Ճեմարանական տարիներիս սովորեցի Խրիմյան Հայրիկի և նրա նվիրական ծննդավայրի՝ Վասպուրականի մասին այս երգը. «Հայրի՜կ, Հայրի՜կ, քո հայրենիք՝ Վասպուրական մեր աշխարհ, Վարդի փոխան քեզ փուշ բերաւ, Ցաւերդ դառան բիւր հազար: Հայրիկն ասաց. “Իմ հայրենեաց Փուշն անուշ է, քան ըզվարդ, Ես այն փշոց մէջը դարձեալ Կը որոնեմ սիրուն վարդ”»: Մեկ շաբաթ առաջ ես կանգնած էի Վասպուրական նահանգում՝ Աղթամար կղզու Սուրբ Խաչ Մայր տաճարի առջև՝ ձեռքիս Տաճարի խորանից վերցրած մի կարմիր վարդ։ Եվ այդ պահին երգը հանկա

When I was a seminarian, I learned a song about Khrimian Hayrig (1820–1907), the beloved Catholicos of All Armenians, and his cherished homeland of Vaspuragan: “Hayrig, Hayrig, Your beloved Vaspuragan gave you thorns instead of roses and filled your heart with sorrow.” Hayrig replied: “The thorn of my homeland is sweeter to me than any rose; and even among the thorns, I will keep searching for the red rose.” For years, those words lived in my heart as a beautiful melody from

Our pilgrimage reached its final stop at the Armenian Patriarchate of Constantinople, where we were received with a Hrashapar service and had the joy of meeting with His Beatitude Patriarch Sahak II Mashalian. As the hymns filled the sacred walls of the Patriarchate, I felt immense joy and deep humility. After traveling through the lands where generations of Armenians lived, prayed, created, suffered, and remained faithful, we ended our journey in a place that has been a beat

On our pilgrimage, we visited Antioch, present-day Antakya, one of the most important cities in the story of the early Church. There we entered St. Peter’s Grotto, the ancient cave where, according to tradition, the Apostle Peter preached and the first believers gathered for prayer and worship. And from this modest grotto, the Gospel would travel across nations and generations. The Scripture says, that “it was in Antioch that the disciples were first called Christians” (Acts

With our pilgrims, we gathered in the Armenian Church in Iskenderun to pray for all those whose lives were lost on September 11, and for the families who still carry the pain of that day. September 11 is a date that awakens memories for so many of us. We remember where we were, what we were doing, and the disbelief with which we watched the events unfold. My own thoughts drift back to where I was all those years ago—in Sevan, Armenia, at the Vazgenyan Theological Seminary. It

Yesterday, we traveled into the historic region of Cilicia, once a great center of Armenian faith and life. We visited Kozan, Anavarza, ancient Sis—the former capital of the Armenian Kingdom of Cilicia and, for centuries, the seat of the Armenian Catholicosate. Kings once ruled here. Catholicoi prayed here. Churches, monasteries, and schools formed generations in the Christian faith. Although much of that visible world has disappeared, its spiritual voice has never fallen sil

Last Tuesday, as we ended our visit to the ancient city of Ani and turned back toward its weathered walls, something among the dust and scattered stones caught my eye. It was the Armenian letter Է—Eh. I picked it up and held it before our pilgrims. Somehow, finding that seventh letter among the ruins of Ani felt like more than a coincidence. It felt like a quiet message. Է is the seventh letter of the Armenian alphabet. In Scripture, seven is often the number of fullness and

Today, as we entered St. Giragos Armenian Church in Diyarbakir, I was struck by the vastness of its sanctuary. It is considered the largest Armenian church in the Middle East. Our guide told us that in the early 1880s, a fire swept through the sanctuary and left it in ruins. After losing so much, the community had every reason to rebuild something smaller. A modest chapel would have been understandable. They chose otherwise, and by 1883, St. Giragos had risen again—larger tha

Yesterday I had the immense honor and blessing of celebrating Badarak at the Armenian Monastery of the Holy Cross on Akhtamar Island, surrounded by the blue waters of Lake Van. There, faith, history, and place came together in a way words cannot fully express. For more than 1,100 years, countless Badaraks have been celebrated within those sacred walls. Generations of priests have stood before that altar, and generations of faithful have offered their prayers there. We offere

Our boat cut across Lake Van this morning, headed for Akhtamar Island and the Monastery of the Holy Cross. Somewhere in the middle of that crossing, with water on every side, I found myself praying words written by a man who knew this lake far better than I ever will: St. Gregory of Narek. St. Gregory lived his whole life at the monastery of Narekavank, on the southern shore of this same lake. He watched it for years — calm some days, violent on others. Slowly, the lake becam

Growing up in Yerevan, Armenia, I could see Mount Ararat from the window of our apartment. Every day, it stood there majestic, silent, and seemingly close enough to touch. Yesterday, many years later, I stood with our pilgrims at the foot of Mount Ararat, this time from the other side. I was no longer looking through a window. The mountain that had filled the horizon of my childhood now rose directly before us. Standing there I thought about Noah and his family, about the flo

In front of the altar of the Soorp Asdvadzadzin Cathedral in Ani Today, we visited Ani, once the magnificent capital of the Armenian kingdom. Ani was no small outpost. In 961, King Ashot III made it the capital of the Armenian kingdom, and under the Bagratuni dynasty it grew into something extraordinary. “A city of a thousand and one churches”, they used to say, a crossroads of merchants and monks, scholars and kings. Yet the king who helped make Ani magnificent is remembered

A suitcase can be packed in an afternoon. A soul takes longer to prepare. We fold our clothes, check the weather, gather our documents, and make sure we have everything we need. But a pilgrimage requires another kind of preparation. The heart must grow quiet, the mind attentive, and the soul open to whatever God desires to reveal. As the Psalmist writes, "Blessed are those whose strength is in you, whose hearts are set on pilgrimage" (Psalm 84:5). Today, we begin our diocesan

On Sunday, August 30, I celebrated the last Episcopal Badarak at St. Vartan Armenian Cathedral before its temporary closure for a comprehensive interior renovation. It was an emotional day for me and for our entire Cathedral community. These sacred walls hold generations of memories: baptisms and weddings, ordinations and funerals, joyful celebrations and quiet moments of prayer. Yet, in the language of faith, a last moment is often the beginning of something new. We are not

Last January, during our pilgrimage to Jerusalem, our group visited St. Savior Armenian Monastery and its cemetery. We walked quietly among the graves of people from every walk of life—the powerful and the weak, the wealthy and the poor, the celebrated and the unknown. Yet in that cemetery, all those differences had disappeared. Each person had become a name written on stone. Some stones were large and beautifully carved. Others were simple and modest. But every stone carried

These days, we are cleaning and emptying St. Vartan Cathedral before the renovation begins. The sanctuary itself is familiar, beautiful, and orderly. But behind the spaces everyone sees and downstairs in the basement are rooms filled with things that have accumulated over many years; boxes, papers, keys, furniture, and objects someone once thought might be useful. Renovation begins with emptying. The same is often true of the human heart. We all have hidden rooms where we pla

Midnight is a strange time to sing, especially in a prison. The Book of Acts tells us that Paul and Silas were arrested for preaching the Gospel. They were stripped, beaten, and thrown into the darkest part of a prison. Their feet were fastened in stocks. Their bodies were wounded, and they had no reason to believe that morning would bring anything better. Yet Scripture tells us, “About midnight Paul and Silas were praying and singing hymns to God” (Acts 16:25). Their song wa

We have never had so much spiritual knowledge at our fingertips, and yet many of us still feel spiritually tired. With a few taps, we can listen to a sermon, join a Bible study, learn about the saints, or watch an explanation of the Badarak. We can spend hours moving from one teaching to another, always discovering something new. Our minds keep filling, but our hearts remain restless. Perhaps the problem is not that we need one more teaching. Perhaps we need to begin living w

In Armenian, two words can both be translated as “fear”: վախ—vakh and երկիւղ—yergyoogh. Yet spiritually they describe two very different movements of the human heart. Vakh is ordinary fear, the fear that makes us hide. Yergyugh is holy awe, the reverence that draws us closer to God. After Adam disobeyed God, he heard the Lord walking in the garden and hid among the trees. “I was afraid,” he confessed (Genesis 3:10). This is vakh, the ordinary fear of danger, pain, punishment,

This past weekend, I returned to Holy Virgin Mary and Shoghagat Armenian Church in Belleville, Illinois, in the greater St. Louis area, where I began my ministry in America in 2015. On Saturday, members of my parish family joined me in the kitchen to prepare Nushkhar, the bread of Holy Communion. For two years, preparing Nushkhar was part of my Sunday morning rhythm. Even now, whenever I make this sacred bread, I remember the words of St. Paul: “Because there is one bread, we