Preaching the Beatitudes to the Stasi
Simon Cole tells the little-known story of the Lutheran Church's role in co-ordinating opposition to Communism in the key city of Leipzig

6 November 2009

All eyes will be on Berlin as the free world celebrates the momentous night of November 9 1989 when the hated Wall finally opened. But the capital of Germany was merely one city inside an entire country kept prisoner for four decades. Further south in Saxony, the people of Leipzig have been remembering their own particular anniversary and the key role the Church played in the Peaceful Revolution.

It is sometimes said that in Poland the revolution took 10 years, in Hungary 10 months, in East Germany 10 weeks, in Czechoslovakia 10 days and in Romania only 10 hours. In Poland the Catholic Church, intellectuals, students and workers stood side by side against General Jaruzelski's government. The 1979 pilgrimage of ex-Krakow resident Pope John Paul II was a catalyst as Poles created the first cracks in Communism.

And while the Catholic Church continued to be a home for Polish nationalism in the Eighties, next door in East Germany the predominantly Protestant (Lutheran) Church was becoming a focus for dissent. Consecrated in 1165, the Gothic Nikolaikirche (St Nicholas Church) in the centre of Leipzig was originally famous for hosting Johann Sebastian Bach as an organist. Now tourists can take walking tours about the dramatic events that brought it to the world's attention in autumn 1989.

The clergy had long campaigned against the Cold War; since 1982 "Prayers for Peace" had taken place every Monday and small political and environmental groups had coalesced around this weekly event. But in 1989, as anger swelled against a regime that was morally - and now very much economically - bankrupt, this place of worship was to become symbolic of a nation finally finding its voice. The Monday Demonstrations were a phenomenon which would ultimately end with those famous television pictures from Berlin on November 9. According to the current German Chancellor Angela Merkel the "beginning of the end for the GDR" was the May 7 local elections. Activists discovered irregularities and it was widely held to be a "paper-folding exercise". Then on June 10 theology student Jochen Lässig - who was to co-found pioneering political group Neues Forum that autumn - organised an unofficial street music festival. Acting spontaneously or autonomously was seen as political; police reacted aggressively and the crowd was beaten in front of shocked townsfolk. This added to existing long-held grievances like the ban on travel to the West, where most had relatives. Republikflucht ("republic flight") was a crime, the "abandonment" of your comrades. Filling in the permit to travel application could result in harassment.

Amid anger, the Church became a sanctuary, breathing space and inspiration. As Mikhail Gorbachev made it clear Moscow would not intervene, readings carried increasingly political overtones on October 2 Pastor Klaus Kaden's sermon referred to "the murderers of our hope, the thieves of our freedom". Andreas Voigt was a 36-year-old film-maker recording events in Leipzig as they unfolded. "Opposition was mostly organised by the Church in the beginning. [It was important] both in a spiritual sense and in a sense of place. There was a space where people could see each other, discuss problems, discuss questions, show their feelings. And that was not so easy outside the Church."

"It was normal to lie," says ex-teacher Elke Urban of the double life people led. "You had to lie at school, both as a teacher and as a pupil, and also on the street." Urban is now director of the School Museum which occupies part of the old secret police building. Here, amid countless personal dossiers, 2,400 Stasi made notes like "persistent Nikolaikirche attender", or "seen wearing a 'swords to ploughshares' patch". Being a Christian in the GDR was hard. And after three years Urban tired of the militaristic school system; her conscience would not let her teach any more battle songs to children and she quit.

By autumn 1989 the Church was more active than ever: people like "Leipzig Six" theologian Dr Peter Zimmerman were organising discussion groups, congresses and even a new political pressure group. Urban joined it, and was present for the October 9 Monday Demonstration which Voigt documented as "Leipzig in Autumn". This turning point is referred to as the "Miracle of Leipzig". September's annual trade fair brought western media; more and more came to churches like the 2,000-capacity Nikolaikirche to show the cameras their feelings. Prayer meetings overflowed into the streets and on the ninth, two days after nationwide violence on the occasion of the GDR's 40th anniversary, 70,000 came to town.

That day an estimated 3,000 police and soldiers were finally ready for a crackdown. Protesters and conscripts alike feared bloodshed. Everyone watched West German television news (illegally) and protesters were conscious their leaders had congratulated the Chinese on their handling of Tiananmen Square in June.

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The city was tense. Some demonstrators carried candles with both hands, to show they would not be throwing anything. "The most important message was to stay non-violent," recalls Urban, "to say that the 'enemy' is also our friend... to have empathy for the soldiers outside".

Because appeals for calm could only be heard inside or close to the church, thousands of flyers calling for calm were distributed among the crowd. The police read them, adds Urban, and knew they would not be attacked. Today, signs outside the church still say: "Nikolaikirche - open to all" and Urban believes Christian principles made the difference on that decisive day.

It wasn't easy: "Sometimes we had Stasi agents between us, and they tried to cause violence." It's claimed 1,000 party members were ordered to the Nikolaikirche from 2pm to keep genuine protesters out. But as its celebrated pastor Christian Führer said: "What has not been considered was the fact that these people were exposed to the word, the Gospel and its impact! I always appreciated that the Stasi members heard the Beatitudes from the Sermon on the Mount every Monday. Where else would they hear these?"

The "Miracle of Leipzig" is that, despite their plans, somehow the police did not move against the people. Explanations vary: ex-leaders now claim they did not want to hurt anyone. Others claim it was incompetence or confusion, rather than compassion. But whatever the cause, it was a defining moment. A high-ranking official supposedly said: "We reckoned with many things, but not with candles and prayers." Though still afraid, Urban "went home full of hope". The demonstrations continued to grow and on November 6 500,000 marched. Three days later, the border part-opened in and the writing was on the proverbial wall.

"A lot of new political leaders came from the Church... I had hoped for more influence," says Urban. Many Protestant priests became leaders, particularly in the Social Democratic Party (SPD). But the GDR had marginalised religion for 40 years, and this has a legacy, she says. But she is adamant that God cannot be forced on people in the way that socialism was.

Her own faith is stronger than ever. "My belief in God became greater after 1989, because I couldn't explain this movement any other way. October 9 was like a miracle. It was a Christian idea to have empathy, to love your enemy."

While many in post-Communist countries express disappointment about growing materialism and wealth disparities, she is still positive. "I'm very pleased and thankful about this revolution. We have liberty, freedom... we can say what we think."

The sounds of excited children on school trips now fill the corridors of this former spy centre, and Urban is a happy grandmother. She had detested the rigid hierarchy of the GDR.

"Over me now," she says smiling, "there is only blue sky and God."