On the morning of 24 April, I travelled to Tübingen to attend the 2024 International Conference on Pannenberg [Wolfhart Pannenberg and Divine Action[1] co-organized by my alma mater, the University of Tübingen, and Oxford University. I had not set foot in Germany for several years. The little town of Tübingen that stretched out before me felt both strange and familiar. The meeting schedule was so tightly packed that afternoon that I couldn’t get away until the conference sessions ended on the next day, when I rushed back to the Neckarhalde in the Old City. My teacher Jürgen Moltmann was waiting for me at his home. On April 21st, before setting off, I had received his email: “Where are you now? Have you arrived in Germany? Call me when you get here.” Although I’d always enjoyed reading Pannenberg, my main reason for taking this somewhat arduous journey at the time was not the conference, but to see my esteemed teacher[2] one more time.

I made my way up the sloping Biesingerstraße, on which he lived. At one time, I had walked this way every three to four weeks to discuss my research progress. In 2011, I moved [from Tübingen] to Heidelberg, but our regular meetings continued on a monthly basis until I left Germany. Those walks—in nervous agitation on my way up, and with an overwhelming sense of joy and relief walking down the hill after each successful consultation—formed the emotional backdrop to my intellectual growth during those years of study under his supervision. This time, as I set out for that same walk, I had no burning questions to ask—I just wanted to see him again. The conversation didn’t flow as easily as before, since Prof. Moltmann’s speech had become increasingly hampered after—as far as I can recall—two separate coronavirus infections; after 2022, he gradually lost the ability to speak clearly. We had mainly stayed in touch through email. On the rare occasion that we did speak on the phone, I basically talked, while he gave brief and simple responses. I approached the house and knocked on the wooden door. When it opened, I was greeted by my teacher, who [stood in the entrance] supported by his wheelchair. His face had thinned visibly, and his movements were slow. But his eyes were awake and full of life. On April 8, 2024, Prof. Moltmann had celebrated his 98th birthday in this house that had been his home for more than half a century. The words he’d written in celebration of his 97th birthday, which he had sent me the year before, came back to me in that moment:

Every morning, I am surprised that I am still alive, and I embrace each day with zest for life.

Of course, in the hours of the night, I think about my own death, which I guess will not be too far off. ... Death means letting go, and I am preparing for this.

Deep down, I always felt that my teacher would live to be over a hundred, like the philosopher Gadamer—not just because of his healthy and disciplined lifestyle, but also because he had managed to build extraordinary interpersonal relationships throughout his life. His autobiography, A Broad Place, relates some of these rich relational encounters. During the many years of my own relationship with Prof. Moltmann, starting from the days of my studies in Germany, I had the chance to observe his life: I witnessed the mutual support that sustained his marriage to Elisabeth Moltmann-Wendel, as well as the support for his four daughters—each of whom achieved success in life. I noted his positive relationships with students and friends all over the world, as well as his regular exchanges with great scholars, his frequent international lectures, and commitments that earned him more than 20 honorary doctoral degrees—and I experienced his “elephant-like patience” that he always warned us about. I took none of this for granted, and I realize that none of this resulted from the kind of driven career planning that most of us in the contemporary world submit to under the pressures of the market. As I see it, he achieved relationships of a quality that many of us may never know. And these connections nourished and sustained his life to the point of lengthening his years.

After sitting down in the parlor next to his office, Prof. Moltmann had an expression of delight on his face and looked at me intently. We hadn’t seen each other for five years. He had aged a lot. As for myself, I had entered middle age. While the world was undergoing momentous transformation, this little parlor seemed somehow to have escaped the ravages of time. The sofa, bookshelves, Chinese landscape paintings, icons, the wooden coffee table, and the Chinese porcelain vases were still here. This had once been my classroom, where I received my monthly instruction. Prof. Moltmann’s articulation was laboured. I tried to identify what he wanted to say to me. In preparation for our conversation, he had paper and pen to hand. On the paper were written different talking points, so that I could indicate the various items I had trouble understanding. “Will you continue to write your habilitation thesis?” He was bound to ask me this question. After returning to China to take up full-time academic work, I was occupied by my professional duties and too busy to focus on anything else, which slowed down the progress of my thesis. I told Prof. Moltmann that I would definitely finish it. I’ve written the part on Hannah Arendt, which can be published as an independent monograph in German, but I will wait until I finish the part on Bonhoeffer to publish the two together.

I took out a copy of the paper I had presented at the conference the day before, handed it to Prof. Moltmann, and shared the topic with him: “No theodicy without eschatology: Wolfhart Pannenberg’s concept of theodicy with special reference to his critical dialogue with Jürgen Moltmann.” The first day of the meeting was held at Tübingen’s old castle. Although Prof. Moltmann did not attend the meeting, his theology unsurprisingly became a focus of discussion among the scholars in attendance. He and Pannenberg had jointly laid the foundation for the eschatological revival in Protestant theology in the second half of the 20th century. While there were many similarities in their thinking, there were also important differences between the two. In my conference paper, I examined why Pannenberg had placed theodicy in the context of eschatology; I analyzed Moltmann’s criticism of Pannenberg’s neglect of theodicy in Jewish apocalypticism in the Theology of Hope and Pannenberg’s response to this criticism in the third volume of his Systematic Theology. “Do you remember our discussions on your exchanges with Pannenberg?” I asked Prof. Moltmann after giving him a brief synopsis of my paper. He thought for a while, straining his memory, and then recounted in detail Pannenberg’s visit to Tübingen to celebrate Moltmann’s 80th birthday in 2006.[3] He had published a comparison of their views on the trinity,[4] which he then recommended to me, and was happy to learn I had already read the text.

Our conversation easily slipped back into the old professor-supervisee-mode that I was so accustomed to. Every concept mentioned, every hint given, was chosen with care and served [not just the flow of a casual conversation but] the formation of the student’s personality. This was Prof. Moltmann’s way of teaching. From the fall of 2006 to the spring of 2018, every step toward progress, every change in direction—whether in my academic or personal growth—was influenced by his teaching, which I experienced firsthand in this familiar room. After just a short time, despite the difficulties in communicating and the necessity of resorting to pen and paper, this well-known experience transported me back to my student days. This was what it had felt like during those Saturday consultations, between three and four o’clock in the afternoon, when I visited Prof. Moltmann as a doctoral student: the experience of a teacher’s investment, motivated by love, toward forming the personality of those he taught; it was also a kind of experience of eternity. Time passed quickly. When I saw that Prof. Moltmann was tired, I quickly rose to say my goodbyes, promising to return the next day after the conference ended. I helped him to his feet. He trembled, leaning on my arm and the wheelchair for support, but insisted on seeing me to the door.

On the afternoon of the 26th, I returned to the Biesingerstraße once again, wondering to myself as I made my way up the hill when I would be visiting Germany again. Prof. Moltmann had prepared fruit gâteau for the occasion. We each had three small pieces and drank a pot of black tea. This treatment had always been reserved for special occasions, such as when I had passed an important exam. I realized he was seeing me off: his Chinese student, now an academic colleague, trained by him. The afternoon of my departure was a sunny one. As we ate, my thoughts drifted to an earlier meeting with Prof. Moltmann in Lübeck in early May 2018. I had flown to Germany to attend the International Karl Barth Conference held in the port city of Emden. Before the conference started, I suddenly learned that while eating at his daughter’s house, Prof. Moltmann had suffered severe cardiac arrest after some food crumbs had entered his respiratory tract. He was rushed to hospital in Lübeck and survived the ordeal. I asked for the address of the hospital, got on the next train to Lübeck, and visited him that afternoon. To my surprise, Prof. Moltmann was his old self again. He was wearing a patient’s gown and cheerfully told me about several books he’d just finished reading, which had been brought along in a suitcase. At dinner time, the ward nurse brought a tray of cold supper. Prof. Moltmann picked the yogurt off the tray and handed it to me with a spoon. I sat next to the bed, facing the window, and slowly ate the yogurt, accompanying him as he finished his Abendbrot [usu. rye bread with gherkins and cold cuts]. I have long forgotten what we talked about, but I remember the sunshine that afternoon, which was particularly bright.

Prof. Moltmann told me he had read through my conference paper. He then handed me a piece of paper with a question on it: “Can you find the word ‘Auschwitz’ anywhere in Pannenberg’s writings?” “If I think back on his main works, which I’ve read, I really cannot recollect Pannenberg ever dealing with this issue,” I replied. Prof. Moltmann summoned all his strength and painstakingly reiterated the point that Pannenberg’s main focus had always been the Hegelian teleological philosophy of history. Therefore, it was not surprising that I couldn’t find this word in his texts. How should we approach the 20th century from a theological point of view? On this issue, Prof. Moltmann and Pannenberg, who was also a theological giant of Moltmann’s generation, differed considerably. The latter emphasized the profound impact of the Thirty Years’ War on the self-image of the early modern period and the following centuries with regard to the independence of the world, while Prof. Moltmann confronted the issues of trauma and the cultural memory of post-World War II Europeans. Others, I’m sure, will elaborate on these differences in doctoral dissertations and research monographs in the future. Time passed too quickly, and I realized that I had to say what I had come to say, so I cut short our conversation: “Seeing you today, there is one important thing I want to say: Thank you—without you, I would not be the person I am today.” After telling him this, I immediately felt a weight lifted off my chest. Somehow, the invisible force that had drawn me back to Tübingen was the need to say this. Then I began to recollect, sharing my memories with Prof. Moltmann: I recalled our meeting at Tsinghua University in late October 2004. Two months later, I underwent treatment for retinal detachment. Two years later, I came to the University of Tübingen, sat and passed my German language exams, passed the qualifying exams in three classical languages, started a family, passed the German national exams [Staatsexamen], submitted my doctoral thesis, won three awards, and built an academic career. Prof. Moltmann listened intently and nodded. Again, he gathered his strength and slowly, one by one, brought out the words: “You have worked very hard.”

When the time came to say our goodbyes, I helped Prof. Moltmann up from the sofa again. He was no longer able to get up on his own. Step by step, he led me to his study. Pointing to the bookshelf, he motioned to me to take down his six-volume Kant anthology, the collected writings of Hegel on the proof of God’s existence, and a recent Hannah Arendt biography. I took down the books and turned to put them in my backpack. As I turned around, my eye caught a glimpse of the copy of my conference paper, which I’d given him the day before, placed in the middle of the desk, next to his old-fashioned radio. Outside the window stood the familiar pine tree. As I finally made my way toward the front door to leave, I walked ahead as Prof. Moltmann followed behind with his wheelchair. I opened the door, stepped out, and turned to say goodbye. He waved his hand and turned sideways, his expression turning grave. In that moment—I don’t know why—I felt as though I didn’t know him.

Back in China, while sitting in a taxi on the afternoon of June 4, I received a text from Professor Volker Drecoll, Augustinian scholar at Tübingen. Not long ago, Professor Drecoll had lectured at Peking University and at the Institute of World Religions at the Chinese Academy of Social Sciences. Grief-stricken, he shared the news of Prof. Moltmann’s passing. I laid aside the busy schedule I’d been working on en route and stared out of the window, recalling what Prof. Moltmann had told me about his experience after his father died. He told me that after his father passed away, he felt closer to him because his father lived on in his heart. He was right. My relationship with my own father had become closer after his death. And at this moment, 8,000 km apart, I felt closer to Prof. Moltmann, too.

On June 6th, I received an obituary from Prof. Moltmann’s daughter announcing that the funeral would be held at Tübingen’s Stiftkirche at 12 noon on June 14th. I noticed that the obituary quoted Isaiah 35:10, the same verse quoted when his wife died in 2016. It read:

Everlasting joy shall be upon their heads.

It was a particular comfort to see that Prof. Moltmann would be laid to rest in the small town of Tübingen, rather than in his birthplace, Hamburg: Tübingen is also where the poet Hölderlin was buried, in the City Cemetery. Hölderlin’s famous lines, “Near is God and hard to grasp. But where there is danger, salvation also grows,” were Moltmann’s favorite saying. The philosopher Ernst Bloch (1885–1977) is also buried in Tübingen. In the 1960s, Bloch went to Tübingen, where, late in life, he launched the final and most remarkable stage of his academic career and developed a deep friendship with Prof. Moltmann. Bloch’s tomb is not in the City Cemetery, but at the hillside cemetery [Bergfriedhof]. Moltmann is thus buried in the same small town as the philosopher who so profoundly influenced his ideas on hope, but not in the same cemetery. There could be no better arrangement.

The entire first half of June was extremely busy for me. As I was preparing materials for an intensive course I’d be teaching the end of June, I came across this passage in Robert Waldinger and Marc Schulz’s The Good Life: Lessons from the World’s Longest Scientific Study of Happiness:

Think about someone, just one person, who is important to you. Someone who may not know how much they really mean to you. It could be your spouse, your significant other, a friend, a coworker, a sibling, a parent, a child, or even a coach or a teacher from your younger days. This person could be sitting beside you as you read or listen to this book, they could be standing over the sink washing dishes, or in another city, another country. Think about where they stand in their lives. What are they struggling with? Think about what they mean to you, what they have done for you in your life. Where would you be without them? Who would you be?

Now think about what you would thank them for if you thought you would never see them again.

And at this moment-right now-turn to them. Call them. Tell them.[5]

Everything has a beginning and an end. Prof. Moltmann and I knew each other for twenty years—years that seemed to fly by. If you can hear me now, I want to tell you what I told you the last time we saw each other: “Thank you—without you, I would not be the person I am today.”

Notes

[1] Evangelisch-Theologische Fakultät der Universität Tübingen, “Wolfhart Pannenberg and Divine Action International Conference from 24-26 April in Tübingen” (announcement), accessed June 19, 2024, https://uni-tuebingen.de/fakultaeten/evangelisch-theologische-fakultaet/lehrstuehle-und-institute/systematische-theologie/systematische-theologie-i/conference-pannenberg-and-divine-action-april-24/.

[2] Translator’s note: The Chinese compound used here is “恩師,” an honorific that can also mean mentor. In the text, I have rendered most subsequent mentions of this term “Prof. Moltmann,” but the reader should note that the author is consistently addressing his teacher with this honorific title of beloved or honored teacher.

[3] Confer Moltmann’s biography: Jürgen Moltmann, A Broad Place: An Autobiography (Minneapolis, MN: Fortress, 2009), 91-92, Kindle.

[4] Wolfhart Pannenberg, "Der offenbarungstheologische Ansatz in der Trinitätslehre" [Revelation-theological Approach in the Doctrine oft he Trinity], in Der lebendige Gott als Trinität: Jürgen Moltmann zum 80. Geburtstag, edited by Michael Welker and Miroslav Volf, (Gütersloh Verlagshaus, 2006) 13-22.

[5] Robert Waldinger and Marc Schulz, The Good Life: Lessons from the World’s Longest Scientific Study of Happiness (New York: Simon and Schuster, 2023), 281.

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