The Crooked Steeple

Written by J. Friesen

There is a town in northern Germany, a short ride southeast from Hamburg along the Ilmenau River, which has in its center a church where Johann Sebastian Bach was said to have received organ lessons as a young man.  The church is an imposing gothic structure of wood, brick, and mortar, and it occupies a significant plot of land, spreading out over several hundred feet. Its most distinguishing feature is its towering steeple – the tallest in Lower Saxony, reaching 108 meters into the sky.  Yet what makes this steeple most remarkable isn’t how it dominates the otherwise humble landscape it inhabits, but rather, its crookedness.

Though varying accounts exist, the legend behind the crooked steeple can be estimated in the following way:

For several decades the town had been waiting in great anticipation for the church’s completion at the eastern end of the town square.  Many regarded it as the most prized addition to the town’s landscape as it boasted a steeple higher than any other for miles around.  Furthermore, with a great steeple came greater prestige, so the church, and its famed Master Builder, had long been seen as symbolic of the Lord’s special anointing upon them.

As in any construction project, the edifice had been masked by the crisscross of scaffolding, ropes, tools and planks that had been built up around it.   So it was with great satisfaction that on the day the scaffolding was to be taken down, the town was greeted by a perfect, spring day – the final touch to the divine unveiling, as it were.  The sky was a heavenly blue, accentuated by a brilliant sun, and all of this only served to remind the townsfolk of their good favor in the Lord’s eyes, as they gathered in and around the square beaming vibrant smiles and filling the air with joyful laughter. Of course, removing the scaffolding was in no way similar to the unveiling of a sculpture or a painting, as the boards and planks and girders couldn’t be ripped off in one quick swipe, so the event had been slated to be an all-day affair, with all the expected ceremony, festivity, and pomp that frequents such celebrations.

It was with greater satisfaction, and to no small fanfare, that the Master Builder finally mounted the steps of the grandstand specially erected in the square to his ceremonial perch.  He stood proudly above the crowd, dressed in his finest garments, having finally cast off all the sweat, stress and suffering that the project had plagued him with for so many years.  And he made no effort to conceal how much he relished every moment that the day, and the attention, had brought him.  The Bishop of Hamburg was also in attendance, along with no shortage of honorable dignitaries and special representatives.  Everyone involved was filled with eager expectation of what the glorious day held in store – a day to proclaim their praise and devotion to God in the most public way they could, and to celebrate the steeple whose top reached for the heavens, providing them with a consecrated tower from where they could keep careful watch over His dominion, for as far as the eye could see.

It did not take long, however, for the day’s mood to change.  The rumblings began early in the morning, when the uppermost layers of the scaffolding were being removed.  No one could say from where exactly the rumor originated (later on, some would remember the village drunk as having had spouted something off years earlier), but the general question kept on resurfacing, “Doesn’t that steeple look a little off?”

Initially, the doubts were cast aside, deemed "gossip" that amounted to nothing short of heresy, as they implied only sacrilegious assumptions about the steeple, and its Master Builder.  “This is God’s home; would God let such a glorious church be built crooked?” some asked, while others reasoned,  “It’s the work of the Master Builder, who has built plenty more steeples before it – surely none as large as this one – but he’s a man who has dedicated his life to God’s work!”  And still a few more would add, “Besides, it’s only the tip of the steeple, and still too obstructed by the remaining 100 meters of scaffolding to say that the entire church is crooked.”

The festivities ensued, in no small part because the town wanted them to, but the rumor quietly spread through the square like the flu, and the townsfolk soon found themselves eyeing the steeple with more and more curiosity, almost as though in spite of themselves.  The Master Builder, too, heard the grumblings, and wasted no time in moving to squash them, subtly reminding those near him of his reputation as an agent of God’s great design; a man who had been given a special gift by God himself to build the holiest of temples in the land.  In an effort to defend himself against the mounting speculation, he sought to smear the character of the “simple folk” around him who wanted nothing more than to stain both his name and his work – a direct affront, in essence, on the Divine Creator, whom he had served with unquestionable humility and devotion.