It’s two days before Christmas, and my family and I are in Munich. We got here on a red-eye the morning prior, and remain barely functional thanks to jet lag. But we didn’t fly all this way just to sleep, no matter how badly all of us want to do so. And if there’s any city that demands you keep your eyes wide open, it’s Munich in all of its Christmastime splendor.
We arrive at the Marienplatz, where the outdoor Christmas markets are already bustling. I don’t know where to look; everything is so beautiful. The famed Glockenspiel dominates the square, but today it has aesthetic competition from the light-strewn evergreens, the handmade sausages sizzling out on open griddles, the pop-up ornament shops with their eaves lined by boughs and flocking, and a life-sized Erzgebirge Pyramid.
I’ve seen pyramids like this before. My mother-in-law, born and raised in Bavaria, has a small collection of them that she puts on display every Christmas back at her current home in Maryland. My wife and I also have a couple of our own, no doubt gifted to us by her. These are gorgeous little contraptions, handmade using feather-light wood and a painstaking attention to detail. As in the picture you see above, many of these pyramids include fan blades that, with a slight draft, power rotating tiers of figurines set beneath. I’ve never seen an Erzgebirge Pyramid this large. So, upon encountering this one, all I can do is stand in the middle of the plaza like a doof and gaze at it with my mouth ajar. Beats walking. I’m still tired, after all.
The markets stretch out well beyond the Marienplatz, which is already packed with tourists eager to watch the Glockenspiel chime at noontime. After watching the clock put on its show when the bells chime at noon, my family and I move to get away from the densest part of the crowd. We pass by kiosks selling ornaments, fine chocolates, bier, and glühwein. So much glühwein. If you like boozy mulled wine, mein freund, this is your place for it. Every other stand sells it. In between two of those open bars, I spot a kiosk selling fresh apple fritters. These aren’t like the apple fritters in the States, although I love those fritters as much as you do. These are thick-cut apple rings, lightly battered and then fried until they shatter upon first bite. I buy one and split it with my 13-year-old son. It’ll end up being the best thing we eat on the whole trip, despite fierce competition for the honor. I want to go back and buy six more, but we’ve already moved on to a new area of the market. I search around for another fritter stand, but all I see is glühwein. I’m quickly tiring. Also, it’s cold as shit. I need a place to rest.
The only problem is that nothing else is open right now. Not in Munich, and not beyond its city limits. Germans take their Christmas seriously, which means the country effectively shuts down all week so that citizens can spend their time with one another instead of hitting a doorbuster sale at Best Buy. It’s the right way to do Christmas, but my sorry, jet-lagged American ass could really use a mall to chill out in at the moment. No such mall presents itself. Ach!
But then, salvation. We spot a set of double doors on the right, with other tourists passing in and out of them. I don’t know what’s past those doors, but I know that it’s warmer than out here. Maybe it’ll even have more apple fritters. We pass by the doorway and I get a peek inside. It’s a cathedral. Of course it’s a cathedral. What other place would stay open in this city, this time of year? I immediately tell my wife and kids, “We’re going in there.” They groan. I don’t care. We’re going there, whether they like it or not.
“There” turns out to be Jesuitenkirche St. Michael. It was built in 1597, back at a time when European nations had all the time and resources in the world to demonstrate how much they loved God. Hence, they spent decades building cathedrals designed to evoke the same sense of awe that God himself evoked in worshippers. These cathedrals were made with as much care as an Erzgebirge Pyramid, only using masonry instead of balsa wood. All of them are gorgeous, and St. Michael’s is no exception. I take a seat in one of the back pews and feel equal parts awe and peace.
I love cathedrals like this, and always have. I’m not a religious person, and yet wherever I have traveled on this planet, I have sought out these places so that I might savor a brief moment of time inside of them. The majority of these cathedrals and temples welcome all visitors at all times of day. That’s what a church is for, after all: to give people a space on this earth where they can always feel welcome, and loved.
I’m just a tourist here today, but I feel welcome, and I feel loved. It’s a familiar feeling, because I’ve visited ancient houses of worship in Italy, France, Mexico, England, Spain, Japan, and other countries. I don’t need to attend full services. I just need a little bit of church, and I’m all good. This is true of me back in America, too. My parents took us to church every Christmas (against our will), and I grew to enjoy the service as a break from the gaudiness of Christmas in America. Sometimes at Christmas, I don’t want a mall. I don’t want office holiday parties, and I don’t want a Home Depot tree lot. I don’t want to look at my phone. I just want peace, and the lovely thing about an open cathedral is that it guarantees me that peace. It gives me a place to sit and to be. That brief, sacred moment is all I need to fill up my spiritual tank.
Again, this is odd coming from someone who doesn’t believe the foundation story of Christianity. But you don’t need to subscribe to a specific religion to yearn for the holy. If I believe in God, that God isn’t in the form of a being, but in the form of everything. The earth, the sky, the stars … all of it is God, and all of it exists for reasons that will forever escape my comprehension. I don’t even want to attempt to comprehend it. I’d rather bask in the mystery. I’d rather feel small, like I’m part of something beyond myself. Doesn’t need to be right at Christmas. It can be at any time, as well it ought to be.
St. Michael’s cathedral is providing me with that solace, and I’m grateful for it. Grateful to the people who built it. Grateful to my family for coming in with me. Grateful to existence. There’s a wooden table beside the entrance where you can donate a euro and light a small votive candle in memory of someone you love. I do that. I remember those I’ve lost, but I remember them warmly. Softly. Now, I don’t feel quite as tired as when I walked in here. I feel like I’m right where I ought to be.
But now I’m finally getting restless, so it’s time for me and my family to head back out into the racket. Like I told you, a little bit of church is just the right amount of church for me. Time to go back out into world. It’s a cold and mean place, this world. But it’s got some gorgeous cathedrals, and some tasty apple fritters to boot.
