When I first came to the United States in 2015, my initial assignment was in St. Louis, Missouri. Before that, I had spent more than ten years serving Armenian communities in France, Switzerland, and Belgium. My daily life was in French. I knew the language, understood the culture, and felt comfortable in my ministry. Then God opened a completely new door. Usually, clergy arriving from overseas spend some time at St. Nersess Seminary. They improve their English, learn about A

In Armenia, people often use the expression «ցավդ տանեմ» — Tsavt tanem, which literally means, “Let me take your pain.” I heard it often growing up, especially when I was sick or hurting. My mother and father, and my grandparents, would say to me, «Tsavt tanem.» As a child, I simply received those words as love and comfort. I did not think much about their meaning. But the older I get, the more I understand how profound they are. Tsavt tanem is more than an expression of symp

We live in a world that celebrates multitasking. We answer emails while eating lunch, check messages during meetings, listen to someone while thinking about the next thing we need to do, and move from one responsibility to another without ever really stopping. Sometimes we even feel proud of it. The more we can juggle, the more productive we think we are. But eventually, something gets dropped. The other day I was watching a waiter in a restaurant carrying several plates at o

Sometimes we imagine that strong faith means being strong in the face of unbearable loss. We think we should have fewer questions, shed fewer tears, or somehow carry our grief with greater courage. But grief has no timetable, and God never asks us to hide our broken hearts from Him. There is a very short verse in the Gospel that has always touched me deeply: “Jesus wept” (John 11:35). Jesus knew He was about to raise Lazarus from the dead. He knew the tomb would open and His

Psychologists say that people need three things to be happy: something to do, something to love, and something to look forward to. There is wisdom in that. We need meaningful work, someone beyond ourselves to love, and hope that gives us a reason to rise each morning, believing that tomorrow can be better. But these three things alone are not enough to be happy. We must also ask: Am I doing the right thing? Am I loving the right thing? Am I hoping for the right thing? We can

Imagine a beautiful bell hanging high in a church tower. It has been carefully shaped and polished. But inside, one small piece is missing: the clapper, the piece that strikes the bell and gives it a voice. Everything is in place for the sound to travel across the town. Yet the bell remains silent. Armenian poet Paruyr Sevak offers a similar image of the home: “A home without children is like a bell without a clapper.” I believe this image speaks to the Church as well. We res

Today we celebrate the Independence Day of Armenia. I think of the independence of Armenia as a testimony, as a declaration that no power, no empire, no obstacle can erase the destiny God has placed on His people. It’s about God’s faithfulness. It’s about His hand guiding a nation through valleys, through fires, through long nights of captivity, and bringing them into the morning of new life. After nine hundred years without sovereignty, after centuries of oppression and stru

It is always a joy to be back in Chicago. Whenever I visit, I am reminded of the beauty and energy of this great city. One of the city’s most familiar landmarks is Cloud Gate, better known as “The Bean.” People gather around its polished surface to see themselves reflected alongside Chicago’s beautiful skyline. But the reflection is not always accurate. Depending on where you stand, you may appear taller, shorter, wider, or strangely curved. The image may be real, but it is d

Two weeks ago, while I was in Van preparing to leave the hotel for our pilgrimage to Varagavank, I felt a quiet prompting: “Take your Banageh with you.” The Banageh, or Enkolpion, is the episcopal medallion bearing the image of the Holy Mother of God holding the Christ Child. While traveling in Turkey, I had generally kept visible religious symbols discreet. So instead of wearing it, I slipped it into my pocket and went to join our pilgrims. I did not know why I felt I should

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