 ‘Borders are scratched across the hearts of men, by strangers with a calm, judicial pen. And when the borders bleed we watch with dread, the lines of ink across the map turn red.’ (Marya Mannes) It’s one thing to read social media reports of irregular migrant pushbacks between EU states. It’s another thing to see actual soldiers guarding a border crossing. I was surprised therefore this weekend to pass by regular police at one end of a small footbridge in Görlitz, Germany, facing soldiers dressed in military fatigues and carrying assault rifles in Zgorzelec on the Polish side of the border. It felt like a sign of the times, a tension and tightening on so many different fronts. Poland says its deployment of soldiers at the border is a direct response to Germany’s push back into Poland of irregular migrants who cross through Poland into Germany. Germany says its own deployment of border guards aims to prevent irregular migrants from crossing from Poland into Germany in the first place. Both governments, like so many others in Europe and beyond, are responding to growing popular anger and resentment against irregular migrants and migration. I walked across the bridge, the border, several times and wasn’t stopped by the guards. Neither side checked my passport nor my immigration status nor gave me a second glance. I did see the police on the German side step out of their van to speak with two men who looked North African by appearance. Perhaps it was just a casual chat. I also saw a young family in Muslim attire scurry across into Poland when the soldiers weren’t there. Perhaps it was just coincidental timing.
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 ‘Give yourself a gift of five minutes of contemplation in awe of everything you see around you.’ (Wayne Dyer) I love spending time under German motorway bridges. I know that may sound a bit dodgy or weird, yet there’s something about the majestic hidden architecture that I find completely awe- inspiring. The tall pillars supporting the structure above have, for me, an evocative, ancient, temple-like appearance. Standing in those places, allowing myself to feel mysteriously lifted outside of myself, has a kind of spiritual quality to it that I struggle to express easily in words. Finding expansive places like this, whether in awesome mountain ranges or standing on a beach gazing out across open skies and sea, is a stark contrast to feeling hemmed in or pressed down by the day-to-day pressures of everyday life. It creates a moment to breathe in deeply, to feel the freedom and joy of space. I find that expansive, interior space in prayer, in God, too. Contemplation is, for me, presence to the awe-striking Presence who is already present with us.  ‘The German Bible calls the Holy Spirit the Beistand – literally, the One who stands beside us.’ Prayers for Peace. For over 3 years now, since Russia invaded Ukraine, this small and dedicated group of people have met every Wednesday evening in a cold stone church building in Germany, often warmed only by flickering candles and their burning desire to see a different world. The crucified Saviour in the background felt especially poignant tonight. The focus was on Israel-Gaza, praying for all sides of the conflict and standing in spirit beside all people suffering unspeakable pain. As we arrived, I stood slightly outside of the group, leaning against a wooden pew. I’d been sitting down all day writing an article and I needed to stretch to avoid discomfort I have with nerve pain. Just before the prayers were about to start, one of the leaders tip-toed gently across the room and stood silently beside me, without looking at me or saying a word. I’m a visitor from England, a stranger and yet, in the midst of the darkness, I too was touched by their simple act of solidarity.  ‘Charisma is the fragrance of soul. Seduce yourself first. Pursuing your passions makes you more interesting, and interesting people are enchanting.’ (Toba Beta, Kamand Kojouri & Guy Kawasaki) I’ve watched and listened to various UK political leaders during the current party conference season and I’ve been struck by marked differences in presence and style. Some have commented that, for instance, Nigel Farage has an inspiring and engaging charisma whereas Keir Starmer talks down to people like a robotic technocrat. That said, both party leaders attract and repel different constituencies of the wider public – which makes me wonder if charisma, like beauty, is in the eye of the beholder. I remember working with an international non-governmental organisation (INGO) that had a very inspiring CEO. At that time, the same organisation was working hard to identify leadership competencies that could be developed or replicated globally. I really struggled with that project. There was something intrinsic to the CEO as a unique individual that had such a compelling influence and impact. Yes, I could well try to emulate some of his skills and techniques – but I still wouldn’t be him. A friend in Germany illustrated a similar principle yesterday by holding up a glass vase. He could drop it on the floor so that it would smash into lots of pieces, yet there’s something about the object as a whole that is more than the sum of those broken shards. Charisma, like the beauty of the vase, is something that can feel mysterious, beyond rational or technical analysis, both in intrinsic quality and its effects on others. In biblical language, it’s a gift from the Spirit – but it can also be a derailer.  ‘There are no permanent friends or enemies in international relations, only permanent interests.’ (Henry Kissinger) The third anniversary of Russia’s attack on Ukraine came and went this week with some hints of progress towards an end to the war. A possible deal or sorts, amidst shifting blame, and against the backdrop of disturbing rumours of hidden geopolitical manoeuvrings behind the scenes. It felt hard not to see Ukraine as trapped in the middle – a David now caught between two Goliaths as one friend put it – seemingly powerless at the hands of bigger, crushing and grabbing forces. In the middle of the mess, we saw the UK straddling two horses – with its Prime Minister in thin disguise asserting himself as the new leader of Europe (another land grab, of sorts, while his German and French counterparts were floundering in political chaos); whilst also sacrificing the poor in the world to the insatiable god of war in a bid to win approval of the world’s new President. I felt sick as I watched the news, seeing a leader sell his nation's soul for political expediency. I wondered what I might do if I were in his position of power and responsibility. I hope better, and I fear worse. I was brought back down to earth on Wednesday evening at a weekly ‘Prayers for Peace’ event in a cold church building in Germany. A group of ten German people – with I as a visiting Engländer – stood in prayerful solidarity with a group of twenty shy-looking Ukrainian women and children. Each held a candle and some cried with tears of pain and hope. I felt like crying too.  'We are not to simply bandage the wounds of victims beneath the wheels of injustice, we are to drive a spoke into the wheel itself.' (Dietrich Bonhoeffer) At a time when much of the democratic West is shifting politically to the right, I had a very harrowing experience today – visiting Konzentrationslager Flossenbürg, a former Nazi concentration camp in southern Germany. Despite dedicating much of my adult life to trying to prevent the conditions that allow such destructive ideologies to take hold, nothing could have prepared me for the overwhelming weight of such a place. Standing before the memorial stones, each marked with a different flag, I read the staggering numbers – lists of people from various countries who were shot, hanged and burned within its barbed wire walls. I felt again an indescribable horror at the sheer brutality of the Nazi regime. A hard question haunted me: ‘How on earth did things get this bad?’ And equally disturbingly, ‘How is it that we, as humans, are capable of such evil?’ Because this isn’t just history and it isn’t just about them. It’s about us and now. This evening, back in my room, I turned on the TV news. More headlines about the growing success of the AfD in Germany – then Starmer appeasing MAGA Trump by increasing UK weapons spending, whilst deftly slashing the foreign aid budget. (He clearly misunderstood Robin Hood as a child). Rising nationalism. 'Us first' ethnocentrism. Crackdowns on free speech. Preparations for war. Does any of this sound familiar? 
‘When we know people whose lives are being destroyed and there seems to be no way of reaching them; when people are in impossible situations and there are no words to help them…hold them at the centre of prayer, where the divine Christ dwells, and expose them to the rays of his love.’ (Iain Matthew) Friedensgebet (‘prayers for peace’) felt even more earnest this evening than last time I was here. As we entered the church, each person lit a candle and placed it on a silver cross before a figure of the crucified Christ. It felt like holding the suffering of the world before one who knows what it is to endure pain. The candle I lit barely flickered at first, as if struggling to spark itself into even the tiniest glimmer of a flame. Hope, too, can sometimes feel like that. Those present reflected on certain parallels in German society today with those that preceded the rise of the Nazis so many years ago now. That was an unspeakably dark period in German history which, at times like this, still surfaces, smoulders and burns in the people’s collective psyche. I could feel their sense of concern and anguish about the forthcoming general election. Would Germany learn from its history, or would it find itself condemned to repeat it? As we prayed, I recalled Iain Matthew’s soulful spiritual wisdom: ‘Feel the way to the wound that is in us, to the place of our need. Go there, take it, name it; hold it before Christ. Feel our way to the wounds of this world, to those people or situations in dire need of healing. Go there, take them, name them; and hold them before him. Go there, not to dictate to Christ what the answer should be or what he should do about it; but to hold the wound before him.’ Yes.  ‘Only when we know our own darkness well can we be present with the darkness of others. Compassion becomes real when we recognize our shared humanity.' (Pema Chödrön) Sunday evening this week, a trip to Germany. I was taken aback by the curt responses I received from some airport staff when transferring between flights, and witnessed from some cabin crew members towards passengers on the plane. It was and felt unusual, very different to what I’d experienced and seen on my many visits to Germany before. It made me wonder what demands and stresses these staff are facing, especially perhaps with tightening pressures in Germany on immigration and border control as it approaches its general election this month. It reminded me of an appraisal workshop I ran with Sue Powell, a gifted coach and trainer who’d worked internationally too. We were exploring a human tendency to judge others by their actions and, by contrast, ourselves by our intentions. Sue invited participants, in 2s, simply to stand in the room facing each other. Then, in silence, she invited them to imagine vividly, ‘This person is a problem’, and to notice how they felt as they did so. Then, ‘This person has a problem.’ And finally, ‘This person is like me, trying to do their best, yet has their ups and downs.’ Participants fed back in plenary how their feelings towards the other person had changed as they made these shifts in what they were telling themselves about that person; with an increase in empathy as the activity progressed. They also reflected on how, if it had been an appraisal conversation, what they were saying to themselves about the other could well have influenced reactions and outcomes, without necessarily being aware of it. So, there’s something here about grace and truth, addressing issues honestly whilst taking a compassionate stance.  ‘Don't be too quick to offer unsolicited advice. It certainly will not endear you to people.’ (Harvey Mackay) In Germany today a friend, Margitta, and I shared experiences of giving well-meaning advice to others when it hasn’t landed well with those we’d hoped to help. The push-back has sometimes taken us by surprise, leaving the relationship bruised by what happened and what lay behind it. Margitta went on to explain that a German word for advice, Ratschlag, means quite literally to ‘hit with counsel’. Being ‘struck’ unexpectedly could understandably provoke a defensive response. Sometimes it’s about giving advice that someone didn’t invite; or at the wrong time when, say, empathy would have been more appropriate; or that it simply didn’t fit with them or the complex and felt realities of a situation they were dealing with. On occasion, it could have been a result of mansplaining – a man telling a woman something she already knows – which can be and feel patronising. (I may have just done that inadvertently by explaining what mansplaining means). Remember: ‘I’m not in X’s situation’ and, even more importantly, ‘I’m not X in X’s situation’. This is a useful word of caution to speak to ourselves. It’s also a main reason why developmental practices such as coaching and action learning focus on offering open questions rather than posing suggestions or solutions. Advice has its place, but: Is a person asking for it? Is this the best time for it? Is it appropriate? Am I the right person to give it? Can the relationship bear it?  ‘Refugees didn’t just escape a place. They had to escape a thousand memories until they’d put enough time and distance between them and their misery to wake to a better day.’ (Nadia Hashimi) I learnt a new expression in Germany this week: ‘Ich bin ein Anhänger Jesu’: that is, ‘I’m a follower of Jesus.’ Anhänger. An interesting use of metaphorical language. It’s the same word that we’d use, in English, for a trailer. A trailer has no power of its own and relies entirely on the vehicle that pulls it. To be a follower of Jesus is, in the words of 18th century preacher Chales Finney, completely dependent on ‘power from on high’. It’s as if God can draw us in all kinds of directions and make the most amazing journeys possible. Without him, we are like a trailer standing unhitched at the roadside. That’s certainly been true in my experience, and for others too. Margitta was 7 years old when her father, a Christian who resisted Communist ideology openly at increasing risk, made the bold decision to leave East Germany (the former DDR) to escape to the West. They couldn’t have known that, just one year later, the Berlin Wall would be built and that journey would be impossible. Margitta remembers vividly wearing extra clothing – the only possessions they could take with them – as they climbed onto a train. To carry bags would have looked suspicious to the border authorities and tempted arrest. It was Easter Sunday which, for Christians, represents life-after-death, when they stepped off the train in West Berlin. It was the beginning of a new life, but certainly not the end. The next few years were marked by being moved from place-to-place, firstly in West Berlin and then, after having been flown out of the isolated island city that Berlin had now become, in West Germany. Margitta remembers living in large rooms full of refugees with tables upturned to create makeshift beds, then in apartment blocks with brightly-painted coloured doors, then again in halls where families were separated only by sheets hanging from rails or the ceiling. It was a painful experience, especially for Margitta’s Mum, to be separated so far from her extended family and all that had been home. Last night, as I watched the German movie, ‘Bornholmer Straße’ with Margitta and her Christian husband Uli, it brought these memories back to life. I visited Berlin last week and, seeing the film play out the drama that had happened that night – some 28 years after the Wall had been built – when the heavily-guarded border between East and West finally opened again, was an emotional experience. For many trapped in the East who had felt like prisoners in their own country, this Kairos moment really was like a death-to-life experience. Margitta looks back with thanks for how God grasped hold of her family – and took them on that journey of hope, to freedom. Ein Anhänger Jesu. |
Nick WrightI'm a psychological coach, trainer and OD consultant. Curious to discover how can I help you? Get in touch! 
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