Ideas have consequences.  So, of course, do actions. We must always be aware of this, because even the simplest of our actions can have a profound effect on someone.

A gentleman sitting across the table from me at a business dinner made the sign of the Cross before eating.  This used to be a universal Christian gesture, but nowadays is rarely observed in public.  I was intrigued, and the next day I stopped by his office to talk to him.  He told me he was Russian Orthodox, and we fell into a discussion on religion that lasted several hours. The more he told me about his Faith, the more curious I became; for every question answered, several more were raised.  That was the beginning.  Never did I suspect that a year later I myself would be Orthodox, and this man would be a dear brother in Christ and my sponsor. I was the oldest of four children and the only son of Italian-American parents.  My father was in the Knights of Columbus, Holy Name Society, and my parents attended Cana Conferences.  I attended Catholic school and was an altar boy.  Although my parents were outwardly active in the church, there was no family commitment to God, and as a teenager I drifted away from God and the Church.  Like many of my contemporaries growing up in the 50s and 60s, I was less concerned with the spiritual aspects of my life than I was with material goods.  As I grew older, however, I sensed there was “something missing” from my life.   God.

I decided to return to the Church only to find that the changes instituted by Vatican II were in place, and the Church I had known as a boy was gone: the altar had been turned around, fasting and abstinence had become casualties of modernization, and many other sacred traditions had been further eroded.  I moved and became a member of a Franciscan parish that turned out to be very liberal and casual. The priest seemed more interested in ensuring that the congregation have fun than in worshiping Almighty God. The inside of the church had become sterile, the visual beauty of the House of God I’d been accustomed to as a child had been stripped away.  But it wasn’t just the paint, the statues, the decor that had faded or disappeared; the very essence of the Faith had been diluted, sanctity had departed.

About six months after that business dinner, I attended my first Orthodox service, a Divine Liturgy, at St. John the Baptist Russian Orthodox Church in Mayfield, PA.  No one could have prepared me for what I experienced at that service.  Walking through the doors, I was awestruck by the majesty: the gilded iconostasis, the glittering candles, the incense.  I felt the presence of something special there, something I couldn’t then define or comprehend.  As the Liturgy unfolded, it struck me that this must have been how the ancestors of this wondrous Faith had experienced their services. Over the course of more than nineteen centuries little had changed. The choir sang the Cherubic Hymn, the deacon’s doors opened, and there issued forth a stream of acolytes followed by the priest bearing the gifts to be consecrated. It was such a majestic sight.  The figures on the iconostasis seemed to come alive and reach out and embrace me, inviting me to join in the celebration.  Inside I felt such warmth, such comfort. The experience was overwhelming and I began weeping uncontrollably.  How could I feel all this in a place I’d never been before?  In my heart I knew that God was granting me a foretaste of what I could experience in this glorious Church.

That evening I got together with some Orthodox friends.  One of them came up to me, hugged me and said, “Welcome home!”  Indeed, that was the very feeling I had.  Appropriately, it was the Sunday of the Prodigal Son. The next day I met with the rector of the parish, Fr. John Sorochko. We talked for hours.  I felt a degree of comfort with him I had never felt with any Roman Catholic priest.  There was a spiritual concern and an immediate bond.  By the time I left, I had become a catechuman.

Fr. John explained that Orthodoxy was not simply a religion; it was a way of life.  I found out how true this was as I struggled through my first Great Lent.  Then came Pascha.  Between Pascha and Pentecost I was baptized, there in St. John’s.  That day I was told that my struggles were just beginning.  It has been a struggle, but how can I complain when I have the support of all my brothers and sisters in Christ; for wherever Orthodox gather, this family struggles with me.  And what a wonderful feeling it is to know that at the end of all our struggles God is waiting for us with open arms…waiting to welcome all His children into our eternal home in heaven.