I am not a man given greatly to prayer. In a tight situation where others pray for help and guidance, I curse. Serious, thorough, air-shaking curses. The kind of cursing that may save your life but will condemn you to hell. 
But entering an Armenian church, even I go quiet and lower my eyes. In an Armenian church, you are accompanied by saints:
Walking in, you cross the bones of saints. As you kneel, they watch over you:
Inside you normally buy a few candles, put them in a flat bed of sand covered in water, and light them. The light that shines, shines for everyone:
I asked an Armenian friend Marianna why they have so many saints.
“Because we are a very good people”
As you leave, they remind you they walk with you:
 Once, caught alone in a sandstorm in the Baluchi desert (on a motorbike), and thoroughly irritated (with myself) that I might not survive this latest stupidity, I broke out into such a loud and thorough cursing that I managed to keep moving through the turbulence, until the blowing sand ahead parted long enough for me to see the orange-red ball of the setting sun, and establish due west.
West was where I was headed, and getting my bearings calmed me down. In fact I had briefly forgotten I had a compass, and could have used that to get my bearings. But, as those who have been there know, faced with death, one forgets one’s compass.