Christian Ethics

            While serving on active duty in the United States Air Force in the mid 1970s, I received an assignment to be stationed at Rhein-Main Air Base near Frankfurt, Germany.  While waiting for an apartment on base, I, and my family, lived temporarily in an apartment in a little town a few miles South of Frankfurt named Grafenhausen.  Grafenhausen is a small German village in the District of Darmstadt.  It is just an ordinary small German town and its only claim to fame that I am aware of is that it is 750 years old.  We resided on the one main street, paved with cobblestones, which wound its way East and West through the town, at an address called #12 Wixhauserstrasse.  We had many interesting and fun experiences living there.

            One of the fun things which I enjoyed was drinking beer, and Grafenhausen had several establishments where beer could be purchased.  The place I usually gravitated to was named the Gasthof Lindenhof, a very ordinary German Gasthaus which served Heidelberger Schlossquel—a really good bier.  The sign outside this gasthaus had a picture of a linden tree.  Underneath was the proprietor’s name:  Gg. Schmidt.  Inside were the standard gasthaus fixtures:  wooden tables, wooden chairs, and a bar where the bier was drawn.  One of the tables was reserved for regulars.  It had a sign on it saying:  Stammtisch.  Another reserved table near it had a sign saying in German:  Table reserved for hunters, fishermen, and other liars.

            On my first visit, being a stranger in town, I entered the room, saw a number of people sitting at the stammtisch, understood it was reserved for regular patrons, so sat by myself at another table and ordered a bier.  It was not long before the friendly men sitting at the stammtisch noticed me and invited me to come sit with them.  I spoke rudimentary German, most of the men spoke some English, so we had good times together.

            After a few visits I realized the barkeep was the Gg. Schmidt listed on the sign, and that his name translated to English as George Smith.  One night I was introduced to his Father, an 80 year old man, who was also named George Smith.  I especially enjoyed trying to communicate with this old gentleman.  In talking with him I found that he had served as a soldier in the German Army in the First World War; that he served in the infantry in France.  I asked him what that was like, and he told me it was terrible.  Then he told me something which was especially interesting:  He said, “Charlie, Every Sunday there in Frankreich (one German word for France) mothers and wives would go to church and pray that their sons and husbands would be safe, and that their armies would prevail.  Here in Deutschland every Sunday mothers and wives would go to church and pray that their sons and husbands would be safe, and that their armies would overcome.”  “Charlie”, He said, pointing upward with his index finger  “It was the same God”.