Geneva: Re-examining the Reformation

We hold certain places sacred because we regard them as the very well-spring of our religion. For Protestants it is Geneva. For Catholics it is Rome. So we planned our trip to visit both. I intend to record my honest impressions whatever pole of favorability or criticalness they might land on, hopefully without too much analysis.

Our first stop was Geneva. Here we wanted to visit St. Pierre’s Cathedral where Jean Calvin preached his reformed message. This might possibly be the first truly Protestant church (although I won’t know for sure until I take a course in church history in seminary). The cathedral was closed the first day that we visited old town Geneva so we walked around the outside of the building. Now I love cathedrals and regard them as truly sacred places but this one is really strange. The two towers on either side of the entrance which are supposed to add to the grandeur and balance to the building are totally different from each other. Well, it goes beyond merely “different.” It was like putting Big Ben on one side to balance out the Eifel Tower on the other (actually the "Eifel Tower"  is in the middle of two other completely different towers. It's all very confused). I suppose it’s appropriate for a city like Geneva which has a strong international flavor. Linn’s first impression was one of a city trying to be all things to all people.

It was not until the next day that we were able to go inside. Calvin had made some modifications to the interior. He had removed all of the art work and statuary; I guess so as not to obstruct the drab stonework which I think served as inspiration for some of his doctrines. He regarded beautiful art in churches to be evil. It was idolatrous and a distraction to the worshippers who ought to be focusing on God. Inexplicably he did not remove the highly ornate pulpit which, set against the austerity of the whole interior of the Cathedral, drew one’s attention firmly to the man preaching under its canopy.

I plopped down into one of the chairs facing this raised pulpit struck by the incongruity of a Protestant pulpit in a Catholic Cathedral. I tried to image Calvin leaning over the railing, index finger wagging toward his listeners, expounding his doctrine of double predestination (his antidote for the Catholic Purgatory). I never have quite understood the improvement here. If, in the Catholic sense, your works don’t come up to snuff you don’t get to heaven, but you do get another chance at it in Purgatory. I don’t quite buy that one. But in order to get around the works thing Calvin made it so that unless you are of the elect you don’t get to heaven at all even if your works are of sterling quality. The whole thing is rather circular because what gives you some indication of whether or not you are of the elect is the moral quality of the life that you lead. So we are right back to works. I think I’d rather take my chances with Purgatory.

Here now in the very seat of the Reformation (which they keep to one side in the Cathedral) it just really hit me. Haven’t we gone far enough with this “Reformation” thing? I mean, perhaps it served a purpose. But when you reform something you don’t kill the patient to cure the disease. There are a lot of good things coming out of the Catholic Church now; not new things but a revival of some of the most ancient and spiritually deepest practices in the history of the Christian church – contemplative prayer, Lectio Divina, Prayer of Examen, Ignatian Exercises, spiritual direction. Sitting here in the seat of the Reformation (well, actually they had the seat roped off, but sitting in one of the other chairs facing that raised pulpit) I just had a sense that a depth of Christian spirituality hard-won through centuries of struggle to reach the divine had been plastered over. This, I think, was what disturbed me most about Calvin’s over-lay on this Cathedral. It was not reformation; it was more like spiritual amputation.

Here is my true reflection and my question as honestly as I can express it: Why continue to deny ourselves the fullness and richness of the gospel message simply because we think it belongs to the other side of the fence? There is both mystery and rationality in the gospel of Jesus. Why not open ourselves to the ancient practices while continuing to believe that we are not saved by works but by faith. If we can live with mystery then we can believe that the sovereignty of God is in no way compromised by our free will. So why don’t we work toward tearing down this dividing wall between Catholic and Protestant. As the apostle Paul might say, “Is Christ divided?”

Strangers in a Strange Land

The first leg of our journey, the flight into Frankfurt Germany, was moderately comfortable. The plane was amazingly un-crowded. Everyone had a row of seats to themselves. I was able to doze lightly. After landing in Frankfurt we immediately took the train to Baden Baden where we spent four nights working off our jet-lag and getting acculturated to a foreign culture.

Traveling through foreign places without the cultural buffer zone of a tour group one stands naked to the surrounding culture. This causes one’s own culture to stand starkly before you. I experience this as a sort of self-consciousness; of not being able to blend in because there is no greater context to blend in to. I become acutely aware of my cultural self as an individual; aware of being an American. This, in fact, is one of the main objectives of this trip; to see more clearly the sort of cloaks that we have been wearing.

Many of us Americans find the Germans a bit cold-blooded. But there is a spiritual quality about a country that has suffered through war and defeat on its own turf and of horrible dictatorships and political unrest. Such afflictions have chipped away at the granite exterior to find a sort of stoic grandeur within.

In contrast German psychologist Erik Erikson has described the American character as “tentative.” I never really understood this until I came to Germany. To be sure I have only a very small sampling of German culture; but what I have notice, particularly in the Rhineland, is a deep sense of community. Families have lived in the same area and run the same businesses for centuries. There is a harmony of place. What Linn has discovered as she has painted pictures of some of the architecture is that she can use the same techniques as with landscapes such as mountains. Manmade structures and nature seem to be all of one fabric. The streets and plazas follow the contour of the land. There was no excavating or leveling off.

I think this communal settled-ness is what seems to make the German people seem cold. They are not pretentiously polite. Waiters and waitresses do not fawn over you in restaurants. Yet there is child-like warmness underneath; a staid sense of inner personage; that is to say, of resting in one’s own being with no need to make an external impression to be accepted. In a climate without the fawning service people and superficial politeness I began to feel a bit unsure within myself. I rely so much on that external affirmation.

I think this is what Erikson meant. We hold ourselves attentive to our environment; like chameleons always ready to change our color to blend in and win acceptance. We do not tend to live within ourselves but in the glow that we look for in the acceptance of others. For all our supposed independence we are so very dependent on the affirmation that we give and receive. We shape ourselves around it.

I believe there is a spiritual message in this. We do this with our religion. We are so intent in our church communities on affirming and being affirmed that we do not really love. That is to say we do not really love the center of a person, but a whitewashed façade. We love to be loved; or, better put, affirm to be affirmed. We believe this to be warmth but it is really alienation. It is what keeps us from relating at deeper levels, beyond the whitewash, where we may need to dig through layers of corrosion before we come to the solid core of a God-created person. I think German architecture teaches this lesson. In the ancient buildings much of the exterior façade has worn away exposing the granite foundation that has kept these buildings standing for centuries.

At the Airport (part 2): The day of the flight

I miss those days when you were greeted at the airport by a crisply uniformed ticket agent who knew what he or she was doing. Now you are welcomed not-so-warmly by a machine that vaguely resembles R2D2 of Star Wars (I regard this as one of the signs pointing to the coming end of the present age). These machines just don’t understand your special needs, like technical incompetence. My greatest fear is entering the wrong data and canceling the entire flight – or at least voiding my own ticket. So this time I decided I’d avoid the machine altogether and printed up my boarding pass the night before at the hotel – a feat of which I am rather proud. 

There was another challenge that I knew I would face at the check-in counter that day. Given our panic the day before (when we left our bags on the bus – see last post) and being confronted with repeated messages over the airport PA system that any unattended personal items would be confiscated and the contents immediately destroyed, it is understandable that we had become rather neurotically attached to our luggage. So we felt some significant separation anxiety as we placed our bags on the scale to be checked aboard the plane.



And then we waited…and waited…and waited…for the low-echelon functionary behind the counter to take care of our bags (oh where are those well-trained, attentive ticket agents?). Finally I signaled to her that we were in fact right now existing here in front of her with obvious intentions to check our luggage (that by the fact that one of our bags rested on the scale) and could she please attend to us.



“Have you checked in yet?” She said motioning toward R2D2.



I thought I’d done that in the hotel last night. My sense of accomplishment was rapidly vanishing.



“We already have our boarding passes,” I said, rather hurt.



“You’ve got to check in anyway so we’ll know where you’re going."



Yeah, well I guess that does make sense. I’ll do anything not to arrive in Frankfurt and discover that our luggage is sitting somewhere on the outskirts of Katmandu. So I duly entered our confirmation number which I had the foresight to record in our travel folder.

The moment of pain had finally arrived as we watched our bags being swallowed up into the gaping yaw of one of the more ominous-looking machines in the airport. It then proceeded to fall through a black hole at the end of the conveyer belt. I could not shake the thought that somewhere in the subterranean caverns of Denver International Airport the only thing that stood between me and the possibility of a clean change of socks and underwear at our destination was a bored, low-wage laborer whose main thought was how he or she could beat the rush hour traffic home that evening.

The flight itself went really well. It took only 7.5 hours to reach Frankfurt from Chicago and we got in early. The plane was virtually empty. Every passenger in the extra leg-room section had a whole row of seats to themselves and there were some rows still left empty. At Frankfurt it took us three trains to get to Baden Baden. And here we are now practically recovered form our jet-lag and ready to continue our adventure.

At the Airport: The day before the flight was a near disaster

Our adventure begins with a near disaster. Not one that would concern FEMA but it sure put us into a minor panic. We took the bus to the airport the day before our flight because we like to stay in a hotel near the airport. That way we’re not madly rushing around getting ready the day of the flight. Also I wanted to see about getting some Euros so we’d have some when we got to Frankfurt (not really a good idea since they charge the highest exchange rate plus a $5.00 fee at those exchange offices at the airport. ATM machines are plentiful in the Frankfurt airport for a much better exchange rate – I should have listened to Rick Steves on that one). At the top of the escalator in the terminal I asked Linn to watch our stuff so I could use the restroom. Our stuff? Seemed a bit light for a two-and-a-half month trip. Our bags!! Where are our bags!? There’s supposed to be two suitcases here. Well at that instant I knew exactly where they were. Still on the bus (Note: I’m not using complete sentences here because at the time I was not thinking in complete sentences and I’m trying to capture the moment).

Now those of you who know me and think I’m slow, had you seen me at that moment your whole concept of me would have been totally shattered. Bounding down the escalator (not caring whether it was the up or down escalator) I made for the door where the bus used to be. Not there! “Quick,” I said to Linn only half conscious of where she actually was, “to the other side!” We had exited the bus on the west side of the terminal and I knew (in a rare moment of rapid-fire thinking) that the bus circled around to the east side to let off passengers. I covered the distance across the terminal to the east side in less than half a minute (I’d lost all awareness of Linn at this point).

A bus had just pulled out of the space in front of the door. It made its way down the pavement and pulled into the Southwest Airlines terminal. With another bit of God-infused thinking I remembered that someone on the bus wanted to get off at Southwest Airlines. I usually don’t run and pray at the same time but this was an occasion for multi-tasking. Even in my panic I was able not to bump into people in wheelchairs or trample mothers with babies in strollers. I actually don’t remember my exact route but it was partly in the street, partly on the sidewalk and a little bit in places where people don’t ordinarily walk. In the end a little indignation paid off (I thought of Zacchaeus climbing a tree or the father of the prodigal running to meet him). Just as I reached this particular bus the driver, whom I recognized, was taking our bags out from the under-compartment. He actually apologized to me for not reminding me to collect our bags. Can you imagine that? An RTD driver apologizing for our stupidity! He even asked me if I was O.K. because I was gulping in large quantities of frigid air.

And so with triumphal music playing in my head I set out to find my wife whom I’d left behind somewhere. She’d actually stopped another bus and the driver was about to look to see if our bags were on his bus. I felt like something of a hero (a compensation-reaction, no doubt) as I approached Linn while dragging our two bags behind me. She seemed very relieved. And so we caught the shuttle to our hotel hoping that this experience was not an omen portending how the rest of this trip would turn out. And, oh yes, we did get a small amount of Euros at the greatly inflated exchange rate. One pays to learn.