Living a religion is about belonging to it, feeling like a part of a creed. In my own spiritual indecisions and search for the mysteries that religions offer, I’ve always been curious about experiencing and deeply understanding every possible form of worship. One of the most vivid memories I have is from the time I encountered a slice of the Christian Orthodox culture, particularly the Greek Orthodox tradition. The beauty, the grandeur, and the seriousness of the way an Orthodox mass is conducted left such an impression on me that I decided to study and visit an Orthodox church in Brasília.
The small community had been around since the 1960s. Hidden away in a quieter area of the city, far from the bustling downtown, this church was nestled among schools and associations. To pass by it on the street sparked both curiosity and a sense of awe in me. One day, in June, I decided to call the priest and ask if I could attend a service. He was kind enough to tell me that I would be more than welcome, and that he would be honored by my presence. I mentioned that I would be bringing my cousin along with me. The priest asked where we were from and why we wanted to visit the church. I told him we were Christians, but I kept it vague to avoid any restrictions on our visit.
I spoke to my cousin and we agreed on the day and time—8:00 PM. Having watched “My Big Fat Greek Wedding,” I thought I had picked up a few things about Greek culture—especially the Greek way of life, which is similar to that of Italians: festive, humorous, and very family-oriented. I was confident I would feel right at home. One thing I had also noticed was that the Greeks seemed to dress up for every occasion, no matter how casual. It dawned on me that I should probably dress better for church on that day. However, after some “wisdom” from my cousin, we didn’t end up as well-dressed as I had intended. My cousin, being a self-proclaimed church expert, insisted that I didn’t need a suit. “Just wear jeans and good sneakers,” he advised.
So, feeling a bit too confident, I dressed casually: a polo shirt tucked neatly into my jeans, sneakers, and a fanny pack slung over my shoulder to complete the look—because, you know, nothing says ‘serious’ like a fanny pack. We arrived at the church a little before 8:00 PM and I was surprised to find only the priest and a lady still decorating the church.
The first thing that struck me was the peacefulness of the church. There was no one else around, and the only sound was the faint hum of the candles flickering in the air. After exchanging pleasantries with the priest, I took my seat, eager to soak in the experience. It wasn’t long before the priest started the service, and I, along with my cousin, joined in the prayers. The whole ceremony felt incredibly meaningful—serious, dignified, and deeply spiritual.
At one point during the service, the priest invited anyone who wished to say a few words. A rather peculiar invitation, I thought, but I decided to participate. I stood up, ready to contribute, when the priest turned to us and, seeing that we were “outsiders,” assumed we were Catholics. He then asked if we could read something in Latin, which left me in a bit of a predicament.
I had absolutely no idea how to read Latin. Not a single word.
The priest, looking at us with hope in his eyes, insisted, “Please, read for us in Latin.” I stood there frozen, awkwardly shifting my weight from one foot to the other. Then, as if by divine intervention, the priest asked the room, “Who here knows Latin?”
And, to my utter disbelief, everyone in the room raised their hands. Everyone.
There I was, the only person in the room who couldn’t read a single word of Latin. It was like a cosmic joke—there I stood, trying my hardest to maintain composure, shrinking into my polo shirt, feeling the heat rise in my face as I realized I was the only one in this whole church who had no clue what was going on.
I silently promised myself that I would study Latin immediately after this event. But that promise was forgotten as quickly as it was made.
As the service ended, my cousin and I exchanged glances, both of us silently agreeing that, regardless of my “Latin lesson,” we had just experienced something unique—if only for the most awkward reason. That night became one of those unforgettable moments of my life, a reminder that, no matter how much you prepare, sometimes you end up in the most unexpected, and often embarrassing, situations. But at least I learned one valuable lesson: always be prepared to read Latin when attending an Orthodox church.