Half-Time in the Berlin Cathedral Stadium

In the center of the capital of Germany, 1000 meters from the Alexanderplatz TV tower or “Fernsehturm,” the sanctuary of the Berlin Cathedral competes against the outside noise of traffic and horns and fans making yelling on their way to Berlin’s Fan Fest.

“15 Minuten Wort and Musik” reads the sign outside the cathedral. It is a half-time service, timed to run the exact length of a World Cup match half time and originally planned for the field during the half time of each match in Berlin.

They’ve moved the services in favor of something a little more upbeat (with shorter skirts) and now Wolf Kröpke, Professor of Theology at Berlin’s Humboldt University, delivers the sermons each week day at noon at the Berliner Dom Cathedral and at 5:30pm at the Kaiser-Wilhelm Cathedral.

Advertisements boast that the services feature “hymns that resemble team anthems, allowing worshippers of the World Cup to pray for victory,” but does God take part in deciding who takes home the trophy? Were Ghana’s pre-game prayers really giving them an advantage?

The inside of the cathedral is an ornate and photogenic gold-trimmed assault of artwork and architecture. There are too many portraits and too much gold trim to even take it all in. The sheer size of the oval dome causes vertigo when looking at the more elevated artwork and every line in the cathedral seems to draw the eye to higher points. Almost every tourist in attendance develops an arch in their back and stares, throat stretching to its limit, at the paintings directly overhead.

Two teenage girls place a camera on the floor with the lens facing straight up. They lean in over the shot, apparently letting God handle things like framing, focus and when to say “Cheese!”

A tourist is taking pictures with his cell phone. After every photo the phone makes a rapid fire laser gun sound. Choomchoomchoom! Appropriate reverence for my surroundings is not fully restored until Kröpke emerges to deliver the sermon. He walks with the gait of an orchestra conductor entering the stage, a young woman trailing him. After bowing their heads in front of the altar, they stand at separate podiums to deliver the sermon.

“Die Gnade unseres Herrn Jesus Christus sei mit euch allen. Amen.”
His is a golden podium, his papers resting on a diving eagle’s outstretched wings, the ambient light reflecting off the golden surface. Very “King of Kings.”

“The grace of our Lord Jesus Chris be with you all. Amen.”
Hers is a plain podium, of bland panels of wood and almost blending in to the background. Very “son of a carpenter.”

The church’s organ, an instrument as tall, and possibly as expensive as my house looms regally on the left. Lit by two candelabras, it is 7,629 pipes pushing air out and sucking it in to create the anthems we try to sing in German to during the service. FIFA wishes it could write music this catchy and inspiring.

The service continues, today’s topic is “Rules” and the 17 laws of soccer are being compared to the Ten Commandments. In translation, part of the sermon reads: “Many of us moan about their lives being restricted by regulations and rules. Among those who love soccer, it seems to be exactly the other way around: They are downright fanatical about the rules. Entire nations watch out for the ball being possibly a turn behind the line or not—or if the attacker was truly offside.”

It is an entirely appropriate, timely topic after the previous nights record-breaking four-red-card, 16-yellow-card Portugal vs. Netherlands debacle. And the message that I came away with was that if Portugal and the Netherlands been playing in a spiritual state of mind they would not have felt the need to brawl and tackle each other and wouldn’t have gotten two key players suspended for the next round’s game. But it might be lost on the crowd wandering in.

It is a muggy Monday morning in Berlin and most everyone in the room is a tourist escaping the heat and humidity. Some may be casual fans— it’s hard not to be if you’re in Berlin right now—but there is nary a painted face or flag in attendance and no one looks like they are here to seek divine intervention for France or England.

Kröpke’s outreach is not the only ministry taking place in Germany for the World Cup. Aside from the various goalies kneeling before a penalty kick and players ripping off jerseys to reveal spiritually suggestive undershirts, the international Christian group Athletes in Action is doing a promotional bus tour to every city hosting a match during the tournament.

There is also a “rest station” at every stadium, fan fest or big-screen event where fans can sit down, play games, and flip through brochures filled with players’ testimonials about the “football god” that works with them to enhance their game.

The Church of England has released prayers for a World Cup miracle for the England national team, and other than David Beckham reenacting a scene from “The Exorcist” on the field, it seems to be working out for them.

As the half-time service comes in for a landing, several people in the front row are unsure of when the service officially ends and it is appropriate for them to leave. They make several false starts in their attempt to get on with their sight seeing, making it clear that they are not there to earn special treatment for their team.

After the service Kröpke is bright and eager to talk. His enthusiasm for the game is apparent and his serious answers are mixed with humor that comes across even through translation.

Does God care about the World Cup? Perhaps more telling, does the World Cup care about God?

The answer, like the definition of a “trifling foul,” is subjective. “Religion is excitement about something irrational,” Kröpke said. God is interacting with soccer but the Christian religion is concerned with [spiritual matters].

This from a man who found enough irrational joy in soccer that he used to defy the government that told him to stay in the Church and organize international student soccer matches, ditching East Germany’s national security to play in Prague and Budapest. Kröpke cannot be considered an entirely objective source.

There may be no objective or definitive way to know if there is a divine influence on the world’s most popular sporting event. It seems every answer is based on subjective or illusory evidence. But if you look at the Berlin skyline—at all the Church towers jutting out from the uniform East German architecture—of all the church steeples scattered throughout Berlin, rising into the sky, the orb on the Fernsehturmat at Alexanderplatz, painted as a soccer ball for these few summer months in tribute to the tournament, rises highest.

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