Long and revealing article with Cardinal Schönborn. Dark Night of Cardinal Schönborn's soul after Vatican II. Traditionalists have "a museum-like approach to tradition"

 "I loved Switzerland"

At the age of 30, Christoph Schönborn came to Switzerland in 1975 as a professor of dogmatic theology at the University of Fribourg. The future Archbishop of Vienna discusses the conflict he faced with students at the time, his theology, and his desire to shape church politics.

What Swiss German word first comes to mind?

"Cheibe."

How did it come about that you started in Switzerland as a young professor?

The faculty at the University of Fribourg asked me if I would be willing to take on a visiting professorship. They were looking for a professor of dogmatic theology. I was willing, and my superiors in my religious order also approved. So, at the age of 30, I began. At the time, I was the youngest professor at the university.

In your homily at the Requiem Mass for Auxiliary Bishop Helmut Krätzl in 2023, you recounted that you had once told him: “Dear Helmut, when you speak about the period after the Council, I sometimes feel as if we lived in two different ecclesiastical worlds. For you, the post-Council period was a new beginning that was stifled mid-leap. As a young Dominican, I experienced this period as a dramatic rupture.”

Your experiences as a young professor of dogmatic theology at the University of Freiburg: How did these contribute to your experience of a rupture?

It began much earlier, back in 1967 in Germany, right at the start of my theological studies. I was stunned by what was being advocated – partly fascinated, and partly losing my footing.

An example?

The discourse on Jesus as the Son of God: It was said that one had to place this within the mythological context of the time. Or the resurrection, the whole thing with the empty tomb: that wasn't the crucial point, they said, but rather that Jesus' work had continued. That was the Bultmann school of thought, which had taken hold massively at our university in Cologne. For me, it was a radical questioning of everything I had brought with me as a young Christian, as an enthusiastic altar server in my parish, and from my personal faith journey.

Were the experiences in Freiburg then a continuation of that?

First, I told my superiors: I can't live with this situation in Germany; I'm losing my faith. I was allowed to go to France for further studies, arrived there full of hope—and promptly found myself in 1968. The great upheaval. I witnessed how, within two or three years, practically all the seminaries in the country were closed. It was radically what I had already intellectually grasped in Germany. In France, I experienced it existentially.

And then?

In Paris, I met an Orthodox monk, incredibly intelligent; he fascinated us. That was in 1967, I was 22 years old. As a small group of friends, we began to immerse ourselves in the Church Fathers – it was a revelation, a whole world opened up. We discovered the great theological masters: Henri de Lubac, Yves Congar, with whom I studied and whose personal nurse I even was for a time. A little later, we discovered Joseph Ratzinger, the works of Hans Urs von Balthasar, and many others – but above all, of course, the Church Fathers themselves. It was the discovery of a decidedly non-traditional, but rather a very vital, very vibrant theological world, in which we breathed a sigh of relief.

Finally, you did come to Freiburg.

I had recovered well. And then it all starts again.

So the new beginning in Switzerland came later, delayed, so to speak – and you're entering this new phase again?

You said it. I thought, this can't be true. We already experienced this in Germany ten years ago. Then I experienced it in France a few years later. And now it's arriving in Switzerland, albeit with a time lag.

For some of the leading figures in Switzerland, I was a bogeyman: the one who came from the tradition of Balthasar, de Lubac, and Ratzinger—and who actually had a grand vision of the Church and of theology, which I believed to be the vision of the Council.

What was this vision?

It was intelligent, credible, coherent, and relevant to life. 

And what did the vision say?

That the renewal of the Church, which the Council intended, draws from the great sources of Christian tradition and translates them into our time. That's precisely what we had discovered in Cogar, Ratzinger, and Balthasar. We had the impression that they grasped what the Council was about: carrying the faith, in its vitality, into the present day.

Let's take a step back. In the aforementioned sermon at the Requiem Mass for Auxiliary Bishop Krätzl, you also speak of a "deep personal crisis in 1967 and 1968." What happened to you?

The crisis was that the existential and theological foundations of my faith were slipping away. And that—I say this quite frankly—I could no longer find them in the Christianity of someone like Hans Küng, for example.

But you did find them in the Christianity of someone like Joseph Ratzinger?

With him, I found that tradition and the vibrancy of the present are not contradictory.

You joined the ranks of the conservative Joseph Ratzinger's disciples, even at a time when his positions still made him an outsider. Why?

I did so quite deliberately, and it didn't bother me that he was an outsider—even though, as a professor, I was made to feel it. I simply saw that Ratzinger possessed an incredibly vibrant mind and intellectual breadth. Who could debate with Jürgen Habermas back then like Joseph Ratzinger?

But I must also say that I experienced the rise of the Lefebvre movement in parallel. That's when I realized very clearly – this can't be the answer either.

Why not?

Because that, in turn, was a museum-like approach to tradition. The supposed return to the true sources and the true Catholic faith, coupled with a profound rejection of the Council, was a narrowing of perspective. I couldn't reconcile myself with that. I believe I didn't turn to traditionalism, but rather I turned to the great Catholic tradition that extends from the Church Fathers to John Henry Newman and Henri de Lubac.

You cited Ratzinger's connection between theology and contemporary relevance as an argument for his theology. Critics argue that Ratzinger views the present as a negative foil: the present as a regrettable development from which theology distinguishes itself.

This wasn't so much a critique of the present, but rather an internal church critique. I witnessed this debate firsthand through "Concilium" and "Communio," two journals that represented two different interpretations of the Council: "Concilium" stood for a progressive approach, "Communio" for a more conservative, tradition-oriented one. Pope Benedict later termed this dispute a question of a hermeneutics of rupture versus a hermeneutics of continuity. I took a clear stance: in favor of the hermeneutics of continuity. This made things difficult for me at the German-language theological faculty in Freiburg.

From 1975 onward, you were in Switzerland, first as a visiting professor and then as a professor of dogmatic theology at the University of Fribourg. In 1981, students tried to prevent your appointment as full professor: They questioned your "appropriate qualifications" and considered your appointment "irresponsible," as stated in a letter from 1981. Nevertheless, you became a full professor. How do you view the students' efforts in retrospect?

Well, looking back, I say with a certain irony: In 1981, I gave my inaugural lecture on the Christology of Wolfhart Pannenberg, which was certainly one of the most distinguished Protestant Christologies of that time. To the dismay of my opponents, Wolfhart Pannenberg reacted very positively to my interpretation of his Christology.

What did that tell you?

Well, it told me that I was obviously not entirely out of touch with the theological scene. In that same year, 1981, at the age of 36, I was appointed a member of the International Theological Commission, where I sat alongside Yves Congar and Balthasar.

One could also say you made the right connections.

Of course, that's how it was portrayed polemically, that much is clear. For me, the reason for my appointment was that I had intensively studied the hermeneutics of the Council, had given many lectures on the Council, especially on its ecclesiology.

In terms of content, you were accused, for example, of having a theology that hadn't "passed through the fire of the Enlightenment," of being a "backward-looking, romanticizing spirit." This is how it was described in an article by your former student Odilo Noti, which appeared in 1995 in the then-left-leaning "Weltwoche." What do you say to this criticism today?

Odilo Noti was my most determined opponent among the students; we had intense debates. At the time, he had a strong Marxist leaning and was influenced by certain currents of liberation theology. His accusations were widely leveled against various people, including Hans Urs von Balthasar. I can only say: We all went through the fire of the Enlightenment.

What do you mean by that?

I'm reminded of Jesus, in that situation when an angry mob wanted to throw him off the cliff—so outraged were they with him. And Jesus walks right through them and walks away.

Nietzsche already knew: The Enlightenment cannot grasp the figure of Jesus. It is simply too great. This fascination with the figure of Jesus—that was the heart of my theological work. I primarily taught Christology, published a Christology, and both of my dissertations were on Christological topics. I like to quote the philosopher Nicholas of Cusa: “Et factus est mihi Christus semper maior” – “And Christ has always become greater to me.” That was my personal, intense experience, for which I stood intellectually, but also existentially. This sparked enormous controversy: because I advocated the bodily resurrection of Jesus in a Christology lecture, because I advocated the supernatural conception of Jesus by Mary. Because I couldn't resolve it rationally…

…and probably didn't want to?

…and didn't want to – because I was increasingly awestruck by the incomparable nature of the figure of Jesus. This also helped me avoid becoming partisan in the polemics. It wasn't about a “Ratzinger party” versus a “Küng party.” It was actually about the figure of Jesus. And, stemming from that, about a corresponding concept for the Church.

Is theological study in the academic sense always also proclamation for you?

Yes, always. But first and foremost, it is genuine reflection. Reflection on what the faith professes. The subject of theological reflection is always the Creed. It is the object of reflection—and not the result of reflection.

How did you personally deal with the student opposition? What effect did it have on you?

That was very dramatic for me. It pushed me to the limits of my resilience. Today, one would say: to the brink of burnout. I developed physical and mental health problems.

But then I realized: Wait a minute, my lecture hall is always full. It never emptied. Even though the opposition was very vocal, sometimes very emotional—and I certainly didn't shy away from discussing it with them—I also saw that my thoughtful yet reflective presentation style generally received a positive response. In the evaluations of teaching quality, my lectures were always among the best. Despite all the substantive controversies.

My last day at the University of Freiburg was wonderful: I left the university knowing that this was the last time. I was already serving as auxiliary bishop. Some of my opponents were sitting on a bench in the spring sunshine and saw me walk by. Someone said: "Mr. Schönborn—they never called me Professor, nor Father—Mr. Schönborn, what are we going to do now that you're gone?"

I retain a great deal of goodwill toward my former opponents. Ultimately, it was very beneficial for me as well. I learned a great deal. And yes, it was, in a nutshell, a small part of the major debates that plagued the Church at that time.

I imagine your appointment as Secretary of the Editorial Commission for the 1987 Catechism of the Catholic Church must have felt like a relief amidst all of this?

Yes. It was a tremendous show of trust. And an incredibly fascinating task. I mean, who are the authors of the catechisms? Martin Luther, Peter Canisius, Toribio in Latin America. I felt catapulted into a role that was of a very high caliber in church history.

Between 1980 and 1991, you were a member of the Theological Commission of the Swiss Bishops' Conference. Do you recall any topics that were discussed at that time?

I was primarily involved in the dialogue commissions. I remember the ecumenical discussions in Switzerland as very interesting and vibrant. For example, with the Reformed theologian Jean-Jacques von Almen or with the Old Catholic Kurt Stalder.

You remained loyal to the academic world throughout your life, supporting, for instance, the Heiligenkreuz University and teaching there. Why Heiligenkreuz and not the theological faculty in Vienna?

I didn't teach in Heiligenkreuz, only occasionally gave guest lectures. I was very involved with the ITI in Trumau, the International Theological Institute: because Pope John Paul II had commissioned me to establish an institute for marriage and family. And regarding the University of Vienna: in 1986, I applied for a professorship in Vienna; I had been invited by the dean to apply. Someone else got it. In retrospect, I'm glad that I stayed in Switzerland longer at that time. Ultimately, I had no other teaching position besides the one at the University of Fribourg.

Why were you appointed auxiliary bishop of the Archdiocese of Vienna in 1991?

That has a strange backstory. Cardinal Hans Hermann Groër wanted me as his auxiliary bishop—even though I didn't know him personally.

Why?

I think it had to do with the fact that he had read my work. So he wanted me. However, Rome then foisted Bishop Kurt Krenn on Groër, whom he didn't even know. That was the whole drama with Bishop Krenn. For a while, I was hoping that the whole episcopal thing would pass me by. But then John Paul II, whom I had of course gotten to know well through my work on the Catechism and in the International Theological Commission, quite deliberately sent me to Vienna as auxiliary bishop.

You were considered "Papabile," but emerged as Pope neither from the conclave in 2005 nor in 2013…

All I can say is: My mother was asked by a journalist if she would be happy if her son became pope. To which she uttered the legendary phrase that went around the world: "That wouldn't be for my boy."

Was she right?

She was absolutely right.

…what name would you have given yourself as pope?

I really never thought about that. Because I was certain that it wouldn't happen.

What did you want—as a member of a religious order, as a professor, later as a bishop? Is there a common thread?

My opponents in Fribourg always asked: So, what's your approach? Then I would always say, somewhat embarrassed and also a bit ironically: I don't have an approach—I'm trying to do theology. What was my approach as a bishop? To the seminarians, I always say: What do I expect from you? Basically, it's very simple. You must love God, and you must love people.

Is that your guiding principle—loving God and people?

That is my guiding principle. If I'm not truly interested in God, specifically in the figure of Jesus—what am I doing then? If people are simply a nuisance to me—what am I doing then? It's all relatively simple. And for theology, the guiding principle is the Creed. It's no coincidence that Ratzinger made his Introduction to Christianity a commentary on the Creed. The great masters always did it that way.

When allegations of abuse against Cardinal Hans Hermann Groër were published in the Austrian magazine "Profil" in 1995, you became his successor as Archbishop of Vienna. You are considered someone who was able to restore trust. What was important to you in your first years as bishop?

First of all: getting to know people. I didn't grow up in Vienna. Although I had already been an auxiliary bishop for four years when I became archbishop, I had time to get to know some things in the diocese. But my primary concern was to establish as much contact as possible with the parishes. I visited many parishes. That was important to me.

Did that bring back calm and trust?

Yes. Furthermore, I didn't polarize. Some say I wasn't polarizing enough. That I was too conciliatory. That's true. I'm not a polemicist.

In 2010, you established an independent commission for the protection of victims of abuse, which was pioneering in the Church at that time. How did you come up with this idea?

I cannot stress this enough: Our engagement with the issue of abuse began back in 1995, with the allegations against my predecessor, Cardinal Groër. It was my then Vicar General, Helmut Schüller, who first established an independent ombudsman's office—the first of its kind in Europe. People who had been traumatized and experienced abuse at the hands of church representatives could contact this office.

Was that Helmut Schüller's idea?

Yes, it was his idea. It paved the way for us to be prepared for the second major wave of allegations against Cardinal Groër in 1998, enabling us to issue a statement. At the time, it was a breakthrough and essentially stated that the well-being of individuals takes precedence over the dignity of a cardinal.

Bishops of other dioceses continued to deny abuse for a long time. Did you encounter internal resistance from fellow bishops regarding your approach?

There was a particularly intense struggle with Kurt Krenn, who was then Bishop of St. Pölten. Within the Bishops' Conference, however, it soon became clear that the issue wasn't limited to Cardinal Groër, but was much broader. Internationally, country after country then demonstrated just how widespread it was.

In 2019, you publicly interviewed the former nun Doris Reisinger, who spoke about her experiences of abuse. You told her, "I believe you." What kind of reactions did that trigger?

There was a backstory to this. Even in Freiburg, during my time as a spiritual advisor, I encountered cases of abuse. That was as early as the 1970s. I remember a nun who had attempted suicide twice. It eventually came to light that she had been abused by her father for years. I experienced the dynamics of this revelation firsthand. I believe that's perhaps why I understood earlier than others that speaking about it is one of the most existentially difficult things for victims to do. Because it's associated with so much shame, fear, and often threats. This explains why people often only suddenly remember the abuse after many years. Psychologically, this has been very well researched.

Did you receive criticism from church representatives, but also from other areas of society, for saying, "I believe you"?

Of course. But I stand by it. It's true.

It became widely known when you dismissed your Vicar General, Helmut Schüller, in 1999 by leaving a letter on his doormat. Why—and why in that way?

We had been having a disagreement for some time regarding a crucial personnel matter, and therefore—on both sides—we had considered ending our collaboration. We had been talking about it for a few months. I left the letter on his doormat because it was already evening. Of course, it also said that we would talk the next day. That turned into a big story. Hindsight is always 20/20. I think we both learned from it. And we found a beautiful, profound path to reconciliation.

Finally, back to Switzerland: Looking back, what significance do those 16 years in Fribourg have in your life?

I wouldn't want to have missed that time. I loved Switzerland, I loved Fribourg. Fribourg is a wonderful city. I loved being there.

"Love" is a strong word…

Yes, how can I explain that? Let me give you an example: One day I went to the university library to read and sat down at a reading table. A student came in in uniform with his rifle, placed the rifle on the work table in front of him, and began to study. I thought to myself: That only happens in Switzerland. The young man was surely on his way to his refresher course – and stopped at the university library beforehand.

I particularly liked the city of Freiburg. Much more than Bern. I've always said that the difference between Protestant Bern and Catholic Freiburg is this: no matter where you look in Freiburg's old town, you'll see at least five bistros.

It's said that you were quite good to have a discussion with over a glass of wine…

That's true. I had my favorite haunts. I also found the bilingualism very appealing, as well as the culture of togetherness that comes with it.

What aspects of the Christoph Schönborn you are today were already evident in those early years?

I actually have a positive outlook on life. That hasn’t deserted me even in times of conflict, neither in Freiburg nor in my role as bishop. I also have a great love for observing everyday life. I was able to do that in Freiburg – I knew pretty much all the homeless people personally. And that’s how I’ve always experienced it in Vienna too: you meet people and have a chat. It’s about respect, about reverence for reality, for the struggles people face. That’s actually what I learnt from Jesus too: attentiveness and love for people, as concrete as their lives are.

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