How Can a Thinking Person Be an Atheist?

Retirees do not have much chance of being read. Publishers do not care much for hacks who have turned 70. No matter what genre.

The logic behind this practice sounds harsh but it makes sense: unknown authors must be young. Otherwise, it is not worth investing in them.

I was more surprised when I received an e-mail from CS, inviting me to write a monthly column.

For years I have been in the habit of praying about upcoming changes in my life. After all, to be able to write in an essential Catholic newspaper in the United States of America is a privilege, especially if you are not a native English speaker and live overseas.

In any case, it is never wrong to consult the good Lord. Especially if you go out in public with your opinion.

And now, here I am, writing my first column. I did not bring a particular topic. Only the wish to introduce myself. I come with an open heart, just like friends do, who you trust and who you welcome.

Where Do I Come From?

Childhood and youth, I spent in Northern Bavaria. There you do not say, “Good Day.” Instead, you say, “Greet God”.

Würzburg – the city where I grew up – had always remained Catholic since its Christianization under the Irish missionary Kilian in the 7th century. About 130,000 people live here. The town is romantically embedded on the banks of the Main River. The river meanders gently westwards. There it makes its way between the hills of famous vineyards.

Here one is in Good hands. Had it not been for the time after the Second World War.

During the war, Permanent Allied air raids had turned eighty percent of all apartments into rubble and ashes.

No Picassos were hanging on the walls of my Franconian parents’ house, and there were no valuable encyclopedias on the bookshelves. My parents, brother, and I lived in a destroyed apartment in the old town of Würzburg.

Work, the fulfillment of duty, severity, and obedience were the virtues that they taught me.

My upbringing was under the sign of austerity, not to say “misery”.

The time of my early childhood in Germany was when prejudices were almost non-existent in the minds of the people in that country. I say “almost “because some people always have certain preconceptions. No matter at what times. But most Germans had quite different worries during the immediate post-war period: it was about survival.

A decade after the end of the Second World War, I counted just eight years. I remember the friendly neighbors and the great willingness to help, but also the bitter hardship of some days when there was nothing to eat except water soup and a piece of brown bread.

Hardly anybody owned more than what he wore on his body. With this the highest good, which there is to give away, was nevertheless preserved:

We gave ourselves away!

We were happy until prosperity arose and with it, oblivion.

The churches became emptier – the pubs fuller. The solidarity among each other dwindled, and envy suddenly boomed.

Wanderlust and the Longing for Strawberry Ice Cream

I often think of the day when the pull of wanderlust captivated me. How old I was then, have I forgotten? Where and when I was overcome by it, I remember very well.

It was a Saturday night on a sultry summer’s day. I was sitting at my parents’ dinner table, with no appetite. There was this experience I had made on that morning of the same day that made me think. While my father handed around a plate of lard and some brown bread, I sat there with my head bowed and could only think of strawberry ice cream. For the first time in my life, I had eaten an American ice cream today. Nobody knew that but me. Ice cream? After World War II, there was no ice cream anywhere in Germany. There were not even refrigerators.

As I was leaving school at noon, a bright red American cruiser suddenly stopped next to me. Behind the wheel sat a uniformed American soldier. He wore elegant sunglasses on his nose. Chewing some gum, he said to me, “Hey kid, how about some ice cream?” Before I could answer, the soldier held his hand out the window and handed me a carton that felt ice cold. There was a wooden stick stuck to it. As I opened the box, the soldier shouted, “Enjoy Boy,” then slowly rolled away.

Hurriedly I opened the box and saw creamy red ice cream inside as I threw away the wooden stick and began to lick the ice cream. It tasted like strawberries—what a pleasant fruity strawberry taste. I could not stop touching it with my tongue. I licked and licked until the box was empty.

Now I was sitting at dinner, and my father asked me, “Aren’t you going to eat?”

“No,” I said.

Then what always happens happened. My parents were arguing again about which church to go to on Sunday, the Catholic or the Protestant? Suddenly an irresistible wanderlust came over me. Again, and yet this quarrel about which church, which service, which pastor? I wanted to be an adult and decide for myself finally. Not only which church I could go to, but about my whole life. I had grown tired of having to attend these petty squabbles by force. I wanted to go to a place where I could eat as much strawberry ice cream as possible! 

The Fight About the Truth

My parents’ divided relationship with the two great Christian churches had its reasons. My Catholic mother was not allowed to live out her faith because the Catholic priest refused her communion in our parish.

Why?

My father was a Lutheran. In those days, being “Protestant” was something like being a religious leper in some arch-catholic parishes in Bavaria. One who desperately needed healing. A person in need of therapy which needs baptism and, of course, entry into the Catholic Church. For my father, a twenty-eight-year-old war veteran with a lot of battlefield experience, this was a hurtful challenge because there was a certain compulsion behind it, at least from my father’s perspective. His reaction had more to do with ego than faith—plenty of material for loud discussion at dinner Saturday night. Enough, in any case, to trigger my sudden urge to go far away. By the way, the solution to the problem was that we mostly went to the protestant church on Sundays. And if it was the Catholic church, then without my father. My father did not want to see my mother denied communion.

The Departure

Possessed by the idea of dropping out of school, deeds soon followed. When I was sixteen, I left school abruptly, looked for an apprenticeship in the catering trade, and made a plan.

I wanted to travel to distant countries – out of the provinces. During my training, I enrolled in a foreign language school to learn English and French. After my journeyman’s examination, I left Germany at the age of nineteen and went to Switzerland.

One year later, I found myself on a transatlantic ship as a steward. We traveled between Bremerhaven and New York. Twice a month, I was in New York. It was exhilarating. There I left the ship one day with the firm resolution to become an American. Suddenly, everything happened in rapid succession. The people of the land of opportunity gave me a warm welcome. I perfected my English, took college courses, learned Spanish and Portuguese, and worked as a waiter in a famous restaurant on the Housatonic River, near Stratford, CT.

Those were happy times.

My American friends took me in. Their families and their community gave me the support I needed. At that time, I was still going to church regularly.

The Crash

Oh, I wish it could have stayed that way.

Then in my mid-twenties came the turning point. I rushed headlong into a marriage for the wrong reasons and moved to Colombia. There I met the wrong people and yes, also got a bit on the wrong track. I made a lot of money, cheated on my wife, and liked the nightlife. The question about the meaning of life, I could only answer with three stupid phrases: “money – fun – freedom.”

It did not go well.

Some years later – I was already homeless living on the streets of Bogota for several months at that time – I had the urge to understand how and why suffering arises? Even more critical for me was to understand the meaning of all suffering.

Back to the Catholic Church

This train of thought has remained with me until today. But first, I had to go through a steep path. More than three decades passed before I found my way back into the family of the Holy Catholic Church. They were all connected with much sacrifice and strokes of fate. At some point, I had the privilege to realize that God works in every life in His way. For me, it was the encounter with the Carmelites and Catholic mysticism.

The saints of Carmel became my saviors. Through their life stories, I found a new path leading me back into the church.

Fascinating how life plays out. Today I am an author who looks back on seven decades in life—firmly anchored in the Catholic faith, always with the saints of the Catholic Church at my side.