In 2005, I was gifted a book called Slander, by Ann Coulter. There's no other way of describing my experience of reading that book than to say that it was responsible for my political birth, for good and for ill. I learned from Ann that mainstream media is agenda driven, not facts driven. I also learned from her that historians, like scientists, are generally not unbiased observers. They bring political philosophies and personal hobby horses to bear on events of the past and present. As obvious as these things are to most adults, these were world shaking revelations to me in 2005. "Truth is everywhere at risk!" I realized, and set about a self-appointed quest to contend for its preservation in my own small ways.
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In early 2015, twenty-one Coptic Christians were forced to their knees and beheaded on a Libyan beach by members of ISIS. The event was captured on video by the killers and released on the internet. Rightly, there was a worldwide groan from Christians of many differing traditions about the evil of ISIS's barbaric act. Not only that, but there was also an equally ecumenical reverence for the martyrdom of those men, many of whom could be heard crying out, "Lord Jesus Christ!" at the final moment before their heads were severed from their bodies.
Not everyone was impressed. With the onset of Lenten abstentions barely nine days hence, I recently got to reminiscing about my first Paschal liturgy. It's an experience I've always envisioned telling as one event along the lengthy timeline of my Orthodox conversion, but as a working, married father of four, writing that complete history seems to become less feasible as time elapses. Given the nearness of the Paschal season and the fact that I haven't written anything in months, I felt this a worthy exercise.
On April 16, 2002, I was in the living area of my dorm watching something stupid on TV when I heard my phone ring down the hall. It was my Dad. "Hey Dad," I casually answered. My dad has never stood on ceremony for much of anything, and this moment was no exception. "I have some bad news," he said. "Nani came home from running errands this morning and found Papa dead in his armchair." I was instantly breathless. "Oh, wow. Oh my goodness," I managed. In the moment, I was as stunned by the news as I was confused about how to converse with my Dad about his father having just died. I quickly resorted to logistics. "When is the funeral? Where is it? Do I need to fly to Corpus Christi?" I asked. My Dad responded with some details about plans that were in the works, but I was beginning to glaze over. I was having a vision of Papa greeting me as a little boy in his driveway when we'd arrive for summer vacation. I was thinking of his hugs (they were way too tight and always painful). I was thinking of his voice and the gap in his front teeth when he smiled. Then Death whispered to me: "He doesn't exist anymore." Mentally I rejoined the phone conversation at that point, but only to tell my Dad that I needed to take some time to myself. "I gotta go, Dad," I interrupted, my voice clearly faltering. "Ok," he replied, his own voice no longer strong. I hung up the phone, then fell on my face in my bed and wept aloud like I hadn't since I was a toddler.
This post is the second in a multi-part series chronicling my journey from Evangelicalism to Eastern Orthodoxy. See Part 1 here.
[UPDATE: Let the reader be advised that most in this ongoing series of posts will begin with a snapshot of an event late in my Orthodox journey, followed by a return to picking up chronologically where the previous post left off. I had the original idea of that literary approach becoming evident over the course of the series, but a friend has pointed out something that necessitates a preemptive explanation of that choice. Specifically, it was brought to my attention that my parents appear in an unflattering light in this post because of their initial question to me when we sat down to discuss our new church inclinations. I mean to convey in upcoming posts that I've had more than a few fruitful discussions with both of my parents in the last year, and they have both entertained my family's venture into Orthodoxy with grace and love. They have blessed my wife and I with the space to do this to a degree many in our position have not been so fortunate as to experience.] As a 34-year-old who was raised and formally educated as an Evangelical, it may sound strange that my family are on the cusp of entry into the Orthodox Church. It's particularly confusing to Evangelical friends and family who have known me for a long time, and this series of posts I'm beginning is meant largely for them. But it's my hope that these might also serve as a soft touch point for Orthodox inquirers out there who, like myself once upon a time, are looking for present day conversion stories that may help them better understand their own journey (and give them hope!). So to you, inquirer, fear not. The journey is necessary and worth it. To my friends and family asking "Why?," I hope this account will be accessible, personable and satisfying. It's probably unavoidable that some will find grounds for disagreement or even frustration with some of my theological turns over the last 4+ years, but after this series is complete, at least my journey should be demystified.
Journeys of faith are bizarre. And by journeys of faith, I don't refer broadly to "going through hard times." Rather, I mean the experience of suffering through a protracted shifting of belief about something (or some things) that can involve the painful uprooting of long held and cherished non-negotiables. I want to take this moment to divulge such a journey as I have been on for nearly three and a half years now, and on which my wife blessedly came to join me in recent months.
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