While in Germany and Vienna I had a lot of opportunity to reflect on Dr. Schreiter's idea of being formed in the 'crucible of history.' He was refering to the church and, since I am now teaching church history, it is providing me some very rich reflections to share with my classes.
But it has also given me pause to think about our personal 'crucibles.' Each of us is formed by our own history - wherever we live. I teach my students about embedded theology, the often uncritical learning they received growing up. This is true for all of us, and hopefully our theological formation moves us forward. But as I sat at Mass in Vienna at St. Augustine's a baroque cathedral at least three centuries old and witnessed the mass there, I couldn't help but think of Schreiter's phrase. Only I began thinking of it as 'prisoners of our own history.'
The mass, though in German, was very familiar. Some of the melodies even were familiar. A couple of parts of the liturgy were rearranged, but it was the liturgy I know. What was different, however, was the ancient nature of the church. The music was trumpet and organ renditions of Handel and Bach. The presider read every word - nothing was spontaneous. The parishioners did sing along a bit, but there was no connection between the liturgy, the presider, and the people in the room that I could perceive. It was as if we were spectators not participants.
Perhaps the experience was different for others, but this was mine. The liturgy was a high mass with all parts sung, incense at every twist and turn. What came to me was that if this were your lifelong experience of liturgy -- of the church -- what would that mean in terms of your understanding of church? If you had spent all your life in baroque churches that were gilded, adorned with old master's paintings, marble statues, carved wooden benches, and professional style classical music, what would you know of church in another part of the world?
As far as I can tell no one would be exempt from this. The current pope is a professor from southern Germany where the churches are often austere, ancient stone buildings. John Paul II was from Poland, a land overrun at the time by the Communists. What were their crucibles? Both knew the war that pervaded the European landscape.
As an American, my crucible is quite different. I grew up in the Midwest. As a member of the Diocese of Cleveland, I was taught by pastors and teachers to enthusiastically embrace Vatican II. That, I have learned, was not a shared or even typical experience across the country.
I know the openness of Americans. We don't share the very private understanding of religion and spirituality that our German brothers and sisters grew up with. And why wouldn't they gaurd their privacy? They live in the land of Martin Luther, needing to live peacefully with one another despite their shared history, the Holy Roman Empire, WWII and concentration camps.
I spent time reflecting on Vatican II and the bishops sitting side by side who not only may have had differing theologies. They were raised in different crucibles, some being taught from birth to be suspicious about some of the people of differing nation alities who were sitting there in the room. What a challenge for them to overcome those embedded experiences.
And finally, as I was sitting in that church in Vienna, America and our experience of church seemed very far away. How could I even translate what parish life is like to those sitting in the Viennese church last Sunday? Of course this was the goal of the Crossing Over Project.
As our world and our church become global ones, how do we recognize our prisons, our crucibles, in a way that is life-giving? This, perhaps, is the post-modern challenge of our church.
