The Serb and I aren’t particularly religious—he was raised a commie and I’ve been known to put “Wiccan” on forms requiring me to declare my religion—but we do consider ourselves to be very spiritual.

We hang out with Jews, Muslims, Catholics and Buddhists, and the guy who married us is Mormon (sidebar: does that make us Mormon? Twelve years later, I still haven’t received a firm answer on that one). My point being, we aren’t anti-religion…it’s just never been our thing to seek out organized religion.

One reason we adore our kids’ hippie school is that they explore all forms of spirituality. My eight-year-old son is the proud owner of a dreidel and read Old Testament stories this year. The year before it was saints from the New Testament. Next year it will be Norse gods, followed by Hinduism and other faiths.

Here is where the irony kicks in: as a result of his exposure to different beliefs, my son is becoming quite religious (i.e. last year he chose to be Saint Jerome for Halloween). I’m cool with him sampling from the spiritual buffet, but the Serb and I are heading into uncharted waters—it’s like a couple of pacifists who unintentionally raise a marine.

A week before Christmas, my son announced that he wanted to attend church on Christmas Eve. Our traditions normally include gorging on sushi at a restaurant topped off with a Toblerone fondue at home, but we agreed to check out a house of the Lord after our customary feast of raw fish.

Since I didn’t know where to begin finding an appropriate church, I turned to my source of all sacred knowledge: Google. My search term was simple and to the point: “gay friendly church Ontario.” If we could find a local place of worship that allowed a dude to marry another dude, chances are they wouldn’t mind a group of heathens like us showing up.

It turns out that Ontario churches (the United ones, anyway) love the gays as much as I do, and we were welcomed with open arms. My son declared that we would be sitting in the second row (pew?) and he sat back to study a song (hymn?) book as people filed into the church (did I mention we were 40 minutes early?).

I leaned over to the Serb. “He could end up being a minister or pastor or whatever they’re called,” I whispered. “He’s really into this.”

My husband eyed his pious son, happily poring over the hymns, and agreed.

I was surprised by how much I enjoyed being at church—everyone was very friendly, kids were running around playing and the atmosphere was one of kindness and camaraderie. If my kid wanted to make church a regular thing, I would gladly accompany him.

As the service began I had visions of our sweet boy ministering to the sick and the poor, dedicating his life to a higher calling. My reverie was interrupted by my son.

“Mommmeeee—when is this over? I’m thiiiirsteeee.” We were exactly three minutes into the programme.

“It just started,” I murmured.

“But it’s soooo boring,” he whined.

“You wanted to come here,” I reminded him. “What did you expect?”

“Something different than this. When is it oooooverrrrr?”

I turned to the Serb, but he was already halfway up the aisle with our four-year-old daughter, who was gesturing her need to pee. I didn’t see them again until the service was over.

I spent the next forty-five minutes threatening to withhold presents from my son if he didn’t sit still and we left with my son declaring that the church I chose was “the wrong kind.” Since our adventure, my son has reaffirmed his desire to be a wizard when he grows up. It turns out his religious calling was more of a whisper. But he still kicks my ass at dreidel.