By Joseph Tek Choon Yee
They say university is where minds are stretched, faith is tested and nasi lemak becomes a food group. For me, it was also where God became personal not through lightning or visions, but through the hum of ceiling fans and the strumming of guitars in a small lecture room at Bangi.
Room 506, FSKK: The Chapel That Wasn’t
It began in Room 506 of the Faculty of Social Sciences and Humanities (FSKK), where members of the Catholic Students Society (CSS) of Universiti Kebangsaan Malaysia met every Friday evening. We arrived armed not with laptops or laser pointers, but with notebooks (the real ones), guitars, and hearts in need of grace.
In the 1980s, “technology” meant a coinbox phone, a fountain pen, and a calculator the size of a sandwich. There were no handphones, no laptops, and certainly no PowerPoint. The word cloud referred to something that threatened to rain on your field trip, not somewhere to store your assignments.
To call home, we queued at the hostel coinbox clutching coins, praying the line wouldn’t cut off before Mum answered, “Hello, siapa ni?” Computers were hulking machines with dot-matrix printers that screamed like cicadas in distress. Notes were handwritten, transparencies were state-of-the-art, and correction Tipp-Ex fluid was our ‘Holy Spirit’ of second chances. Yet somehow, without Wi-Fi or WhatsApp, everything still worked – perhaps because friendship in Christ never needed a signal bar to connect.
Room 506 wasn’t much to look at: whitewashed walls, squeaky centralised air-conditioning, and fluorescent lights that buzzed like over-enthusiastic bees. But for many of us far from home, it was sanctuary.
There we were, students from every state and background in Malaysia, drawn not by intellect or ambition, but by a shared hunger for meaning. We prayed, sang, shared and sometimes laughed until tears rolled. Someone would offer a reflection, another a heartbreak; someone would whisper, “Let’s pray over him,” and you’d feel something stir, not emotion, but presence.
It was there that I first understood what Church in campus really meant. Not a building, not a Sunday obligation, but a living fellowship, fragile yet faithful, imperfect yet inspiring.
The Fellowship That Formed Us
Our CSSUKM community was small (<100) but spirited. We didn’t have microphones or budgets, but we had hearts that beat in rhythm with hope.
There were the Sabahans on guitars, turning every hymn into a campfire anthem; the sisters-in-Christ, whose radiant smiles and stares could outshine the fluorescent bulbs; and committee team members who took meeting minutes as though they were chronicling the Acts of the Apostles. We were a motley bunch: engineers of laughter, theologians of instant noodles, and missionaries of midnight reflection.
Campus life in those days was tightly regulated – “disciplined,” as the authorities called it – and intellectual pride often shadowed spiritual thirst. Yet in that modest classroom we found space to breathe, to be, and to believe. Through CSS I discovered something that textbooks never taught: faith grows best in friendship.
When one stumbled, others helped him up. When one doubted, another lent her belief. We learnt to pray with and for one another. And in those moments – sitting shoulder to shoulder after long days of lectures – we tasted what the early Christians must have felt: the quiet power of unity in the Spirit.
Retreats, Realisations & Renewal
Once or twice a year we escaped for our beloved CSS camps and retreats – to Cameron Highlands, Batu Arang, Port Dickson, Cheras or Penang. We returned mosquito-bitten but soul-refreshed. Those weekends were equal parts reflection and ridiculousness: praise and worship punctuated by burnt sausages and theological debates over Milo.
I still remember one retreat night vividly – the bonfire flickering, the smell of damp socks and mosquito coils, a guitar softly strumming “Be Not Afraid.” We were asked to share our deepest fear.
When my turn came, I said quietly, “That my life won’t make a difference.”
The facilitator, a man with more wisdom than sleep, leaned over and said, “Maybe it’s not about making a difference, Joe. It’s about being faithful where you are.”
At that moment, I was struggling. I had just missed the quota to pursue medicine after my first year in Sains Hayat, edged out by a few cleverer classmates. So, I stayed on – and ended up doing Botany.
Yes, Botany! That word that made relatives nod politely and say, “Oh… plants, ah?” while mentally recalculating my prospects. My friends proudly declared Engineering, Law or Business. I mumbled “Botany,” and could almost hear the unspoken “Sayang seribu kali sayang.”
But I stayed. I chose green over greed, leaves over legal briefs. I fell in love with plants – with the scent of rain on field trips, the wonder of photosynthesis, the quiet miracle of growth unseen. Perhaps that’s what faith is too: silent, steady, transforming light into life.
By graduation, I had earned the department’s first First-Class Honours. It wasn’t the course I had wanted, but it was the one God had written for me. Looking back, I see now that God doesn’t always open doors; sometimes He reroutes us to better fields.
That night by the bonfire planted a truth that has never left me: faithfulness often precedes greatness. Years later, trudging through the plantations of Sabah – under rain, heat and deadlines – that same lesson echoed: stay faithful in the small things, and God will handle the rest.
Since then, I’ve learnt to walk the extra mile, not to prove myself, but because gratitude compels it. Once you’ve seen how God can turn a missed quota into a meaningful calling, you stop chasing titles and start cultivating trust.
Intercampus Networking and Chaplaincy
There were intercampus gatherings too – CSSUKM in Bangi and CSSUPM in Serdang were practically next-door neighbours, separated only by jungle and youthful energy. Friendships sprouted like morning glory; we exchanged ideas, laughter and sometimes, borrowed guitars.
Those meet-ups were more than socials. They were mini-Pentecosts – bursts of faith and fellowship that reminded us Catholic life didn’t end at our campus gates. We learnt the universality of the Church before we could spell ecumenism.
Guiding us were the chaplains and the Archdiocesan Campus Ministry team – shepherds who walked quietly beside us, never imposing, always inviting. Their presence was vital. Campus life is that strange in-between phase – too old to be spoon-fed, too young to be sure. Faith can flicker under the pressure of deadlines, homesickness and identity crises.
That’s why chaplaincy matters. They were the steady hands on our shoulders, reminding us that faith isn’t an extracurricular activity; it’s a compass. They offered direction when we were lost, friendship when we were lonely, and patience when we were impossible.
And in a climate where religious sensitivities occasionally simmered beneath the surface, their quiet guidance taught us to live our faith not with fear, but with respect, humility and joy.
