The Rower, Ireland, 22.6.90: Irish Time and Irish Directions

Too tired to write last night. We arrived at Rosslare in a summer storm about 6:30, but could not dock because of mechanical problems. Then the gangway wouldn’t go down—welcome to Ireland!—and we couldn’t get out until a bit past 7, hot and bothered.

Then mass confusion re: rental car and destination. It resolved itself into a free night with a standard transmission car, and a 2-night stay at Hillcrest, Mrs. Margaret Naddy, The Rower, Co. Kilkenny.

Directions we had been give to this were, of course, wrong. Countryside lush and beautiful, what we could see of it at evening and in the rain. As one moves inland from Cork Rd. to New Ross, hills begin. Where we are now at the Rower is hilly, but haven’t really seen much of it by daylight.

When we realized we were lost last night, stopped and asked for directions at a gas station. The helpful and soft-spoken young man had no idea what road it was, but gave us profuse directions to the Rower—where we were not precisely headed. Then we stopped a bit later at a pub, and Steve asked a drunk man watching the Ireland-Holland match for directions. “Sure, I know Mrs. Naddy. Can’t miss the big house. On the left or right.”

Finally, we knew we were lost, A. giving totally irrelevant and compulsive directions—New Ross as New Rock—in the back seat, so we stopped at a b and b far nearby of Jim Prendergast. The son of the family came out—so nice, took me in and called Mrs. Naddy. “The tourists are here, Margaret, and wonder if you’re after giving up on them.” The people have been so lovely, at tourist agency at airport, which booked our b and b, at Prendergast’s, and here (thought have not met Miss Naddy). Now to breakfast.

Wales, 21.6.90: Cross Hands and Upper Tumble

I lose track of days, but today is the day we cross to Ireland, so the date above must be correct. Was too tired to write anything yesterday or yesterday night.

Am writing this at a filthy b and b. in Cross Hands, Wales, drinking wretched tea that tastes like a cross between cilantro and dust. Cross Hands is just down the road from Upper Tumble.

We drove yesterday from Winchester ca. 1 P.M., to here by 7 P.M. In the morning, we shopped around Winchester and toured the cathedral till noon, then had lunch at the cathedral shop. The b and b in Winchester was much better—lavish breakfast of egg, bacon, toast, tomato, mushroom, juice, grapefruit. Each item was not meted out as with the Rye matron. A supercilious English couple in Winchester breakfast room, who smiled faintly and made eyes at all we said.

I had dreamt the night before that Tad D. gave me a written critique of my Singing in a Strange Land, saying it was not adequately Christian in its emphasis on pain and not joy. I felt in the dream that I carried what I called (again, in the dream) “mother pain.”

After breakfast, walked to town. Very fine, sunny morning. We walked past the Hampshire Record Office, a former church, which I would sorely like to have visited, but no time. Left K. and A. at Marks and Spencer, then walked to some new bookshop near the Kings Walk area. There I bought Edmund Gosse’s autobiography and P.L. Fermor’s Time of Gifts, which I’d been seeking unsuccessfully at home.

After that, into the bric-a-brac market on King’s Walk. Very expensive and chi-chi. Bought a butter knife, bone-handled, for 50 p and a silk scarf and woven belt for Diane. Bought myself a card that struck me, entitled “Artists’ Friend”—a picture of a bowl of goldfish.

Then to SPCK and Gilberts bookshop on the Square, and to a bakery for a coburg loaf, an iced bun, an Eccles cake (dry, tasteless, lardy), and a split cream-filled bun. After that, two cookware shops where I got a cookbook stand and jar labels. In SPCK I found Luke a birthday book and myself one, a handful of postcards, and a book on theological reflections re: AIDS.

Afterwards, tour of cathedral. The west window very impressive, but I grow weary of tourist-infested, clergy-haunted cathedrals with their entourage of sweet, decided old ladies in robes helping visitors. K. and A. and Steve insisted on having bookmarks hand-lettered by a cathedral calligraphist.

I’m torn between thinking these cathedrals awful great shows, and well-preserved shrines that still manage to maintain a religious aura. More of the former, I suspect, though I admire the Anglican ease with urging visitors gently to keep the religious in mind. But on the whole all churches in England have a sad museum quality rather than that lived-in look.

Lunch—prawns and mayonnaise on brown bread, cup of coffee. As we went out, I passed a table of one of those myriad little helpful old ladies with scatty hair. In fact, I believe she was the woman, enrobed, who greeted us earlier at the cathedral door.

She had a table full of delightful little watercolors. I bought a teak box with an oval water and meadows scene painted on front—crudely cut out, but that’s part of the charm. Also a locket of poppies for Heather M., an oval of poppies to hang on the all, and five notecards of flowers. I asked the woman to sign these, and she wrote her name on a card—Mary Rowlandson—talking distraitement all the while, as well-bred Englishwomen and Southern ones do so charmingly.

I told her I was happy to have Hampshire scenes because I apparently had ancestry here, and she said, “Yes, my mother was Scottish, too.” I think I was to infer that she feels a sense of belonging in Scotland such as I said I felt in Hampshire.

Then she said the scenes were all from the area between Winchester and Southampton, which is where I think the Batchelors came from. She asked the surname of my family, and I told her Batchelor. She said, “Yes! That’s a name one hears.” Altogether a delightful encounter.

The drive, less so. We flew through the countryside from Winchester to Wells, stopping briefly to buy strawberries just south of Cheddar. We also stopped at Wells and did a blitz tour of the cathedral, the most striking feature of which is the honey-colored façade with its many statues. I found no Godwins inside, and felt not so at home as in Hampshire.

As one reaches Somerset, the houses become cut stone, rather than what I guess is the wattle and daub construction of Hampshire. By afternoon the sky was lowering with intermittent patches of rain and a high cold wind, and this made the houses look forbidding and grim, though I imagine in full sun they would be beautiful. Most have stone walls around them, and the road from Wells to Cheddar often has stone-walled borders. In Wells, all the older part of the city seemed of this stone, with stone walls.

Between Wells and Cheddar, we stopped briefly in Wookey. I looked quickly through the church and churchyard for Godwins, finding none, but did photograph the church. The inside was spooky.

After this, stopped beside the road atop a hill to photograph the beautiful countryside. The rolling hills were simultaneously bathed in spots of sunlight and crowned with dark rain showers. Very green and lush and lots of sheep.

From this time, tired and dispirited. Stopped to get a pound of cheddar in Cheddar, only 88p. One of the nicest market crosses I’ve seen there. Bristol ugly and industrial, and the road around it to the Severn Bridge seemed interminable. I thought how many of my ancestors must have taken leave of England as they floated down the Severn.

We took the M5 interstate up to its end past Swansea, so I really can’t say much re: Wales. It was cold and rainy and getting late, so my impressions are not too happy. Lots of heavy industry in and around Swansea area, contributing to this.

At the interstate end, we stopped at a tourist information-cum-gasoline-cum-gift shop station. The information post was closed, so we went to the gift shop. It was full of short, stout, dark, elderly Welsh folks gabbling away, much more animated and much louder than the English. Steve said in the bathroom the little old Welshmen sang and locked arms to walk out.

Cross Hands is dismal. Has rained all morning. Has rained all night and morning. The town is a series of ugly rowhouses and dingy shops. The b and b is attached to a greasy fish and chips shop, and is dirty and smelly—apparently a Welsh truck stop, but we needed a quick place. Steve and I walked through town to Upper Tumble last afternoon and went into the Bethany Chapel, a Methodist church at top of the hill—the only church in town.

I think as we enter Celtic territory of Dr. Johnson and Boswell as they traveled in Scotland—the incessant complaints of English travelers that the more Celtic the area, the dirtier. Conversely, our breakfast this morning was much more lavish than in England, particularly in Kent.

The accent is fascinating, up and down as one is always told. And the eyes of people—far-away blue—are eerie. I had nightmares all night that A.’s ostentatious cross necklace made a woman who was a witch hostile, and only I perceived she was a witch. This I think in response to my sense of the eeriness of the landlady’s eyes—and exacerbated by the fact that I woke up in the night to hear women talking loudly in Welsh outside the window.

I also dreamt a woman leaned against my ear and told me, as though I’m foolish not to realize it, that I’m psychic. This was frightening, because it meant I had to acknowledge my intuitions, even when they warn me of something unpleasant ahead.

I also dreamt I was in a kind of line-up of people standing before Catholic priests in Arkansas, and I got picked out for notice as a theologian. In the dream, I saw how ugly transformations had been made in an Arkansas chapel, and I attributed the problems to clericalism—Arkansas Catholics not seeing times have changed.

+ + + + +

2:40 P.M. aboard Fishgard-Rosslare ferry waiting for departure. We left Cross Hands about 9 A.M. after huge breakfast of fried eggs, bangers, bacon, tomatoes, toast, marmalade, and tea. Drove an A road (40?), then got off on a B (4313) to Fishgard. The B road drive was lovely—narrow lanes all built up of banked earth and grass, sheep galore, vistas of rain-bathed hills draped in fog.

Fishgard a lively little town. Cold and driving rain. We walked and had coffee and bara brith, then to a pub where we had minestrone and ploughman’s lunch, with cider.

Then we shopped a bit. Very nice little bookshop where I got a Dylan Thomas card, a dark Welsh coast scene, and alphabetical posters for the children. I had managed to fill out all my postcards from Winchester as K. and A. went on about food (what is it?) and bathrooms (are they clean?), so mailed them, including a Dylan Thomas to Karen.

I feel boat motors beginning. Large cliff to my left, hillside with houses ahead.

In the Fishgard pub, we met a cute pair of English sisters, presumably spinsters. They were having tea, and were from Bath. Talked in duet—one saying something and the other finishing. As is usual in such maiden-sister duets in the South, one a touch horsey-aggressive masculine, the other submissive and coy. The latter kept pointing demurely up and saying she found it hard to travel because “I don’t like to go up there.” Weathered brown faces and iron-gray chopped hair. They looked like my Snead cousins with their gray eyes, and indeed, through their Godwin blood, the Sneads may have roots in Wells-Wookey.

+ + + + +

4 P.M. Out in the Irish sea. I napped a bit as we departed—left Fishgard ca. 3:15.

Winchester, 19.6.90: Sunlit Cathedrals and Hawaiian Shirts

We got settled late last night and were so tired, I got to write nothing in the journal. Now the 2nd night we’re in England. Writing this at a b and b in Winchester as sun sets, 8:50 P.M.

We arrived in England yesterday by jet foil at 12:15 English time. I was so tired I slept on the foil—especially after a lunch on the foil of salmon in a cloyingly sweet pink sauce, a meat salad in an equally sweet sauce, a good potato salad in a mustard vinaigrette, and frangipani and chocolate.

Things very tense with Steve and K. and A. in afternoon. K. almost hysterical as we passed through customs, a quality British inspectors apparently do not appreciate. We managed to get through, got the rental car, and drove on to Canterbury. Was beginning to get gray and drizzly in Canterbury, and with the tensions and growing headache, all is a fog.

We did a quick and perfunctory tour of the cathedral, which was full of (other) tourists, especially Germans. Then went to St. Margaret’s church, now converted into a rather hideous sound and statue and olfactory show of the Canterbury Tales. Since the guidebook said it, we went!

The real show were two English middle-aged couples, one from Sheffield, others from some place I didn’t understand. The men were both pot-bellied, one in a hat saying, “It used to be wine, women, and song; now it’s beer, the old lady, and telly.” The other had a loud Hawaiian shirt. One woman had long curly brown hair pulled into a top-of-head ponytail, a loud blouse, shorts, and sandals—very large and simpering. Shades of H.E. Bates.

From Canterbury through a beautiful Kentish village, Chilham. Had whitewashed buildings, one of them a Clements Cottage. A little bookstore in the village was lovely—went in to buy a map.

Then to Rye, by then full rain. We got in around 6 P.M. and found a b and b on the outskirts, chi-chi name Little S. Very middle-class gnomes in garden and ugly bright flowers. Owner, a Mrs. P., false-jolly with little shrewd eyes screwed up in merriment but actually piercing and evaluating.

Went out to eat in Rye and found the experience depressing. The fish and chips place we wanted to go to closed at 7, and A., misunderstanding, caused a scene.

So we went to a restaurant next door with local, high-priced food. I had lamb chops with tomatoes, mushrooms, and peas. K. trout and fennel, Steve and A. grilled lemon sole. With this came six vegetables. Not bad, but rude waiter named Jeremy. In fact, many tradesfolk we’ve encountered here seem mercenary and rude, with false bonhomie.

Today, got up at 7:30 and took hour’s walk down a lane. Sunny—took photos of Rye from a distance. Think I heard a cuckoo. Thought of home as we walked up some lanes—sheep and rabbits and green verges.

After frugal breakfast, drove to Winchelsea and went in pretty 14th-century church. Took pictures. Then through Hastings and up to a little village with 16th- and 17th-century pubs, Sedelscombe. Then over to Brighton—hideous, what we saw—and a little village called Alfriston, which was lovely. Another 14th-century church and a 13th-century clergy house, which we toured. Then had a pub lunch of stilton and bread and celery, chutney, cucumber, tomato, and ale.

After that, through Arundel, Lewes, and Petworth, where we didn’t stop, then on to Winchester. Somewhere along the way, something clicked—I felt a sense of belonging or something. Shortly after this, we passed from Sussex into Hampshire.

Got into Winchester after driving through beautiful South Downs Hills, many with ripe wheat. Winchester beautiful when we arrived at 5 P.M.—full sun. Got our b and b and walked to cathedral as it closed at 6:30. Then to St. Swithuns church and afterward to Wyckham Arms pub for country paté and cider. After that to St. Giles Hill, where we saw sun setting over the city. Then along Itchen River to b and b.

Belgium, 18.6.90: Bright Poppies and Purgatorial Trains

Just passed through Leuven, Belgium, 8 A.M. I awoke about 6:30 after a fitful night of half-rest as the train rocked, then got up at 7:30 when I smelled coffee. Steve had bought some from a conductor.

The countryside is flatter than that around Lübeck yesterday, of course—very pretty, non-industrial. Every house has its bit of well-tended garden—the thrifty Belgians of lore. Gallia est omnis divisa in tres partes, Caesar said, and what has that to do with anything, except that I recall the Belgian tribes figured largely in Caesar.

Some of the fields have verges of poppies—the poppies of Flanders Field—bright scarlet. It’s overcast but not dark, a haze over the small fields of grain. Each parcel of land appears to be divided into several small grain fields and several pasture areas, which may have a mix of a few Holstein cows, a pig or two, a few grazing sheep.

The farmhouses are fascinating—dark red brick, red-tile or thatched roofs, connecting buildings of the same construction. They appear ancient (in many cases) and well cared-for, but not fussily so—history lived in and loved because it’s just there and still useful, unselfconscious preservation, the best sort. In contrast to Lübeck, which was too touristy and museumized.

Most of the small towns we pass through have high church steeples. Now coming into what appears to be called Scharbeek—the terrain grows a bit more industrial and ugly as we go east (or south?).

I woke up repeating the Canterbury Tales’ prologue to myself. Just said my line re: Caesar to Steve and was roundly ignored . . . .

8:25—just arrived in North Brussels. Very drab-looking, dirty, modern. Signs in both French and Flemish—Te Koop/ á Vendre . . . .

9:45 A.M. Arrived right on time in Oostende. Walked in light rain to embarkation point of jet foil, and sitting now in the uncomfortable waiting room after an uncomfortable breakfast of dry bread and thin slice of cheese, served by a surly and sore-lipped Belgian girl.

Hamburg, 17.6.90: The Dance of Patriarchy and Marian Churches

We’ve just boarded the train to Oostende at 10:15 P.M. at the Altona station. We depart at 10:23, and go through Paris—arrive sometime ca. 9 A.M., I believe. Very frazzling, continuous squawking . . . all the worse, because we’re cooped up (pun intended) in a 4-berth couchette arrangement.

I feel increasingly that I write such superficial things in this journal. Partly the lack of time to rest and reflect, and being around other people all the time, particularly people who never shut up and say such damn stupid things.

Today: went to a brief service in the Akadamie chapel. In addition to the international group in residence, an East German couple were there, and two young men from East Germany gave a shared homily. One of them irritated me: tall and thin with a shock of electric hair (I realize this is a mixed metaphor, but I use it with forethought), and false ha! ha! funny. The other seemed gay—earring in right ear, which seems to mean something in Germany, and quite attractive, red hair, white skin, blue eyes.

The service made me think about patriarchy. I had a visceral reaction to the DDR couple and to the many other couples in the group. The DDR one consisted of a small, plain, devoted, and rather tight-lipped young Frau and her jocular husband. Why do heterosexual churchmen always appear to feel they must apologize for being interested in religion? Why do the women so often seem so hard, so covertly manipulative underneath that sweet frosting of piety?

Patriarchy: hymns (in German) reeking of male domination, a male savior-God who reaches down his strong hand to save his errant children; a piety of threat-rescue rather than of peace-celebration, of unity with nature. All this seems to result in a type of Christianity utterly bent on order and control. Part of the fear of homosexuality is surely fear of loss of control as the instinctual-feminine asserts itself. To allow the feminine to have a larger role in shaping the course of a Christian church is to open the door to a very different piety and theology, a more holistic and creation-centered one.

After church, a brief coffee time with those in church. Mice discussion with Barbara M., a woman from Köln in residence at the Akademie. She told us that fascism is far from dead in Germany. The sermon had been about the fact that the date the Berlin wall fell was almost on the Krystalnacht anniversary. The homilist said that we must never forget this history.

Then a drive to Lübeck, which to tell the truth I did not entirely enjoy—too much companionship, too hurried, far too many stupid comments from A. Saw the Marienkirche, the cathedral that was destroyed in 1942 and rebuilt later. The medieval city was interesting, but not to visit with squawking companions.

Back to Hamburg, dinner at a nice Turkish restaurant with Wolfram W. and family. Had a lamb-eggplant kebab, rice, salad, wine, and a Schwarzwälder ice cream. And now to Paris and Oostende.

Hamburg, 16.6.90: Altona Shopping and Organ Grinders

A long and not very satisfying day. After the long night, I had to be up early to address E. Kamphausen’s class—on the situation of African Americans after the end of Civil Rights. Not eventful, and I feel I did poorly. Felt quite ill on awaking and after the class.

After that, we went (all of us) to Altona and shopped a few hours along a new shopping mall, at one of the main S-Bahn stops. At a flea market under an overpass, I bought a little German doll for Kate for 5 DM. Last night, Wolfram W. had given me a little stuffed giraffe that T. wanted K. to have, so now she has two such toys.

Then we bought Apfelkorn, Kirschwasser, and some postcards, and had lunch at a Chinese restaurant in the shopping mall: chicken and almonds, beef and bok choy, Nasi goring, tea.

Impressions: Altona is becoming a non-German, international area. Many Turks and Portuguese, and Turkish, Italian, etc., restaurants. Even the cheese shops I saw, which had Dutch names, saying that they carried Turkish specialities.

On the one hand, these Mediterranean folks seem to bring something vibrant to the phlegmatic Germans, and especially to their food. On the other hand, they seem less tolerant, and one Portuguese woman threw a cup at Steve’s and my feet, which Steve appeared to attribute to homophobia. In fact, there appeared to be a good number of gay men in the mall—a fact one would attribute to the rapidly changing neighborhood.

The class: the German students look washed out and ill-kempt, the foreign ones not so. But the Germans are obviously well-read and thoughtful.

The restaurant: very tall Chinese who spoke English well. They turned out to be from Hong Kong. Most striking about the food was the sheer flavor of the meat—the sheer natural flavor even without sauce.

In front of the entrance to the Altona S-Bahn station is a huge statue—cast bronze?—of a man holding a fish. We made a picture.

After Altona, we returned and had coffee and Mohnkuchen and Kirschkucken, which we had bought at Altona. Then Kathleen and Abner rested while Steve and I walked to the botanical garden, fighting fiercely all the way over this and that silly thing.

The gardens were not arresting, at least not at this time of year. There was a restful Japanese garden with water and a pagoda, a sort of simulated Louisiana swamp with cypress trees and Spanish moss and a rose garden, inter alia. The rose garden was nicest of all, very odiferous. The most fragrant roses were planted at the front, among them a climbing red Aimable rouge, a white Königin von Dänemark, and a Rosa bourbonia called Great Western—a pale red with full round blossoms that was exceedingly fragrant.

After the gardens, we walked through the Jenisch park where there’s a late 18th-century neoclassical house on a hill—imposing but not stunning. As we walked, I kept thinking of Thomas Mann, of his world-weariness and wondered if this reflected a kind of North German sense that life is, after all, full of struggle and pain. The overcast day elicited these thoughts, the faded blue eyes and washed-out expressions of the people we passed. Who remembers the war, I wondered?

We walked on along the Elbchausee to the Nienstedter church, a half-timbered 18th-century church at which the social elite hold their weddings. Behind this was a pretty thatched farmhouse with an attached building that had pots of geraniums and lace curtains in the windows—some sort of parish house.

Across the place was a pub marked C. Schepel, on the corner of Hasselmanstrasse and Ninestedtner Marktplatz. This was beautiful on the outside, dingy and smoky and rather drab within. Except it did have a frieze mural, much faded, with the dates 1848-98. This had a saying: “Wer nicht liebt und trinkt und singt, er nie zu wahre Freude bringt. Prosit!”

The bartender was a nice middle-aged man who understood English well enough. We drank Alsterwasser, a sort of shandy, and ate a pretzel. Then we walked back via Nienstedter Marktplatz, and discovered this is where we’ve been shopping and going for afternoon coffee. This is where the fair was set up, and this evening it was in full swing.

So we went and got Kathleen and Abner and walked back to the fair. We ate Thüringer sausages, currywurst, and Schinkenwurst, then a plate of delicious mushrooms fried in butter. I took pictures of a puppet theater from Lübeck, and of the top of the carousel. Earlier in the day, at Altona, we saw an organ grinder, a sweet little old man accompanied by a woman with a can, and took a picture.

Hamburg, 15.6.90: Pineapple Sauerkraut and New Pentecost

I’m actually writing this on the 15th, because the 14th was a long and full day. I slept till 11 A.M., and at 12:30, Wolfram picked us up for dinner at his house. Prior to that, Steve and I walked for coffee at the nearby konditorei, and had a kännchen each with kirschkuchen.

En route to Wolfram W.’s, we got to see (by car) sections of Hamburg we have not seen. Around the Altona S-bahn stop, where there are supposed to be interesting shops, were lots of Turks, Turkish and Portuguese restaurants.

Wolfram W. stopped at what looked like a gas station but actually apparently collects bottles for recycling and sells cases of mineral water and beer. I don’t know if this is state-run or not. He returned case upon case of bottles and bought a case of water and of beer.

His apartment and family are lovely. His wife, K., had made a marvelous meal of sauerkraut with pineapple, kässeler rippchen, wursts, and potatoes. With these she served 3 mustards—a krautersenf, a sweet Bavarian mustard, and an ordinary one. Dessert was strawberries and vanilla ice cream.

The children A. (10) and T. (11) were charming. T. speaks English well; A. has not yet studied it in school. They were, as with most German children, almost frighteningly well-behaved. During dinner, the phone rang and A. answered. It was the press, for W.—a call he was expecting. A. told the caller he was occupied. When she returned to table, W. exploded (relatively so) because she had made this decision on her own. T. chided her as well.

A. sat quietly, mutely, expressionless. What goes on inside a German child in a scene such as this? Children in my family would at least have tried to talk back and defend themselves. Do German children not feel the urge to do this, or shame at being publicly chastised? If so, where does that emotion go? K. did seem protective.

The apartment: several rooms with large windows (on the 3rd—us, 4th) floor overlooking a green central yard full of trees. All is painted white to catch the light, which was sparse yesterday as the day was overcast. A study had an imposing bookcase of bottom drawers and top glass, shelves, an interesting mid-19th century American photograph of a Dane in a mahogany frame, two oak writing tables with dropped lids, and a large oaken chest from England, 17th-century. There was a vase of dried flowers and a pot of some daisy that is of the chrysanthemum family. The fixture was a Tiffany-like shade.

In the entryway was a large armoire, very plain but striking, of what may have been maple. The transom of the entrance door was covered by a paper on which had been stamped in large colored letters, “Für A. und T. zum Taufe.”

The study connected via a doorway with pocket doors to a sort of parlor with leather chairs which adjoined the dining room. On the dining room wall was a series of black and white shots of K. holding T. as a baby.

After dinner, we returned to the Akademie and Steve and I walked to the nearby Hirschpark. Beautiful green walks around a central enclosure of deer, with rabbits, peacocks, ducks; a laneway of lindens and another of massive banks of rhododendrons; striking views of the Elbe, some overlooking thatched-roof houses.

The evening: unexpected grace. I met the group to whom I was to lecture at 7:30, and it turned out to be international: Rev. P., a Presbyterian minister in Korea; Senhor P., a Brazilian Mennonite interested in American Mennonite responses to civil religion; Rev. S., a Hamburg Lutheran minister concerned with feminist issues and constructing a post-patriarchal christology; J.-M. E., a Sorbonne-educated Camerounian priest and author of several books; another African theologian; a German theology student; a woman from Köln who is in residence here for a year; an American philosopher-theologian, F.G., who teaches theology here; and several others whom I don’t recall well.

I lectured briefly on the social gospel, structural sin, the American South, and hope of approximating the kingdom of God in history. Then there was a multilingual and lively discussion (Rev. P., and Senhor P. spoke German but not English); some things had to be put into French for the Camerounian. I felt—and I say this without undue sentimentality—as if I were at a new Pentecost. What was striking was the way in which the Spirit assembles those of many tongues and cultures and theological concerns, but who share a common vision of a church in service to the reign of God. Erhard K. summed up very nicely what I felt by speaking of an international community of friends.

Afterwards, both W.W. and F.G. lauded my lecture and expressed an interest in bringing Steve and me to Hamburg for a semester or year.