Thriving Catacombs, Empty Pews

Sodom and Gomorrah are now Berlin’s suburbs. Few cities in Europe embody the rejection of eternity in favour of fleeting trends as much as the German capital. Berlin was neither the birthplace of the Enlightenment, Romanticism, Nationalism, nor Wokeism. Yet, in every historical era, it has not only caught up with its prevailing ideology but has consistently positioned itself as its vanguard.

With values such as diversity, transgenderism, and relativism dominating its culture, it is little surprise that nearly two-thirds of Berlin’s residents are unaffiliated with any religion. Out of nearly four million inhabitants, only 300,000 identify as Catholic, while merely 30,000 attend Mass on Sundays.

Catholics have always been a minority in what was once a Prussian-Protestant stronghold. This reflects a broader continental trend, as traditional Christianity— much like the earliest Christians who, in order to avoid persecution, were forced to publicly express their faith in the catacombs—is resembling an underground movement once again.

The real threat is not so much the rise of Islam through migration and demographics but rather the mass apostasy of the native population. To many Europeans, the faith that once shaped Western civilisation now feels as foreign as Islam or Hinduism.

Foundational

Unlike newer imported religions, Catholicism is inextricably tied to the origins of Europe, not just as a faith but as a transformative societal force. From the baptism of Clovis to the monastic foundations of the early Middle Ages, from the Catholic social movement to the fall of the Iron Curtain, Catholicism has profoundly shaped European life.

Yet today’s Church seems ill-equipped to handle this inheritance, as it barely functions as a church for the people in most European countries. Some of its shepherds find themselves trapped in a vicious cycle: they pander to popular opinion in an effort to remain relevant, take political stances to gain media attention, and believe that aligning with fashionable causes will keep the Church alive. It is a burdenMuslim congregations do not have, as they lack the self-destructive nostalgia for a people’s church that ceased to exist decades ago.

Many prominent clerics, by trading doctrinal fidelity for influence and social acceptance, erode their credibility in the process. The faithful who do remain do so not for current fads but for substance, and many have begun to look elsewhere—or have already done so for some time.

Berlin, once again, serves as an example. The traditional Latin Mass is celebrated in multiple locations, including St. Adalbert, St. Peter’s (Pius Brotherhood), and the Institute of St. Philip Neri. The city’s pervasive agnosticism has, paradoxically, allowed these traditionalist Catholic enclaves to thrive. In a metropolis obsessed with the avant-garde, a Corpus Christi procession is no more conspicuous than a Chinese New Year celebration. But in an increasingly anti-Christian world, such rituals reinforce communal identity even more. Particularly striking is the presence of young families and men in these congregations.

Meanwhile, Berlin’s Archdiocese has unveiled a renovated St. Hedwig’s Cathedral, stripped of its historical ornamentation and now adorned with sterile, meaningless symbols—more resembling a debate group than a house of worship. The audience at the inauguration consisted mostly of ageing baby boomers, with grey-haired women sporting cropped haircuts being the most conspicuous among them.

Such contrasts could hardly be starker; and they mirror a broader European reality: Traditionalists remain a minority within a minority.

Out of roughly 80 million Germans, only around 150 parishes celebrate the Latin Mass. Globally, just one percent of Catholics attend this form of worship. The United States is an exception, with a higher proportion of Catholics leaning towards traditionalism than is the case in Europe.

A Counterrevolution by the Young

Yet, history is rarely shaped by passive majorities but by active and organised minorities. This dynamic may explain why followers of the old Mass—despite Pope Francis’s attempts to curtail it with Traditionis Custodes—carry more weight than their numbers suggest. The future of the Church is dictated by those who answer the call to priesthood. And those who enter seminaries today do so with conviction. The number of vocations in Europe has steadily declined for years, yet the few who remain belong to a different ideological generation than those formed by the Second Vatican Council.

Youth plays a decisive role as well. Though numerically small, 16,000 young pilgrims attended the Chartres foot pilgrimage, making headlines. A La Croix survey of 4,000 World Youth Day participants found that 38% favoured the old liturgy. These may be mere samples, but they indicate a trend. This audience will not be won over by an increasingly lifeless “spirit of the council” or vague notions of “participation.”

It is no small irony that today’s mainstream Church, led by older generations, scorns young Mass-goers as “rigid,” while they desperately cling to their version of the liturgy. The sight of empty cathedrals contrasts with that of smaller, vibrant communities which are often dismissed as sectarian. But the schism runs deeper: is the Church’s true identity found in its numerical size, or in the “holy remnant,” a notion derided by some?

This debate reveals a fundamental crisis in the Church’s self-perception: the inability to grasp that truth is not dictated by majority opinion; that the Church is not a vessel for public consensus but the Bride of Christ; and that numbers alone do not determine its worth. After all, Christ’s most intimate circle consisted of only twelve disciples.

The Little Boat

The Italian writer Giovanni Guareschi illustrated these tensions as early as 1968. His ageing village priest, Don Camillo, finds himself at odds with the young and zealous Don Francesco, a priest of the post-conciliar Church. The latter strips the parish of its gilded altars and traditional symbols, while Don Camillo secretly continues to celebrate the old Mass.

In one exchange, Don Francesco insists that the Church is a vast ship that has remained anchored for too long, needing to jettison its outdated baggage and seek a new crew on the other shore. Don Camillo retorts:

“My Church is not the great ship you speak of, but a humble little boat—it has always sailed from one shore to the other. You cast off much of the old crew to replace them with new sailors. Beware that you do not lose the old ones before you find the new.”

Only two years later, a German theologian (and future Pope Benedict XVI) would echo this same vision of the “small boat.” In 1970, Joseph Ratzinger wrote:

“Once again, the future of the Church will be shaped by saints—by people who perceive more than passing trends. (…) It will be an inwardly renewed Church, uninterested in political mandates, neither flirting with the left nor the right. (…) It will never again wield the societal dominance it once held. But it will flourish anew, becoming a visible home that offers life and hope beyond death.”

Under Pope Francis, a final push took place to salvage the idea of a Volkskirche by transforming it into a socially conscious NGO, a kind of UN with religious ornamentation. The next papacy will face a stark choice: take the Benedictine or the Franciscan path?

Statement

As early as the years following the Second Vatican Council, intellectuals such as Guareschi and Ratzinger foresaw an impending schism: the Church’s fate would hinge on its very identity. It must choose whether to remain politically relevant by embracing activism, like a spiritual NGO, or risk marginalisation in order to reclaim its sanctity. The former experiment has demonstrably failed. The next pontificate must recognise that the real threat does not come from supposed fundamentalists within, but rather from the seductions of the world outside.

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