A seemingly meaningless string of letters hastily sprayed onto a brick wall – this is the image many people have of graffiti. They see it as vandalism, as ugly, as dirt. While many cases support this view, it's not the complete picture. Churches frequently become targets for spray-painted messages, from repeated vandalism at St. Marien Church buildings in Osnabrück to unknown perpetrators spraying "Bigotry" on Hanover's Market Church, prompting investigations by state security. In Wurzen, authorities even reported a serial graffiti offender specifically targeting churches.
However, graffiti has many faces that extend far beyond simple vandalism. Tags primarily aim to show the presence of the sprayer or their group, while writings are more artistically ambitious, focusing on aesthetics. Street art also encompasses larger, more elaborate figurative paintings. Somewhere in between are stencils – templates that allow images to be quickly and easily mass-produced. Street spraying has always had more than just artistic intentions; it also addresses social and political issues, particularly evident in Latin America.
In Chile, the Brigada Ramona Parra served as the artistic arm of the Chilean Communist Party, spraying against the dictatorship of the Pinochet regime. This tradition inspired graffiti artist and social worker Mika Springwald, who regularly expresses faith through spray bottles in church spaces. "It's the classic social worker disease: you want to 'just quickly' spray something colorful with young people. Then you quickly realize that it doesn't work 'just quickly'," he explains. "Artists from Brigada Ramona Parra visited us in Osnabrück, and I did a project with them. Through them, I got into spraying."
For Springwald, the crucial point is using art as a means to critically oppose injustice. He maintains understanding when people are bothered by tags, saying, "It's more about having the courage to do something illegal." He finds it difficult to find an artistic note in such work. His focus lies elsewhere: while working illegally isn't necessary, the themes of subculture should be embraced – inequality and the perspective of disadvantaged people. The church offers itself as a natural venue for this work.
"We need to learn again to perceive social associations as part of the church. Because church isn't just worship services," Springwald emphasizes. Every congregation has people on the margins, and as a church, there's a duty to catch and reach them. Access to surfaces comes through dialogue: "If you ask nicely, there's almost a surface in every congregation where you can spray." Springwald regularly conducts street art projects with young people in schools and academies, including in Christian settings, seeing it as a way to interest young people in existential questions.
"The spray can still has the whiff of illegality – everyone wants to try it," he notes. From this method, he can move to deeper themes in his courses. "Foundations of faith can also be sprayed!" It's important that at the end of each course, young people take something home to hang on their wall. "That represents: I made this." The positive experience with the church remains, even when there are few other connections. "If we only approach the topic of graffiti with fears, we won't need to worry about the walls of our churches soon. Because then no one will be there who needs them."
The church in the Goldscheuer district of Kehl approached graffiti not with fear but with great courage. The small church "Maria, Help of Christians" from the 1960s was already facing closure at the beginning of the 21st century due to renovation needs and too few worship attendees. Instead of giving up, the parish conceived something new: artist Stefan Strumbel redesigned the church in street art style. A large, pop-style Marian image now dominates the organ gallery, while the crucifixion group above the altar is framed by pink rays, accompanied by LED lights and comic speech bubbles.
After initial skepticism, the community now stands behind the project. "People here are really proud of their church," says parish coordinator Elisabeth Humpert, who has worked at and with the church for years. "They even talk about it on vacation." The building no longer has the charm of a gymnasium but is inviting. "People have found a home here again and come to worship more frequently." The worship services themselves have also changed: the open and cheerful space creates the right atmosphere, and the offerings have become more diverse. Evening devotions are regularly celebrated, and ecumenical services have become more frequent. "Of course, many more people than before want to get married here or have their children baptized."
Many groups also visit, according to Humpert, including some primarily interested in the art. "This often leads confirmation or student groups to say: 'Now that we're here, we also want a devotion or worship service.'" For local people, the church has become much more natural than at the beginning. While the first years featured a kind of volunteer guard service to ensure no one caused trouble in the church, trust has grown. The church, with all its street art equipment, now operates unguarded.
However, this openness can lead to accidents, as experienced in Cologne. At the Cäcilien Church there, Swiss artist Harald Naegeli spray-painted a skeleton in 1980, calling his initially illegal work "Dance of Death" as a reference to historical models. As an iconic graffiti piece, it remained visible for decades until city cleaning staff significantly damaged it last year while "cleaning up." What was once illegal dirt is now set to be carefully restored, highlighting the evolving perception of street art in religious spaces.
