LEFTOVERS

I met Srebrenko many years ago. He immediately introduced himself as a fashion designer from Kakanj, although I later learned he had actually been a second-rate tailor, or as we would say back in Pomoravlje, an old-style cloth maker. Harmless, naive, full of himself, and a loud defender of all things Serbian. Whenever he wanted to emphasize something in conversation, he would cross himself three times.

He found a job at a taser factory, and hardship back home had taught him how to save what he earned. He was a good worker, though he often expressed his dissatisfaction with the line: “If I could just learn that English, I’d make it to manager!”

From the first days of exile, he became active in the local Orthodox church, quickly turning into the go-to errand man. I helped him a few times with refugee paperwork, which earned me a place among the small group of acquaintances he didn’t gossip about. He knew many of our people in Arizona and had something negative to say about nearly all of them. Like most Serbs, he celebrated St. Nicholas, and to avoid landing on his blacklist, I regularly attended his family patron saint celebration.

Since December 19 requires visiting several households, we arrived at Silverman’s place (that’s what the Americans called him) among the last guests. The house was large, single-story but sprawling, with a yard that looked as if it had come straight from Horticulture for Beginners. A lawn like Wembley, walkways circling the house, and a few chairs rarely used. The host was cheerful, slightly nervous, but inwardly happy. How could he not be? His most important guest sat at the head of the table: Father Branislav and his wife.

As we entered the living room, familiar aromas filled the air. A white tablecloth covered the table. In the center stood an icon, a candle, and the ceremonial bread. Our people from the western parts of the former homeland tend to treat fasting as a calendar formality, celebrating their patron saint in their own way — with roast pork, lamb, and other decidedly non-fasting delicacies. If someone insists, the hosts reply briefly: “Sin doesn’t enter through the mouth, it comes out of it.” The priests have grown accustomed to this practice; they simply cross themselves once more before eating the roast.

The host greeted us warmly, and the fact that we were seated next to Father Branislav suggested we ranked fairly well on Srebrenko’s list of the Serbian community in Arizona. Fasting was mentioned in passing, more as a recommendation than an obligation. Someone added that God understands and that what matters is marking the celebration properly, since traditions keep people together. Platters of roast emptied quickly, stuffed cabbage disappeared, and the owner of the Balkan grocery store nearly choked on cornbread for the second time.

Conversation at the table was casual at first — work, children, America, Trump saving Serbia. Somewhere between the second rakija and the small cakes, the tone shifted. Without any clear reason, the familiar refrain began: “We Serbs. We Orthodox. We who preserve tradition. We, the only nation that celebrates slava.”

Father Branislav sat calmly in the place that naturally belonged to him. He would smile occasionally, offer a general remark about unity or faith, but did not enter the debate. He was a kind and tolerant man with whom I had spoken before about many subjects. This time, since we were seated next to each other, I had the chance to go further.

“Father,” I said, “I’ve been thinking about faith for decades now, and I still can’t find my place in it. What do you think of those of us who are constantly searching and always questioning?”

He looked mildly surprised but did not rush his answer. After a sip of wine and a stroke of his gray beard, he replied quietly:

“Most people believe in God because they were taught to from early childhood. The real reason they accept religion has little to do with arguments. They accept it for emotional reasons.”

It became clear I had found someone who did not see doubt as a threat.

I spoke about how religious belonging is assumed even before we are born — determined by who our parents are and where we come into the world. No one asks us where we will be baptized or whether we will believe at all. When we grow up and form views that differ from religion, we are left with two options: either betray our own convictions or create a scandal by formally renouncing our baptism — if such a thing even exists.

He listened carefully and nodded.

“A person is introduced to faith before he understands it,” he said, “just as he is introduced to language. Only later does he decide whether he will truly speak that language or merely repeat it mechanically. Baptism is not proof that someone believes. It is simply that the path has been opened. Whether he walks it is up to him.”

“In its original understanding,” he continued, “the Church never claimed faith was a matter of coercion or inheritance. What is inherited are surroundings, symbols, stories — not faith itself. Faith begins only when a person first exercises free will.”

As for renouncing or formally “canceling” baptism, he said it was not a contract to be terminated. If someone chooses to leave, he is free. If he returns, he returns not to a ritual but to a question that never fully left him. Faith without freedom becomes mere custom, and custom without freedom easily turns into coercion. The Church loses most when it tries to hold people through rules instead of meaning.

“Even if we don’t raise children religiously, we still have to teach them about religion,” I said quickly. “How do we explain that there are many religions in the world and that they’re all equal — yet Christians ‘won’? Should we tell children: congratulate Christians when you meet them, because they conquered the world? We like to comfort ourselves with the idea that all religions are the same. But they’re not.”

I continued, afraid of losing my train of thought.

“If you don’t believe me, here’s a simple question: what year is it, Father? For the entire human race, it is 2026. We count time from Jesus Christ. Together. That makes sense if you’re Christian, but what about everyone else? How is that not the victory of one dominant faith? And then someone asked: what about the years before him? There were billions of them. They had to rename time retroactively and start counting backward — Before Christ.”

Father Branislav smiled gently, as though he had heard this before. He said that counting time is a practical matter, unrelated to spiritual confession. People needed to agree on a calendar, just as they agree on time zones or currency. The Christian calendar does not mean the whole world believes in Christ; it simply reflects a historical moment when Christian civilization shaped the framework for measuring time.

“Christ doesn’t need timekeeping to legitimize him,” he said. “Faith would be weaker if it depended on calendars and holidays. The fact that the world counts years ‘from Christ’ says more about people and their need to give history a starting point than about God.”

He finished his wine and concluded:

“The Church does not require a man to adopt a calendar in order to accept faith. Nor to reject one in order to doubt. Faith is not proven by victory over others, but by endurance within a person.”

I had often argued with people, trying to defeat them with logic. Father Branislav’s calm had the opposite effect. I listened more than I prepared my reply.

Then I mentioned something sensitive.

“There’s a word in Serbian that we’re especially sensitive to because of history.”

He tensed slightly.

“Serbs were forcibly converted during the Ottoman Empire, and in both World Wars. I sometimes feel we haven’t learned from that. Our Church, with its strict rules, practices a kind of ‘voluntary conversion.’”

“God help you, my friend, that’s quite a claim,” he said.

I felt uncomfortable but pressed on.

“If an Orthodox bride wants to marry someone of another faith, he must convert for the wedding to take place in our church. The same with baptism. If both parents aren’t Orthodox, the child remains unbaptized.”

He paused.

“What you’re describing,” he said slowly, “the Church does not see as conversion. It sees as a boundary. Marriage and baptism are not ceremonies adjusted for everyone. They are testimonies of faith. If someone wishes to receive them, he must understand what he is entering.”

“If someone is baptized only to marry,” he added, “that is a defeat — for him and for the Church. Faith offered as a condition remains empty.”

“And a child is not left unbaptized as punishment,” he said carefully. “The child remains free. Faith is not inherited like property. It either comes later — or it does not come at all.”

He ended quietly:

“The Church errs whenever it forgets the difference between guarding a boundary and creating fear. The moment we begin counting believers, we lose what we meant to preserve.”

He did not ask me to agree. He simply looked at me.

Inside me, however, a question remained: if faith serves primarily to define whom you do not belong to, rather than whom you draw closer to, is it faith at all — or merely a badge of recognition?

The host walked us to the door and packed “leftovers” into a bag — roast meat, some stuffed cabbage, small cakes wrapped in napkins. As we said goodbye, the priest looked at me briefly. He said nothing. I sensed understanding in his gaze.

Outside it was quiet. The house stayed behind us. The conversation ended, but the question remained.

Faith, I thought, is not recognized by whom you belong to, but by how much space you leave for another. And that is something you cannot pack in a bag or carry home. It must be carried within — and never imposed on someone else.