Natalie Murchinson on Searching for Meaning in Czech Atheism
March 2, 2009
Ask a Czech why their country is considered one of the least religious in Europe, and they will likely site their 41 years of living under Soviet rule as having successfully stifled much religious fervor.
From my first night in Prague, when I found myself in conversation with a Czech university student, to conversations with my Czech host mother, Eva, dialogue about why Czechs statistically lack religious faith always seem to return to the topic of communism.
Eva has lived and worked most of her life under the Soviet regime. The other day, I had a conversation with Eva about the churches in Prague. On the wall of Eva's kitchen hangs a crucifix, and as a result I assumed she at least felt loyalty to the Catholic Church. She tells me, under communism, preachers were employed by the government. They had very small wages and were restricted in what they could preach. "We should go to church some Sunday," she says in a serious tone. "You will see. It is only old people in the church. The young people, they do not go."
Indeed, the youth of Prague seem to be soaking in the culture of rebellion that was denied to their dissident ancestors of the previous generation. On the subway, bright blue hair, hot pink tights, and all kinds of alternative style that would attract stares in America is commonplace here. In my solid black coat and brown boots, I oftentimes feel like the one who stands out in public. Punk and ska music, genres associated with defying the mainstream, are very popular. Graffiti is all over the city. One would be hard placed to find a city block in Prague that does not boast impromptu street art. Graffiti effortlessly blends into the buildings of the city—architectural styles that span over a millennium.
Aside from manifestations of the counter-culture in Prague, a visitor is immediately confronted with the city's fairy tale-like skyline, consisting of bridges, castles, churches, basilicas—many of which date back to the fourteenth century or earlier. The peak of international influence for this region was in the fourteenth century, when Charles IV was the emperor of the Holy Roman Empire and seated in Prague. This means that at the peak of Czech dominance, feudalism and the Catholic Church were the way of life.
Having grown up in a nation that was born out of the Enlightenment, I am witnessing for the first time how a city that was built up in the Middle Ages exists and functions today. For one, it has been interesting to notice how two individual people from the Czech past (Saint Wenceslas, circa 900 CE, and Charles IV, 1300s CE, Bohemian king of the Holy Roman Empire) continue to be an integral part of contemporary Prague life.
To the average Westerner, the legacy of Saint Wenceslas resides in the moderately popular Christmas carol, "Good King Wenceslas." However, upon first arriving in Prague, I got the impression I needed to learn as much as possible and fast—about this patron saint and his less-ethereal successor, Charles IV. Between touring the Prague Castle, walking across the Charles Bridge, attending lectures at Charles University, romping through touristy Wenceslas Square, and even visiting Kutná Hora, a town of medieval importance several hours outside of Prague, I have heard the names of Wenceslas and Charles IV repeated over and over, more than any others.
Of course, current residents of Prague do not worship these figureheads of pre-Romanesque and Gothic ages. Czechs and visitors have no choice but to observe their presence in the city: the architectural splendor they inspired, structures that survived the World Wars and are still very present in the space that the people inhabit. When Bohemians were influencing the world, the Middle Ages and feudalism were the height of Bohemian dominance, and now the world runs by different ideologies, which have been exerted upon the Czechs from outside forces, most recently communism and now capitalism.
On the other hand, Prague's history is rich with religious and ideological dissidents: counter-culture individuals who preceded this new punkish, post-communist generation. In 1415, Jan Hus, predecessor of Martin Luther, was burned at the stake after working to reform the Catholic Church. His followers were called Hussites and did significant work in that century. A monument in Old Town Square pays tribute to Hus, who is a national hero.
A young martyr whose name was on everyone's tongue when I first arrived in Prague is Jan Palach. Palach was a Charles University student who in 1969 publically burned himself to death in Wenceslas Square in protest of the Soviet occupation. This past month was the fortieth anniversary of his death. An exhibit at Charles University and a candlelit memorial sight on a busy Prague street served as serious-toned reminders of his sacrifice.
Also worth mentioning is the outspoken Czech artist, David Černý, whose repertoire includes such defiant works as the Soviet tank he spray-painted pink overnight in 1991, an inverted rendition of a famous statue of Wenceslas on a horse, a collection of infants who are permanently on display climbing up ikov Television Tower, and his most recent work, Entropa, which has inspired controversy in the European Union.
Now I must conclude without having arrived at an answer. In Prague today, the ghosts of a feudal lord and a patron saint continue to reside in the public space; intellectuals and artists who spoke out against ideologies, though not always successful, are publically celebrated; and a generation who came of age after 1989 are happily doing their own thing and are reinforced by capitalism. In this climate, a present majority state of non-believing seems to make sense.
Eva has lived and worked most of her life under the Soviet regime. The other day, I had a conversation with Eva about the churches in Prague. On the wall of Eva's kitchen hangs a crucifix, and as a result I assumed she at least felt loyalty to the Catholic Church. She tells me, under communism, preachers were employed by the government. They had very small wages and were restricted in what they could preach. "We should go to church some Sunday," she says in a serious tone. "You will see. It is only old people in the church. The young people, they do not go."
Indeed, the youth of Prague seem to be soaking in the culture of rebellion that was denied to their dissident ancestors of the previous generation. On the subway, bright blue hair, hot pink tights, and all kinds of alternative style that would attract stares in America is commonplace here. In my solid black coat and brown boots, I oftentimes feel like the one who stands out in public. Punk and ska music, genres associated with defying the mainstream, are very popular. Graffiti is all over the city. One would be hard placed to find a city block in Prague that does not boast impromptu street art. Graffiti effortlessly blends into the buildings of the city—architectural styles that span over a millennium.
Aside from manifestations of the counter-culture in Prague, a visitor is immediately confronted with the city's fairy tale-like skyline, consisting of bridges, castles, churches, basilicas—many of which date back to the fourteenth century or earlier. The peak of international influence for this region was in the fourteenth century, when Charles IV was the emperor of the Holy Roman Empire and seated in Prague. This means that at the peak of Czech dominance, feudalism and the Catholic Church were the way of life.
Having grown up in a nation that was born out of the Enlightenment, I am witnessing for the first time how a city that was built up in the Middle Ages exists and functions today. For one, it has been interesting to notice how two individual people from the Czech past (Saint Wenceslas, circa 900 CE, and Charles IV, 1300s CE, Bohemian king of the Holy Roman Empire) continue to be an integral part of contemporary Prague life.
To the average Westerner, the legacy of Saint Wenceslas resides in the moderately popular Christmas carol, "Good King Wenceslas." However, upon first arriving in Prague, I got the impression I needed to learn as much as possible and fast—about this patron saint and his less-ethereal successor, Charles IV. Between touring the Prague Castle, walking across the Charles Bridge, attending lectures at Charles University, romping through touristy Wenceslas Square, and even visiting Kutná Hora, a town of medieval importance several hours outside of Prague, I have heard the names of Wenceslas and Charles IV repeated over and over, more than any others.
Of course, current residents of Prague do not worship these figureheads of pre-Romanesque and Gothic ages. Czechs and visitors have no choice but to observe their presence in the city: the architectural splendor they inspired, structures that survived the World Wars and are still very present in the space that the people inhabit. When Bohemians were influencing the world, the Middle Ages and feudalism were the height of Bohemian dominance, and now the world runs by different ideologies, which have been exerted upon the Czechs from outside forces, most recently communism and now capitalism.
On the other hand, Prague's history is rich with religious and ideological dissidents: counter-culture individuals who preceded this new punkish, post-communist generation. In 1415, Jan Hus, predecessor of Martin Luther, was burned at the stake after working to reform the Catholic Church. His followers were called Hussites and did significant work in that century. A monument in Old Town Square pays tribute to Hus, who is a national hero.
A young martyr whose name was on everyone's tongue when I first arrived in Prague is Jan Palach. Palach was a Charles University student who in 1969 publically burned himself to death in Wenceslas Square in protest of the Soviet occupation. This past month was the fortieth anniversary of his death. An exhibit at Charles University and a candlelit memorial sight on a busy Prague street served as serious-toned reminders of his sacrifice.
Also worth mentioning is the outspoken Czech artist, David Černý, whose repertoire includes such defiant works as the Soviet tank he spray-painted pink overnight in 1991, an inverted rendition of a famous statue of Wenceslas on a horse, a collection of infants who are permanently on display climbing up ikov Television Tower, and his most recent work, Entropa, which has inspired controversy in the European Union.
Now I must conclude without having arrived at an answer. In Prague today, the ghosts of a feudal lord and a patron saint continue to reside in the public space; intellectuals and artists who spoke out against ideologies, though not always successful, are publically celebrated; and a generation who came of age after 1989 are happily doing their own thing and are reinforced by capitalism. In this climate, a present majority state of non-believing seems to make sense.
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