Being a “stranger” is, as you may know already, something that I often give some thought to. Although Camus helped me a lot understanding that it is not that bad – since we are all stranger after all – something else has had an incomparable impact on my feelings of non-belonging.

I was raised in a catholic family, and this has always been something natural to me. Going to the mass on Sundays, praying and meditating is as natural to me as having oat and yoghurt for breakfast. Since I was little, my parents would say something that I only reckon now: being part of the Church would also be a way of always having a home anywhere I go in the world. And they couldn’t have been more right.

Six months ago, when I first came to London, I had no idea where I would live. Or how would I cope with a course 100% taught in English and most likely be the single Latin-American in my class. But I knew exactly what would help me to start feeling at home: going to the Sunday mass. So I started my research: catholic + Church + London. For my surprise, there were around ten to fifteen churches in the entire city. A very, very low number compared to any Brazilian capital. I will explain it.

Brazil was invaded (not discovered, please) by Portugal in 1500. Our colonizers were an imperialist monarchy with solid Catholic traditions. For this reason, one of the main goals of the Portuguese was to catechize the indigenous tribes in Brazil. For them, a “noble” motivation for dominating the country, which was actually used as an excuse for enslavement, massively killing and imposing the eurocentric culture to the native people. 

Many things happened throughout Brazilian History since then when it comes to domination, culture and religion, and I wouldn’t dare to somehow summarize it in one post. The Catholic Church has made many mistakes when it comes to colonies, and Brazil isn’t an exception. Centuries later, it has also recognized it and came to terms in whatever way possible. But the fact is: Brazil has become one of the most Catholic countries in the world.

During centuries churches built were in all 26 states of the country, from the most impoverished villages in Northeast to the main rich capitals. Further on, various syncretic beliefs were also originated from catholic traditions, mixed with African and Native-American traditions. A peculiar blend of cultures which is essentially one of the most vibrant characteristics of Brazil. More recently, it must be said, with a massive swift to extremist evangelical churches, but mainly, with a catholic base.

Considering all that, you might imagine that moving to the home of the Anglican Church had a significant impact on me. So many churches that would resemble what I was used to knowing, but that, in fact, had different rites and mostly had a queen as a sovereign. Indeed, I wasn’t at all used to that. After a few mistakes of going to the “wrong” churches, I found the catholic ones. Yes, I felt at home. But not completely. Although the rites, readings and prayers of the catholic churches were really similar to what I was used to at home, it felt different. The Sunday mass felt somehow cold, bureaucratic. Essentially, British. 

Until I found a very, very special place. After searching through many churches across London, I realized “home” was closer than I thought: at UCL. Browsing the University societies, I discovered there was a small, accessible place filled with other students who were probably looking for a place to call home as well. A spiritual home: the Newman House chaplaincy.

There I was. Sunday morning, took the underground until Euston Square, walked a few meters down the University’s main street and arrived at that door. It looked like all the others of that Georgian building, except for the small flag and the cross. Inside, it actually looked like a big house, except for another tiny door – the Chapel.

Before entering, I was greeted by two smiling students. When crossing the door, you immediately feel more peaceful. It is a silent, small chapel with a low ceiling and a couple of windows showing the sky, surrounded with wooden walls. The chairs are small, and it somehow adds to the cosiness of the place. And finally, the mass. It seems planned for students in every rite. The songs are sung by a student choir, and the priest speaks to us in a calm, friendly way. As someone who’s been there for a long time doing that, therefor knowing precisely the challenges that us, the students, have to face daily far from our homes. In the end, hot chocolate, cake and talks. I have never really engaged in a conversation, I must say, but the pure feeling of being there makes it a very heart-warming experience.

Being at home, now, unable to go out, Newman House is definitely one of the places I miss the most. But somehow, I feel it inside. In the end, if the Church is home, it means it will always be within each one of us. And that means we aren’t complete strangers.