"What’s a God to a Non-Believer?”

*Plugs in Kanye West, No Church in the Wild on Spotify playlist*

    I am a student at Baylor University who struggles with my faith.

WHAT?

    I know, we’re unheard of. When applying, I had no idea Baylor’s Christian foundation was such a huge part of the BU experience. My Massachusetts high school was “Christian”, though we celebrated all faiths, had no homework on religious holidays, we were not required to take any religion courses and never talked about the Bible. But it was 8 a.m. on a Sunday morning in Munich, Germany, and my Baylor friends wanted to go to church.

    I went to church growing up (Hi Mom, don’t hate me for this) but we were more as my mother calls it “Christmas and Easter Christians”. This meant my little sister and I participated, as sheep, in the annual Christmas pageant the local church held, and our family would be in the pews on Easter morning. We pray over our dinner as a family, say “bless you” when someone sneezes, and overall hold Christian values of being neighborly to everyone. But I never truly understood why we were all singing to a bearded man in the sky and his son and ghost.

    I have no problem going to church. I just never personally had that one-on-one relationship with God. I think for me it’s an issue of hypocrisy. I take pride in my zero-tolerance policy for religious bigotry. I have met too many awful, narrow-minded people who spit hateful words yet claim to be “good” Christians deserving of heaven. I find too often that a person’s character does not at all match up with his actions, a “you are what you preach” sort of deal.

    So there I was in Munich, getting ready for another church visit. Without breakfast or, more importantly, coffee, I rode the elevator down to the lobby to meet my friends.

    When the average person hears the word “church”, he thinks of a building with a steeple and a bell. Inside, there is a large chapel hall where families (mainly old people) congregate to sing hymns on Sunday morning and maybe, maybe, they won’t fall asleep during the sermon. What I did not know was that we were not going to church, we were going to Hillsong. Under the previous definition, Hillsong is not a church, but a passionate concert.

    It doesn’t matter if you believe, don’t believe, identify as Jewish, Catholic, Evangelical, or any form of Jesus-based religion: members of Hillsong welcome you with friendly Christian side-hugs, warm coffee, and maybe an Instagram follow-for-follow arrangement. The greeters aren’t aggressively spiritual or trying to convert the audience, they’re just happy you showed up. Once the crowd settles down and the session begins, a band comes on stage and leads everyone in faith-based songs.

    I know what you’re thinking: hymns. But no! Actually, maybe. I’m not super familiar with hymns. But I know the songs are written by the original, Australian-based Hillsong band with a young-adult audience in mind - so the songs are upbeat, easy to follow, and most importantly: moving. As a new-Christian who only went in fear of fomo, I found myself singing along and swaying to the rhythm, an occasional tear welled up in my eye (I swear it was the dust).

    Of course, it is “church”, so a preacher will appear and, well, preach. However, I will admit: Hillsong pastors (judging by this singular experience) spread their message through hilarious, relatable, personal stories that connect somehow to a passage in the Bible. This guy announced that he was from Boston, so automatically he earned points in my book. As he continued his address, I found myself laughing, crying, empathizing, and personally identifying with the preacher. Once his lesson was over, the audience continued standing (we never really sat down) and belted out more songs.

    I was touched. Inspired. Wholeheartedly affected by my Hillsong experience. My faith in good morals, overall kindness, the “practice what you preach” type of humanity, restored in my mind. I had met people from all over the world who were truly loving and good to others, regardless of sex, ethnicity, country, or faith.

    Though my stance on Christianity and God still stands where it is, Hillsong is the type of church I would sign up with. A community of passionate people who congregate to share in their love of people and all things in the name of the Lord. This type of gathering, where all are accepted and greeted with love and kindness, that’s church for a non-believer.

Munich, Germany

36 Hours in Munich, Germany

June 9-10

     While abroad in Budapest, Hungary, my friends and I planned to venture to Germany during one of our free-weekends. Because of our university program, travel plans were limited to Saturday and Sunday, with a return deadline of Sunday night. We knew we wanted to make the most of our German adventure, but how can you pack a full cultural experience into under 48 hours?

      The answer is a 3 a.m. airport journey, quick flights, 12 miles walking, and prioritizing sightseeing based on personal desire and historic significance.

Our German Breakfast

        Once arriving in Munich at 7:15 a.m., and after a quick breakfast our first point of interest was the Nazi concentration camp, Dachau. The 1933 establishment only took 45 minutes to reach by a bus and train combination. Formal tours lasted either three or six hours, so we opted for a self-guided walking tour instead. The most astonishing facts about Dachau (besides the thousands of murders) were the original camp structures, preserved and unchanged over 80-plus years.

     The cold, textured concrete walls of the buildings still displayed the stained, original, now peeling paint begged to tell tourists a million stories of the horrors that haunt them. The gated entrance to the camp read "work brings freedom" to all the prisoners forced to march to their deaths. 

"Work Brings Freedom"

Since the site is now a museum, everything original is maintained excluding some lighting updates and occasional floor repairs for safety. To stand in a courtyard where countless people were exterminated for their faith or values is simply sickening, if not one of the most powerful experiences you could have. To empathize is merely not enough. Though not the most Instagram-worthy experience, the concentration camp is an absolute must-do while in Germany. Dachau forces visitors to connect with the victims and take away an overwhelming desire for humanity in the world.

International Monument by Nandor Gild, May 2007

      With heavy hearts, my group decided to cheer ourselves up by visiting the famous Victorian flea markets of Munich, where vendors were selling fresh fruits, vegetables, spices, cheeses and sausages that surrounded our senses. The square was like most farmers markets, tourists and locals swiveling throughout each tarp or tent with woven baskets of garden-fresh food and newly-picked flowers. With a slab of cheese and a carton of strawberries, the group wandered over to the English Gardens.

Rathaus-Glockenspiel in Munich

     We picnicked under a willow tree in a grassy field overpopulated with chamomile flowers. A small waterfall flowed into a lazy river that looped around our fatigued bodies as we fell asleep.

English Garden Wildflowers 

     An hour or so later, we woke to our friends calling us for dinner. If in Munich, the one thing tourists need to do is eat at Hofbräuhaus. If Germany is known for anything, it’s the beer and sausages. The famous beerhouse of Germany, Hofbräuhaus bursts with energy from happy customers drinking liter-sized beers. We easily spent three hours at our table, laughing and drinking with people from around the world. I enjoyed one of their pork dishes and several (whoops) liters of Radler beer. 

     It was getting late, rain began falling and our energy was fading quick. My friends and I decided to retreat back to our hotel for some well-deserved sleep before our very early flight tomorrow.  

Lost in Budapest

    What began as an innocent shopping night on the fashion street of Budapest, quickly became a frantic scramble to find my way home.

    After a full day of excursions and many staircases, a cold Starbucks drink and the sale rack of Zara sounded like a perfect way to unwind. The busy fashion district, known as Vaci Utca 6, buzzed with tourists bulldozing their way through the crowds. I decided it was getting late, the sun swiftly setting as I sat down on the tram ride home.

    I woke up forty-five minutes later, dazed and disoriented as the empty tram came to a complete stop in a tram car-wash. The driver, apparently not noticing my existence previously, yelled in Hungarian what I’m assuming could only be “Why are you here, stupid American tourist” before dismissing me into the vacant parking lot. I realized then that I was alone, far from home and hopelessly lost.

   My first plan of action: lose the drunk homeless man tailing my trail. Efforts to avoid or change paths only seemed to anger him more, his temper flaring as he threw harsh words my way. Once I darted away, I had to let my friends know where I was and what was going on.

    Getting me home was a group effort, really. Following a brief panic attack and many tears, I turned on cellular services on my iPhone for the first time on this trip (sorry, Dad). Anxiety clouded my mind, because not once did it occur to me to activate my maps. The GroupMe blew up with friends concerned for my safety.

    So many efforts to get me home were attempted; police were called, multiple taxi services, screenshots of variable bus routes, all fruitless. The numerous public transportation services that passed me by all read the lines “not for service” or “unavailable”, even the Budapest police were unable to help me.

    Finally, I resorted to walking home. Despite my sore feet and empty stomach, I was able to make the trek and find a public bus to take me the rest of the way home.  

    The Starbucks was not worth it.