I recently visited a Greek Orthodox monastery in Quebec, and I returned nostalgic for my ancestral home.
While visiting the monastery, I had an ambivalent feeling: one of deep admiration for the sacredness of Christianity, yet also of quiet frustration at how it systemically excludes what identifies me as a Black person who happens to be a Catholic priest. By the end of the visit, I was left with the lingering sense that our Christian identity is either reinforced or estranged depending on how our faith connects—or disconnects—from our ancestral cultures.
I made this visit with two female theologian colleagues. One of the two was conducting her research on the role of women in Eastern Christianity. At first, we thought we were simply accompanying her to purchase some Orthodox iconography and breathe the air of a tradition she has spent countless hours studying for its rich intellectual contributions to the entire Christian world.
We were returning from a two-day academic retreat during which we explored the liberating pedagogies of Drs. Paulo Freire and bell hooks. Though brief, the monastery visit left a deep, nostalgic impression on me. It reminded me once again that although Christianity has become what it is today by borrowing metaphors here and transforming symbols there, it never really paused to consider what defines me as a Black person. That realization stirred a question in me I’ve carried for a long time: Will I ever truly find a home in the Catholic Church?
This isn’t the first time I’ve asked myself, in all honesty: Where in the Church is my identity as a Black person visibly present—celebrated, embodied, and recognized?
For years, I had believed that being able to celebrate the Catholic faith in my maternal language was transformative enough. But I am beginning to question that assumption. It is one thing to recite the Latin Mass and Thomistic catechesis in the Igbo language of my ancestors. It is another thing entirely to allow the sacredness of my ancestral spirituality and culture to awaken and explode the beauty of Christ’s message in the Church my people now call their own.
As I watched the nuns of the Monastery of the Virgin Mary the Consolatory in the heart of Quebec’s Laurentian Forest, I recalled an Igbo proverb: Ihe kwuru, ihe akwudebe ya. “If something is said, there must be something backing it.” Nothing stands alone without backing. It struck me that speaking Greek, for these sisters, is not just linguistic. It is cultural, theological, and spiritual. Their liturgies, their architecture, their icons—all of it reinforces their rootedness in a Greek Orthodox identity. There is coherence.
The monastery is home to 27 sisters who live within a vibrant spiritual ecosystem. Joyful visitors come and go, while the sisters move gracefully through the rhythms of communal life. It’s a small Greek enclave planted in Québécois soil, and in its cultural familiarity, it reminded me of my Igbo homeland. This is not a feeling I have felt in the context of Catholic churches or their liturgical aesthetics within Black communities.
If one parachuted into this monastery without context, one would hardly believe it is in Quebec. The sisters fluidly move between Greek, French, and English with a natural ease. Their joy is utterly contagious. I noticed elderly women beaming as they browsed the small gift shop, filled with icons, incense, and delicious cheeses. These women, I believe, were not simply delighted by the quality of the monastery’s offerings. In this sacred space, they found a Greek home tucked within a bustling French-speaking world.
There, the sisters are generous with their smiles and quick to switch languages as a quiet act of welcome—a living sign of their community’s openness. And I, too, smiled. But I left still wondering: When will I find such a home, to call mine, in the Catholic Church?
Fr Nnaemeka Ali, OMI was born and raised in Eastern Nigeria and is a doctoral student at Saint Paul University in Ottawa. He has over seven years of missionary experience with the Innu in Quebec. His research focuses on postcolonial identity, Indigenous spirituality, and decolonial theology. He also teaches part-time and works as a research assistant at the university’s Centre on Churches and Truth and Reconciliation with Indigenous Peoples.
