PITUFFIK SPACE BASE, Greenland -- Military service often takes us far from home. Not just geographically, but into cultures vastly different from our own. It was during one such assignment — a short tour at Pituffik Space Base, Greenland — that I received an invitation I never expected. Located above the Arctic Circle, Pituffik is a remote, joint US-Danish facility that supports missile warning, defense and space surveillance missions. Life there is stark, beautiful and often isolating. My time in Greenland has been particularly wonderful, offering a unique blend of breathtaking landscapes and a profound sense of solitude.
As a chaplain, I’ve had many opportunities to experience different cultures, but I never imagined I’d find myself in a place like this. Could I have envisioned preaching an Easter service with three different national groups? Or needing a translator? Absolutely not. I was beyond blessed to have the opportunity to host an Easter service in Greenland with international partners.
While coordinating a Catholic priest’s visit, our team realized Easter coincided with Greenlandic Heritage Week this year. Traditionally, Pituffik opens its doors to local hunters and their families during this week.
About a month before Easter, a member of my congregation, a Greenlandic local who worked on base and spoke excellent English, approached me. She explained that an elder had requested to attend an Easter service during Heritage Week. I enthusiastically welcomed the request, though my heart raced with uncertainty. What would I say? How could I deliver an Easter message without knowing the language? It then occurred to me that I could ask my Greenlandic friend to translate, immediately easing my mind.
Recognizing the time constraints, I shortened the message from its usual length. Furthermore, I added one hymn to be sung in Greenlandic at the end of the service; another departure from my usual approach.
Easter arrived with a mix of excitement and nervousness. As we prepared the chapel, the time drew near to begin, and I saw only two Greenlandic attendees. My friend hadn’t arrived, and anxiety began to build as I prayed. Five minutes before the start, a group of Greenlandic locals arrived, whom I greeted despite the language barrier.
Still anxious, I waited for my friend’s explanation. With three minutes to go, she finally arrived with more natives, explaining she had been coordinating their transport. She then spoke with the elder, who requested two hymns: one at the beginning and one at the end. I happily accommodated this request.
The service began, and my initial nervousness slowly dissipated. We read Scripture, shared prayers and sang hymns — some in English, some in Greenlandic. Though sung in different languages, the feeling of reverence and shared devotion was palpable; a language of the heart that needed no translation. The elder led the Greenlandic hymn, his voice resonating with a lifetime of faith and tradition. A wide smile graced his face, and his presence filled the chapel with peace.
The most moving moment came during Communion. A quiet dignity filled the room as people approached, a shared moment of reflection that transcended language barriers. This wasn’t about denomination or doctrine; it was about a shared belief in something larger than ourselves. In a place so far from home, the chapel became a temporary sanctuary, a reminder that the need for connection and meaning remains universal, even amidst unfamiliar surroundings. The service concluded with the elder offering a prayer in Greenlandic, a blessing that seemed to encompass everyone present.
As I left the chapel, I just felt humbled. It wasn’t about me leading the service; it was about witnessing how faith seemed to break down barriers and create a real sense of unity. Being in the military teaches you quickly about sacrifice and pushing through tough times. But, you also get unexpected opportunities to connect with people you'd never otherwise meet.
It reminded me that at its heart, worship isn't about specific traditions or languages, but about a universal human desire for hope and peace. Seeing that play out at Pituffik — a place so remote and diverse — was a powerful reminder that we're all part of something bigger, a global community that shares more than we often realize.