From Rorate Cæli
By Jan-Heiner Tück for Communio (original in German here)
The writer Martin Mosebach is a novelist of extraordinary worldly experience and descriptive skill, but also a Catholic intellectual who has made a name for himself through his public interventions. His most influential theological book, Häresie der Formlosigkeit, is more than just a contribution to the liturgical debate. In it, Mosebach develops the thesis that form is not an external accessory, but rather the manifestation and vehicle of truth. The liturgy leads people into a reality greater than themselves: the mystery of the sacred. Where forms are experimented with recklessly, where sacred texts are replaced based on criteria of comprehensibility, Mosebach argues that not only the beauty of the liturgy but ultimately its theological substance is at risk of erosion.
This fundamental insight is deeply rooted in the Catholic tradition. Christian faith is never purely internal. God acts in history through visible signs; his salvation is conveyed through words and signs. The Incarnation of the Logos refutes a spirituality that pits form against matter or takes on anti-bodily, Gnostic traits. Mosebach reminds us that Christianity takes the body seriously. Water, oil, bread, and wine are elements that speak to human beings as sensory beings—and in the Eucharistic liturgy, the faithful are united as members of a community that encompasses both the living and the deceased through the reception of the Body of Christ. An awareness of the profound historical dimension of the communio sanctorum could bring a touch of serenity to the sometimes heated debates surrounding church reform.
Against the Dictates of Functionalism
One may not agree with certain extreme aspects of his liturgical judgment. In fact, the Council’s liturgical reform pursued legitimate goals: the active participation of the faithful, the introduction of the vernacular into the liturgy, and a broader engagement with Sacred Scripture. Yet the significance of Mosebach’s Heresy of Formlessness lies in having defended the connection between form and truth against the dictates of functionalism. His criticism is directed against the notion that the form of the liturgy, which has evolved over centuries, can be changed at will. In this reserve toward the cult of feasibility and arbitrariness, Mosebach aligns with the liturgical-theological insights of Joseph Ratzinger.
It is noteworthy that Mosebach was never merely a nostalgic. His defense of tradition—which does not shy away from employing fictions of continuity such as the “Mass of All Time”—does not stem from a romantic idealization of bygone eras, but rather follows an anthropological insight: Human beings need forms because they are not pure spirit. Rituals, architecture, music, and language form a space in which transcendence can also be experienced through the senses. The fact that these forms cannot be invented by liturgical designers but must be received as a gift from a spirit of community sets them apart from the ever-steeper curve of acceleration. This almost anarchic resistance to the “makers” lends such reflections on the preservation of form a surprising relevance today. A deep root of biblical monotheism—as Eckhard Nordhofen has repeatedly pointed out—stems from the critique of the self-made deities of the ancient world.
It is therefore not surprising that Mosebach once described himself as an “avant-gardist of tradition.” This paradoxical formulation is not a coquettish self-description, but an intellectual program. Tradition is not a museum that displays precious treasures of the past, but rather the faithful transmission of what one has gratefully received. From this perspective, what is avant-garde is not so much the creation of something new as the preservation of what is historically worthy of preservation, beyond a present that has forgotten tradition and is addicted to innovation. The Norwegian writer Jon Fosse discovered such avant-gardism in the work of the Church: “Look, the Catholic Church has achieved something truly astonishing over the past 2,000 years: it has preserved the mystery of faith through the ages.” One may assume that Mosebach would see in this not only the description of an achievement, but also a mission.
A New Perspective on Martyrdom
Also of theological significance is his book The 21st. A Journey to the Land of the Coptic Martyrs. Taking as his starting point the fate of those Coptic migrant workers who were murdered in Libya in 2015 by fighters of the so-called “Islamic State,” Mosebach turns his attention to a dimension of Christianity that has largely faded from consciousness in the secular West, even though it is a sad reality every day: martyrdom. Mosebach visited the families of the Coptic martyrs and captured their lived experiences in vivid detail. In Egypt, he encountered a vibrant Church whose faith is nourished by liturgy, prayer, and the hope of the Resurrection. This also serves as a catalyst: the Christian faith transmits a truth that is meant to be lived out and witnessed to in everyday life. The passage on “the universal call to holiness,” which is architecturally positioned at the center of the dogmatic constitution on the Church, Lumen Gentium, still offers untapped potential for reception within the Church in this country. At the same time, the book Die 21 reveals that the witness of the martyrs unites Christians of various denominations more deeply than the lamentable divisions of church history. The ecumenical bond of martyrdom deserves greater theological consideration.
In Martin Mosebach’s novels, theological motifs play only a secondary role. This might come as a surprise. Wouldn’t one expect a return to the Catholic novel from Mosebach of all people? At the Vienna Chair of Poetics: Literature and Religion, he stated in 2022 that the Catholic novel today is an anachronistic project, since the milieu that had served as the fertile ground for such books has disappeared. His own novels draw on his personal observations from travels to other countries and cultures, as well as on his knowledge of his hometown, the financial metropolis of Frankfurt. They are keenly observant explorations of a society in flux. His characters rarely live in unambiguous moral circumstances. He explores the ambivalence of freedom, the passion of love, the abysses of infidelity and guilt, as well as the possibilities of grace. His characters move through a world in which social orders have become fragile but have not yet ceased to exist entirely.
His novel Der Nebelfürst, in which the protagonist travels to the Arctic on a battered steamship to annex an island, offers—for all its humor—a glimpse into the fragility of human dominion. In other novels as well, such as Krass or Die Richtige, Mosebach tells of humanity’s failure to live up to its own potential: in one, a cynical hedonist obsessed with power who views others merely as means to his own ends, but who ultimately must experience the powerlessness of illness and dependence on others; in another, a painter who sets his sights on the skin of his nude models, only to discover that they are more than mere puppets. It is precisely in decline and collapse that the possibility of grace repeatedly shines through, though it is, of course, only hinted at. Discovering the spiritual dimensions of these novels—which for the most part appear entirely secular—is the task of readers who do not wish to confine themselves to the self-description “religiously tone-deaf.”
Theologically speaking, discretion is perhaps the greatest strength of his literary work. Mosebach resists both moralizing tendentious literature and a postmodern anything goes attitude that views meaning as a subjective option. Despite all their linguistic artistry and structural ingenuity, his novels presuppose that reality is more than what can be measured or achieved. Guilt is real, beauty possesses objective meaning, and salvation remains present throughout, at least as a possibility.
Giving Form to Beauty
It is no coincidence that beauty plays such a central role for Mosebach. Here, his literary work intersects with a long theological tradition stretching from Augustine through Thomas Aquinas to Hans Urs von Balthasar, who, in his theological aesthetics, restored pulchrum (beauty) to its rightful place alongside verum (truth) and bonum (goodness). Perceiving the beauty of a form, contemplating it with focus, but also exposing it to the contrast of the ugly and the precisely described cruel, is not an escape from reality, but rather a deeper exploration of it. In a society that often moralizes truth and reduces beauty to external stimuli, Mosebach reminds us that the two are interrelated.
One need not agree with every one of his positions on church politics. His vehement defense of the Tridentine Mass, his skepticism toward certain developments following the Second Vatican Council, and his incisive cultural critiques invite dissent. Yet it is precisely in this that he fulfills an important role of the Catholic intellectual: he resists the pressure to conform to the juste milieu and, through his stylistically brilliant objections, keeps open questions that are all too easily dismissed as settled.
Martin Mosebach, winner of the Büchner Prize, who is celebrating his 75th birthday today, has reminded the Church that it must not lightly surrender its own language, its symbols, and its beauty. His literature and essays defend the conviction that form is an expression of a truth that precedes humanity and enriches it. This is a surprisingly timely message.
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