My wife, Styliana, grew up in a family of non-denominational Protestant missionaries. When she was five, she and her family moved to Colombia, where they began working as missionaries among the Kogi Indians. Her childhood years were spent divided between living in a mud and thatch hut, washing clothes in a river and cooking over a fire, and living with other missionary families at the mission station, complete with a school, a store and a clinic.

As the years went by, her father began questioning Evangelical Protestant theology. He realized that salvation meant growing in holiness and not just a one-time emotional experience. But while he was able to diagnose the problems of Protestantism, he was not able to adequately formulate a solution. He still maintained the Protestant view of an “in-visible Church,” composed of individual believers struggling on their own, equipped only with a Bible. Left to her own, without any church and without any practical way to pursue holiness, Styliana found herself falling into sin and becoming angry at God. The holiness required by God was simply impossible to attain.

Once, on a visit to the U.S., she spied a beautiful church from the window of her grandmother’s car and commented on it. “But that’s a Greek Orthodox church,” her grandmother responded. “What’s that?” “Ah, they’re worse than the Catholics.” Still later, as a teenager, she read The Brothers Karamazov and was struck by the glimpse it gave of Holy Russia. “What a wonderful kind of Christianity they had,” she thought. “Too bad I didn’t live in 19th-century Russia.” As a young woman, working as a nurse in Dallas, she began to visit every church she could find, hoping to find one that could help her. Where was true sanctity to be found, and where were God’s people? As she searched for a church that could help her, she felt God reassure her that He still had his “7000 who had not bowed their knee to Baal.” But where were they?

I was brought up Baptist and, later, Presby-terian, though my father insisted that denominations did not matter, as long as a church “preached from the Bible.” Even as a child I wondered then, why it was that there were so many different churches, if everyone was claiming to be Christian. When I was eight or so, I was urged to “accept Jesus” at a Bible camp, and I began reading the Bible on my own. In junior high I attended the church youth group on Wednesday evenings. The part I enjoyed most were the question-and-answer sessions, although sometimes the pastor’s answers seemed too pat and unconvincing. At one session someone asked why we didn’t include the Apocrypha in our Bibles. To convince us that these books are just “fairy tales,” the pastor cited the passage from Tobit where Raphael advises Tobias to burn the innards of a fish in order to get rid of a demon. This kind of argument did not convince me. There are other parts of Scripture far stranger than this that Protestants have no difficulty accepting.

One Wednesday the pastor told us that we were not too young to ask God to show us what He wanted us to do with our lives. I sincerely wanted to serve the Lord, and I began praying in earnest that if He had a plan for me He would make it known. That very Sunday a family of missionaries visited our church. They shared about their work of translating the Scriptures for an Indian tribe in Colombia. They spoke of the thousands of people who do not have a Bible in their own language, whose language does not even have a written form. It struck me how much I took the Bible for granted. What if no one had ever translated it into English? I had always been fascinated with languages, and felt strongly that here was a speedy answer to my prayer: God was calling me to be a Bible translator.

In my high school years I did whatever I could to serve the Lord and prepare myself for mission work. Besides singing in the choir and helping in the church library, during vacations I helped with children’s Bible classes in the inner city and with Hispanic communities in the countryside. One summer I went to Mississippi to help restore houses for a local Christian ministry. As my world grew larger and I met different kinds of Christians, my questions persisted. Why were there so many forms of Christianity? What was a Presbyterian, anyway? I searched the library for answers, but to my surprise there was very little information on church history, and no one around appeared to know much about it either.

My questions seemed only to multiply. Another memory I have of this time is of sitting in church and looking at the bulletin that read “Worship Service” at the top. I asked myself, “Why do they call this worship? We’re singing about God. The preacher is talking to us about God. I hear plenty of jokes and announcements. The choir is entertaining us. But where is the worship?” Once I could drive, I visited different churches with friends from school, but none of them had the answers I was seeking, nor did they worship. Some, like the Charismatics, made a show of worshiping, but it never struck me as true worship. I never visited an Orthodox church simply because I didn’t know anyone who was Orthodox. And I assumed that Orthodoxy was basically an exotic form of Roman Catholicism.

After college I moved to Dallas to begin my training with Wycliffe Bible Translators. Their philosophy was that since the Bible was all that one needed, the best method of evangelism was simply to give people that Bible in their own language. Whether the people then wanted to join a church, or form their own, was up to them. I was also taught the principles of “dynamic equivalence” translation. In this view, the language of the Bible needed to be “clarified,” since the meaning was often “obscured” by poetry, metaphor and symbolism. Since “Son of man” was too exotic a turn of phrase to be readily understood, it was better to translate it as “Jesus.” Since the blood of Christ was a metonym for His death (just as one can say “head” and mean “cattle”), it was better to say “death of Christ” rather than mention His blood. And if a culture knew nothing of sheep, but sacrificed pigs, then it was legitimate to change “Lamb of God” to… well, you can guess.

While in Dallas I met Styliana, who was there working as a nurse. Her parents were shaken by the recent kidnapping of her brother – held by Marxist terrorists for four and a half months – and had sent her to live in the U.S. for a while. After we were married, we moved to Colombia to resume the Bible translation work that her parents had set aside ten years before. Her family had raised a Kogi youth named Alfonso, and had him help them translate some New Testament portions into Kogi (the Kogi do not speak Spanish), although he complained that he was too young for such a responsibility. When he was grown, he returned to the Kogi area, and Styliana’s family lost contact with him.

When we arrived in Colombia, I was not sure what work I was going to do. I had no way to learn the Kogi language – I didn’t even know any Spanish yet – and there was no one to assist me in the task of translating the Scriptures into Kogi. God’s Providence soon rescued me from this quandary. Shortly after we arrived in Colombia, a Kogi came down from the mountains bearing a letter from Alfonso-the first anyone had heard from him in ten years-announcing that he was now ready to resume work on the Bible translation. He had no idea that I had just arrived in Colombia with that very intention.

After a few years I knew Kogi well enough to begin the task of translating the Scriptures with Alfonso. This work was challenging not just because of the complexity of the language, but also because it made me realize how superficial my understanding of Scripture was. When you are forced to render something into another language, you have to have a good understanding of just what that something means. I suddenly found that I wasn’t sure what many key terms really meant: justification, grace, blessing, holiness, even salvation. How could these be expressed in Kogi? How could I get Alfonso to understand them if I didn’t understand them myself? It took eight years to translate the entire New Testament and the book of Genesis. Those eight years were also a time of intense study in the Greek and Hebrew texts. In the process I discovered that the Christianity that I was raised on bore little resemblance to what I was finding for myself in the original Scriptures.

I began to study church history, which I had never been encouraged to read before. I had been raised to understand that between the Apostles and Martin Luther, nothing important happened. It was understood that the Church had “apostatized” at an early date and that no one really understood what Christianity was about until the Reformation. Now I was seeing that I had been deprived. I also realized that the West, both Roman and Protestant, had been unduly influenced by Augustine without being balanced by the more ancient, Eastern Fathers, who, unlike Augustine, read the Scriptures in Greek. I shared all of this with Styliana. Her response was, “Well, if the Greek Fathers had everything right, then maybe we should check out the Greek Church.” “You mean, like Greek Orthodox?” I asked. That seemed out of the question. I figured that since they looked so Roman Catholic, whatever truth they once might have had was now lost.

Our convictions, however, were becoming more and more Orthodox, which puzzled our friends. The church we attended put me in charge of the adult Sunday school class. I began it with the idea of just holding a round-table discussion on Gospel passages, where the Holy Spirit would lead us to the Truth. But soon I found that each of us had our own slant on the Truth; in a group of ten there could be eleven opinions. Each class ended with us more divided and more convinced of our own views. There was no final court of appeals, so where was the Truth? When I was invited to preach, my sermons tended to be on topics such as fasting, the struggle for holiness and the danger of apostasizing. Such non-Evangelical ideas were coldly received.

When Styliana was asked to head the Sunday school department, she decided to replace the materials which typically spoke of Jesus as our “buddy” and contained a page where the child could sign his name on a dotted line to “receive salvation.” She ordered materials from every Protestant Sunday school publisher she could find. To her dismay, they were all the same. “If this is Protestantism,” we decided, “then we’re not Protestants.” But we knew we were not Roman Catholics, either. So what were we? Finally we had to pull our sons out of the Bible club at the Baptist church. They would get points for memorizing Bible verses, which were invariably taken out of context and twisted. At one point they were to learn: In the beginning was the Word… All things were made through Him… The passage itself was intact, but the accompanying drawing depicted a giant, glowing Bible moving over the primordial waters. The message was clear: the Bible is the Word, therefore the Bible created the universe. That was the last straw. We withdrew our boys from the club, which scandalized the missionary community.

Soon thereafter, we went to spend some time in the U.S. We were staying in Minneapolis, when one day Styliana came home from a garage sale with a book that she thought might interest me. It was The Orthodox Church by Bishop Kallistos (Ware). It hit me like a bolt of lightning. I found that the Church of the Greek Fathers still existed after all. Why had I never looked in this direction before? On the very first page he quoted Khomiakov as saying that all the West knows is a single datum a. “Whether it is +a in the case of the Roman Catholics, or -a in the case of the Protestants, it is still the same a.” It blew my mind to see that there was a Christian tradition that saw Catholics and Protestants as merely two sides of the same coin! Here was a whole terra incognita, so new and yet so old. Here were theosis and synergy, the Seven Ecumenical Councils, hesychasm, Mt Athos, and two thousand years of saints I had never heard of. All week Styliana heard me “oohing” and “aahing” over the book and saying, “This could be it!” “It?” she asked. “What it?” “The Church,” I said. “But you don’t believe there is a Church,” she reminded me. “Well, maybe there is after all.”

The next Sunday, Styliana asked where we were going to church. “Oh, the same church we’ve been attending, I guess.” “But why? All week you’ve been saying, ‘The Orthodox Church, this’; ‘The Orthodox Church, that’; and now you want to go back to the same old church?” “But you don’t understand,” I tried to explain. “You can’t just show up. They might not let us in. Besides, they might not even speak English.” “Well, call one and ask,” she suggested. At random I chose the OCA cathedral (it turned out to be the one where Fr. Alexis Toth had served). The deacon reassured me that we were certainly welcome, and when he met us at the door, he said, “You’ve come on a special day. It’s Pentecost.”

The moment we walked in we felt God’s presence in a way we never had before. What was different? We couldn’t put our finger on it. When Styliana saw the icons her first reaction was, “This is Roman Catholic.” But then she thought, “No, this is different.” Having grown up in Latin America, where the Roman Church is especially corrupt and paganized, she had been around many Catholic churches and always felt an aversion and a spiritual oppression around their images. I had had the same experience in the Philippines. Yet these icons, far from repulsing us, attracted us. Rather than a heaviness, there was a particular lightness to the atmosphere. It was a hot day, our sons were restless, the service was mostly in Slavonic, yet it was wonderful. Styliana said afterwards, “I don’t know what that was, but I know I will never be the same for having been there.” With only a few weeks left before returning to Colombia, we visited different parishes to learn as much as we could. The next Sunday we went to an English-speaking parish. As Styliana read the words, she cried and cried. They were saying everything that should be said: “Lord have mercy… That the whole day may be perfect, holy, peaceful, and sinless… a good defense before the dread judgment seat of Christ… grant this, O Lord.” One priest was especially kind, giving us a whole Orthodox library and offering to visit us in Colombia. At his parish, Styliana had an experience that made her take a big step forward. At Vespers, she felt frustrated at all the bowing and formality, so unfamiliar to her experience. At the end of the service I asked if she wanted to venerate the cross. “Ah, they just do the hokey-pokey and turn themselves around,” she muttered. “I’m not kissing anything.” The next morning at Matins she walked in and saw Christ in the apse frowning at her. She felt convicted and vowed to venerate whatever they offered. At the veneration of the Gospel, she kissed the icon of the Crucifixion in the center, and as she did so she had a vision that to this day she cannot put into words.

On our return to Bogota, we began reading through all the books we had acquired, and many of our questions and doubts were finally resolved. One issue in particular that had been difficult for us as Protestants had been the role of the Theotokos. We had seen so much error in the Roman Church. Howdid the Orthodox understanding differ? The book that set this matter straight for us was The Orthodox Veneration of the Mother of God, by Saint John of San Francisco. We finally reached the point where we knew we had to become Orthodox. It was everything we had been seeking all our lives. We searched for an Orthodox church in Bogota and eventually learned that there was only a small, non-functioning Greek parish under Constantinople. It would be a full year before we met any clergy serving this parish. During this time we shared about our new-found Faith with everyone we knew and were pleased to find that there was a good deal of interest. But since there was no functioning church, all we could do was have informal reader services in our home. I was ambivalent about this since I knew that what we were doing bore no resemblance to an Orthodox service. We had no icons, we didn’t know how to chant, and I was afraid that we were giving people the idea that Orthodoxy was just some form of Protestantism. We gradually made contact with some of the Greek community, but they were not interested in lay services. “Just wait for the priest,” was their advice.

We wanted not only to become Orthodox ourselves, but we felt a need to start up an Orthodox mission. We began looking for whatever Orthodox materials we could find in Spanish, but there was (and still is) little available. I had to translate materials myself to share with Colombian friends. The most help we received was from Christ of the Hills Monastery in Texas. They sent us Spanish materials that we found had originally been published by the Russian Church Abroad in Chile. We were pleased to find that there was already an Orthodox presence in South America, and that an attempt was being made to reach out to Spanish-speaking non-Orthodox. We also gradually realized that of the Orthodox materials that we owned, the ones that were most instructive, most serious, and most in line with what we understood Orthodoxy to be were those that were published by Old Calendarists. Eventually I wrote to Holy Trinity Monastery for direction, and we received letters from Fr. Luke of Jordanville and from Bishop (now Archbishop) Hilarion. They also sent materials explaining more about ecumenism and modernism, issues that had disturbed us, as had the involvement of so many Orthodox jurisdictions in the WCC. After a period of trying to be Orthodox “by correspondence,” we came to the understanding that we had to live in an Orthodox community. We sold our car and furniture, handed over our house, and, with Vladika Hilarion’s blessing, we moved to Jordanville, where I am now attending Holy Trinity Seminary.

We feel strongly that we must return to Colombia and establish a mission there. It is the only South American country without a single functioning parish. There are a number of Orthodox living there with no opportunity to worship. In the last two years we spent there, we told many people about Orthodoxy, and a surprising number showed interest. When they would ask to visit our parish, it broke our hearts to tell them there was none. We even met a young man, Javier, who had dropped out of Roman Catholic seminary. From his study of church history he realized that Rome had apostatized, and so he began seeking the Orthodox Church. He finally tracked us down just before we left the country. For his sake alone, Orthodoxy must be planted there, but we know there are many more like Javier, disillusioned with Rome. Please join with us in praying to all the saints of America to intercede not only for North America, but for the other America as well.

       On first acquaintance, Werner Meyer-Hellige did not appear to be a likely candidate for conversion. Born in 1889 into a privileged family, he left a career in the German military in 1921, when he inherited his father’s firm of A.I. Eisfeld, a successful establishment that manufactured pyrotechnical supplies and explosives. It was located on a vast estate, with its own railway, a small zoo, carp ponds, a park of exotic flora, and an orchard, all meticulously maintained in true German fashion. Although he had no formal scientific training, Meyer-Hellige was of an inventive and practical mind, and, with the help of one of the firm’s engineers, he was the first to test the idea of a multi-stage ignition system, the same technology that 35 years later launched the first satellites into space. The invention could have doubled his fortune had not the Nazis come to power. Meyer-Hellige, a man of independent views, bristled at the changes introduced by the new regime. They in turn mistrusted him and, in 1934, he was denounced as being disloyal and was forced to sell his factories. All the data from his research went to the German military. His world fell apart. Then, in 1947, he met a young and very religious Russian woman, Elena Constantinovna, nee Radomanskaya. They fell in love, and she introduced him to a whole new world, the world of the Russian Orthodox Church.

        Meyer-Hellige was sympathetic towards his wife’s religion, but the deep, personal conviction which lies at the foundation of a true conversion, took some time to develop. Elena Constantinovna wrote to Archbishop John (Maximovitch), asking him to pray for her husband, and she sent alms to Mount Athos and the Holy Land with the same request. Through her, Meyer-Hellige met Bishop Leonty of Geneva and became closely acquainted with Archimandrite Kornily of the Pochaev Brotherhood in Munich. He was a mining engineer, and they had long discussions. Later, Meyer-Hellige also developed a correspondence with Archimandrite Constantine (Zaitsev) of Holy Trinity Monastery in Jordanville, a monk of great learning and fluent in German. Under their combined influence, the desire to embrace the Orthodox faith matured. It came to fruition after the couple moved to the Holy Land, in September 1969. Visiting the holy sites, attending services at the various monasteries, and speaking with the monks and nuns–all this deepened Meyer-Hellige’s understanding and appreciation of Orthodoxy. Finally, he decided that he did not want to postpone baptism any longer. Then a real battle began. Turning to leave the room moments after telling his wife of his decision, he stumbled and fell headlong on the stone floor. His wife barely managed to help him to bed. That night there was a storm and he awoke, shouting and making gestures as if fending off some attackers. “I want to become Orthodox right now,” he declared. His wife explained that this was not possible; it was the middle of the night. He calmed down but awoke again later and said to his wife, “Pick up the nun.” It turned out that at that very moment a nun who had been praying for him especially, lay unconscious on the floor of the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, six miles away.

        In the morning, Elena Constantinovna phoned the Mount of Olives convent and arrangements for the baptism were made without delay. Meyer-Hellige was still unable to get out of bed, so the baptism was performed there in their home in Bethany. With the priest came a group of nuns from the convent, and Abbess Tamara, who had agreed to be godmother. Knowing how long and dilligently Meyer-Hellige had prepared for this occasion, they all wept for joy. He took the name Alexander, having been impressed by St. Alexander Nevsky’s maxim, “God is found not in might but in truth.” Later he said to his wife,

 “All my life I have been living on the bottom of the ocean, and now the waves have brought me to the surface, to sunlight, to freedom.”

The German pioneer of rocket technology, Werner Alexander Meyer-Hellige, died peacefully on August 2, 1970, the feast of the prophet Elijah, during the prayers for the departure of the soul, He was buried near the Oak of Mamre, where the Patriarch Abraham had received the Holy Trinity in the guise of three Angels.

I was born of an unwed Jewish mother who had gone through the loss of two brothers and a mother at a very young age.  She met a gentile man, fell in love, and never told him of her pregnancy. Shortly after my birth, she married a Jewish barber in her neighborhood who wanted to avoid the draft through having a ready-made family.  As far as I was concerned-for many years-he was my natural father, and by all accounts he was a kind man who did the best he could as a provider.  The following years coalesce in my memory, but they, briefly, include the end of the war, a divorce and loss of an idyllic but modest rural home, a move to a tenement in a large city, a five-year stay in a Jewish orphanage, and-what seemed to be a marvelous escape-a five-year tour with the United States Air Force.

It was in the military, with its inherent problems for men little rooted in family-problems such as drinking, sexual encounters, gambling-that I felt a need for a relationship with whatever god I could incorporate into my life without much disruption of my routine.  I fell in love with a beautiful young woman, an observant member of the Roman Catholic Church.  At her urging I attended catechism classes with a priest/officer, Father Muldoon, whose Jesuit background appealed to my need to question and devise theoretical situations. I pictured myself with her on Sunday mornings, married, listening to the Sanctus, Sanctus, Sanctus of the priest, she and I staring as one into the heavens. What seemed, in retrospect, the enduring features of that period were a belief in Our Lord Jesus Christ as Saviour and a feeling that the Blessed Mother, the Theotokos (although that term was unknown to me then) was somehow nudging my to make a commitment divorced of my original  romantic reasons. Later at night I would visit the base church’s Blessed Sacrament Room, which had a perpetually lighted statue of Mary, and I would kneel-sometimes after an evening of which I was not proud-to ask the Blessed Mother for strength and intercession with God. At that time for some reason I had little concept of Our Lord as central. He was merely one aspect of Christianity.

After the romance ended, I felt a great sense of shame, as if I, a representative of a people, many of whom had given their lives rejecting Christianity, had gone over to the “oppressors.”  I returned to the synagogue determined that although I secretly believed in the Resurrection, had an affection for the Mother of God, and even a feeling that an angel was prodding me to “go public” with these feelings, that I would suppress them and be what I was born to be: an observant Jew.

Since my mother was a Jew, it was of no consequence-other than in social circles-that I was half a Jew; I was the right half!  The synagogue comforted me: in a traditional orthodox synagogue the men, separate from the women, feel somewhat free to wander out of the confines of “pews.” They make movements that duplicate those of a flame reaching toward God. During the most holy time of the year the men wear a white robe, symbolizing freedom from the sins of the past and God’s forgiveness, and at a particularly intense moment fully prostrate themselves.  It is important to mention that this beautiful moment is viewed by many moderns as ostentatious piety.

The morning prayers were particularly comforting: the tallit (prayer shawl) covering my head and upper body; the small black compartments containing scripture wrapped around my arm and head with black straps, tightly impressing the law; and the swift kiss I bestowed on the shawl’s fringes at appropriate times. And during early morning public prayer, the dimly lit figures swaying to the age-old chants brought a feeling of kinship with every Jew whose lips had ever moved in prayer.  Something was missing, however-something that seemed necessary to complete the picture of rootedness: a family.

I married into a somewhat liberal Jewish family, whose idea of spirituality was that if one does less then them, he is a pagan; more, and he is a fanatic. In this somewhat restrictive environment, I began to become more rigid in my opinions and retreated into ritualistic behavior, much of which I now realize was to attack the opposition-my family.  What I did was not in a loving way, but with frustration and a sense of correctness!

After seventeen years of marriage, my wife and I divorced, and the only consolation I had in terms of my behavior is that I provided generous financial support and left all funds and the house to my wife in order that the children would have decent living quarters. Other than that, I felt a failure as a husband and father.  This realization and the fact that I had moved into a YMCA where there happened to be many others who had gone through traumatic ties did not make matters better.  And when my son was sent to jail after having been sentenced for dealing in drugs, I reached my lowest point.  After one particularly emotional visit to the jail, I decided that this would be my last wretched day on earth, and sobbing without any concern for the guards or other visitors and what they thought, I got into my car, deciding that I would find a road and apply the gas until I crashed into an appropriate object.  For whatever reason-perhaps fear, I can’t remember-I wound up in my living quarters on my knees, for the first time in my life asking the Lord for forgiveness and help with my life. At some point I felt a sudden sense of peace and intimacy with God that had never come to me before.

When I was on my feet, my practical nature took over, and I wondered what to do next.  I knew that I needed a church home in which to grow and brothers and sisters in Christ who would keep me on the path. The only source of information that came to me at that time was the Billy Graham organization; somehow I trusted him and his motives.  I called their 800 counseling number to tell the woman on the other end that I had just accepted the Lord and didn’t know where to go from there.  Based on whatever I told her-and it was a wonderful session with prayer and encouragement-she felt that there were three churches in my geographical area that would be suitable.  The first one she mentioned was an Assembly of God (pentecostal) church, although she admitted to being a conservative, non-tongues speaking Baptist; however, she felt that my desire for animated worship and lively fellowship might be best met at that church.  When I called the number, I told the secretary what had happened, and she prayed with me and welcomed me to a service.  I have no reason to regret that move.  During the eighteen months I affiliated with the church, I sang with the choir, prayed along with other Christians, and met once a week with a small home prayer group where we encouraged each other in our spiritual growth.  Although I realized that the congre-gation had a problem with theology-there were almost as many theologies as families-I knew that I was imbibing the milk of Christianity, not quite ready for anything more solid.

Then something happened which seemed a routine part of my job as a book selector in a local public library. Father Eugene and his church librarian asked to meet with me to donate a substantial number of books on Eastern Orthodoxy-a faith that I assumed was a Moscow branch of the Vatican, particularly since this was a Russian Orthodox church. Many churches and other organizations had met with me to donate money or books, with the understanding that I would review the material before placing it in the collection.  On those other occasions, I looked for reviews, the reputations of the authors and publishers, and any other sources-I rarely did more than read through small portions of the texts themselves just to look for care in editing and stylistic matters.  This was a different matter. A new world opened up filled with names like Ware, Hopko, Seraphim Rose, A Monk of the Eastern Church, Saint Seraphim of Sarov. . . This is what had been missing all these years, this amalgam of the true apostolic Church, acknowledgment of the world, mysticism, theology, and the heaven on earth of the church Liturgy, the icons crying out to me, “You have found the true faith. . . ” My first visit to the Orthodox Church felt as if an entire synagogue had suddenly accepted the Lord, directing their prayers now toward the Risen Christ and the Saints. The candles, the veneration of objects (in this case, icons), body language, psalms, organization of the Liturgy, all directed toward the “peak moment”-receiving the Body and Blood of Our Lord; in the synagogue the removal of the sacred Torah scrolls, and before their reading, the reverent kissing of the scrolls while a hymn of praise is sung by all, is that moment-I wish now that the Holy Spirit had come to my congregation and moved them in the same way I have since been moved.

But this was not going to be the usual “confess your faith and join the flock” sort of move that so matched my impulsive personality.  Each time I asked how long it would take to be a member, Father Eugene told me that each catechumen is an individual and that this was an important step. One doesn’t receive the Heavenly Spirit casually.  In fact, nothing seemed to be done casually or in a careless, impromptu manner. I felt excluded each time the membership lined up to receive communion. When I heard the words, “. . . I will not speak of Thy mysteries . . .,” I realized that this was not a quick fix or a once-a-year option; this was The Church, my opportunity to live the rest of my life with purpose, knowing that the Comforter and the Saints are here with me.  The chrismation did take place when I was ready for it, and Seraphim-my new name-is still not perfect (each morning I ask to be cleansed from every impurity). I know that death-previously my greatest fear-is, in the words of the Church, repose and rest.  And I affirm with fellow Orthodox that Christ is Risen. Should my words cause anyone to think that I have become a sterling Orthodox parishioner, I want to provide a corrective. There are times when I want to give up.  Perhaps someone or other doesn’t greet me in just the right way; at times I feel awkward and false when I attempt to join into some of the social activities or ethnic practices-and I am not certain which are practices closely tied to decisions of an Ecumenical Council and which were imported from small towns in Pennsylvania. To tell the truth, I want to be comfortable with those practices also. I love the Slavonic sounds and melodies, the feeling when I am with some of the elders of the church that there is something of Mother Russia there with me. But, it’s still important to grow in the basics of Orthodoxy and not merely be “blown to and fro by every wind. . .” There is my spiritual father, the Liturgy, the Body and Blood of my Saviour, and the Whole Church, including my fellow struggling Orthodox, all of us praying the same prayers for ourselves and this entire Church we love so much.

Seraphim

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.

As an Orthodox priest, I am often asked the question, “How is it that you, a Latvian, were drawn to embrace such a non-traditional Faith? After all, Latvians are predominantly either Lutheran or Roman Catholic.”

It grieves me that so many people have a narrow, nationalist understanding of Orthodoxy. In my reply I always emphasize that I was led to Orthodoxy purely by my search for the truth, my search for God. At that time I knew nothing about the history of Orthodoxy in Latvia; I didn’t know about New Martyr Archbishop John (Pomer), nor the fact that at one time there were in Latvia some 100,000 Orthodox Latvians. How did I come to Orthodoxy? As a child I was baptized into the Lutheran Church. I don’t remember being taken to church after that. As I grew older I would occasionally visit various churches. Already then I was keenly aware that I was missing something; but just what this was, I didn’t know.

During this period I experienced a number of mystifying incidents which convinced me of the reality of another, invisible world. As a schoolboy I loved tinkering with radios-which caused me no little frustration since parts were difficult to come by and I was always short of money. One day I was beside myself, trying to think how to get some needed parts, when I heard a voice, “Go to the trash bin; there you’ll find what you need.” Indeed, in the dumpster I found a small case with some used but still serviceable radio parts.

I read piles of books, but none of them satisfied the gnawing emptiness in my heart. There was the Bible, but I’d never even seen a copy, until… My education continued at an agricultural institute. One day, on a field trip, we passed an old run-down farmhouse. Everyone else went into the yard to pick apples, but I crawled through a window into the house. Again, I heard an inner voice, “Hunt around and you’ll find a Bible.” There were a lot of old books and if I weren’t so certain I would meet with success I wouldn’t have bothered to look. Sure enough, at the last minute I found it; it was falling apart and its cover was missing but I recognized it at once. No sooner had I opened it and begun to read than I heard a honking, signalling it was time to leave. I don’t know why I left the Bible there; perhaps because its pages were moldy and I thought it was too old. When I told my mother about my discovery she scolded me for not taking it; at that time in Latvia copies of the Scriptures were a rarity. Later I made a special trip back to that farmhouse, but the Bible was gone. I managed to borrow a copy for a short time, but after reading a few passages I realized that to understand it was beyond me, and I set it aside.

This contact with an invisible yet existing reality sharpened my desire for answers. In searching for explanations I was led into the realm of parapsychology. This in turn opened the door into the occult, into the world of yoga and various other “systems”. Without going into detail, it is enough to note that these teachings are designed to produce a particular world view, to fundamentally change one’s perception of the world and one’s relationship to others. There occurs a gradual transformation of the person’s consciousness; he begins to see things he never saw before and to employ certain powers he never even imagined existed. All this is tied to certain physical and psychic practices, to a certain way of life. What seems at first glance to be innocent physical exercises, when practiced with concentration and accompanied by rhythmic breathing, attain startling effects. Many of our group, when we engaged in these gymnastics, experienced tremendous shocks of energy, so strong as to throw us to the ground; they would cause us to convulse, as if we were having epileptic fits.

Members of our group began experiencing other supernatural phenomena, such as leaving the body and passing through various physical obstacles: walls, doors, etc.; there were cases of levitation. I should emphasize, however, that the basic aim of our group-there were about ten of us-was to find God, and therefore we weren’t particularly captivated by these phenomena. I think that most of us, rather than finding all this to be exciting, even felt an indefinable weariness. There were so many “systems”, each one talked about God. We were by now familiar also with the Holy Scriptures, but Christ Himself remained an enigma.

It was during that time that many of us came to a fundamental turning point in our lives. It began when a friend of mine met a woman who was able to set forth in a way easy to understand the basic teachings of Christianity. About the same time I had a dream: it was as if I had been sentenced to death, but I arose with Christ. On sharing our thoughts, my friend and I decided we should visit this woman together.

Listening to her was at times very difficult. I couldn’t understand why I sensed in her an altogether different spirit, why Christ was the only door to God. Later, sitting in a yoga posture, I was overcome by a sense of bewilderment. Over the course of several months I came to a complete revaluation of values. Undoubtedly, prayers for my soul were more powerful than my psychic arts. Besides, I was sincerely lost; my purpose had always been-to find God.

It is impossible to adequately describe what went on in my soul during this transitional period. Aware that the path leading to the attainment of higher levels of consciousness was not the path to truth but, rather, the path to non-existence, I was desperate to leave it. Those occult powers which I commanded fell upon me with a vengeance. Imagine someone virtually transformed by esoteric teachings, someone who attained the manipulation of consciousness, who created within himself an “observer” as it were, of his own “self”, and who wants to rid himself of all this, to forget it-but cannot. The “observer” dictates his own will. Every thought, every feeling is automatically subject to manipulation, ascending through various levels of consciousness. The loss of control creates in the soul a feeling of panic; nerves fray; there is a smell of death. No doubt I was given a taste of those torments of hell reserved for apostates. Realizing that the truth was not in me, I no longer trusted any thoughts, any feelings which came to me. I dismissed everything, begging God to grant me discernment: which thoughts and feelings were from Him and which from the devil. Blurred distinctions between good and evil gradually drew into focus. At first it was hard to make myself pray, but when I intensified my efforts, it became for me a necessity. Sometimes while standing at prayer I felt such a clarity of thought, but as soon as I stopped I was gripped by a fear that I would lose my mind.

This warfare lasted two or three years before the effects of my involvement in the paranormal were largely destroyed.

I began participating in an unofficial group resembling the Baptists. They helped me considerably, and at first I found satisfaction there. However, I couldn’t help noticing their limitations. Despite their considerable knowledge of Scripture, these people lacked spiritual leadership, spiritual life. Nevertheless, I consciously submitted myself to this group, but in doing so I was troubled to notice that my former zeal for God disappeared, the love that I had grew cold. This bothered me, and when my differences with the group surfaced in a confrontation with the leaders, it was an easy decision to part company.

I was alone again with my thoughts and my unresolved inner conflicts. The spiritual warfare took its toll on my health. There was a time when I felt I hadn’t the strength to go on living. It was then I learned what it meant to be humble before God, and that this humility was a great weapon, a protection against demons. It was then I learned the Jesus Prayer-“Lord Jesus Christ, Son of God, have mercy on me, a sinner.”

I wandered in search of the true Church, but there was always something that repelled me: I didn’t like the long academic sermonizing in the Lutheran churches; in the Roman Catholic churches I couldn’t accept the fact that laity were communed only with the Body of Christ, when Christ Himself blessed also the cup with wine, which was invisibly transformed into His Blood; I already had a fair grasp of what the Baptists and Protestants were about. By chance I attended an Orthodox service at the Riga convent. Seeing at the back of church people writing something on slips of paper, I wrote down my own prayer request: “Pray that the Lord would grant me to know the true faith and that He would use me according to His will.” A nun read my note and said she was even going to fast for me. For several months I continued to wander about from church to church, but my conscience was now turning me towards Orthodoxy, and in spite of what I had been taught about icons being idols and other misinformation, I followed the promptings of my heart.

In choosing Orthodoxy I was greatly assisted by the writings of the Holy Fathers. Today there are so many sects, each with its own peculiar interpretation of the Bible. The saints, on the other hand, some of whom were centuries apart, share the same spirit, the same teaching; a teaching which stands on the firm foundation of true “theology”-knowledge of God. What more striking evidence that the Orthodox Faith is that spiritual treasure which Christ promises to those who seek it.

Priest Janis Kalnins (Translated from Russian)

    In a recent issue of “Tidings,” Fr. John Shaw wrote an interesting article on the subject of conversion, calling for a book telling of people’s paths to Orthodoxy. It very nearly coincided with the request we printed in our Readers’ Survey for accounts of how people were led to the Orthodox Church. Not only are such accounts highly edifying, they also serve to illustrate the mysterious workings of God’s Providence: sometimes it is precisely those whom we rationally dismiss as “hopeless” who are drawn into the fold of the Church; and, conversely, those whom we mark as “ideal candidates”, often wet their toes but never take the plunge. What is it that inspires people to come to Orthodoxy? Fr. John writes:

    “For most people who have come to the Orthodox faith, it is not a question of some one reason or cause, but rather of the whole weight of evidence on all sides becoming so great that nothing is left to hold us back from joining the Church.

     “Over twenty years ago, Timothy Ware(now Bishop Kallistos) wrote that ‘a small but steady stream’ of converts had been entering the Church in this country. Since that time the stream has become a river. Movements –spontaneous movements–toward Orthodoxy can now be seen all over the free world: in places as diverse as Italy, Sweden, Kenya and the Philippines. The reasons are not hard to fathom: an unmet spiritual hunger on the one hand, and increasing encounters with Orthodoxy on the other. Without missionaries, without street evangelists, without television crusades and publicity apparatus, Orthodoxy is ‘now within the reach of most people, and when they make the encounter a great many realize they are not dealing with ‘ just another church’, People who never had been interested in history or theology can walk into an Orthodox church and feel at once that something momentous has come into their lives. Those who had lost interest in religion often sense that Orthodoxy is genuinely spiritual, unlike any denomination in their experience. These contacts lead to questions and a desire for more. Orthodoxy, when it is not hidden, is an almost irresistible spiritual force, as it was in the books of Acts. For it is the same Church.”

(“Tidings,” October, 1984)

     Below is an account sent in by on. of our readers, the first response to our request. May it encourage others to contribute their own “conversion stories,” to the glory of God

Mrs. Elizabeth Huestis 

     The process of becoming Orthodox is not simple. Perhaps it is not possible for people who are born into Orthodoxy to understand the struggle and anguish that a person growing up within the Western confessions must go through in order to first find, and then be able to embrace, Orthodoxy. 

“I believe…in One, Holy, Catholic and Apostolic Church” 

      I was raised Roman Catholic and was serious about trying to lead a spiritual life. I went to Mass and Communion daily, fully believing that I was a part of the “one, holy, catholic and apostolic Church” of the Nicene Creed. My husband left the Anglican Church and became Catholic because he, too, believed that the Catholic Church .was the fullest expression of Christianity. Then came Vatican II and everything within the Catholic Church began to change–radically and rapidly. Under the pretext of translating the Mass, they simply rewrote it to a rather protestant model. Hymns teaching theology were replaced by Folk Songs and even non-Christian songs such as “Lord of the Dance” and “Hymn of Joy”. Sermons ceased talking about how to lead a spiritual life, and instead presented “issues”. Every Sunday we heard about the media or aboriginal rights, land mining or vocations. The small amount of fasting for lent was abolished, and people were permitted to receive Communion as long as they abstained from food an hour before receiving the Sacrament. Holy Communion was “plonked” into the hands of the faithful, often being distributed by a layman or woman. One priest went so far as to bring his dog which lay next to the altar while he said Mass,

     It seemed as if the whole Church were coming apart at the seams, yet, how could the one true Church go to pieces? Early saints, such as St. George, were removed from the liturgical calendar and declared by the Catholic Church not to have ever existed; We were told not to pray to the Theotokos because we should only pray to Christ–and-then the priest tore a rosary (the Catholic equivalent of a prayer rope) to pieces and flung them across the sanctuary. Everything seemed to be wrong, but always in the back of our mind was the Catholic indoctrination that the Catholic Church was the true Church, and if a person left it they were damned. It was agony to have to participate in such unworthy practices, especially in the Mass, and yet impossible not to. Reason demanded an intelligent analysis and conclusion that the Catholic Church has to be wrong, but the emotions were blocked and strangled.

     What can you do when it is impossible to stay where you are and equally impossible to go? Emotionally and spiritually you simply disintegrate. The torment is so great that the pain causes the mind to become irrational. In my case, I concluded that if the one true Church could self-destruct, then it could not harbor the Truth. Since there were to my knowledge no viable alternatives, I decided that God did not exist, and then found that I did not have too much interest in living in a world without God. Each day was worse than the last. I went through the motions of living and caring for the children (seven of them) rather like a zombie.

    My husband began to research the history of the whole Christian Church to see what had happened. After searching through many history, art and music books, he concluded that the original Church was Orthodox, and that the Catholic Church had broken away from the Orthodox Church, not the other way around as we had been taught. But I was by then such a spiritual wreck that I could neither see nor comprehend this. Since my husband had to work on Sundays, he insisted that I begin to take the children to an Orthodox church. That was another emotional shock–a new language and a new culture, new customs and new everything. Every week I put the children in Sunday School and then sat in the church listening to the Divine Liturgy. The priest had given us a book and rather than just listen, it made the time go faster to try to follow. Out of sheer stubbornness, I resolved to be able to follow the service “if it killed me”. Besides, listening to the chanting and focusing on following the Liturgy blocked out some of the pain of the spiritual confusion and loss of God that were fracturing my soul.

      After many weeks, following the Liturgy became easier and I made an amazing discovery. I wasn’t just following the words of the Liturgy as some kind of time-passing game, I was praying again and believing again. The words of the Divine Liturgy had penetrated through the terrible pain and had begun the healing process without any awareness on my part. Over the weeks, there developed within me an intense desire to receive the Holy Gifts, and at that point I went to the priest and asked to become Orthodox.

      That wasn’t the end, though. The fear instilled by my Catholic upbringing was still there, and the devil used it very effectively. Even though I began to understand some of the historical research that showed clearly that the Orthodox Church was indeed the Bride of Christ, and even though I desired the Holy Gifts, the Catholic indoctrination was strong enough on a subconscious level that I was physically ill when we were received into the Orthodox Church. However, after we had become Orthodox and had received the Holy Mysteries, this fear lost its hold and did not bother either of us again.

     The end of the story? Not really. Rather it is the beginning–the beginning of the long and difficult task of becoming truly Orthodox, of truly understanding the differences between East and West, of truly living the Orthodox life. The new language and culture, difficult, yes, but enriching and satisfying because that is the way that Orthodoxy is packaged, and only the truth and wholeness of Orthodoxy can satisfy the spiritual needs of the soul.

     Thanks be to God for the precious gift of the Faith. Perhaps it is not possible to express how it feels to come out of the darkness and depths of despair, out of what the Roman Church would call the “dark night of the soul,” into the light of Christ conveyed to us through the Orthodox Church. Why were we chosen for this great gift, God alone knows. But I mourn for all those many millions of Catholics, restlessly searching for the truth, and for the lost and wandering former Catholics who have not yet found the way which God gave us for our salvation – the Orthodox way.

     A modern Russian novel may seem to be a rather strange choice as a topic for a lecture to a group of English-speaking Orthodox-especially on the eve of Great Lent. This particular book is a work of some 550 pages written in rather difficult Russian, and it is doubtful if it will be translated into English in the near future–if ever. it is, however, an unquestionable masterpiece of Orthodox literature, perhaps the most “Orthodox” novel written in the last two centuries, even more Orthodox than the novels of Dostoevsky. And it is precisely for its spiritual value that I have chosen to speak about it today.

“Open to Me the Doors…” Translated into English, the title of the book is “Open to Me the Doors.” This does not make much sense. The original title, however, is not in Russian but in Church Slavonic, and here–to those familiar with the life and language of the Orthodox Church –it is immediately recognizable as the first words of the pre-Lenten prayer: “Open to me the doors of repentance, O Giverof life…” This title is of great significance, as the whole theme of the book is linked with repentence. The entire novel takes place in the space of some two weeks, just prior and into the period of Great Lent. It is the story of the conversion of a Jew to Orthodoxy–not from Judaism, but from a religion of nothingness, from that phony plasticity which characterizes not only contemporary Soviet society, but, alas, so much of the world today.

     The book was smuggled out to the West some years ago where it was published in 1973in Paris. The author, Felix Svetov, is perhaps better known as the husband of Zoya Krakhmalnikova, a writer of no small talent who was arrested two years ago for having published in the West the priceless anthologies of Christian readings, “Hope” Nadezhda). Both Felix Svetov and his wife are Russian-born ethnic Jews who converted to Orthodoxy under the difficult conditions of Soviet life. The book “Open to Me the Doors” is written with such penetrating psychological and spiritual perception that even without knowing the background of the author, one cannot but assume that it must be at least partially autobiographical. The step by step analysis of the hero’s conversion, conducted throughout the course of the novel, reveals a discernment which could only have come through experience, here the author conveys a spiritual reality which pulls at the heart of the Orthodox reader who, if he immerses himself in the novel, experiences together with the hero the wondrous rebirth of his soul.

     For the Orthodox Christian the book is of unique educational value. Fully impregnated by the Orthodox mentality, it forces the reader to adopt this same point of view-without which he is easily lost. Certain passages, for example, may seem rather obscure and one is tempted to criticize the author for their having been poorly written. But no, a more careful examination will show that it is the reader who is at fault, having slipped out of this Orthodox frame of reference and reading instead from the perspective of an ordinary modern novel–which cannot be done if one desire s to fully grasp the meaning of this particular book. This is made more challenging by the fact that the setting of the story is utterly contemporary; there are scenes full of worldly conversation; the protagonist himself is a product of the contemporary non-religious Soviet Jewish society. The reader must, therefore, be careful to follow the action of the story where it takes place–in the internal .workings of the hero’s mind and heart.

     It is impossible to adequately examine a book of such length and depth in such a short space of time. I have, therefore, selected certain passages [kindly translated by Xenia Zavarin] to illustrate the more salient points, hoping they will convey at least a small part of the novel’s deeply Orthodox sentiment.

    For ease of discussion, I have put events in chronological order. Approaching the narrative in this way, we come upon a dialogue which occurs in a dream of our protagonist Lev Ilyich. The dialogue takes place between God and Satan in which the latter is charged with an assignment to try and tempt Lev llyich who had been chosen for Holy Baptism. Satan is scornful of such a task: “Me, worry over that Jew? He’s always been in my hands; why bother tempting someone who is running directly towards you? Some time ago You sent me to a Jew by the name of Job –he was pure, God-fearing, avoided evil; now that was work, pure tragedy I call it. Forgive me, Lord, but in this case I see only a joke…” Here we see that God does not call a soul on the basis of any rational justice or external moral worth, but from sheer love for His creation, and the desire that all men be saved.

    The reader meets the protagonist as he is returning home to Moscow from a business trip. Here we must say a few words about Lev flyich who, as we have said, is a typical product of our century. His ideas are those of having fun; he likes parties, women; he likes to drink, to be merry. But underneath is a void, an abyss which he himself does not recognize. He had been out of town on business many times and always looked forward to his return home to the city, to his friends and family. But this time, something happens. He feels a certain indifference–quite unlike the elation which usually accompanies his return. He brushes this aside as a fleeting mood, perhaps the result of an oncoming cold. The real cause of the indifference never crosses his mind. How could he understand that a spark of God had fallen into his heart? From that moment he no longer belongs to the world; what he senses as indifference is nothing but that estrangement from the things of the earth, that otherworldliness which is the essential nature of Christianity. God had chosen him, had placed him in adiffarant world. This vague feeling of indifference signaled a profound internal change which only much later he recognizes as the beginning for him of a new life. Here there fell into his heart a ray of light which was gradually to illumine his darkened mind to the knowledge of the true light of Christ.

     What happens next in this internal chain of events is that he becomes, as though suddenly, convinced that chance no longer exists in his life. The people he meets, where he goes, what happens to him…in all of this he feels he is somehow being guided. He has no understanding, no particular thought of where? by whom? why? Nevertheless, this feeling overwhelms him and persists. Again this is the result of the mysterious spark of God descending into the human soul.

A Spiritual Odyssey 

    Propelled by these feelings ordinarily so alien to him, Lev Ilyich begins his spiritual odyssey. It is a dangerous and difficult journey, full of many discouraging obstacles and times of intense struggle. God’s grace, however, helps him to endure these trials and to get up after he falls. The further he progresses, the more clearly he understands the impossibility of turning back. The eyes of the blind were opened.

    In terms of the external action of the novel, Lev Ilyich meets various people–both old friends and new acquaintances–with whom he invariably ends up discussing religion. Here the author skillfully introduces an assortment of characters representing different points of view widely held in contemporary Soviet society: we meet the convinced Marxist, the humanist, the Slavophile, the Zionist, the atheist-intellectual, and…the small group of believers–the priest Fr. Kyrill in particular–who are a lifeline keeping Lev Ilyich from losing himself in the abyss of worldly arguments and rational reasonings with which Satan has baited his traps.

    The women in the novel are generally sympathetic, though not very strong characters. Lev Ilyich is placed in the midst of three of these women: Vera, Nadia and Liuba–Faith, Hope, and Love. Obviously the choice of names is not fortuitous. The author, however, is not Dostoevsky, and the women do not exactly reflect the virtues which their names express. This may disappoint some readers who might expect the women to act as vehicles of salvation. As if deliberately refusing to conform to such an expectation, the author has created a much more realistic situation. It is in the midst of the characters’ weaknesses that the reader recognizes himself. Furthermore, the weight of Lay’s conversion is thus placed not on any rational process or human initiative, but on the mysterious spark of God’s grace.

    The most bitter antagonist in the novella an old friend of Lev Ilyicb by the name of Kostya, who may claim a certain kinship to the character of Stavrogin in Dostoevsky’s The Possessed. He is flamboyant, strong-willed and has brilliant ideas which can easily influence others. But like Stavrogin, his outward beauty and charm are only “the frozen tragic mask, under which hides a terrible spiritual wasteland, a loss of all norms and ethical principles” (G.M. Friedlaender). His ideas are contradictory, lacking direction. Satan enters this inner void and Kostya becomes a tempter, trying to seduce Lev Ilyich away from Christianity with his eloquence and erudition. Fr. Kyril, however, whose authority Kostya tries to undermine, is planted firmly upon the unshakable foundation of Christianity, and helps Lev to see the emptiness of his friend’s arguments. The clarity and absolute simplicity of his explanations contrast sharply with Kostya’s delusion.

    Among the positive group of characters are Lev’s friend Masha, Fr. Kyril and his matushka Dusta. They meet “as if” by accident. Taken to Fr. Kyrill’s house, Lev is at once struck by the amount of greenery; there is even a tame pink parrot. This obviously symbolizes a sort of paradise which is set in clear juxtaposition to the cold, lifeless asphalt of the city streets. Although Lev Ilyich is rather perplexed at being found in the house of a young Orthodox priest, whose religion he had once so readily mocked, he feels a strong attraction to that genuine warmth, that knowledge of truth which emanates from Fr. Kyril, and thus his brief visit opens the door to his entry into the Church,

    Returning to his own apartment, he finds a party in progress. This world, so familiar to him. now brings him into a state of depression. The mysterious spark of God–at once so incomprehensible, so illogical, is at the same time so powerful as to cause him to feel an aversion to his old life, to see the emptiness ef the party chatter; the scales have fallen from his eyes; he feels so estranged, as if he belongs to another world, not quite understanding what this “other world” is all about.

    After a time he cannot bear it any longer and runs out into the streets. Wandering as if aimlessly, he comes again to the house of Fr. Kyril. He surprises himself as much as anyone when he suddenly asks Fr. Kyril “Can you baptize me?” Such an unpremeditated approach to this solemn Sacrament may appear to some readers as a dramatic device. It is, however, not so unusual in the context of the Soviet experience, as we see in the writings of Fr. Dimitri Dudko and others. One might be tempted to see here alack of seriousness, the whim of a passing moment. Lev Ilvich himself is almost embarrassed by such an illogical, impulsive decision; his mind argues against the promptings of his spirit. Fortunately, however, his genuine thirst for an entry into that “other world” this mysterious, almost magnetic attraction which he still cannot fully articulate–overpowers his doubts with the help of Fr. Kyril’s immediate consent and the joyful reaction of the women present: Matushka Dusia, Vera and Masha.

    The scene at the Baptism is very touching; it is viewed through the eyes of Lev Ilyich who is initially plagued by various confusing and very secondary thoughts: he imagines his friends sitting around mocking as he stands there in a pair of shorts–black, too long and two sizes too large. “If he had known, he would have put on some nice ones, swimming shorts… Hm, he stopped himself, ‘Where do you think you are, at a beach on the Black Sea?'” He is puzzled by the bustling about of the three women and Fr. Kyril as they make the necessary preparations, although he accepts readily, like a child, whatever he is told to do or say. Out of the fullness of his tradition, the Orthodox reader is able to fill in the gaps left by Lev llyich’s bewilderment

 “Like thousands, hundreds of thousands, millions of times before and many times in the future, the Sacrament, inexpressible and touching, was taking place. A small church composed of three women stood at his back, and he felt himself not as a spectator, but as a member of this church. And He was among them, Lev Ilyich knew this; he felt His breath …. ‘Kiss the cross’–the priest put the chain on Lev Ilyich. ‘Make tl’e sign of the Cross.’ He anointed his forehead, chest, hands, feet. ‘The seal of the Gift of the Holy Spirit.’ They lit candles. He walked behind the priest, leaving wet marks on the floor; behind him were three women with candies, singing softly, with Lev Ilyich mumbling, repeating after them, guessing the words: ‘As many as have been baptized into Christ have put on Christ, Alleluia.'”

     While sealing him as a member of the Church, his Baptism does not provide any kind of automatic protection from temptations which continue to assail him. He is tempted by old habits and falls into sin; he gets into arguments with his friends and becomes depressed. Outwardly there does not seem to be any manifest transformation of life. But a definite change has taken place. Sin, once a matter of indifference, now evokes a flood of repentance; he is keenly aware of having sinned, and desires to sin no more. He has become consumed with a purpose; his life has assumed a definite direction.

    Distressed by his failure to keep spotless his baptismal robe, Lev Ilyich comes to Fr. Kyril who counsels him to prepare for Confession and Communion. Here we should say a few words about Fr. Kyril, a simple, young married priest of no particular outward charisma, but possessed of a strong faith and deeply Orthodox consciousness which give him the key to unlock the mysteries of the human soul. He is, as it were, the voice of the Church, often quoting the Holy Fathers, and giving practical insightful advice which helps Lev Ilyich to keep afloat in the stormy waters of life.

    There follows what is perhaps the most moving incident in the entire novel–Lev Ilyich’s first Confession and Communion. And once more, it can be fully appreciated only in the context of life in the Orthodox Church. Lev Ilyich becomes totally absorbed in the service: the priest’s every word penetrates his heart as if it were meant for him alone. He is overwhelmed by a sense of unworthiness: “How can one forgive a wan who has spent his entire life walking along that “other” road, laughing at all of this, or rather, indifferently and rudely despising all of this, preoccupied with himself, his own nonsense, endlessly sinning? How is it that instead of being thrown out of the church he was allowed to partake in the communion of the Holy Body and Blood of Christ …. Only if one denied all logic… ‘I have no right, O Lord; I have only hope; anyway, let it be Thy will!’ …The Royal Doors opened again and the deacon proclaimed, ‘With fear of God and faith draw near…'” Lev Ilyich learns to set aside that logic, that reason to which he had always tried to be so faithful, and to accept God’s forgiveness as a gift of His mercy, of His love which embraces even the most wretched sinner, here indeed is a great Mystery of the Christian faith.

    Lev Ilyich continues to be plagued by temptations which center in his conversations with others: One after another, Lev Ilyich tries to convert his friends, to share the light of understanding which God’s grace has shed upon his soul. While he is disappointed by his failure to do so, his faith is strengthened as he begins to see more and more clearly the fallacy of their arguments.

    As a Jewish convert to Christianity, Lev Ilyich becomes preoccupied with the question of “chosenness.” His conversion opens up to him an entirely new understanding of the Old Testament and its meaning for the Jews. His religious–and even more, Christian-perspective is entirely rejected by his Jewish acquaintances who accuse him of being a traitor to the Jewish tradition: “You don’t hear the call of your Jewish blood!” Lev Ilyich is disgusted by the hollowness of contemporary Soviet Jewish society whose Jewishness consists only in some kind of ethnic snobbishness and a worldly attachment to a political state. The accusation makes him explode:

    “…It is not the call of blood that you are hearing, it is only petty bourgeois conceit that is shouting in you …. Yes, I am hearing the call of my blood and because of that I am an Orthodox Christian. Moreover, I am an Orthodox Christian because I hear the call of my Jewish blood …. To hear the call of his blood for a Jew born in Russia is to become an Orthodox Christian, because only then does one obtain the opportunity to repent.”

    Lev Ilyich continues in this way, becoming increasingly estranged from his former way of life, his old self. Outwardly he becomes a rather pitiable figure: he loses his job, his wife is thinking of leaving him; in the final scene he sits on a bench outside the church, his mouth still bloody from a beating–and a passing stranger throws him a coin. What, asks the reader, can this be the picture of a hero? From a logical worldly perspective the conclusion is indeed very disappointing. But the reader who is careful to keep himself within an Orthodox Christian perspective sees very clearly that the novel has a very happy. ending. Lev Ilyich himself, in spite of his outwardly miserable condition, is extremely happy: he has entered that “other world” and is finally welded to the Church–symbolized by an old woman who, in that last scene, gives him a piece of prosphora. What hope is contained here, what joy in witnessing the resurrection of a soul from the abyss of nothingness, to a life full of machine and purpose. Truly, our God is a God of the living, trampling down death and “upon those in the tombs bestowing life.” 

Dr. Eugene Zavarin