Ed. L. Miller
It is, of course, a literal, physical Chair I’m talking about. It was the sitting Chair of the greatest theologian of the 20th century, Karl Barth (1886-1968). By “greatest” I don’t necessarily mean “the best,” but I do mean the most influential and prolific—an impressive list of publications, aside from the multi-volume, eight-thousand pages of the Church Dogmatics! Barth sat in that big, wing-style, leather Chair on innumerable occasions. I’m told that the BBC once did a video interview showing Barth sitting in the Chair. It had followed Barth through a succession of Swiss parsonages and university posts in Germany, until Barth settled in Switzerland as a Professor of theology at the University of Basel. Eventually, the Barths took up residence in the Bruderholz area, just west of Basel, and the Chair found a permanent place in the living room.
How did I, of all people, wind up with the Barth Chair? And how did Dr. Stanley Grenz almost get it from me? The story goes like this.
I
I had received my doctorate in philosophy from USC in 1965. On the occasion of my first sabbatical at the University of Colorado, I undertook a second doctorate, this one in theology, which I began at the University of Basel during the academic year of ’73-’74 and completed during my second sabbatical in ’80-’81. It was during the first sojourn I was introduced to a remarkable man who, along with his wife, was studying theology. His name was Dale Brownell. At that time he was kind and supportive sort of person, but also given to flamboyance and exaggeration. The story is told, on good evidence, that in the “streaking” days he once ran around the block in freezing cold, naked except for cowboy boots. When properly clothed, his attire consisted, without fail, of a green suit with vest.
We advance now to my second sojourn in Basel. The Brownells were still there. One fall evening, I and my wife, Cynthia, joined the Brownells for dinner in a cozy Fischstube on the Rhine. I was already aware that when the Brownells first arrived in Basel at the end of the sixties, they had been invited (I don’t know why) to take over the care and occupation of the recently vacated Barth house until its sale. (It was, in fact, sold, and is today maintained by a foundation. Barth’s study, and an adjacent room, is just he left it, filled with books and a print of Grünewald’s Crucifixion, and portraits of Mozart and Calvin positioned at equal heights.) After a year or two, the Barth house was sold, and it became necessary for the Brownells to move. According to the Brownells, Nelly Hoffman Barth sought to reward the Brownells for their care of the place during the interim. This she did by giving them a large leather sitting chair, along with the story that she had given this chair as a wedding present to Barth on the occasion of their wedding in 1913—apparently, an exchange of gifts was the custom. The Chair went with the Brownells to an apartment in Basel. It stayed there for many years.
But then in the Fischstube, in the fall ’80, the Brownells announced that they were moving again and disposing of unwanted stuff, including the Chair: Would I like the Chair? They themselves detested Barth’s theology but knew that I had Barthian inclinations. So, within a few days I and a friend (Richard Atwood, from Texas, and who finished a doctorate at Basel, married a Swiss girl, took up a ministry in Switzerland, and lived happily ever after) were found trudging along, over several blocks, bearing the Chair on our shoulders, to Sommergasse 138. I faithfully occupied the Chair while reading Calvin’s Institutes and, in good Barthian fashion, smoking my pipe and a vast quantity of tobacco.
But then doubts began to creep in. As mentioned earlier, Brownell, even at the time of my first Basel sojourn, was a strange bird. But by the time of my second sojourn his delusional states had advanced considerably—the last time I saw him he was preparing to conduct a special concert for the Hamburg Symphony Orchestra, provided that the proposed program met with his approval! I decided that a little more investigation was called for.
I called Franziska Zellweger, Barth’s daughter, born in 1914 and still living in the area. She did have a recollection of a chair that had been in the family for years; but, she said, she had tried to suppress the bad memories of those years—an allusion to Barth’s long-lasting relationship to his assistant, the good-looking Charlotta von Kirschbaum, who lived with the Barths and often traveled with Barth. Undeterred, I decided to get it from the horse’s mouth if possible.
Markus Barth, the son of Karl Barth, was a professor of New Testament at Basel. During my first sojourn, I took a course from him and had many discussions with him about his father’s theology. During the second sojourn, the question of the Chair came up. Yes, he recalled such a chair. Yes, he would be glad to come and look at it. “For the price of a lunch of course,” he added jovially. We met after one of his classes. We drove to Sommergasse 138. We took the elevator to the third floor. We entered my flat. And without hesitation he said: “Ja, that is the Chair!” I then made good on my pledge for lunch, over which we talked about natural theology: “The idea of ‘natural theology’ makes no more sense than ‘a horse of a cow.’”
The time came to leave Basel. Over these years we had kept our little apartment, making occasional trips to Basel and renting it out. Though in Colorado, we decided to let it go. My friend in Basel, Al Stone, was preparing to return to the States, along with a house-full of furniture, and I asked him to bring the Chair too. For a while, Stones kept the Chair in his office at Fuller Seminary and eventually took it with them to Oxnard. It sat in their garage for several years. Finally, I had it shipped to Boulder. My office at the University of Colorado, Hellems 274, became the home of the Barth Chair.
After so many years of wear and tear, it became apparent that the Chair had to be restored—the leather was hanging in shreds and you could hardly sit in it without sliding onto the floor. It cost me $1,000 to restore the Chair to its original state. But think of it: It was the Chair of the greatest theologian of the 20th century.
II
Stan Grenz was a student of mine at the University of Colorado. He wanted to become a Baptist minister. Little did I expect that he would grow into one of the leading evangelical theologians of our time.
I have a vivid recollection of Grenz the undergraduate. One incident in particular speaks volumes about Grenz’s being a little “out of it” respecting the real world. It was toward the end of the semester and, in fact, the end of his college career. He entered my office seeking advice. He had received a notice of some sort inviting him to join an organization of some sort. It seemed to him to have something to do with Greece. I informed him that he been to elected to Phi Beta Kappa!
Grenz went on to Denver Seminary, a Baptist-oriented institution. Grenz himself was affiliated with the Baptist General Conference. I attended his ordination and (though a Lutheran) was allowed to say a few words of support. Probably, the most important influence in seminary was that of Dr. Vernon Grounds, Dr. Gordon Lewis, and Dr. Bruce Demarest. In the meantime, his wife, Edna, was completing a B.A. in music.
Before his graduation from seminary, Grenz had settled on the life of a professor. But where would he go for a doctorate? I myself claim some credit for what happened next.
During my first sojourn in Basel, I took a trip to Munich for the purpose of meeting with the German professor, Wolfhart Pannenberg. A good relationship was established, including plans for a visit to Boulder as part of a lecture tour. This visit to Boulder came off in good style. It included a brunch at my home, with many friends and faculty people. And Grenz. Thus, I had the occasion to make the introduction: “Prof. Pannenberg, this is Mr. Grenz. Mr. Grenz, this is Prof. Pannenberg.” A spark was immediately struck, and we know the rest of the story. Stan and his wife, Edna, were off to Germany, he to work on his doctorate with Pannenberg, and she to work for “Meals on Wheels.” My wife and I once visited them. They occupied the back portion of a small church. They put us up in a small, unfinished area, up above someplace. We learned early in the morning that it was the belfry!
After his doctoral work at Munich, he returned to the States where he held a teaching post at North American Baptist Seminary and, later, Carey Theological College in Vancouver. He distinguished himself as a theologian to be reckoned with. Edna was in the process of distinguishing herself as a director of choirs and eventually earning a Doctor of Worship Studies.
Stan’s death was as untimely as it was shocking. At the pinnacle of his career, he was writing, publishing, teaching, and traveling at breakneck speed. It was my privilege to have coauthored a book with him. And it was an honor that he dedicated one of his books to an old professor and friend.
I think it was about six months before he died that I saw Stan for the last time. He was in Denver to visit his mother, and came to visit me in Boulder too. We met for dinner at the Cheesecake Factory on the Pearl St. mall. We talked about his work. We talked about my work. We talked about Pannenberg. We talked about our families. We talked about his move to Baylor University and return to Regent. We talked about the publishing business. And we talked about the Chair.
Stan knew the story of the Chair. He also knew that I had been diagnosed with brain cancer and had gone through radiation, chemo, and three brain surgeries. A doubtful future, to say the least. It probably took a little courage for him to pose the question: “Ed, what’s going to happen to the Barth Chair when you’re gone?” I had not thought that much about it. But, yes, what a splendid idea! It would go to Grenz! But life has a funny way of giving and then taking it back. It was not I but Stan who was taken first. He died suddenly from a massive brain hemorrhage.
Someday, in the not too distant future, each of us, like an old worn out leather Chair, will finally collapse into a heap of molecules. Toward the end of his life, Marlon Brando mused: “What the hell was that all about?” Less cynical was Karl Barth, the greatest theologian of the 20th century. He once responded to a question from the audience by singing:
Jesus loves me this I know,
for the Bible tells me so.
