Walking through the stormy heat of a Viennese summer day, I found myself drifting toward the city’s heart, St.Stephen’s cathedral a place of stillness, reflection and centuries old devotion.

But before I could reach its doors, another kind of chant caught my ear, rhythmic, loud and full with energy. Curious, I followed the sound.

I turned the corner and there they were.

A sea of yellow shirts. Romanian football supporters, ultras, had gathered just outside the cathedral in full force. Among the groups of men, families stood with children, couples hand in hand. Their energy was electric with anticipation.

At the center, a man stood elevated, shouting instructions, guiding the chants with the authority of a conductor or a preacher. The crowd followed him in unison, dropping low, then leaping into the air, creating a wave that rippled through the square. There was food, beer, laughter and loud conversations. But also discipline and unity, a ritual in full motion.

How fitting, I thought.

Being a football Ultra is like belonging to a religion. There’s commitment to every match, every chant and to the team’s colours. There’s pilgrimage. There’s loyalty passed through generations. And here, just outside a centuries old cathedral, these modern day believers gathered, not for mass, but for kickoff.

The police were present but stood at a relaxed distance, until a flare was lit, casting a yellow glow into the air. A reminder that this ritual, too had boundaries,  I heard a voice over a loudspeaker calmly requesting they extinguish it. Another flare went up. Then another. Only after the third did the crowd finally gave in and the smoke started to dissipate. But not the enthusiasm, it was obvious to me that the party atmosphere was far from over.

Watching the scene, I thought of Karl Marx, “Religion is the opium of the people” he once wrote. But would he have said the same if he had stood here, watching this?

These weren’t people numbed by belief. They were alive, lit up. Football wasn’t their escape, it was rather their connection.

The other kind of Spark

Just days later, I found myself surrounded by sparks again but of an entirely different kind.

This time I was standing in a long queue with my teenage daughter, waiting to enter a Tate McRae concert. The crowd was much younger, mostly teenage girls but their excitement was contagious.

Everywhere I looked were signs of belonging. Some wore Tate McRae t-shirts. Others mimicked her style, with purple lace bras, like the song, cropped tops and glittery make up. All visual proof of devotion. These weren’t just outfits, these were chosen with care to align with the spirit of the artist they adored.

Now and then, the crowd would break into song, a verse here, a chorus there. It felt like prayers sung in anticipation. The mood was light and irreverent, it reminded me of the past, when I too was just like them. Looking at my daughter, I smiled, times are different now but there are things that will always look familiar regardless of the date.

After nearly two hours, we finally reached the doors. Inside, there was a dash for the best standing spots. We landed in the second row, pressed close by the crowd behind us, a sea of nervous energy and glowing phone screens.

The opening acts came and went. Then, finally, the lights dimmed and Tate emerged. The sound that followed was deafening . The crowd screamed, danced and some even wept. Every lyric she sang was met by thousands of voices singing along, not quietly but with an almost desperate intensity. My ears kept vibrating not accustomed to such an intense sound wave.

I wondered why they would shout the very words she had come to sing. But then I understood, it wasn’t about listening. It was rather about belonging. It was a communion, not led by a priest, but by a pop star. And like any ritual, it was charged with emotion, release, and shared meaning. I looked at my daughter again, her face said it all.

All of them believed, in that moment, that they were part of something sacred.

A Shared Faith

Within a week, I witnessed two seemingly unrelated events, a football pre-match gathering outside a cathedral, and a concert packed with teenagers singing their hearts out.

And yet, they felt strikingly similar.

In both, there were rituals, There were uniforms. There were chants and songs. There was emotional surrender and a big sense of community.

Whether in stadiums or concert halls, these gatherings aren’t just about the game or the artist. They are about identity and sharing. In a world where traditional religion has less hold on many of us, our hunger for connection has simply found new forms.

We still gather around something that we consider greater than ourselves, whether it’s a goal or a lyric, a chant or a spotlight.

Perhaps Marx was right about religion but he couldn’t have foreseen that we’d trade sometimes altars for arenas, and find in goals and choruses the sacred rituals of our time.