By Kalina Filceski and Lilli Davison
The Sunday mass starts as usual. Patrons find their seats and greet their fellow parishioners, waiting for the service to begin. But something is missing: the voices of the youth, the new generation, the ones who will continue the services and ensure the church has a future. Their absence is noted, but nothing seems to change.
The church once served as a pillar of the Wollongong Macedonian community but has since become a distant memory for many. Community gatherings and youth engagement, once vibrant and frequent, have dwindled, leaving behind only echoes of shared traditions and fading connections.
Walking up the steps, I tried to recall every detail of what tradition asked of me. The morning air was still, but in my mind, my grandmother’s voice guided each move.
“Cross yourself when you walk in, say Good Morning to the man and buy candles, light them for the family, and for your grandfather in heaven, greet the ladies quietly, then sit down and listen to the service.”
Her words echoed like a prayer of their own, carrying me through the rhythm of faith.
Everything about the structure feels familiar, yet one thing stands out — the ladies I used to greet are no longer there. In their place, unfamiliar faces fill the pews.
For many younger Macedonian-Australians, this feeling resonates deeply: the nostalgia of being taken to church as children by grandparents, absorbing fragments of language and ritual, and then growing up to find that connection dimmed.
Returning as adults often feels daunting.
The liturgy sounds unfamiliar, the steps of tradition uncertain. Fear of not understanding or of not remembering what to do becomes an invisible barrier.
Peter Lozenkovski, current President of the Macedonian Orthodox Community of Wollongong, recognises this generational gap and is determined to bridge it.
“What we’ve started doing, especially in the last 12 months since I became president, is introducing English into our services,” he says.
“Our new parish priest, Father Borislav, came here from Macedonia with very limited English, but as you’ve heard, he’s starting to do some prayers in English — more and more.”
That small shift has already made a noticeable difference.
“Weddings and christenings are now done in English,” Lozenkovski says. “We believe it’s important for the people getting married to understand what the priest is saying — not just for their parents and grandparents.”
Before 1967, the Illawarra region had no Macedonian church or community centre — no central place where the growing migrant community could gather, celebrate, or preserve its traditions.
In those early years, the church was more than a religious institution; it was a social and cultural lifeline. Families would meet after services to share coffee, exchange news, and help one another navigate life in a new country. Children attended Sunday school to learn both the Macedonian language and the foundations of Orthodox faith. Weddings and baptisms were community events, attended by hundreds.
That sense of unity inspired a group of passionate Macedonians to buy a block of land on Stewart Street in Wollongong in 1967. Their dream was to create a permanent home for faith and culture, one that would anchor the growing community for generations.
The first stone of what would become the region’s spiritual home was laid on April 4, 1971. Just a year later, the doors of the first Macedonian Orthodox Church in the Illawarra officially opened.
Named after one of Macedonia’s oldest and most revered saints, Saint Dimitrija Solunski, the church has stood as a cornerstone for over 50 years.
At its 40th anniversary in 2012, services were still conducted entirely in Macedonian; in recent years, however, English has gradually been introduced into the liturgy, making the services more accessible to younger generations and non-Macedonian speakers.
“The English language is a big step for us,” Lozenkovski explains. “Bit by bit, we’re introducing English into our Orthodox Church, which I think is crucial for engaging the younger generation.”
Lozenkovski says the committee also hopes to revive the social life that once thrived around the church.
“After Sunday service, we’ve talked about opening the hall for coffee and cake,” he says. “That’ll create a sense of community again — something we’ve lost over the last decade.”
The importance of that social connection is reflected in national data. The 2021 National Church Life Survey found that 37% of church attenders were born overseas, reinforcing how churches often form a social support network for newly arrived Australians — offering friendship, hospitality, and a sense of belonging.
Lozenkovski is realistic but optimistic.
“If we’re seen on the front line — if my generation and the younger generation are seen attending mass — that’s how change happens,” he says. “We lead by example. Slowly, that stigma that church is only for the old fades away.”
The inclusion of English has already drawn new interest. Young couples planning weddings and baptisms are returning to the church, and families who once felt disconnected are beginning to re-engage.
“You can see it in their faces,” Lozenkovski says. “When the priest says a prayer in English, they smile. It makes them feel included again.”
Yet, for all the change, Lozenkovski insists that tradition must remain at the core of the church’s identity.
“I’m a firm believer that we don’t stop the Macedonian language,” he says. “There will always be prayers the Orthodox Church won’t allow to be sung in English, and we need to respect that.”
He sees the process as one of balance — blending the old with the new. “It’s about keeping the roots alive while allowing the branches to grow,” he says. “Our parents and grandparents built this church with their hands. It’s our job to make sure their legacy doesn’t fade, even if it looks a little different now.”
Back inside the church, the service draws to a close. The smell of incense still hangs in the air, and the faint sound of a hymn echoes against the icons. The words may change, the language may evolve, but the faith — and the sense of belonging it brings — endures.
As Lozenkovski puts it: “We’re not just keeping a church open. We’re keeping a community alive.”