In Europe's 'Secular Capital,’ Some Berliners Are Finding Solace In Religion
Berlin’s Cathedral lit up as part of the city’s Festival of Lights in September 2020. Photo by Ken Chitwood.
(ANALYSIS) BERLIN— Both before and during the pandemic — and perhaps for years to come — religion remains a potent force in Germany’s not-so-secular city, Berlin.
When Harvard theologian Harvey Cox served as an ecumenical worker in Berlin in the 1960s, he watched the city and its people wrestle with their identity , surmising that they were taking steps toward a more secular future in the aftermath of conflict and chaos.
It was in Berlin that the seeds of an idea — later called the “secularization thesis” — began to germinate in his mind. In his 1965 book, “The Secular City,” Cox proposed that as societies develop, the need for religion diminishes, and as a result, religion itself declines.
And yet, as cosmopolitan as ever, Berliners — its people, not its pastries — still turn to a diverse array of religious sources to meet multiple needs: from social contact to providing a semblance of order in a tumultuous world.
Not Entirely Secular
Despite being labeled by some as the “atheist capital of Europe,” there is great diversity in Berlin’s religious and spiritual-but-not-religious make-up. According to Berlin’s Senate Department for Culture, the city houses more than 250 active religious and secular (including humanist) communities and organizations. On Sunday mornings, church bells chime loudly around the city and many businesses are closed out of respect for the Christian Sabbath.
Berlin – and Germany as a whole – boasts a robust religious history. Birthplace of the Guttenberg Bible, the Protestant Reformation and the infamous Oberammergau Passion Plays, Germany regularly touts its religious past for tourism and as a point of national pride. And, ever since its first church – St. Peter’s – was built in the 13th century, Berlin has also played host to significant religious personalities and movements, from the likes of Dietrich Bonhoeffer and Rosa Luxemberg to more contemporary, interfaith initiatives such as the House of One – a single place of worship for Jews, Christians and Muslims, built on the site of St. Peter’s in the heart of Berlin.
Today, Berlin’s religious make-up is undergoing steady transformation. In 2018, only 23.4% of Berliners called themselves Protestant (14.9%) or Catholic (8.5%), while the remainder identified as non-religious or other, according to data from the Office of Statistics in Berlin-Brandenburg. The “other” category includes a substantial Muslim community (an estimated 8-11% of Berlin) and smaller Jewish, Hindu, Buddhist, Sikh, Orthodox Christian and other communities. Some evangelical church plants by Hillsong Berlin, Berlin Projekt and others have also taken root in recent years. According to the Berlin Forum of Religions, “those who want to experience religious diversity no longer have to travel far. Berlin is the city with the most religious communities in all of Europe.”
Alongside this diversity, however, is a steady decline for Berlin’s traditional, institutional religious communities – with Protestants (Germany’s mainline EKBO church) experiencing a 3.8% decline since 2010 and the Roman Catholic Church 0.6%. But even as institutional affiliation drops – up to 70% of Berliners claim no religious affiliation – many still practice some form of spirituality and turn to religious mechanisms to cope with a frightening new normal.
When people arrive in Berlin (and any other German city) as residents, they have to register — anmeldung — with the city and are asked to declare their religious affiliation, which then causes a person to pay a church tax, something some people want to avoid paying by declaring themselves non-religious. The church tax funneled record revenue to churches into 2019 but dropped by nearly 1 billion euros in 2020 as the Coronavirus pandemic caused layoffs and wage reductions.
Interest in Religion & Ritual
“After leaving church, I missed rituals a lot,” said Daisy Rapp, a performing artist and modern witch living in Berlin who used to be a Catholic nun. “So I just upgraded my church into nature and into the world.”
During the COVID-19 pandemic, many Berliners — like others across the world — have sought solace in religious communities and their rituals as a means of connection and control in a time of isolation and confusion. For some, religious rituals, communities and beliefs act like a “sacred canopy” amid difficult transitions and moments of crisis.
To social psychologist Constantine Sedikides, this is no surprise. Wondering why religion persists in a supposedly secular age, Sedikides looked into religion’s psychological functions. He found that religiosity equips people with a desperately desired sensation of structure and purpose. Sedikides concluded that faith satisfies the human need for control by providing the illusion of an orderly world, in which life seems to follow a predestined choreography.
Even more prevalent, Sedikides surmised that belonging and belief go hand in hand. Based on shared values, common rituals and consistent routines, religion might be the most powerful tool to build and bind human communities.
According to Jeanet Bentzen of the University of Copenhagen, this translated into a marked uptick in religiosity as a global response to COVID-19 fear. Bentzen found that Google searches for Christian and Muslim prayers reached an all-time high in the beginning of the pandemic.
“People pray in order to cope with uncertainty and adversity,” Bentzen wrote. She theorizes global religiosity will rise permanently as a result of the pandemic.
Birol Ucan, for example, has found ease in these turbulent times with a diligent prayer routine. Spokesperson of the Omar Ibn al-Khattab mosque in Berlin-Kreuzberg, he said that kneeling on his prayer rug orientated towards Mecca five times a day endows him with a sense of discipline and duty.
“When I pray, it makes me happy that I have passed this test, because every prayer is a test,” he said. “I am guided by this structure, it gives me an order in life.”
Islam not only provides a soothing daily routine to Ucan, but guidance. When the fear of death and disease triggered by COVID-19 news threatens to overwhelm, Ucan reminds himself of a passage in the Quran: “Tie the beast and have faith in Allah.”
Michael Wenz, a 20-something theology student at Humboldt University in Berlin, expressed a similar sentiment. Wenz is a conservative, confessional Lutheran. He says that the pandemic forced him to sacrifice several aspects of his robust spiritual life, which he is looking forward to returning to soon: in-person Bible studies, social gatherings, and most of all, worship without wearing a mask.
“The restrictions have made it difficult to maintain ‘normal’ church life,” said Wenz, “but we’ve found ways to persist.”
That included shifting their usual in-person “Bible circle” meetings online. While certain aspects of the usually intimate study group are forfeited, it allowed the circle to expand, including former members who moved away or some in other countries looking to reconnect.
The Bodhicharya Buddhist Center, with its well-known stupa, in the neighborhood of Friedrichshain, Berlin. Photo by Ken Chitwood.
Thinking back on a socially-distanced backyard BBQ in the previous summer and what worship was like before the pandemic, Wenz can’t help but long for a post-pandemic time when restrictions are lifted and regulations relaxed.
“There’s just something about the tangible, the physical, in being part of a Christian community, from the singing to taking the sacrament,” he said. “That’s all changed and we hope to return to that soon."
“For now, we do what we can and trust the Lord has it in hand,” said Wenz.
While Ucan is Muslim and Wenz Christian, religion has helped both carry on amidst the COVID-19 pandemic.
Religion In Berlin Post-Pandemic
Across religious boundaries, similar dynamics are at play when it comes to dealing with crises. Kenneth Pargament, leading researcher in the field of religious coping, writes that, “the differences within religions are more striking than the differences between religions when it comes to religious coping.”
Eschewing the premise of the secularization thesis, Pergament proposes “that most people feel a need for some sense of transcendence in their lives,” even those from whom one would least expect it.
Rapp no longer sees herself as “religious.” With a pensive smile she said, “but when I was, religion saved my mental health. It made me become the woman I am today.”
For seven years, Rapp lived by a Catholic creed that helped her escape an abusive home. She found shelter in a community that promised compassion and restoration after her suffering.
After a few years immersed in Catholicism, she suffocated from its tight corset of rules, she said, and fled to a vibrant hub of contemporary alternative culture: Berlin. She redefined her identity and started to host ritualistic ceremonies – one-part public performance, one-part sacred observance -- to explore her own spirituality. She still uses some of the divine tools she learned as a nun.
“There's a ritual that was always very important to me. It's the washing of the feet, like Jesus did before the last dinner, and it's a ritual I still take. Not daily, of course, but I've used it at least once a year for the last seven years. Because I think it's something so human, giving us access to such a raw intimate place inside of us.”
To her, the difference between Christianity and witchcraft is only marginal. She harnesses their respective rituals to build her own emotional resilience. Both religions serve as a means of self-exploration and connection, she said.
Similarly, before Lars Lünebach joined a Lutheran Scout group he suffered from serious social isolation. Bullied for most of his life, the Scouts were the first to offer Lars a feeling of belonging. The Scouts taught him both the value of compassion and that human suffering is neither futile nor indefinite. Even more, they offered him perspective.
“I wanted to believe their message so badly, so I joined the other boys in spreading it,” he said. “It gave my life a meaning, at least temporarily, a kind of purpose. It was very powerful.”
Although Lars is not religious anymore, he still carries certain lessons with him: love unconditionally, show compassion and create authentic connections.
Giulia Brabetz is a journalist and student of Middle Eastern culture at the Freie Universität in Berlin, focusing on languages and intercultural communication.
Ken Chitwood is a religion nerd, writer and scholar of global Islam and American religion based in Germany. He is currently doing post-doc research at the Freie Universität in Berlin at the Berlin Graduate School Muslim Cultures and Societies and is a journalist-fellow in the University of Southern California’s Center for Religion and Civic Culture. Follow Ken on Twitter @kchitwood.