Entries by stjohn

BIRTH OF GARNIK KALASHIAN

Garnik Kalashian had a short, but intense life both as a poet and a public person.

He was born on May 16, 1885. He graduated from the Nersisian School of Tiflis in 1906. He participated in the activities of the local Armenian Literary of Society and the literary circle led by Hovhannes Tumanian, called “Vernatun” (Cenacle). In 1907, he became an auditor in the Commercial Institute of Moscow. He was proficient in half a dozen languages.

Kalashian established close ties with the revolutionary students at the Lazarian College of Moscow and participated in demonstrations, while he also distributed pamphlets….

HELD IN HIS HANDS

During the summer months, I like to take my evening walks from St. Vartan Cathedral to St. Patrick’s Cathedral and back—2.6 miles through the heart of New York City. And right there at the entrance of Rockefeller Center, there’s a famous statue of Atlas. This bronze figure is straining under the weight of the entire world on his shoulders. You can feel the pressure in his muscles. That’s how many of us are living. Carrying the weight of the world on our shoulders.

And yet, just across the street, tucked inside the quiet of St. Patrick’s Cathedral, there’s another statue. This one is of Jesus, just a boy. And He, too, is holding the whole world, but effortlessly in his hand. He’s not straining, He’s not …

THE GIFT OF TRUE FRIENDSHIP

We live in a world that tries to measure success by how many followers you have, how many likes you get, and how big your circle is. God doesn’t measure your life by your follower count. He’s not impressed by numbers; He’s looking for quality. And He knows how to send the right people into your life at the right time-people who see you, who get you, who know how to bring out your joy.

Proverbs 27:9 says, “A sweet friendship refreshes the soul.” God never meant for you to walk through life alone. He created you for connection, for community. He knew there would be times when you’d feel overwhelmed, times when your smile might fade, and times when your faith might waver.

KEEP SINGING YOUR SONG

When I was 14 years old, my brother and I auditioned for the “Mankunq” boys’ choir at the Araratian Diocese. We were excited, full of dreams. The director, Mr. Shota Vardanyan, God rest his soul, listened to us sing. And after a few minutes, he looked at us and said, “I’m sorry, boys…I don’t think singing is really your thing. Try something else.”

My brother took those words to heart and stepped away from singing completely. But something inside me wouldn’t let go. There was a calling. The beauty of the hymns, their depth, their soul got into my spirit. I couldn’t walk away. I didn’t know how it would happen, but I believed God had placed that love for music in me for a reason.

APPARITION OF THE HOLY CROSS

The Apparition of the Holy Cross is the first feast dedicated to the Holy Cross in the Armenian liturgical calendar. It is celebrated in remembrance of the appearance of the sign of the cross over the city of Jerusalem in 351 that remained in the sky for several hours.

BIRTH OF ZAHRAD

Zahrad, one of the most influential names of Armenian poetry in the second half of the twentieth century, was born Zareh Yaldizciyan on May 10, 1924, in the Nişantaşi district of Istanbul. He lost his father, who had been a jurist, adviser, and translator for the Ottoman Foreign Ministry, at the age of three. His mother remarried and he grew up with his maternal grandfather Levon Vartanyan.

In 1942 he graduated from the Mekhitarist Lyceum of Istanbul. He attended the Faculty of Medicine of Istanbul University but dropped after a while in order to work. He published his first poem in the daily Jamanak with the pseudonym Zahrad in 1943. His first collection of poetry, The Big City, appeared in 1960. He married Anayis Antreasian in 1963.

STITCHED BY THE MASTER’S HAND

Woburn, Massachusetts, where we held our 123rd Annual Diocesan Assembly last week, was once renowned for its shoemaking industry. We stayed at the Hilton in Woburn, and my hotel room was decorated throughout with reminders of that legacy, as you can see in the photo. Shelves filled with sewing machines, wooden shoe forms, and spools of thick thread. All the tools of the trade.

That room took me back to a cold winter in Armenia, back in the early 90s. Times were tough. We didn’t always have electricity. We didn’t have heat. We had to burn wood in old-fashioned stoves just to stay warm. And sometimes, when wood was hard to find, we’d burn books—volumes of Lenin, to be exact. But secretly, I would save the covers, made out of leather.

EVERY STEP WITH GOD

After my accident, once I was back on my feet, I felt a fire in my spirit. A strong desire. A calling from the Lord to get out there—to be with the people, to walk beside our communities, to hear their stories and share in their journey.

And I made a commitment: to visit every corner of this Diocese, every church, every mission parish, every emerging community. And by God’s grace, I can now say that this very weekend, I reached that goal, visiting every outpost of our Diocese at least once as Diocesan Primate. 60 parishes. 60 beautiful, vibrant communities of faith.

LOVE IN A LUNCH BAG

Last Thursday, during our Annual Diocesan Assembly with the clergy, delegates, and faithful members of our Diocese, we packed 750 lunches for local shelters and food pantries. The theme of our Assembly this year was: “Love One Another.” And we didn’t just speak it, we lived it. We put love into action, one sandwich at a time.

The Eagle-Tribune snapped our photos, and I’m grateful they did. But even the sharpest camera can’t capture the invisible: the compassion woven into every bag, the quiet prayer spoken over each meal, the light dancing in a volunteer’s eyes because they knew what they were doing mattered.

RED SUNDAY

The fourth Sunday of Eastertide is known as Red Sunday (Garmir Giragi, Կարմիր Կիրակի). The name does not have an ecclesiastical origin. Red is the color of blood, and this may be an appropriate time to honor the memory of the early Christian martyrs.