hans remained by her side. Later, during evening devotions, the singing woke her. With a pleased expression on her face she said, "The pastor is such a nice man!" Then, turning to Hans she said, "You are here, too, Fritz?" (Fritz was the name of her deceased husband.)
"Yes," he replied, somewhat embarrassed but trying not to upset her in any way.
"Oh," she said, "it's good that you are back, too! Like you I had died. I was in hell, but Blumhardt, the good man, has called me back. I don't want to go there again."
Hans spoke to her gently, and she gradually calmed down. At ten o'clock Mose and another man came to relieve Hans. This agitated her.
"Go away, go away! I don't want to return to hell." Then, to Hans, "They want to take me back there! You will stay, Fritz, won't you?"
The men left and Hans stayed, but for a long time she remained anxious that she might be taken back to hell. Finally, Hans decided to try a little ruse.
"Dear wife," he said,"don't you think it would be better for you to be quiet now and try to get a little sleep?"
"Yes, thank you, Fritz, you might be right," she replied, and before long sank into healthy sleep. When she woke again at five the next morning, she said,"Are you there, Mr. Dittus?"
"Yes." "How odd that I took you for my husband, before!" At this Hans admonished her, asking,"Do you realize what you did yesterday? How could you do such a thing as to take your life!"
"Yes, I know it well. It was my greed. When my husband was alive we put aside a thousand florins every year, and I could not get over the fact that this had come to an end. That's why I wanted to kill myself. I kept thinking,'If only the maid would go out for a moment!' and all night something in me said, 'See that scarf? You could hang yourself with that.' But I shall not do that again. I know now where suicide leads. I was in hell, and I don't want to go there again. Oh, the pastor is a good man!" Before long, she was completely well in body, soul, and spirit. She remarried three months later and remained an active member of the parish.
In some cases, Blumhardt noted, a sick person's weakness might lead him to commit a deranged act, despite his firm resolve to control himself and find healing. Such a person, Blumhardt said, was not incurably sick even if severely dis turbed: "In the biblical sense, every person's spirit – that which is holy and of God – is immortal, and what cannot die cannot be ill either."
It was this faith that made Blumhardt accept even the most bizarre guests, such as the man who arrived at the rectory turning somersaults. He had apparently come in this manner all the way from Calw. He, too, found healing.
During church services, the sacristy usually contained an odd assortment of people, including epileptics and the mentally disturbed. Blumhardt made this area available so as to shield these sufferers from expressions of shock or exaggerated pity from the healthy attendees of his services. Still, he demanded that compassion and understanding be shown toward the sick."Don't be shocked by odd occurrences or make too much of them. Instead, pray for those whom you see having an attack."
As for the main hall of the church, it was not entirely closed to the mentally ill. Blumhardt wanted his congregation to see itself as a fighting church, and to help those who suffered by interceding in prayer. Sometimes this was necessary right in the middle of a worship service. Once a man got up in the middle of the sermon and began to recite blasphemous doggerel at which Blumhardt had the congregation start a hymn. The man quieted down. Another time an epileptic was seized with severe convulsions and then collapsed as if dead. Naturally the people nearest him wanted to pick him up, but Blumhardt told them to leave him alone and pray for him instead, and he continued to preach. Eventually the man came to and got up on his own.
Blumhardt's welcoming attitude to disturbed visitors exposed him to occasional risks, as was the case with people whose illness caused them to act violently. One time a burly man sitting near the pulpit worked himself into such a frenzy that he got up and threatened to throw Blumhardt out of the pulpit. Hans, who had a way with such people, quickly calmed him.
Two stories Blumhardt recounted himself involved illnesses caused by false piety. While still in the nursery, a boy had begun, half playfully, to preach to his brothers and sisters. His parents listened admiringly, which egged him on. Over the years he preached more and more earnestly and solemnly. In the end, he even turned on his parents and preached repentance to them, at which they dissolved in tears. Other people took notice too, and flocked to hear the little prophet, who soon became quite a sensation. All of a sudden an inexplicable malady put an end to the prophetic glory: the boy was struck dumb. A physician, unable to help, advised the parents to take the boy to Blumhardt. When Blumhardt learned what had transpired, he thundered at the boy, "What is the fifth commandment?" No answer. He repeated the question em phatically, until the boy managed to stammer, "Honor your father and your mother." Then Blumhardt scolded him in dignantly, particularly for daring to preach to his parents: "If God wants repentance preached to your parents, he certainly won't use you to do it." After this the boy recovered quickly.
In the other case a woman came to Blumhardt's study with the question, "Tell me what you think of visions and revelation. In Sunday school yesterday I noticed that you seem to mistrust them. But I think you err." She then told him she had been sick most of her life and unable to work, but during the last couple of years God had comforted her with a wonderful form of compensation: a bright light that surrounded her almost constantly. In this light she at times saw Jesus and heard him speak to her or to God the Father, and now and then she would hear the Father reply to the Son.
As Blumhardt listened he sensed an aura of strange spirituality around the woman and remembered hearing that she was regarded as an uncommonly gifted seer. Suddenly it came to him: that there was something seriously amiss, and he bluntly cut off the woman by telling her: "That's all from the devil!" at which she stormed out of the room.
A day later, however the woman came back in tears to thank Blumhardt for healing her. When she had left him, she said, she had felt angry and hurt, but from that moment on her bright light was gone, and she was given the humility to recognize that it had all had been sickness and deceit – the fruits of unbounded spiritual pride.
Since these accounts relate the miracles of Möttlingen back to back, without the context of the daily life in which they occurred, they do not tell the whole story. That, in a word, is the simple fact that God was such a constant and intimate presence in the parish, that people were able to simply bring
their needs before him in a repentant and believing spirit, and just as quietly and simply receive his help time and again.
In February 1846 Blumhardt wrote to a like-minded colleague about a malady of his own:
Sometimes you just have to accept it when your ailments do not go away quickly. All last summer I had a cough and a sore throat, and such trouble with my shoulder joint that I could hardly use my arm. I prayed, but healing cannot be forced by prayer. So I put up with it, hoping it would eventually go, and now it is gone.
In their simple way, the people of Möttlingen committed everything to God – including hardships caused by disease among farm animals. Blumhardt explained:
Are not cattle part of "our daily bread?" We pray for bread in the Lord's Prayer, so why not pray for the cattle to be preserved? It may seem strange to you and me, but not to the peasant, for whom, unfortunately, a calf is often of greater value than a child. After all, they are only praying – kneeling down in a corner of the stable and saying the Lord's Prayer, and that is all. But the beasts improve at once. I can cite many instances where help has been received in this way.
Every now and then, cattle may be tormented by demons and if this seems strange, it ought to be remembered that Jesus sent demons into a herd of pigs. People are liable to ascribe this to witches and turn to witchcraft for a solution, but I discourage that. I assure them that the best help against demons – if they stand right otherwise – is the Lord's Prayer.
Despite such dramatic occurrences, it remains that the faith of Blumhardt's parishioners was in fact simple and straight forward. Anyone tempted to imitate them should not forget that it was through judgment and repentance that they found such exceptional recourse to divine protection.
Not surprisingly, Blumhardt's influence was a considerable nuisance for the local authorities. More than a few clerics and physicians complained that he was infringing on their rights. Besides, until 1848, the state government displayed such a marked aversion to "pietism" that lively expression of Christianity other than that sanctioned by the established church hierarchy was looked at with suspicion.
These difficulties were eased in two ways: for the authorities, by Blumhardt's tact, and for Blumhardt through his various friendly associations. Blumhardt had a keen sense of his obligations toward governmental authority. He guarded against pressure from hotheads who urged him to "obey God more than men." Though he could hold his own position valiantly in questions of conscience, he always tried to view things from the perspective of the authorities, and his sincerity and respect reduced the danger of unnecessary conflict and gained him the generous trust of his clerical superiors.
Something that further helped Blumhardt's name, right to the highest government levels – and stood him in good stead later on – was a visit from the King of Württemberg. It happened this way: One Sunday morning two strange gentlemen walked into town and checked in at The Ox. Later they came to the church service and chose seats next to the organ – not the best location, as the organist was hard of hearing and made astonishing demands on his instrument and on his listeners' ears. Shortly after this an army recruit who had come from Stuttgart on furlough said to Hans, "You know that gentleman up there next to the organ? That's the king!"
After the service, in the study, Hans told Blumhardt that the King had attended the morning service and through the window pointed out the man, who was strolling through the rectory garden. Blumhardt answered, "You might be right," but he did nothing further, respecting his visitor's apparent wish to remain incognito. The man attended the afternoon service as well, and in the evening a stately carriage pulled up and took him away.
Though this encounter (and similar ones involving other government officials) probably shielded Blumhardt from severe official censure, obstacles were put in his way. In January 1846 the ministry forbade him to "include healing as part of his pastoral duty instead of directing people to the medical profession." Blumhardt answered with a twelvepage document, which ended, "I shall no longer lay my
hands on any stranger, nor let any stay here over the weekend. In short, I shall do no more than listen to their complaints, maybe give them some advice, and then let them go. But if miracles continue – for God will not let his hands be tied – and people continue to flock here, let no one charge me with disobedience."
In May of the same year Blumhardt accepted another considerable restriction in an effort to appease his embar rassed superiors. In a letter dated June 18, 1846, he told a friend:
Things are going forward despite an outward hitch. About four weeks ago I stopped allowing people to tell me of their ailments, and since then I have had to refuse seeing strangers privately at all. They have to be satisfied with attending my church services. I am doing this voluntarily, because otherwise I might lose everything. In spite of it all, much is still happening in the church, though the stream of sick people has fallen off considerably.
Around the same time he announced from the pulpit one day that he had promised not to accept visitors from outside Möttlingen into the rectory. But his matter-of-factness betrayed how heartbreakingly difficult was for him to accept his new restrictions:
You sick ones, just come to church, lay your suffering before the Savior, and listen carefully to the sermon. You are assured of my intercession and that of the congregation. There is no need for me to know your specific ailments.
People who had not heard the announcement kept coming, and when Hans would have to turn them away, Blumhardt's eyes filled with tears: "The poor people! Gentlemen, officers, students, merchants – no one stops them. But the poor are not allowed in, they just get pushed around." Of course, it wasn't just ignorance of Blumhardt's prohibition that kept his visitor's coming. Many of them simply felt they had to see Blumhardt, and nothing would stop them.
One day a peasant who had somehow managed to slip through the front door started up the stairs. Blumhardt ordered him back.
"But, Mr. Blumhardt," the man countered,"there is nothing wrong with me now. I only wanted to thank you."
"Well, that's fine." "It is true that I had something wrong with me, a whole lot. There was…"
"Well, I don't want to know what it was. But you did have something wrong with you?"
"Yes, and I did exactly as you said. I came to your service and listened carefully, and now I am fine."
For those who couldn't get through, Hans served as an unofficial liaison. No one had ordered him to close his ears to the people's needs. And the next time he found himself in Blumhardt's study, it was natural that he should share the things that filled his mind and heart. Yet given its roundabout route, such channels of communication between Blumhardt
and his visitors were not enough to result in accusations of infraction.
Still, a certain amount of friction between Blumhardt and the church authorities was inevitable. The consistory (un der pressure from physicians, clergymen, and journalists) and Blumhardt (facing the tide of people's misery) could hardly be expected to arrive at a common point of view. The widely accepted view of the day was that bodies should be entrusted the care of physicians only, whereas clergy should stick to purely spiritual concerns. The consistory, sworn to uphold that dichotomy, frowned on any evidence that faith could influence physical recovery, particularly when that evidence was conspicuous and recurring. In their eyes, Blumhardt was willfully disturbing this harmonious divi sion of responsibilities. They informed him that the role of religion was simply to console – to emphasize the blessing brought by suffering and the value of patience.