Reading and Writing Biography and History: What Matters Most

A friend of mine recently emailed me an article entitled "So Many Different Dietrich Bonhoeffers" by Richard Weikart. Within the context of his wider agenda of discussing the ways in which Bonhoeffer has been made over in the image of various liberal and conservative thinkers, Weikart takes Eric Metaxas' recent biography of Bonhoeffer to task for this very practice. He castigates Metaxas for actual historic errors, a lack of deep understanding of historical and theological context, and finally, for presenting a portrait of Bonhoeffer that is far too evangelical.

I found myself at sixes and sevens when I read this piece. First of all, I should note that I read Metaxas' Bonhoeffer biography this past February. To be more honest, I should say I tumbled headfirst inside it and devoured it. Laying aside, just for a moment, any or all qualms about its historical accuracy or the worth of its interpretive lens (we'll come back to those things) the book was crafted so well from a stylistic standpoint that it was hard to put down. Metaxas, whose book on Wilberforce I truly loved, has a way of warmly inviting readers into the story of his subject. He has a knack of making you feel as though you are in the person's presence. He is also artful in his use of quotes. In other words, he can tell a good story (something I am coming to prize in the world of biography) and his tales go down easy.

But when it comes to writing biography, is spinning a good story enough if one isn't historically accurate? And how much does one's own context come into play in the way one spins a tale?

Although I devoured the Bonhoeffer book, I did not feel the full-hearted love for it that I had for the Wilberforce volume. It left me feeling a little unsatisfied and ragged. In fact, I never reviewed the book, as I normally would such a large volume I'd spent so much time with. It took me a while to muddle through to why, and my reflections helped me to think through how much the shape of a subject's life also affects the shape of a biography.

One reason the Bonhoeffer biography felt untidy and somehow incomplete is that Bonhoeffer's life felt that way. I don't mean to speculate on how Bonhoeffer himself felt when he died. Indeed, the accounts we have of his death seem to indicate that he died peacefully, a man at rest with God. But the fact remains that he was a victim of war; his life came to a tragic and sudden end when he was only 39, and when the war was almost over. Presumably, had the government not discovered Canaris' diaries, it would not have gone after the conspirators. With the war so close to its end, he would likely have been liberated and perhaps gone on to live a long life, thinking, writing, and teaching more. And had he done so, probably many of the questions people raise about his theology would have become much more clear.

The fact that Bonhoeffer was in prison for almost two years before he died also seems to complicate things for Metaxas, and (I would imagine) for any biographer. There's only so much we know about those final two years, most of it from letters and poems Bonhoeffer wrote from prison, or from the memories of loved ones who visited him during that time. The last three months, when he was being moved often and in secrecy, are almost a complete blank. Here is where I really struggled with Metaxas' biography, because he had to rely almost completely on the reminisces of people who just happened to share prison transports and cells with Bonhoeffer. Their perspective can make you feel as though you're viewing blurred snapshots from the final months, and those only taken every few days.

But back to my original musings about what makes good history and biography. Weikart certainly isn't the only critic to call Metaxas' work into question. Fellow evangelicals, though more sympathetic in tone, have also called him on his scholarship. There's a really good article from Christianity Today back in February (yes, I'm late to this party) that rounds up early reactions and responses to the book. Even the author of this article, who lauds Metaxas for his vivid writing (and doesn't dismiss the worth the book still has, which I appreciate) admits that the book is "agenda-driven." But of course he does so within the context of admitting that all history/biography (and even all book reviews!) are agenda-driven to some extent.

To some extent. I repeat that, because it seems to me that sometimes our writing is not so much agenda-driven (which implies we've consciously got our agenda in the front seat, calling the shots) as worldview soaked.

It's true that it helps us to clearly know from what perspective/lens (and potential bias) we're writing from, but writing from one is a given. We can't perch on an imaginary objective pedestal when we write: we write from a given place, time, and culture colored by our own unique personal history and understanding.

I also think there are times when writing from a clearly inhabited perspective is helpful. It's true that there are times when our given perspective distorts what we see and how we report it. But there may also be times when our given perspective sharpens what we see and how we write about it. In this particular case, I'm thinking that, while it seems to be true that Metaxas' understanding of Bonhoeffer's theological context doesn't go very deep, his perspective as an evangelical does help him to ferret out those places where Bonhoeffer manages to get past his own potential biases to critique theological liberalism -- in American seminaries of the period, for instance, or even in the work of his teacher Harnack. Doesn't it seem worth noting the places where Bonhoeffer steps outside the box you assume he would fit most comfortably inside, given the theological training he was steeped in? Does it take evangelical eyes to see those places?

So what, beyond in-depth research and artful telling, matters most when writing good biography and history? I'm still thinking this through. It seems that much biographical writing would be helped by a candid acknowledgment of our own context (with its potential strengths and drawbacks), a willingness to wrestle with at least some key sources that interpret a subject from a different perspective of our own, and a steeping (as much as possible) in the voice of our biographical subject. One reason I love using primary sources when I teach history is that nothing seems to take the place of hearing the actual voice of someone from the time period under discussion. Yes, sometimes those texts will be in translation (and that raises the issue of perspective in translation work!) and we still have to interpret what we read, but a thoughtful wrestling with primary sources can still go a long way toward insuring that we have a thorough understanding of a biographical subject.

More on this another time.