…for the growing good of the world is partly dependent on unhistoric acts; and that things are not so ill with you and me as they might have been, is half owing to the number who lived faithfully a hidden life, and rest in unvisited tombs.
― George Eliot,  Middlemarch

This is the quote that appears at the end of the feature film, A Hidden Life (2019), the story of Austrian farmer, husband, father, and devout Catholic Franz Jgersttter who was executed in 1943 because he refused to serve in the Nazi army. The other night, I watched this film, artistically and insightfully directed by Terrence Mallick. It goes without saying that the cinematography is spectacular with exquisite scenes of the Austrian Alps. But the story—

In 2016, the film Hacksaw Ridge featured the life of Desmond Doss, a Seventh Day Adventist conscientious objector. Doss refused to take up arms, but he willingly pledged his loyalty and services as a medic to the United States Army. Although initially criticized and harrassed by his peers and commanding officers, Doss ultimately not only earned their respect and gratitude but that of the world after he saved 75 GIs in the Battle of Okinawa. The recipient of a Medal of Honor, Doss humbly asked that his heroism not be publicized. Still, his heroism and story became public, and the world honored–and continues to honor–his piety and courage.

Jgersttter’s story is different, though. He refused to take the oath dedicating his service and loyalty to Hitler, even when others suggested that he might serve as an orderly in a field hospital. They argued that he could help others this way, that he wouldn’t have to be a combat soldier. It was the oath, however, that prevented him from serving at all. His own parish priest, as well as the local bishop, urged him to swear allegiance to Hitler, to do his duty to the fatherland and to spare his family from persecution and suffering. His neighbors and villagers quickly turned against him and his family, shunning them publicly and refusing to help with their harvest. His decision cost him dearly even before he was imprisoned by the Nazis. And this decision continued to cost his wife, children, and mother.

When he was in a Berlin prison awaiting his execution, he wrote:

Again and again people stress the obligations of conscience as they concern my wife and children. Yet I cannot believe that just because one has a wife and children, he is free to offend God by lying (not to mention all the other things he would be called upon to do). Did not Christ Himself say, “He who loves father, mother, or children more than Me is not deserving of My love?”

A Hidden Life is nearly 3 hours long. Unlike Hacksaw Ridge, there are no battle scenes. Truthfully, there is little physical action at all. What Terrence Mallick does provide, however, is an exceptional view of the psychological, emotional, and spiritual struggles of not only Jgersttter but his family members. For me, the minutes ticked by agonizingly, and yet I couldn’t look away. There were times, I admit, that I couldn’t really see the screen because tears had so filled my eyes, and the sobs that had gathered in my throat threatened to undo me. Here was beautiful agony, the sort that takes you to the foot of the cross and leaves you there, spent and awed. Here were a man and his wife who lived hidden lives of devotion and courage amidst a world gone mad.

Jgersttter’s life may have remained entirely hidden were it not for the research and 1964 publication of In Solitary Witness by Catholic sociologist Gordan Zahn. Zahn writes that Jgersttter’s story was nothing less than a repetition of an old story, the ever-recurring confrontation between Christ and Caesar. Even hours before his death, a visiting priest, Father Jochmann, directed his attention to the document that had lain for days on his prison table, the document that contained the oath that, if signed, would save his life. But Jgersttter persisted, saying: I cannot and may not take an oath in favor of a government that is fighting an unjust war.

Jgersttter was beheaded on August 9, 1943. He died believing that his was, indeed, a solitary witness, one that would go unnoticed by all but his family. In several film scenes, he is asked the same questions by Nazi officials, priests, bishops, his attorneys and neighbors: Do you think that your refusal to pledge your allegiance to Hitler will benefit anyone? Do you think this will change the course of the war, that anyone will even know of your actions? Do you think your decision will matter at all? Jgersttter never waivered from his conviction that he could make no other decision as a Christian and that he need only worry about his loyalty to and love for God. He suffered no illusions that the world would notice or understand. He wrote:

Although people have accused me of criminal behavior and condemned me to death, be consoled knowing that in God’s eyes not everything is criminal which the world perceives to be criminal.

In 1984, the Austrian government issued Jgersttter a special posthumous Award of Honor, and in 2007, the Catholic Church beatified him. His once hidden life has now been revealed as the extraordinary life of devotion, courage, and sacrifice that it was.

I suspect that there will be many who live such hidden lives in these times of worldwide pandemic. There will be those who quietly and privately do the right things, the morally and physically courageous things. We won’t hear or read about them. Undoubtedly, these are the folks who won’t take to social media with posts regaling their actions. Still, inside their homes and neighborhoods, they will tend to those in their care. They will encourage others and affirm the gifts they have been given. They will literally keep the faith. Like Jgersttter, they will believe that their actions and decisions will go unnoticed by all but God, their families and, perhaps, their neighbors–and they will know that this is more than enough.

For much of my life, I’ve struggled with the compulsion to do more, to be more than who I am. For who I am and what I’ve done seem so small and petty. I’ve looked to others whose lives and works seem so large by comparison, their contributions so noteworthy. And I’ve found myself striving to walk in their footsteps, ones that I’ve discovered are clearly much too big for me to follow. Just the other day, my church issued an invitation for volunteers to deliver groceries in our community. As a retired person with the benefit of time, I was happy to volunteer until I read the qualifications for volunteers: between the ages of 18 and 59. I’m simply too old to help. I’m relegated to the age group whose job is to self-quarantine. To best serve others, I can’t literally serve many of them at all.

Years ago, I remember reading a devotional by Oswald Chambers in which he addressed those like me who lamented their seeming helplessness in the face of the world’s needs. He wrote that he often heard people say things like I can’t really do anything. All I can do is pray. And then he admonished us by claiming that prayer is the real work. Largely hidden work, I’ve come to understand that prayer is–as Chambers insists–the real work.

This is good news for those in the 60+ age group who, like me, currently find they can’t serve on the front lines. Hidden in my rural Iowa home, I can pray. For the growing good of the world, I can, like Jgersttter, turn my eyes to the only One whose allegiance ultimately matters. And I can find solace and solidarity in the knowledge that there are so, so many others who are praying, too.