Elisabeth Harvey

To an American student studying abroad in Germany, many rudiments of religious practice resemble those in the United States. The majority of religious Germans belong either to the Catholic Church (predominating in the southern and western regions) or to the Evangelical Church (EKD), the synod that encompasses several Protestant groups. Several religious minorities, most notably a Jewish minority centered in Berlin and a largely Turkish Muslim minority, exist. As in many Western countries, a substantial part of the population professes themselves non-religious, a trend of concern to religious leaders (like the German-born Pope Benedict XVI), who decry the growing influence of secularism in general. Catholics and Protestants alike still celebrate the major Christian holidays with vigor, and the influence of tradition, organized labor, and a strong Christian Democratic Party (CDU) have made sure that Sunday remains a day of rest in Germany so far, when boutiques and grocery stores keep their doors closed.

As an American with a German mother, I have spent time in various regions in Germany and occasional attended services. Still, Kirchensteuer (“Church Tax”), the 8-9% of their total income tax that church members must pay to their denominations, was not something that I thought about until recently; indeed, most Germans (my grandmother included) do not consciously think about the tax, viewing it as an integral part of the profession of one's faith, without which the fundamental Christian ceremonies—baptism, confirmation, marriage, burial—would not take place. The institution of Kirchensteuer differentiates the German religious culture from the American religious ethos, dominated by the concepts of the non-profit institution and the collection plate. Professing a religion in Germany is, as in the United States, something one usually inherits from one's parents; however, in Germany, that inheritance means that the parents pay the Kirchensteuer for their children until the children have an income of their own. While paying a tax probably would not dissuade those accustomed to belonging to a religious community, it might influence the religious affiliation of the large number of Germans who choose to participate only marginally in organized religion. To cease paying the tax, citizens may formally renounce their religious conviction. If a Konfessionslose (a person who does not belong to a specific church community) then wishes their children to participate in Christian rites, those could technically be denied.

Although the idea of a church tax has roots in the sociopolitical history of the German principalities, one might question the manner in which the direct taxation integrates religion into modern German society. If one considers religion to be an asset to the social fabric, one might laud the manner in which the community helps support an internal social network. Largely because of the tax, many German dioceses are quite prosperous. In the German system, the church becomes a mini-economy with a substantial array of social, religious, and educational offerings, rather than limiting itself to spiritual guidance and belief. While the collection plate is a far from perfect institution that provides a looser, more localized, organizational structure in the United States, it appears to support a broader basis for individual religious belief.

Wandering around the Schwaben neighborhood of Munich near the university last week, I instinctively felt that something was somewhat different, a bit abnormal, about the intersection of Schellingstraße and Amelienstraße. I absorbed the scene that presented itself: Crosswalk teaming with students. Quaint German restaurant, Gaststätte Atzinger. German flag.

Part of the problem of explaining what was “off” is that the German version of patriotism cannot be easily understood in the American context. When Americans think of the tangible signs of patriotism, the strains of Lee Greenwood waft through the air, we think of the colors of the flag, and we envision all the trappings of a 4th of July celebration.

Patriotism in Germany, however, is usually a much more subtle affair. In fact, the one place where I can remember seeing a flag with some regularity is in front of the Bundestag in Berlin. Because of the country's cultural and historical background, patriotism has been viewed with a solid dose of suspicion for many years. The only time period in which flag-waving, national anthem singing patriotism has attained a kind of normality in German modernity is in the context of soccer. In 2006, I spent the summer as an exchange student at a boarding school near Munich. As the host of the World Cup, Germany was cautiously exploring the meaning of international prominence, while also tentatively enjoying the national fervor that seemed to heighten with every successful match. As the national team advanced through the tournament, the flag began to appear all over the place: candy bars, wigs, face paint, cars, jerseys, etc. For Germans, soccer creates a safe culture of national unity, divorced from the political and military context of previous nationalist movements.

Still, soccer-based patriotism had its skeptics: I remember my history teacher holding a very earnest discussion with my class about the difference between nationalism and patriotism, and then having us write an essay about whether we thought that the current atmosphere represented nationalistic or patriotic sentiment. Although his definition can naturally be debated, it has remained with me to the present day. He argued that patriotism means a pride in one's country, whereas nationalism means a pride in one's country that ceases to be based in reality that depreciates the value of other countries by comparison. By that interpretation, which can only be understood in the ideological context of the then-expanding European Union, soccer becomes an acceptable realm to express patriotism, rendered neutral by the chivalric code of sportsmanship.

But what about everyday German patriotism? After all, Gaststätte Atzinger has been flying their flag months in advance of the FIFA World Cup. Even if displays of the flag are generally an exception to the rule, Germans do seem to have several distinctive, albeit it less tangible, methods of expressing a sense of cohesiveness. On the national level, many Germans express an affinity for their own products, a willingness to sacrifice the more American consideration of price, for the German concept of quality. German cars, German electronics, and German beer are usually associated with a certain standard, a Qualität, because they carry distinctive brand names: Braun, Bosch, Siemens, or Zeiss, for example. Even for my mother, who has spent several decades living in the United States, digital cameras become instantly more appealing when they have the coveted Zeiss lens.

The other difference between German and American patriotism is that Germans frequently have a strong regional identity that sometimes displaces the nation-centric patriotism. Particularly in Bavaria, it is quite acceptable to display the blue-and-white checkered state flag on a regular basis. The practices of speaking a dialect and of wearing distinctive tradition clothing (Dirndl and Lederhosen) contribute not only to a more decentralized national consciousness, but also to a common cultural identity within the region. Through its pride in its manufacturing and through its regional affiliations, German patriotism subtly expresses itself through alternate forms diverging from the more overt American model.