Who Wants To Be A Priest? (Germany)

The Roman Catholic Church in Germany is running out of vocations. Who wants to be a priest in this day and age? A visit to St. Georgen Seminary in Frankfurt.

A dark passageway leads into the church of the St. Georgen Roman Catholic seminary, a roundhouse structure made of exposed concrete that could house a 3-D cinema. The corridor is navy blue and tapers as it approaches the church; halfway along is a heavy glass door with a massive handle, a cold metal cross grasped by all who enter here.

The Catholic Church is on the lookout for the next generation of priests. Here, priests take part in the opening of World Youth Day in Cologne in 2005.It is just after 6 p.m. Worshippers drift in to evening Mass, a few older nuns and priests; the petite woman who plays the organ.

The congregation is made up mostly of seminarians.

The young candidates for the priesthood stride along the corridor in silence. As appearances go, they look just like their lay contemporaries. They are dressed in baggy black or khaki jeans with check shirts, sweatshirts with and without logos.

Some have hair that's not more than a stubble; others have bangs grazing their eyelashes.

Chains and rings sparkle here and there; one man is wearing a green cloth bracelet. There is the usual smattering of five o'clock shadow. And someone has gone overboard with the aftershave; a fleeting smell of Hugo Boss wafts down the hall.

The church opens up to the left, but the men pause a moment before entering to dab their foreheads with holy water. With a brief nod of respect toward the altar, each picks up a red hymnal from the stack and takes his seat in one of the gray pews.

This small, streamlined church was built for men like this. For men who renounce a worldly life to spread the gospel. Who have vowed to live a celibate life - in complete sexual abstinence.
Very few believe that such people still exist, even in the Church.

German Catholics are running out of vocations.

Being a priest is the opposite of cool.

It is cold in the church. The organist chants the liturgy in a crystal-clear voice. A visiting priest from Poland in an applegreen chasuble is presiding over the Mass.

For the 16 new seminarians who hail from all over Germany, it is only the second such service here in Frankfurt.

The homily centers around St. Paul, who wrote of his ministry: "But when it pleased God, who separated me from my mother's womb and called me through his grace to reveal his Son in me, that I might preach Him among the Gentiles, I did not immediately confer with flesh and blood." Have these men been chosen? How do they know who has been "calling" them? How do they know whose voices they have been hearing? In the end, maybe they just have problems with sex?

On this early fall day, an earthy smell permeates Nils Schellhaas' room through the open window. St. Georgen is situated in a sprawling park south of the Main River. In addition to the seminary for its 37 aspiring priests, the complex extends to a Jesuit community and a University of Philosophy and Theology with an enrollment of some 430 students.

The 24-year-old man with horn-rimmed glasses and dimples in his chin and cheeks is a convert, a former Protestant. When Schellhaas drove here at the beginning of September, he had very mixed feelings. Did a hothouse of homosexuals await him? A gay club in disguise, possibly even involving pedophiles - such as at St. Pölten in Austria, where a scandal temporarily shut down the seminary?

He has been here four weeks now. He has calluses on his hands from all the work. Along with the other newcomers, Schellhaas has graveled over a road and painted a wooden house; together they have sweated and cursed.

And his fears have vanished. "Although some of them have never had a relationship," he has concluded, "none of them seem to be gay."

The number of potential priests is dropping rapidly.Schellhaas, a man with an honest face and a high, clear voice, left a good life behind. A university student, he lived in a two-bedroom apartment in Kiel with a view of the Baltic - until recently, with his girlfriend.

He misses the space: His current abode, "a cell with a sink," measures just 100 square feet. He doesn't miss his girlfriend.

"She left me because I was devoting too much time to my faith and too little to our relationship," the theology student explains. The separation changed his life. "I was cycling home one evening and couldn't wait to see if I would feel lonely in the apartment without her." When he opened the door, a miracle happened. He felt less alone than ever before.

Schellhaas rubs the blond stubble on his chin. "Having a partner requires time and devotion. I'm someone who thrives on God's devotion, and if I give myself to a girlfriend, then I lack the time to receive this love from God." Coming from this devout young man, the reasoning sounds credible.

"Definitely no celibacy"

Schellhaas did not inherit this religious fervor. His parents had left the church. The man from Hesse first encountered the Savior when, as a young boy, he first saw crucifixes during a trip to Italy. The seven year-old had watched in fascination as people knelt before images of a man nailed to a cross.

Later, Sunday mornings at home were stressful: he wanted to watch religious programs on TV, his brother preferred cartoons. Schellhaas fished his first Bible out of a recycling bin.
In seventh grade he heard his calling. "Up to then, I was set on becoming a journalist, a television reporter or something like that. But after a discussion with my parents, it suddenly came to me: I am going to become a priest. At the time, I didn't even know what that meant."
His parents - Schellhaas' father sells software - hoped that their son would eventually grow out of this quirky phase.

But in high school Schellhaas chose Latin as his foreign language and started going to church.

"They said OK, but then you have to become a Protestant. That seemed less weird to them."
Protestantism proved a convenient choice. "Although I never liked the overintellectual and anti-ritualistic ethos of the Lutheran Church, back then I definitely did not want to live a celibate life."

He decided to become a Lutheran priest with a Catholic habitus. Even in his first semester studying theology at Frankfurt University, he prayed every evening with the Capuchin monks. He switched to Kiel University to be near his girlfriend.

The decision to convert came last summer in Erfurt. Schellhaas had gone to the Augustinian monastery to say the rosary.

As he left the chapel, he noticed a sign on the door commemorating the day Martin Luther had entered this very monastery: July 17, 1505 - "500 years ago to the day."

A sign from heaven: it was time to put an end to the farce, time for the church rebel to make an about-face - and turn to Catholicism

Once he finishes his degree in theology, Schellhaas will attend a seminary in Hamburg for the subsequent one-year course in pastoral care - and then be ordained a deacon. If all goes well, after another year, he will be a priest in the Archdiocese of Hamburg.

Schellhaas' parents seem to have gotten religion as well. Originally married in a civil service, they have now renewed their vows in church to celebrate their silver wedding anniversary.

During the family's trip to Italy afterwards, Schellhaas espied his mother secretly lighting a candle in Assisi and his father crossing himself.

Schellhaas has not kissed a woman for more than a year now. The devoted organist says, "I'm glad I've already had girlfriends. Otherwise, I don't know if I might not have tried to find out sometime if anyone would have me."

But Schellhaas won't swear that he'll never fall in love again - and he is not the only one. They all say it here, even 47 year-old Jesuit priest Stephan Kessler, the rector of St. Georgen - a big man in a shapeless fleece shirt whose facial profile recalls Mr. Bean. Kessler's office is spacious and comfortable; icons line the walls and the scent of fresh coffee and cookies fills the air. The rector is famous for his cookies.

Kessler is a garrulous man whose language is flavored by more than Latinisms. "Of course priests fall in love too," the Jesuit says. "It's been the causa efficiens for more than one seminarian whom I've shown the door - and sometimes welcomed back."

They all had to learn to "integrate" their sexuality and emotions into the celibate way of life, he says. He himself had fallen in love too, as a chaplain in his early thirties. Today the former object of his secret desires is a mother of three; Kessler is friends with her and her husband.

Was abstinence a sacrifice that one made to God, like Jesus dying on the cross to save mankind? The priest briskly dismisses this idea. "You won't get far with a sacrificial mindset. This way of life means no greater sacrifice than does the responsible interaction with one's partner in a relationship. You fall in love sometimes when you're married too, and you have to resist the temptation."

All the St. Georgen students have heard this argument - that celibacy is no more difficult than marital fidelity. Kessler talks on as the tables are cleared after the communal meal. The dining room is an inviting place to gather. Far from a bare refectory, it has more in common with a youth hostel cafeteria.

The students hovering nearby are hanging on Kessler's every word. The priest tells how, just recently, his faith in the resurrection had abandoned him after 30 days of silent retreat. He thought, "OK, that's it. Time to look for a new job."

For months he wrestled with his conscience - and then happened to meet a monk who helped him overcome his doubts.

One very young, handsome fellow stands out from the crowd.

A moment before he was complaining that the long, lofty corridors of the seminary, where every footstep reverberates, make him feel he's at Harry Potter's Hogwarts School. With Albus Dumbledore as the rector. Now the boy is standing close, his shoulders slumped forward, his luminous green eyes burning in concentration. Lapses of faith, celibacy issues - now those are intriguing subjects!

Is this the right path for someone like him, who always saw himself as a "family man"? The 20-year-old comes from a sheltered background. He was raised Catholic and has two siblings: A gifted student, he had set his sights on becoming a religion teacher. But when he confessed to his father, a carpenter, that he really wanted to become a priest, his father had surprised him by saying: "I've always known that."

All the trees in St. Georgen bear name plates in German and Latin. Christian Fahl is waiting outside among the oaks, ashes and beeches. The 28-year-old is beaming. "Champion" is emblazoned across his lilywhite sweatshirt. Fahl's skin is the same shade and looks unhealthy. But the cramming has paid off: The seminarian passed his church history examination with flying colors.

"I can begin my fourth semester now," Fahl says, "and I'll be very happy to do so!" The man is virtually bubbling over, rolling his eyes and smiling from ear to ear. He's been "very happy" throughout his life, whether he's been singing in the children's choir, going to school or training as a bank teller. Fahl has always been happy.

Youth work is particularly close to his heart. He became aware of his calling because "so many young people came to me with questions," he says.

Maybe they didn't have a choice. Fahl was class president at school, youth spokesperson on the parish council, regional director of the Hochtaunus Catholic Youth Organization; he belonged to the diocesan committee, the parish letter's editorial staff, a One World committee and the "Charismatic Home Circle."

Fahl was enrolled at St. Georgen without being a seminarian. After five years as a bank clerk, he had wanted to take the next step to test his sense of vocation first. Moreover, he had realized that, with his level of community and church commitment, he had no time left for a girlfriend anyway. Contemplation was "very important," Fahl says hastily; prayer the only way to find answers to the questions that were important to him: "What does God want? Where does the Holy Spirit live?"

Fahl does not have to stop to think. He strings his life impressions like beads on a chain that connects him to God: starting with his grandma, who - thanks to divine intervention - survived childbed fever delivering Fahl's mother during a bombing raid, and extending through his devout teachers at high school to his boss at the bank, who supported him on his chosen path.
People like Fahl are no surprise in a place like St. Georgen.

The surprise is that Fahl does not appear to be the rule, but the exception. On the other hand, everyone is an exception here, in their own way. The youngest seminarian is 20, the oldest 42. Some came directly from school; many have already worked - as geriatric nurses, lawyers, biologists. They hail from different backgrounds, from intact and broken homes, from Christian and atheist families. Some grew up in mansions, others in orphanages.

Astronaut or priest?

Unlike Fahl, most of them understand outsiders' amazement at their lifestyle choice. Perhaps because they are still amazed themselves.
Take Mathias Mütel, a 23-year-old seminarian from Blankenese, an elegant riverside suburb of Hamburg. At 14 he had vowed to prove to his confirmation instruction teacher that God did not exist. Until then, the adolescent had alternately defined himself as an anarchist, Marxist and nihilist.

"But it wasn't as easy as I thought it would be," says the broad-shouldered man with the somber mien. His parents, both architects, were not thrilled upon hearing he wanted to study theology. "In Hamburg, it's better to say you want to be an astronaut than a priest."

Hendrik Klentze (35) needed two attempts before he had become acclimated to the seminary. The first time, five years ago, he harbored high expectations. But the seminarians were always fighting, there was "mobbing the same as anywhere else."

And as a recent convert to Catholicism, much was completely incomprehensible: for example, the hours spent praying to the host in the monstrance. The disk of unleavened bread reminded him of the wafer used to make German Lebkuchen. "I kept thinking: They're worshipping a cookie."

But Klentze remained obstinate. He had given up his career as an archaeologist and separated from his girlfriend. His parents - the father was a gynecologist, his mother a therapist - had brought him up in the antiauthoritarian spirit of 1968 and thought he was mad anyway. At that time, Klentze evaded the issue by going to study theology in Münster. Now he feels ready for St. Georgen.

Polish seminarian Michal Swiatkowski is preparing to serve as a priest in a German diocese. The 26-year-old with mesmerizing eyes had previously attended a Polish seminary. He held out for two years before becoming a journalist; later he had a girlfriend as well. The lack of priests in Germany enabled him to start afresh here. "There are enough candidates in Poland. You can't just take a sabbatical in the middle of your studies."

The budding priest regards celibacy as important, although he knows it will be difficult. The certainty of knowing he has met that challenge may come very late, as an old priest once revealed to him: on his deathbed.

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