When I Took On the Mesa de Kardec in an Umbanda Terreiro

A Calling in the Middle of an Umbanda Gira

The request came in the middle of a gira.

Or maybe it would be more accurate to say that it came together with an announcement.

At some point that night, Caboclo Tupinambá said that I would begin taking responsibility for the mesa de Kardec in that terreiro. As had happened other times before, it did not feel exactly like a question.

There was direction in his words.

It was not a harsh order. But it also did not feel like there was much room to say no.

My first reaction was similar to other moments in my path inside the terreiro: I did not feel prepared.

By then, I had already gone through the chromotherapy work. I had already begun serving as cambono to the chief entity of the house. I had already understood, at least a little, that some spiritual responsibilities do not wait until we feel ready.

Even so, that calling carried something different.

I was not being placed there only to help with one part of the gira.

I was being placed before a whole work of its own.

And perhaps the most curious thing is that, from the outside, that work seemed simpler.

Shorter.

Less intense.

But it was precisely there that I began to understand something that took time to take shape within me: not every spiritual work reveals its depth through the force with which it appears.

What the Mesa de Kardec Was in That Terreiro

In that house, we called this work by different names.

Sometimes we said mesa de Kardec.

Sometimes mesa kardecista.

Often, simply, the work of Kardec.

It was a Kardecist-inspired work, connected to Allan Kardec’s Spiritism, held within an Umbanda terreiro. The house itself was not Kardecist. It was an Umbanda terreiro that also sustained, in its own way, a space for prayer, study, passe, and reflection inspired by Kardecism.

The work happened every two weeks.

It began at the same time a gira would normally begin, but it had another rhythm.

There was a table, with a few mediums sitting around it, and a circle of chairs around them. People could participate freely. It was a public work, open to anyone who wanted to be there.

Many people came by their own choice, looking for a moment of prayer, study, reflection, or simply a quieter way to approach the spirituality of the house.

In some cases, as an exception, someone could also be guided by an entity to take part in that work for a specific reason. Sometimes Caboclo Tupinambá himself would indicate someone.

But that was not the rule.

In general, people came because they wanted to be there.

The work began with prayers.

Then came the passe, performed by the people seated at the table for everyone sitting around it. For readers unfamiliar with the term, a passe is a form of spiritual care usually done with the hands near the person’s body, with concentration, prayer, and an intention of harmonization.

Then came the readings.

Passages from books connected to Kardecism were read, and from them came brief comments. Sometimes a reflection. Sometimes a short phrase. Sometimes only the silence that remained after the reading.

At the end, there was space for spiritual manifestations or for someone to share something they had felt during the work.

But that was not the center.

The mesa had space for manifestations, yes. If a spirit or entity needed to bring a message, there was openness for that. But the main focus was something else.

Study.

Prayer.

Listening.

The sustaining of that space.

The Umbanda gira appeared in a more visible way, with incorporation, singing, movement, and direct guidance from the entities. The mesa de Kardec, by contrast, unfolded in a quieter rhythm, centered on prayer, study, passe, and listening.

And in the beginning, maybe precisely because of that, it was harder for me to recognize its presence.

When Silence Also Touches

Compared to an Umbanda gira, that work seemed lighter.

The gira carried another kind of weight.

There, people came before the entities bringing questions, pain, requests, family conflicts, spiritual doubts, material concerns, and emotional struggles. There was an intensity that could be seen in the body, in the voice, in the tears, or in the silence of someone sitting before a guide.

The mesa de Kardec had another atmosphere.

It was calmer.

More focused on study.

At first, perhaps I confused that with something easier to sustain.

But over time, I began to realize that a spiritual work is not measured only by what can be seen from the outside.

Sometimes, a passage read in a calm voice found someone in an unexpected way.

Many readings seemed to be chosen almost by chance. A book was opened, a passage was read, and somehow it touched the context of someone who was there.

Sometimes it was a person who had come by their own choice, without saying much about what they were going through.

Sometimes it was someone from the mediumistic circle.

Sometimes it seemed to be a theme moving through the whole group that night.

Today, I do not remember one specific reading as an example.

What remained was the repetition of that impression: simple texts, sometimes almost casual, ended up touching very concrete themes in the lives of those who participated.

That impressed me.

And it also made me insecure.

Because there was a form of guidance there that did not come in the format I was used to recognizing.

It was not an incorporated entity calling someone forward.

It was not a guide giving a clear direction.

It was a reading.

An association.

A feeling.

And still, many times, it seemed to arrive exactly where it needed to arrive.

Maybe that was one of the first lessons of that work: spirituality does not always need to appear in an obvious way in order to act upon someone.

Sometimes it approaches in silence.

And silence, when it meets someone at the right moment, can also be deep.

It was within that silence that another insecurity began to appear.

What if a manifestation happened through me?

In Umbanda, I had already seen many spiritual manifestations. I had seen entities arrive, work, guide, and care for people. I had lived close to that.

But one thing is to observe.

Another is to realize that something might pass through you.

At the mesa, sometimes I felt a phrase.

An impression.

A possible message.

Something that seemed to want to be said.

But then the doubt would come:

Is this really something?

Or is it just my own thought?

Many times, I did not speak.

I kept it to myself.

I let it pass.

Maybe out of caution.

Maybe out of fear.

Maybe because I did not know how to tell intuition apart from imagination.

Today, looking back from a distance, I realize that many messages arrive exactly like that.

Not as a clear voice coming from outside.

But as intuition.

As an inner conversation.

As if we were speaking with ourselves.

Perhaps, if I had known that back then, it would have been easier to trust a little more.

But maybe that was also part of the learning.

I still expected the spiritual to separate itself clearly from me.

As if a true message had to arrive with an obvious mark, impossible to confuse.

Over time, I began to understand that this is not always how it happens.

Often, what we call intuition appears mixed with our own inner voice. And maybe an important part of spiritual development is learning to listen to that voice without haste, without vanity, and without turning every thought into guidance.

Because there is responsibility both in speaking and in remaining silent.

Speaking without care can confuse.

But always remaining silent, out of fear, can also prevent something simple from being shared at the right moment.

At the time, I still did not know how to handle that very well.

Maybe that is why the mesa became such an important learning experience.

Little by little, it taught me that spirituality can also appear in subtle forms.

Almost asking permission.

And that listening is also a form of responsibility.

Where Someone Is Touched, There Is Responsibility

The mesa de Kardec was the first time I found myself before an entire spiritual work.

Even though it was shorter than a gira, it had a beginning, a middle, and an end.

It was necessary to open the work, sustain its rhythm, perceive the group, follow the readings, organize the passe, make space for reflections, and close it.

That gave me a different perspective.

During the giras, as a cambono, I had already begun to observe the whole work beside the chief entity. I saw how Caboclo Tupinambá looked at the mediumistic circle, the mediums, the rhythm of the gira, and what needed to be cared for before, during, and after.

At the mesa de Kardec, in a smaller and quieter dimension, I began to feel a little of that.

It was not about controlling everything.

Maybe it was exactly the opposite.

It was about sustaining a space where something could happen without depending on my will, my certainty, or my full understanding.

And perhaps that was the greatest lesson of that period.

A spiritual work does not need to appear grand in order to require responsibility.

The gira seemed larger.

More active.

More intense.

The mesa seemed lighter.

Shorter.

Quieter.

But people were also touched there.

And if people are touched, there is responsibility.

Responsibility for what is said.

For what is not said.

For the way the work is conducted.

For the way a passe is given.

For listening to intuition.

For not confusing insecurity with humility, or impulse with guidance.

Looking back now, I think Caboclo Tupinambá may not have been giving me only another function.

Maybe he was teaching me to recognize spirituality when it does not appear so visibly.

When it does not come through a powerful call.

Or through incorporation.

Or through the intense movement of the gira.

But through a table.

A prayer.

An open book.

A few people sitting in a circle.

A passe given with care.

A message we almost do not have the courage to say.

The mesa de Kardec taught me that not everything that guides needs to appear.

And maybe some works are silent precisely because they teach us another kind of listening.

Entre mundos.

And maybe it is in that silence that some responsibilities begin to take shape.