An Interview with Pastor Ulrich Barniske

Symbolic of Germany’s peaceful reunification in 1989-90, the renowned Brandenburg Gate marks the start of an ancient roadway from Berlin to the town of Brandenburg an der Havel, some 50 miles to the west. For more than three decades— including the final decade of the G.D.R.—the town’s Reformed minister was Ulrich Barniske. Now retired, he remains active as chair of Evangelische Partnerhilfe (www. evangelische-partnerhilfe.de), a charitable initiative by German pastors and other church personnel to provide financial support to Lutheran and Reformed counterparts across the former Communist bloc. 

The largest Protestant body in today’s reunified Germany is the E.K.D. (Evangelische Kirche in Deutschland, or Protestant Church in Germany). A predominantly Lutheran federation, this also contains a Reformed minority, now including Pastor Barniske’s Brandenburg church. While one of only around 15 Reformed congregations in Communist East Germany, these were widely distributed from the city of Magdeburg, 100 miles west of Berlin, to the towns of Butzow in the far northeast and Görlitz in the far southeast, both near the Polish border

In late 2019 the editor of the East-West Church Report met with Pastor Barniske near the Tränenpalast [German: Palace of Tears], a former Berlin Wall crossing point not far from the Brandenburg Gate. Accompanied by his American friend, the Rev. Jane Holslag, Pastor Barniske shared something of his experience during the G.D.R. period. The original conversation took place in German.

What is the background of your Reformed congregation in Brandenburg an der Havel?

Pastor Barniske: After 1685 many thousands of French Huguenot refugees came to Germany [along a northeasterly route] via Frankfurt am Main, Halberstadt, Magdeburg, and Berlin. Some went as far as Königsburg, now called Kaliningrad [former East Prussia, now Russian territory]. In the early 1800s every third person in Berlin was a Huguenot. 

In Brandenburg an der Havel there were originally two Reformed communities, one French and one German. In 1687 they received St. John’s Church, right on the River Havel, which they used until 1806. During the Napoleonic Wars the church was used to store animal fodder, but after 1815 it was cleaned up and used for worship once again. In 1835 the French- and German-speaking congregations joined together because there were so few French speakers left. After a few generations the French had mostly assimilated—there were many mixed marriages—or moved away from the area. 

On 31 March 1945—Holy Saturday—St. John’s Church was very seriously damaged during an American air raid. So on Easter the congregation no longer had a church. The main nave remained in ruins, but in the early 1950s the side nave was built up into a church. In the late 1940s Swiss churches had offered to help fund full restoration, but the city authorities refused permission, saying: “We need construction materials for more important things than building churches.” In August 1986 the roof of the  side church fell in—the noise was so loud, people thought that an airplane had crashed. It was a very old part of the roof that could no longer hold the weight of water that was seeping in. The mayor then said that the church would have to be demolished. I quickly informed Berlin, and the officials responsible for protecting monuments objected. So the church remained standing, but our community could not do anything with it—we were too small to support the building. 

Rev. Holslag: I always found it astonishing that the Denkmalschutz [German: historic monument preservation authority] intervened. That was often the place of salvation for many church buildings in the G.D.R. Congregations inherited them but could not afford to look after them and had to let them go to ruin. Yet the Denkmalschutz always somehow had a say. That was an ironic twist of history in the G.D.R. 

Pastor Barniske: Yes, you could say that! 

Is your own background in the Reformed Church, Pastor Barniske?

 Pastor Barniske: I was actually born in Martin Luther’s town, Wittenberg! But my father came from Wiesloch, a town near Heidelberg [southwest Germany, 50 miles from the French border]. That whole region has a very strong Reformed influence. So I was raised on the Heidelberg Catechism, in a Reformed congregation in Stendal [80 miles west of Berlin], where my father was pastor. I studied theology in Halle together with my future wife, who was raised Lutheran—we were ordained together in Magdeburg in 1976. I did not serve a Reformed congregation initially—no posts were free—but in 1982 we moved to Brandenburg an der Havel. I served as pastor there for 31 years, until 2013. One is pastor for life after ordination, so I have taken on various duties in retirement, such as my work for Evangelische Partnerhilfe. In the 1950s a West German fund was set up to support church personnel in the G.D.R. because their income was so low. I myself was a beneficiary—it meant that I was able to buy winter tires for my car. After 1992 the G.D.R. pastors did not need this anymore, but in Hungary, Poland, and elsewhere in the former Eastern bloc it was still needed, so Evangelische Partnerhilfe was set up as a successor body.

Did you want to study theology at a young age? 

Pastor Barniske: I was initially promised a university place to study medicine following my term of military service. That ran from 1967 to 1969, so I was a soldier during the terrible events of 1968—the Soviet invasion of Czechoslovakia. We [East] German soldiers were not sent to Czechoslovakia, but we understood that if we were ordered to move our tanks that would mean we were at war. Forces in the region where we were stationed were slated to fight against the Dutch tank army. This made me think, and I realized that I could not possibly support that. 

Alongside the political events of August 1968 there was a second level of shock that completely shook me up— my father died very suddenly that autumn. From 1943-45 he had been a prisoner of war in America, and he saw the flash of the first atomic bomb test with his own eyes. The wind blew radioactive clouds over his prisoner of war camp. He became sick with leukemia in the 1960s and died in 1968, aged 55. The doctors said that this radiation was probably the cause. All this meant that I could not remain neutral when it came to nuclear weapons, war, and so on; I am vehemently opposed. So in November 1968 I applied to leave the army in order to study theology in Halle. My release was granted in April 1969. 

How was life generally for pastors in the G.D.R.?

Pastor Barniske: There were very difficult phases between church and state, such as in the first half of the 1950s. Until 1952 people still considered the reunification of Germany a possibility, but that hope receded as the G.D.R.’s resolve for a socialist system grew ever stronger. The ruling party fought churches in particular, especially Protestants. I have an early memory from soon after the popular uprising of 16 June 1953. I was five years old, standing with my father and twin brother outside a prison in our town. We were waiting for the release of our church’s elder provost and youth worker, who had both been arrested. 

Later things were also difficult, but there was some change after [East German leader] Walter Ulbricht was replaced by Erich Honecker in 1971. The churches seemed to be more in the background, even though they were constantly surveilled by the Stasi secret police. I have read my own Stasi file—there was an operational case in which I was surveilled from 1977 to 1980. 

You were constantly surveilled during those years? 

Pastor Barniske: Our telephone was, yes. I was telephoned by a friend who was in West Germany at the time of the call, and I think that led the Stasi to suspect a link between me and a doctor who attempted to flee to the West. But whatever was written up [in the Stasi files] in the final years of the G.D.R. was probably destroyed. Brandenburg an der Havel belonged to the administrative district of Potsdam, where—like Berlin—files were shredded very quickly. 

Did things change for you towards the end of the G.D.R. period? By the 1980s the churches were much more socially active, including in the popular pacifist movement.

 Pastor Barniske: Being a Christian was always associated with a specific position: “Krieg darf um Gottes Willen nicht sein.” [German: “According to God’s will, there should be no war.”] This was articulated ever more clearly during the 1980s through the Friedensdekaden [annual “ten days for peace” prayer meetings] and the Conciliary Process for Justice, Peace, and the Integrity of Creation [series of ecumenical gatherings on peace and ecological issues during 1988-89.] We also had various Kirchentage [German: Church conventions]—not just one, but in multiple cities such as Rostock, Erfurt, Magdeburg, and Dresden. Discussions there were absolutely political. 

Rev. Holslag: What happened from the 1970s going into the 1980s, in your opinion, to permit this volume of discussion and political argument within the church? 

Pastor Barniske: The Helsinki Accords of the C.S.C.E. [Conference on Security and Co-operation in Europe] in the 1970s were significant. Among other things, they dealt with human rights. People who were discontented and wanted to leave the G.D.R. were therefore able to make human rights’ issues a topic of conversation. Another group of people reasoned: “We want to live in the G.D.R., but we want it to be a life worth living; in freedom and justice. We see much of that is being called into question by the oneparty state, and we cannot accept this. Our Christian faith tells us that we must raise our voices.” The situation was extremely tense and became increasingly dramatic during the 1980s. 

Rev. Holslag: It was noticeable then that people were more daring. When I lived in Potsdam [in 1987-88] I was invited to a Kirchentag where there was a theater performance by a youth group who were critical of the government. I knew little German then, but I understood who Honecker was—and people were laughing! 

Pastor Barniske: In the 1980s sermons were also political, attempting to interpret biblical texts in relation to the given situation, and to lead members of the congregation in such a way that they could think in step with this. 

With which biblical texts, for example? Pastor Barniske: The Beatitudes, Matthew 5: The Sermon on the Mount. Or prophetic texts in the Old Testament: Isaiah and Jeremiah. 

About power? 

Pastor Barniske: About power and powerlessness. What it means that God becomes powerless in Jesus Christ and at the same time fully demonstrates His power.

Did it become palpable in the 1980s that something was about to change in the G.D.R.?

Pastor Barniske: There was massive tension among the population and rising uncertainty among those who had political responsibility. For example, businesses run by the ruling Party could no longer explain why things were not  improving. It felt like driving into a brick wall. But it was not at all clear that what happened in November 1989 [the fall of the Berlin Wall] was going to happen. 

By the late 1980s church meetings in the G.D.R. had developed enormous power. In 1987 there were 20,000 people at our Kirchentag to celebrate the 750th anniversary of the foundation of Berlin. In July 1989 there were 60,000 people singing and praying at our Kirchentag in Leipzig on the theme, “What is man, that thou art mindful of him?” [Psalm 8:4]. 

Rev. Holslag: That was unthinkable earlier. 

Pastor Barniske: Yes, it only became possible in the 1980s. The opening of the Wall on 9 November 1989 happened due to an error by Herr Schabowski. [Editor’s note: Günter Schabowski was a G.D.R. spokesman who on 9 November 1989 publicly interpreted new changes to travel regulations to mean immediate permission for G.D.R. citizens to leave the country. This led to border guards opening the Berlin Wall that night in response to huge crowds forming at its crossing points.] From the Church’s point of view, the deciding factors were the Conciliar Process, the Kirchentage, and so on, accompanied and supported by the people. That was more important, politically—9 November was just a dam bursting