By Fr. Michael Psaromatis
Greek Orthodox Archdiocese of Australia
Before the sun lifts its golden veil over Fiji, while the matangi (the soft morning breeze) moves gently through the banana trees and hibiscus, I watch a single flame flicker beside an icon of the Virgin Mary and Christ. In the hush of early dawn, a rooster calls. Coconut smoke curls heavenward like incense from an open fire. The land and the sea hold their breath. This is the rhythm of Fiji where time flows not by clocks but in harmony with creation, where the Church breathes alongside the pulse of the earth, the sky, and the sea.
Here, in this sacred land where the soil is fertile and the hearts even more so, the apostolic flame has found new ground. The Gospel did not arrive with thunder. It came like rain that is gentle, steady, and life giving. It was not carried by force but by vaka, the sacred canoes of grace, steered by hands that row in time with prayer. We do not come to change the people. We come to listen, to receive, and to join the sacred song that already rises from these islands.
Each visit to this land rekindles something ancient and eternal. The voice of the Church rises not from marble altars but from hearts shaped by the land, softened by suffering and made radiant by grace. Here, the earth and sky are not silent. They speak and chant. They bear witness to the hidden liturgy that unfolds each day beneath coconut palms and breadfruit trees, where children laugh barefoot under the open sky and widows murmur prayers into the wind.
On the Feast of the Holy Apostles Peter and Paul, the Church looks not only into her past but also outward across the ocean. From the shores of Galilee to the green valleys of Fiji, the voices of these Apostles still echo. Their names are not lifeless relics but living torches. Their footsteps are felt in sugarcane fields and along coral shores.
For eleven years, I have walked among the Orthodox faithful in the South Pacific. Each time I return I do so having being changed. There is a sacred exchange of grace that takes place. I do not come only to serve but to be served by the purity of their faith, by their resilience and by their quiet strength. The childlike joy of those newly illumined Christians reignites the beacon within my own heart. The mission gives far more than it receives and reminds us that the Gospel is not owned but is shared.
This June, I returned again to Fiji together with faithful hearts from Adelaide, Amphilochios, Iliana, Anastasia, Polytimi, Carlos, and little Claudia. A pilgrimage of the heart, shaped by service, silence, and sacred encounters. It was a procession of hearts moving through the land, much like the ancient processions of Holy Week, where candles flicker in the darkness and every step becomes a prayer.
We arrived just as the Church was preparing to honour Saints Peter and Paul. These two Apostles were vastly different, yet both were set aflame by the same Spirit. Peter was the fisherman who walked on water and then sank, who denied Christ but was restored. Paul was the scholar who persecuted and then preached, who fell blind but came to see with heavenly clarity. They were both remade by the Resurrection. Their testimony is not sealed in parchment but breathes wherever Christ is proclaimed and shines wherever love overcomes fear.
With the blessing of His Eminence Metropolitan Myron of New Zealand and the encouragement of His Eminence Archbishop Makarios of Australia, we journeyed from Nadi to Lautoka, from Saweni to Koroipita and from Savusavu to Labasa. We carried with us more than rice, flour, and oil. We brought reverence, patience, and joy. More than one hundred family care packages were prepared and distributed. Over one hundred twenty kilograms of hygiene and first aid items came with us from Adelaide. An additional three hundred kilograms of food and essential goods were purchased with donated funds in Fiji.
In homes made of woven bamboo and corrugated iron, where rain taps gently on rooftops like a monastic chant, we found people whose hearts had become sanctuaries. In one village, unreachable by paved roads, a family of thirty Orthodox Christians welcomed us with tears of joy and the scent of dalo boiling over a fire mixed with the faint aroma of incense rising from an icon corner.
Each person in our group offered something beautiful. Amphilochios, once a child of St Tabitha’s Orphanage, returned as a young man and theology student at St Andrew’s in Sydney. His voice, now shaped by the hymns of the Church, echoed across valleys with warmth and grace. Iliana and Anastasia offered strength and kindness in quiet but powerful ways. Polytimi and Carlos prepared and served meals with loving care. Little Claudia played joyfully with Fijian children as if they were lifelong friends. Together, we moved as one, not following an itinerary, but responding to the Spirit. Our movements echoed the waves that lap against coral reefs, gentle but persistent, forming something beautiful over time.
Returning to these islands, I do not feel any more like a visitor. I now come as a father among his children. My arms hold memory and my voice carries a love that is not mine. In one particular village, Savudrodro, that love met us in a way that will never be forgotten.
As Iliana, Anastasia and I were speaking with a local woman, searching for the only Orthodox family in the area, we heard a voice calling across the valley.
“Fr Michael! Fr Michael!”
A young boy ran toward us, barefoot and radiant with joy. Tears were already falling from his eyes. It was Phanourios. I had known him since his early days at the orphanage in Saweni. Neither of us knew the other would be there. But God, in His quiet and perfect providence, had arranged this encounter.
Phanourios ran into my arms. We wept and laughed. The villagers stood in reverent stillness. It was a moment of divine embrace where the Church stood whole. A boy who had once been sheltered by the Church now stood as a living memory of her presence far away from any physical Orthodox sanctuary.
From there, we continued our journey. We offered the Agiasmos service and blessed homes in Nabavatu, Urata, Tabia, and Seaqaqa. We prayed with families and responded to their needs. In Labasa, at the parish of Saints Athanasios and Nicholas, we were welcomed with heartfelt warmth. We served Matins, Holy Unction, and the Divine Liturgy for the feast of St Samson the Innkeeper. Through these sacred services, healing was offered, and Christ was made known.
There, we witnessed what I have long believed. Orthodoxy is not a luxury reserved for the well resourced. It is at its most radiant when lived in simplicity. The Church in Labasa may worship in a humble termite infested wooden chapel, but it radiates a spiritual beauty that no cathedral could surpass. There, the Liturgy breathes with the life of the people. It is followed by meals, by conversation, by shared labour and laughter. The Church is not a place they visit but the very ground they walk on.
In that region, Fr Alexios Nand and Presvytera Sevastia serve with quiet dedication. Fr Alexios drives long distances each week to gather the faithful, celebrate the Divine Liturgy, comfort the sick, counsel the struggling, and teach the young. His service may be hidden from the eyes of the world, but it is well known in heaven. Alongside him stands Presvytera Maria, the widow of the late Fr Barnabas, the founding priest of Orthodoxy in Vanua Levu. She remains a pillar of gentleness, memory, and wisdom. Through her, the memory of the Church lives and breathes.
In Saweni, we met Fr Timothy Triantafyllou, newly ordained under the Holy Metropolis of New Zealand. With Presvytera Dimitra and their children, Alexios and George, they serve the Orthodox faithful of western Fiji with joy and deep commitment. Their presence is not passing. It is planted. They walk among the people like St Herman once walked among the Aleuts, gently, daily, with the Gospel written not on paper but in the movements of love.
At Koroipita, we saw what can happen when faith restores dignity. Here, families who once had nothing now live with hope. In that place, we remembered the words of Saint Peter: “Once you were not a people, but now you are the people of God.”
In each village we visited, it was not only we who brought Christ to others. He was already there, waiting for us in the eyes of the suffering, in the smile of the grandmother who offered us a mat to sit upon, in the barefoot child who ran to greet us with the joy of a Pascha morning.
In one humble vale (hut home), nestled in the green folds of a remote hill, we came upon a man who had recently lost his leg. He was caring for his grandson with the help of his devoted wife. When we entered, the scent of fresh cassava lingered in the air. A kerosene lamp burned softly beneath a paper icon of the Theotokos. The earth floor had been swept clean. Their poverty had not robbed them of dignity. Rather, it had made space for grace.
This man asked me, gently and with reverence, if I would offer a prayer over him and his family. He sat propped on a woven mat, his amputation still fresh. The wound was raw, but his soul was full. As we began to pray, his eyes welled with tears. After the final blessing, I knelt beside him, hoping to offer him comfort. I told him not to be despondent. Not to lose heart.
He looked at me, now weeping even more, and said, “Father, I am joyful, Christ has entered into our home.”
These are the types of many moments and experiences had in the mission that leave you speechless.
In these moments, one often feels the earth shift beneath them realising that they are standing upon holy ground. These are no ordinary huts but rather they have transfigured into cathedrals of thanksgiving. This particular man, broken in body but whole in spirit, becomes the catechist. He shows what it means to be Orthodox not only in name, but in the very marrow of one’s being. He was not asking why suffering had come. He was giving thanks. His pain had not closed his heart. It had opened it to the mystery of joy.
There is a vakavinavinaka, a Fijian spirit of thankfulness, that lives deep within the people of these islands. It is not shallow and it is not sentimental. It is resilient remaining close to hardship and crowned with joy. It is born of a smile that rises even when the soul is heavy. The Fijian smile is not a mask but a song of faith that has learned to walk with pain. When that smile is joined to the humility of Christ and to the way of thinking taught by His Church, it becomes a luminous theology. It speaks without words yet fills the heart with light.
Orthodox thankfulness is not the polite gratitude of good fortune. It is the praise of God even in affliction. It is the recognition that every visit, every touch, every prayer, and every Liturgy, even if offered on a floor of packed earth or beside a rusted cooking pot, is a miracle. The man in that hut did not see our presence as something small. He saw it as a visitation from above and received it not with complaint, but with tears of joy.
Encounters like this remain with me. They are often quiet parallel Gospel stories, that speak louder than any sermon I could possibly preach. They remind me that the joy of the Lord is indeed our strength. They teach me that salvation does not come through comfort or ease, but through a heart that bows in thanksgiving even when life brings sorrow.
And so we continued. Our steps were lighter because of what we had received. The lesson of a hut that became a sanctuary. The witness of a man who became a confessor and the beauty of a gratitude that became a hymn of praise.
One evening, we returned to St Tabitha’s Orphanage. Under the stars, after a meal prepared in love by Carlos and Polytimi, the children sang traditional Fijian songs and danced with joy. These were not performances but liturgies of the heart. In Fijian culture, gratitude is more than words, it is movement. That night, the words of the Psalmist came to life. “Let everything that has breath praise the Lord.”
As our time in Fiji drew to a close, it was clear that the mission had left its mark not through numbers, but through moments of grace. We returned to Adelaide carrying not achievements, but memories. We carried with us the rhythm of rain on tin roofs, the scent of incense and coconut smoke, the sound of children’s laughter, and the quiet tears of widows. We returned with the echo of Kyrie Eleison spoken in a new language, and the Our Father prayed under the open sky.
The Orthodox Mission in Fiji is not a project but a living presence which grows with every whispered prayer beneath a palm tree. The mission shines in every oil lamp lit before an icon. It lives in every smile from a child and in every step taken by a priest through mountain paths. It does not seek recognition rather it seeks only to love.
The vaka still waits upon the water. The matangi still stirs the morning leaves. The hills still echo with the names of saints. The earth still longs for blessing. There are still children who wait for the Church with quiet hope. There are still homes to visit, wounds to heal, and sacred songs yet to be sung beneath the Southern Cross.
Every time we visit Fiji is a page from a Gospel that continues to be written. It is written with footsteps and with flame. It is written with cassava and kokoda shared in silence and with names remembered before the throne of God. The Kingdom knows no boundaries and these islands are certainly not forgotten for Christ has already walked among them.
He comes every time mercy is offered. He comes in every Liturgy beneath the breadfruit tree. He comes in every tear received with love. For wherever two or three gather in His name, whether on coral shores or in the highlands, there He is also.
The Church, like the ocean, will continue to rise. Her waves will carry the Gospel from village to village, from heart to heart, bringing the fragrance of Christ to every corner of these islands. She will rise not in power, but in love. She will rise not with noise, but with the quiet strength of those who kneel to pray, who choose to serve, who dare to hope.
As long as a single candle is lit before an icon, as long as a grandmother sings the doxology while sweeping her doorstep, as long as a child whispers the name of Jesus beneath the stars and Metropolitan Myron, Fr. Meletios and Geronda Amphilochios continue to intercede, the mission continues. For the Church does not end at the shoreline. She expands wherever love is poured out like oil upon the wounds of the world.
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Fr Michael is a priest of the Greek Orthodox Archdiocese of Australia. He has studied Information Technology, Modern Greek, and Theology at Flinders University. With a deep love for music, theology, and arts Fr Michael brings a dynamism to his ministry.
His 13 year ministry has included service in aged care, the youth, regional communities, and meeting the needs of busy Parishes with Presvytera Stavroula.
Fr Michael is also actively involved in Orthodox missionary outreach in the Pacific, particularly in Fiji. He has spent time in the region serving liturgy, engaging with local communities, and working towards the development of the mission.
He is currently serving at the Parish of St Dimitrios, Salisbury, in South Australia.
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