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The Candle A Soulful Publication Spring 2007 Year 4, Issue 1 Memory Eternal! Reverend Father Gheorghe Calciu (1925
-2006) Witnessing the Faith Repose of Father Gheorghe Calciu Father Gheorghe was born on 23
November 1925 in Mahmudia, Tulcea, Romania, to his parents, Stefan and
Ileana. After finishing elementary studies in his hometown, he went on to Bucharest
to study at the Faculty of Medicine (1946-48). Then, in 1948, his Orthodox
Christian morals and deep religious conviction led him to be imprisoned by
the communist authorities for “reeducation,” a tactic used by the regime in
an attempt to erase Christianity from the youth of the nation. He remained in prison until 1964, when he
was released as a result of a general amnesty and returned to study at the
Faculty of Literature and Philosophy where he earned a degree in French and began
work on his doctorate. During this time, strengthened by his sufferings in
prison, he also studied Theology and was ordained into the Holy Priesthood on
30 January 1973. Father Gheorghe remained vocal
in his criticism of the atheistic government and its allies, preaching the
True Faith and Christian morals to all who would listen, especially the many
young people who were drawn to his message. He taught French and New
Testament studies at the Theological Seminary in Bucharest until he was
abruptly dismissed in 1978 for speaking out in defense of religious freedom
and human rights. The following year he was again
arrested by government authorities as a result of his convictions, and was
sentenced to 10 years in prison. Severely mistreated and isolated from even
his family, news of his imprisonment aroused protests from the West which
eventually provoked his early release in 1984. Still living under persecution
by government and cooperative Church authorities, he managed to emigrate to
the United States in 1985 and was accepted into The Romanian Orthodox
Episcopate of America the following year. Since 1989, he has served as parish
priest of Holy Cross Church in Alexandria, Virginia, serving the community
there with love and dedication until his final breath. Frederica Matthews Greene CAST INTO
THE DEN OF LIONS From A
Talk Delivered by Fr. Gheorghe Calciu It is by God's will that I stand before you today.
Three months ago I was a prisoner of the communist regime in Romania,
persecuted and watched together with my family by agents of the secret
police, though I did nothing other than preach Jesus Christ in the church
where I served. Two years ago I was in the Romanian prisons and the same
agents endeavored to destroy me. There were many of them; I was alone and
defenseless. There was no law to prevent them from committing such a crime;
there were no moral principles to stop them. I had faith, they had force;
then again, they had nothing because they did not have God. I had the love
and spiritual help of my fellow man, praying for me throughout the world;
they had nothing but their hate. And because this conflict was a spiritual
one, they were defeated, in spite of all the material power on their side.
"How could I tell this to
anybody, mister first sergeant? You acted as an angel of God, because the
bread you gave me became the Body of Christ. In so doing, you served by my
side, and your deed is now recorded in eternity.” St Basil the Great Each saint the Church honors responded
to God's invitation to use his or her unique gifts. God calls each one of us
to be a saint: Basil was on his way to becoming a
famous teacher when he decided to begin a religious life of gospel poverty.
After studying various modes of religious life, he founded what was probably
the first monastery in One of the most damaging
heresies in the history of the Church, Aryanism, which denied the divinity of
Christ, was at its height. Emperor Valens persecuted orthodox believers, and
put great pressure on Basil to remain silent and admit the heretics to
communion. Basil remained firm, and Valens backed down. But trouble remained.
When the great St. Athanasius died, the mantle of defender of the faith
against Aryanism fell upon Basil. He strove mightily to unite and rally his
fellow Catholics who were crushed by tyranny and torn by internal dissension.
He was misunderstood, misrepresented, accused of heresy and ambition. Even appeals to the pope brought
no response. “For my sins I seem to be unsuccessful in everything.” He was
tireless in pastoral care. He preached twice a day to huge crowds, built a
hospital that was called a wonder of the world (as a youth he had organized
famine relief and worked in a soup kitchen himself) and fought the prostitution
business. Basil was best known as an orator. His writings rightly place him
among the great teachers of the Church. Seventy-two years after his death,
the Council of Chalcedon described him as “the great Basil, minister of grace
who has expounded the truth to the whole earth.” Forgiveness In his book, Lee:
The Last Years, Charles Bracelan Flood reports that after the Civil War,
Robert E. Lee visited a Kentacky lady who took him to the remains of a grand
old tree in front of her house. There she bitterly cried that its limbs and
trunk had been destroyed by Federal Artillery fire. She looked to Lee for a
word condemning the North or at least sympathizing with her loss. After a
brief silence, Lee said, “Cut it down, my dear Madam, and forget it.” It is better to forgive the injustices of the past than to allow them to
remain, let bitterness take root, and poison the rest of our lives. A Graceful Pastoral Visit
I
will never forget when his Eminence came to visit me for the first time at my
first parish, the parish of The Holy Cross in I
had been out of seminary for quite some time before I was assigned at Holy
Cross and had done a range of different things in the meantime. After seminary, I worked for the
Archdiocese in When
the time came to serve the vespers service, the Archbishop kindly asked me,
“Father, what is easier for you, for me to serve with you or to sit in the
chair?” “Either
way, Your Eminence, since I know I will make lots of mistakes,” I responded
timidly. He looked at me for a while, trying to read
my mind, and then he said, “I will sit in my chair. Just do it. Follow the
book and you will be fine.” Lord,
behold, everything seemed to go well. The following day, on Sunday during the
Divine Liturgy, he served with me and everything once again went fine. After
the service at the coffee hour, an outstanding member of the parish invited
his Eminence to his house for supper. Archbishop
Valerian replied, “I am sorry! I can’t accept your invitation. Today I would
like to dine with my priest and his family. They have already invited me.” I
felt bad for His Eminence for I knew what a beautiful, relaxing home and
great supper this family could offer Him. We had a modest place. We lived in
basement apartment, partially underground. We had hand-me-down furniture and
some picked up from the street. I don’t remember if we had invited him, but,
I will never forget his words: “I must dine with my priest and his family.”
When I think about it, it still warms my heart and waters my eyes. He wanted
to have supper with me and my family. He wanted to take the opportunity to
know me and my family better, to see where and how we lived. He was really
interested to know one of his new priests.
My
brother-in-law from “What
can I talk about with a bishop? I never met a bishop in my whole life,” said
my brother-in-law, who was raised in a Southern Baptist church. While
leaving, he met His Eminence knocking at the door. Immediately after they
were introduced, they started to talk, and my brother-in-law forgot about his
plans to go downtown. He sat at the table and had supper with us. I was amazed
at how his Eminence was able to keep my non-Orthodox brother-in-law so alert
in their conversation. At that moment, I learned about one of the most
interesting qualities of Archbishop Valerian, namely his talent and capacity
to converse with anyone, no matter what a person’s age, background, or level
of education. One thing was very clear
to me: his Eminence was genuinely interested not only to know me, his new
priest, but also my wife and her family. After
supper, my brother-in-law left, and my wife was busy cleaning up. His
Eminence sat on an easy chair and talked to me personally. I sat on the sofa,
listening and taking in everything he had to say to me. He asked about my
family back in At
the conclusion of our discussion, he said, “Before I go, for I must go now, I
must tell you a few things that you should know and do next time you serve
with a Bishop.” He explained in kind words everything I did wrong during the
services of that weekend. “Serving
with the Bishop is a little different than serving alone,” he continued. “But
I understand that this was the first time you served with a Bishop. You did not
do too badly.” After
these words, he blessed my wife and me, said goodbye, and left. It was not a
very long pastoral visit, but its memory is everlasting for me. This
pastoral visit was the best one I had my whole life. It set me on the right track
as a very young and inexperienced priest and gave me great encouragement, and
its effects have lasted for the duration of my ministry. In fact, just last summer at the Church
Congress, having been troubled in my heart, confused in my mind and discouraged
in my faith, I visited Archbishop Valerian’s grave. I wept and asked him (I
prayed to him) for guidance. He once again, from the blessed place where he
is, looked down on me and brought peace and encouragement into my heart. I knew then and I know now that any time I
am in need, he is there for me to help me, to advise me, and most of all, to
encourage me. Any
time I feel reserved or hesitant about making a pastoral visit, I remember
Archbishop Valerian’s pastoral visit with me, and I boldly go and visit. I
know that I do not need to say much, but I just need to be there. Showing
that I am concerned is enough most of the time. If I can bring only a small
part of the pastoral grace to my pastoral visits that His Eminence brought to
me with his visit, I would be greatly pleased. Father Cornel Todeasa A Spiritual Migration: The Story of my
Return Home As
I was growing up, I was living in a world that neither my mother nor father
had a complete understanding or control of, particularly my mother who was an
immigrant. Of course, my parents allowed me to participate in many of the
same “American” luxuries that the other children in my school took pleasure
in, such as skiing and camping. They let me sleep over friends’ houses and
have sleepovers. The only thing I don’t remember getting was an allowance for
my chores, which they felt was an American invention. But
every weekend, I was asked to leave my “American” world behind and enter into
the world of my extended family and Romanian Orthodox community. Every
Sunday, while my friends were often enjoying hiking excursions or visits to
amusement parks, I was expected to attend church school and listen to a man
dressed in an ornate robe chanting and censing. After the service, we would
go home and sit around with my parents’ company for the rest of the
afternoon, eating Macedonian foods, like Pita and Fasulada while listening to
Greek or Macedonian music. I would always rather be a t a gathering at my
friends house where we could hamburgers and
hotdogs. I was always amazed at how my friends’ cabinets were lined
with loads of unhealthy, great tasting snack foods. My mother never bought
junk-food and cooked homemade meals daily.
Growing
up in a predominately Anglo Saxon neighborhood, I was convinced that there
was no one like me among my circle of friends at When
I entered high school, the chasm between what I called “my parents world” and
my world grew even larger. I pretty much turned my back on my ethnicity and
my faith since I wrongfully assumed the two went hand-in-hand. I realize now
that my parents, even my father who was born in this country, experienced the
same cultural pull but in the opposite direction: they felt more comfortable
in their Macedonian skin, while I felt more comfortable in my American skin. My Father had given me two gifts for which I am
grateful. One was that he wanted me to be a believer. He wanted me to have
faith. At the same time, he also encouraged me to think for myself and to
question the world. But when I was younger, I was neither brave enough nor
mature enough to allow these two things to work together in my life. One
Saturday morning, when I was about sixteen years old, I was sitting quietly
at the back of the church after going to confession. I remember looking at
the Icon of Jesus at the front of the altar. Without warning, an insight
entered my mind. It was very direct: that religion might be a completely
human creation, and that God could be an invention of our minds, and Jesus
could have been a wonderfully wise man and nothing more. It was at that moment I decided to stop attending
church. I began to give my parents such a fight on Sundays that they finally
succumbed and allowed me to make a decision regarding church. I respected
them for not forcing me to continue and for not judging me, because if they
had, they might have totally snuffed out the littlest bit of passion that was
still present. My mother insisted, however, that I attend Church on Christmas
and Easter, and that I take part in confession and communion once a year. By the time I was in college, I was so intrigued with
reading and learning, particularly with philosophy, that you could say, that
in a way, my mind and soul where held captivity by a world of knowledge. The
individuals I looked up to where philosophers, teachers and other
intellectuals for their ability to dissect the world and put it back together
in their own fashion. I was never a proclaimed atheist like many of the
people I knew and befriended, and I continued to believe in spirituality, but
more so from a philosophical and theoretical distance. I did not believe in
committing myself to any type of practice. Although I was quite happy,
successful and able to do many things one could hope to do in a lifetime,
something was never quite right and always missing. In short, I realized that
what had been missing in my life was inside of me the whole time. I had
repressed a part of myself – an important part of who I was, both ethnically
and spiritually. I can’t say that the only reason for turning away from
my faith was because I associated it with my ethnicity. There was also the
seduction of secular American culture. But as a child, when it was so
important to fit in, I feel that the biggest factor in my leaving the church
was that I wanted to be “more American.” But as a result, my two sides did
not equal one. In fact, they were often at odds with one another. The result
was that I felt short at both ends, and I missed out on a large part of my
identity, both my Orthodox faith and my ethnic roots. As I approach middle age, I still have to work at it,
but the traditions on either side of my ethnic and American life and my
spiritual and professional life, mingle together, still occasionally
sparring, one outshining the other depending on the day. But like good
friends, they are dear to one another, forgiving and intertwined. What a
difference from my earlier life, when I repressed both my ethnicity and faith
and there was no such way to identify with those sides of myself. I am once
again a practicing Orthodox, having finally acknowledged the presence of the
Holy Spirit within myself. But it was also the steadfast presence and example
of my parents and a few other key individuals who helped my return to the
Orthodox Church. Having undergone this voyage, I better understand and
appreciate what all of our ancestors experienced. The immigrant’s journey is
founded on departure and deprivation before it ever evolves into a sense of
arrival and advantage, which has been my story with regaining my faith. And
just as a migratory bird instinctively returns home when the long barren
winter is over, I too, after all of this time, instinctively knew where my
home was. I
often feel that I still lack authority in many ways when it comes to being
Orthodox, but the longer I practice my faith, the more it seems to be gaining
ascendancy. I have been back for six years now, after having been away for
twenty-three. I anticipate that I will continue to be a practicing Orthodox
for the remainder of my life, and during this time, I will also continue to
calculate this shifting equation, whatever answers it may yield. Gale Bellas-Papageorge Not Just a Joke! Fr. C. Norel We Must Give Due Credit to God A joke goes like this: A rabbi
had a very important meeting in the holy city. But, as we might expect, it
was very difficult to find a parking place in an old city like As he was praying, a car pulled out in front of him,
emptying a parking place. He suddenly looked up to the sky and said, “God,
never mind… I found a place myself. Don’t bother with my prayer any more!” I found this joke hilarious, because it is an ironic
reflection on our lives. It can reflect on us all. Very often we pray to God
and, when our prayers are answered, we do not give any recognition to God. We
discredit God of any resolve or action and credit ourselves. We rob God of
His “mighty works” in us and with us. More often, when we are in real need of help, with
great ease, we make promises to God. We promise that we will be good, that we
will go to church, and that we will give to the poor and to the church. But
very soon after, our promises become dust in the wind. We might go to church
the following Sunday, but since we do not have the discipline to regularly
attend church services, we very often fall by the wayside. And if we are not
charitable people to begin with, receiving more gifts from God does not make
us “cheerful givers.” This is why I am very skeptical of the people who pray
to God to help them win the lotto so that they can help build a new church.
First of all, in their prayers, they show a lack of satisfaction with what
God has already given them. Secondly, giving to build a new church should be
a sacrificial giving from the heart, as an expression of our faith and not
only because we have so much. We do not need to give much. When we ask to win
the lotto, we say to Him, “Give me more, so I can be rich, and then I will
give some of it to build a new church.” Do remember, playing the lotto is
gambling, and is, in a way, “dirty money.”
Do you believe that God wants to build his holy house with that kind
of money? Very often, we credit ourselves with the facts or goods
gained for which we asked with God’s help. We say, “I was so smart do that… I
was very lucky to get that… I worked so hard to accomplish that…” while we
should say, “Thank you Lord for your help, which opened my small and incapable mind to the
knowledge that helped me to get that job, to develop that skill to do the job
that helped me to make a good living.” After we laugh hard at this joke, I believe we should
take it very seriously and ask ourselves some important questions. What should we do, then, when we are in dire need of a
parking place? Yes, we can pray to God for His help, for if we ask for
anything in His name it will be given to us. It seems that there are more
important things to pray for than a parking space. First and foremost, we should and must pray
for the salvation of our souls. However, even a prayer for a parking space is
not a lost prayer. For every prayer is a conversation with God and brings us
closer to Him. Also, when we make
promises to God, we should make only those that we know we can keep. Once we make a promise to God, there is
nobody to release you from it except for God himself. And if we do not fulfill
the promises we make to Him, we are better off not making any promises at
all. For when we get the benefits and do not honor the Giver, we do not
discredit ourselves alone, but also God Himself. Women
in the Bible Ruth - A Woman of Devoted Love The story of Ruth is set in the period of the Judges, but it was
probably written much later, after the return from exile in Ruth’s story celebrates the family and the way it
continues through many generations. Ruth, a childless widow at the beginning
of the story, became the great-grandmother of My Crises of Faith It was near
the end of my pregnancy with my second child. My grandmother came to stay with me to
keep an eye on my eldest daughter when I went to the hospital. It was one of
the nicest times I had with my grandmother. We always had a close relationship, but
this time it seemed a little different and more special. She seemed a bit preoccupied
and sad, and I kept asking her what was wrong. She kept saying “nothing,” but I
suspected there was something she was keeping from me. I had a dream, a
premonition, a few weeks before my daughter was born, and I saw my Father in his coffin.
It shook me up quite a bit, and I couldn’t get the image out of my mind. As we sat one
day at the kitchen table talking, I said to her, “I know something is wrong, and
you’re keeping something from me.” Her eyes welled up, but she denied there was
anything wrong. Since I was only days away from full term, I put it out of my mind. My second daughter arrived on three days later. My
mother, father, sister, uncle and aunt came from the following Saturday to
see the little“buchka.” I was so happy to see everyone and so proud of our new
addition. My sister asked me if we could go into the bedroom to talk
privately. I sat on the bed and looked at her with a quizzical expression on my face. It
was then that she dropped the bomb. She
told me that my Dad had colon cancer and had six to eight months to
live. I was devastated. I went from walking on cloud nine one
minute, to having the rug pulled out from under me. My mother and aunt walked into
the room. One look at my mother’s eyes, and I totally lost control of my
emotions. We all hugged, and they told me to put on a brave face for my Dad and for the sake of
my children. It was one of the hardest things I’ve ever had to do. I
was the first-born, and my Dad and I had a very close relationship. I loved
and respected him. He was the greatest Dad and a truly devout Orthodox
Christian. He was always fair in his
dealings with us, and as we grew older, he gave me the greatest gift. He
trusted me, which meant the world to me, and I never wanted to disappoint or
hurt him. I’m not saying I was the perfect child. I did have a few chances to
go out with my peers. But always in the back of my mind, I would ask, “what
would my father think?” I never wanted to lose that trust he had in me. So,
when my sister told me my dad was
dying, I totally lost all reasoning. I railed at God at the unfairness of it
all. I asked, “God, how could you do this to one of your most faithful and
dedicated servants?” It was
one of the lowest points in my life. I was wallowing in pain, anger and
uncontrollable tears. I didn’t realize it at that moment, but every time I
felt depressed, my daughter would cry and needed to have her diaper changed or for me to
feed her. It was His way of distracting me from my pain and sorrow, but I was
too angry to see His grace. I spent
the rest of the summer at my parents’ home and saw the slow decline and
wasting away of my Dad. It was extremely painful for all of us, and I
continued to be angry with God. I would yell at him when I was alone, and as
my Dad’s time on earth grew near, I remember yelling at God and saying, “I hate You,” with such vehemence that
I am amazed he didn’t strike me down right then and there. The parish priest
at that time would come everyday and pray at my father’s bedside for hours.
Of course, I would think, “What’s the use, he’s going to die anyway.” As you
can see, I didn’t stop believing in God, because I kept yelling at him. I
just lost faith in His love, mercy and justice. Dad’s last hour was spent quietly,
and he gave us his Blessing and told us to take care of Mom and Maia (my grandmother) and to promise
to stay close to his sisters and brothers. We, of course, gave him our word.
He stared at the window and asked my sister and me, “What’s that shadow by
the window?” We couldn’t see a shadow but knew it was the Angel of Death
waiting to take him away from us. I left for awhile to take my youngest
daughter to my cousin’s house, and it was at that time my Dad looked at my
mother, grandmother, his brother and wife and my husband, thanked them all
for being there with him. He made his cross three times, smiled and gave up
his soul. Just minutes after he died, I came back home and my mother sobbed
and said, “He’s gone.” I went and sat on his bed and kissed and cried my
heart out. My Dad was gone at the age of sixty-three, never to see his
grandchildren grow up and never to celebrate our birthday’s together on the
same day. I
went through the next few years angry, and it only increased when the bomb
dropped again. A drunk driver killed my thirty-three year old cousin who was
living in My father’s eldest brother had lost his
daughter in the accident, and later, he lost his grandson and another
daughter. But through all of this, both of them would say, “Thank God, I’m
doing ok.” I would stop and wonder how
they could say that after all they were enduring. After my aunt died, I kept
remembering her faith and what she suffered but never lost her belief in the almighty and His infinite mercy. The same went for my uncle. He endured
the worst pain any parent had to endure. It was then, through the persistent
prodding of a friend, I started reading the Bible. I read the Book of Job and
saw all that Job had endured and still never lost his faith. It was like
having my uncle and our family’s life flash before me. The Lord slowly opened
my eyes and my heart to His infinite mercy, which prepared me for the worst
pain my family, was to suffer. My baby brother died of a heart attack in
front of all of us at a church banquet at the age of 48. The pain of that
loss was and is still so raw. But, I know that if my uncle, who had lost two
daughters, a grandson, a nephew and all his younger siblings, could have the
constant faith, I had to look at
this situation from a different perspective. God showed me that there was
always someone who is suffering worse than we were and that His infinite
mercy is there for everyone if we just open up our hearts and minds. I
remember getting down on my knees, sobbing and asking Him to forgive me for
doubting Him, and I “truly” experienced the overwhelming love and peace of
our Father. I know that He was there for me and as my
favorite poem Footprints in the Sand
says, “My dear child, it was then that I carried you.” I know with all my
heart and soul that He was carrying me and brought me back into the light of
His love and Grace. Audrey
Fatsy A Lenten Meditation In many of our Lenten readings and meditations, Judas’
negative role among the Apostles comes up in one way or another. He seems to be an intricate part of our
Lord’s passion, crucifixion and death. Different understandings and
interpretations of the role he played in our Lord’s arrest and condemnation
range from putting all the blame on him to his being completely exonerated. Those who believe his action should be exonerated think
that he was somehow destined to be the “necessary” traitor. One may cite the
text from the Mystical Supper, when Jesus Himself sends Judas, saying to him,
“What you do, do quickly” (John The truth is that Judas was not preordained to act as
the necessary evil in the chain of events that would lead from the death of
our Lord to His Resurrection and thereby, the Salvation of mankind. His
action of betrayal was an act of his own free choice as well as an act of
futility. There was no need for anyone to betray the Lord, for Jesus was not
hiding in the Judas’s act of betraying his “friend” can be explained
in many ways. Maybe he was driven by his passion of money as After St. Peter realized the gravity of denying Jesus
three times, he repented and cried bitterly. The Lord forgave him and
accepted him back among his beloved disciples. In contrast, Judas’s sorrow
turned into desperation. Judas’ greatest sin was not even the fact that he
did not truly repent and did not have enough trust in God’s forgiving love.
His greatest sin was that he cut himself off from God’s forgiveness and
salvation. By taking his own life, Judas sealed his own condemnation. During this Lent, we should also turn the focus of our
meditation on ourselves. First of all, we should acknowledge our own
sinfulness. We are all sinners, “for all have sinned and fallen short of the
glory of God” (Romans
The bread which you do not use is the bread of the hungry; the
garment hanging in your wardrobe is the garment of him who is naked; the shoes that you do not wear are the shoes of the on who
is barefoot; the money that you keep
locked away is the money of the poor; the acts of charity that you do
not perform are so many injustices that you commit. -St. Basil the
Great But you, when you fast, anoint your head
and wash your face, so that you do not appear to men to be fasting, but to
your Father who is in the secret place; and your Father who sees in secret
will reward you openly. (Matthew Candela St. Dimitrie Romanian
Orthodox Church |
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