Terrence Malick’s new film, A Hidden Life, is based on the life of Franz Jägerstätter, an Austrian farmer. The film begins in 1939 when Jägerstätter lives a seemingly idyllic life in the Austrian countryside. He farms the land, lives in a tight-knit community, and has a happy family. Scenes depict Jägerstätter dancing with his wife, laughing and playing with his children, and contentedly cutting and gathering hay. “I thought we could build a nest in the trees,” Franz confides in the opening voiceover, “and fly like birds to the mountains.” But it is not to be.
Jägerstätter is called up for basic training with the Nazi army. He believes it is simply a precautionary measure and hopes he’ll be able to go home without seeing combat — which turns out to be the case. But while there he sees footage of the Nazi army victoriously taking over French homes and land. His comrades laugh with delight. He sees the pride and self-importance of the Nazi captains, and the way the soldiers pay homage to Hitler with their words and actions. When the news comes that France has surrendered, Franz is sent back home to manage his farm. But the war does not end, and he is racked with doubt about the validity of the Nazi cause and the morality of their actions. “We’ve invaded other countries. Stolen their land,” he whispers to a friend. “And now we’re doing it again. Aren’t they the heroes, who fight against us — who defend their homes?”
Franz believes that if he is called up for combat, he cannot serve. Compounding the issue is the fact that anyone called to serve must swear an oath to Hitler — a thing that seems unconscionable to Franz. His allegiance is to God, not Hitler. He goes to Fr. Fürthauer, his priest, for advice, but Fürthauer is afraid of speaking against the Nazis. He instead asks Franz troubling questions about what refusing the Nazis would mean. “Have you spoken with anyone else? Your wife? Your family? Don’t you think you ought to consider the consequences of your actions for them?”
As Franz’s displeasure with the Nazis becomes clear to the other townspeople, he and his family are shunned. They become seen as enemies, disloyal to the country and the community. Life on the farm is no longer idyllic. At one point Franz wanders through the fields and sees a crucifix on a pole — a monument to pain in the midst of beautiful mountains. How incongruous, even paradoxical… and yet true.
Ultimately Franz is called up for combat, as he feared he would be, and must decide whether to relent or to resist. Everyone, with the exception of his wife, gives him numerous excuses to capitulate and swear the oath to Hitler. Perhaps the most common (and exasperating) argument he hears suggests that God cares about results, not actions. What good would it do to resist? “Your sacrifice would benefit no one,” says his priest. “What good do you imagine your defiance is doing anyone?” demands a captain. “Do you expect to change the course of things?” And then, most tellingly: “What purpose does it serve… Do you think it matters to God?”
This is an insidious argument that pervades the rest of the film, and it is one we’ve doubtless heard in our own day. The implication is that God wants us to figure out what will result from our choices and then do the thing that seems to accomplish the most “good” or make the most impact, even if it means sinning to achieve it. The ends, as it were, justify the means. In this calculus, a hidden sacrifice — a deed done for reasons of conscience that goes unnoticed or unheralded — is considered utterly pointless. It is folly. And nearly everyone in Franz’s life tells him this.
Scripture shows us that this argument is flawed. In Romans 3:8 it is the slanderers who say “Why not do evil that good may come?” and the Apostle Paul responds, “their condemnation is just.” Time after time, Scripture upholds the virtue of doing the right thing (and not sinning), regardless of what results. “Whoever knows the right thing to do and fails to do it, for him it is sin” (James 4:17). And this is exactly what Franz believes. At one point in the film he muses, “A man may do wrong, and not be able to get out of it — get his life clear. Maybe he would like to go back, and can’t. That must be a bitter thing. But I have that feeling inside me, that I can’t do what I believe is wrong.”
Of course, if Franz does the right thing and defies the Nazis, bad ends may result: his kids could be without a father, his wife without a husband. His family could fall into poverty and exile. And good ends may be forfeited. For example, instead of serving in the Nazi military he could ask to serve in a hospital. He would still have to swear the oath to Hitler, but he could play a role in saving lives. It’s a tempting prospect: justify sin today because of possible good tomorrow. But it’s interesting how much Scripture downplays our ability or responsibility to craft the future. “Many are the plans in the mind of a man,” says Proverbs 19:21, “but it is the purpose of the Lord that will stand.” Indeed, “I will destroy the wisdom of the wise,” says the Lord in 1 Corinthians 1:19, “and the discernment of the discerning I will thwart.” “Whoever has my commandments and keeps them, he it is who loves me,” says Jesus (John 14:21) — not the one who predicts the future and sins to achieve it.
“You won’t change the world. You have no power,” Major Schlegel says mockingly to Franz, meaning by this to shake him of his conviction. Ironically, Schlegel’s premise is correct — Franz won’t change the world. But according to Scripture, he doesn’t have to. Far from commanding us to figure out how to achieve utopia and do whatever it takes to get there, Scripture commands us to “Trust in the Lord with all your heart, and do not lean on your own understanding” (Proverbs 3:5). It’s not easy, but it’s simple. And the simple faith of Franz is the beautiful centerpiece of A Hidden Life.
It would be well for us to remember, like Franz, that God decides the ends. We live in the realm of the means. And our job is not to pretend we can save the world, but to obey the One who did.
There’s a great scene partway through the film where Franz walks into his local church and an artist is “touching up the ceiling” and reflecting about his work. “I paint this comfortable Christ, a halo over his head,” the painter confesses. “Some day I’ll paint the true one.”
Ours may be the challenge of the painter or the challenge of the viewer, but both require courage. Maybe we have a role like Terrence Malick, who must dare to paint a picture that is uncomfortable to watch. Or maybe we have a role like Franz Jägerstätter, a regular, “unimportant” person who is forced to decide which type of Jesus he actually follows.
Maybe someday we’ll have the courage to look at the real Jesus, who willingly suffered extreme injustice because he was serving a higher calling. The real Jesus who didn’t make excuses to avoid suffering so he could “do more good by living longer.” The real Jesus who didn’t demand a spotlight before he did anything courageous, but who suffered silently and without esteem. Maybe someday, like Franz Jägerstätter, we’ll take up our cross and follow him.
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