I thought the following story might be enjoyed by many on this list in light of recent conversations on this list about repeating things in church services. It was told to me by an OCA priest, who had heard it from a hierarch.
In Warsaw, in the 1950s, when Communism was strong, three young Communist men were walking past the cathedral on Holy Friday at about noon. The young men realized the significance of the day to Christians and came to the agreement that they ought to go into the cathedral and make a statement, on behalf of "enlightened" communists. They drew straws to decide who would make the statement, and one of the young men went in. So they went in, and, like many young men who don't go to church, felt a little awkward and weren't quite sure what to do.
There happened to be a hierodeacon working in the church between services who spotted the young men coming in and recognized that something was going on. He went up to the young man that was to make the statement, as he was kind of standing towards the front of the group, and asked if he could help him. The young man looked back at his friends, who motioned for him to go ahead and talk to the hierodeacon. The young man, walking with an air of purpose, said, "yes, we would like to make a statement. We don't believe in all this nonsense, and we would like to make a statement."
"Sure. Sure," the monk responded. He put his arms around the young man and brought him to the front of the temple, where the corpus was still on the Cross, while the other young men watched from a distance at the back of the temple. "I tell you what I think you should do: Look up here at Jesus crucified, and say, "You died for me, and I don't give a damn."
The young man thought about it, decided that that wasn't too hard, and said, in a loud voice, "You died for me, and I don't give a damn!"
"Very good, very good," replied the hierodeacon. "But, of course, in the Orthodox Church we like to repeat things, so go ahead and say it again."
The young man was a bit taken aback by that, because he thought he had finished with his statement, but he looked up at Christ on the Cross again and said, in not so loud a voice, "You died for me, and I don't give a damn."
"Very good, very good," replied the hierodeacon again. "But I was thinking, and if you REALLY want to make a statement that the Orthodox will respect you should say it one last time, because we are a trinitarian faith, and the Orthodox are always saying things in threes. Yes, I think you should definitely say it one more time."
This time you could see that the young man was totally beaten down by this last suggestion of the monk, but he pulled himself up for one last "statement." "You died for me," he began, but then collapsed on his knees, sitting on the floor in front of the Cross. "And I care," he whispered and began crying.
The priest who told me this story said that the young man in the story was the same hierarch who told him the story.
Christ is Risen!
Reader Andrew Moulton
---------- Forwarded message ---------- Date: Mon, 10 Apr 2000 23:56:06 -0400 From: idamestoy1@juno.com Reply-To: orthodox-synod@egroups.com To: orthodox-synod@egroups.com Subject: [orthodox-synod] The Lenten Garden
As spring approaches, think about planting this garden:
Plant three rows of peas: * Peace of mind * Peace of heart * Peace of soul.
Plant four rows of squash: * Squash gossip * Squash indifference * Squash grumbling * Squash selfishness.
Plant four rows of lettuce: * Lettuce be faithful * Lettuce be kind * Lettuce be happy * Lettuce really love one another.
No garden should be without turnips: * Turnip for service when needed * Turnip to help one another.
Water freely with patience and cultivate with love. There will be much fruit in your garden ... we reap what we sow.
To conclude our garden we must have thyme: * Thyme for Christ * Thyme for others * Thyme for love.
Pretty nice garden, don't you think?
>---------- Forwarded message ----------
Date: Sun, 25 Oct 1998 23:03:25 -0500
From: Cherry Family
When I was quite young, my father had one of the first telephones in our
neighborhood. I remember well the polished old case fastened to the wall.
The shiny receiver hung on the side of the box. I was too little to reach
the telephone, but used to listen with fascination when my mother used to
talk to it. Then I discovered that somewhere inside the wonderful device
lived an amazing person - her name was "Information Please" and there was
nothing she did not know. "Information Please" could supply anybody's
number
and the correct
time.
My first personal experience with this genie-in the-bottle came one day
while my mother was visiting a neighbor. Amusing myself at the tool bench
in
the basement, I whacked my finger with a hammer. The pain was terrible, but
there didn't seem to be any reason in crying because there was no one home
to give sympathy. I walked around the house sucking my throbbing finger,
finally arriving at the stairway.
The telephone! Quickly, I ran for the foot stool in the parlor and dragged
it to the landing. Climbing up, I unhooked the receiver in the parlor and
held it to my ear. "Information Please," I said into the mouthpiece just
above my head. A click or two and a small clear voice spoke into my ear.
"Information"
"I hurt my finger..." I wailed into the phone. The tears came readily
enough
now that I had an audience.
"Isn't your mother home?" came the question.
"Nobody's home but me." I blubbered.
"Are you bleeding?" the voice asked.
"No," I replied. "I hit my finger with the hammer and it hurts."
"Can you open your icebox?" she asked. I said I could. "Then chip off a
little piece of ice and hold it to your finger," said the voice.
After that, I called "Information Please" for everything. I asked her for
help with my geography and she told me where Philadelphia was. She helped
me
with my math. She told me my pet chipmunk, that I had caught in the park
just he day before, would eat fruit and nuts.
Then, there was the time Petey, our pet canary died. I called "Information
Please" and told her the sad story. She listened, then said the usual
things
grown-ups say to soothe a child. But I was unconsoled. I asked her, "Why is
it that birds should sing so beautifully and bring joy to all families,
only
to end up as a heap of feathers on the bottom of a cage?"
She must have sensed my deep concern, for she said quietly, "Paul, always
remember that there are other worlds to sing in." Somehow I felt better.
Another day I was on the telephone. "Information Please."
"Information," said the now familiar voice.
"How do you spell fix?" I asked.
All this took place in a small town in the Pacific Northwest. When I was 9
years old, we moved across the country to Boston. I missed my friend very
much.
"Information Please" belonged in that old wooden box back home, and I
somehow never thought of trying the tall, shiny new phone that sat on the
table in the hall.
As I grew into my teens, the memories of those childhood conversations
never
really left me. Often, in moments of doubt and perplexity I would recall
the
serene sense of security I had then. I appreciated now how patient,
understanding, and kind she was to have spent her time on a little boy.
A few years later, on my way west to college, my plane put down in Seattle.
I had about half an hour or so between planes. I spent 15 minutes or so on
the phone with my sister, who lived there now. Then without thinking what I
was doing, I dialed my hometown operator and said, "Information, Please."
Miraculously, I heard the small, clear voice I knew so well, "Information."
I hadn't planned this but I heard myself saying, "Could you please tell me
how to spell fix?"
There was a long pause. Then came the soft spoken answer, "I guess your
finger must have healed by now."
I laughed. "So it's really still you," I said. "I wonder if you have any
idea how much you meant to me during that time."
"I wonder", she said, "if you know how much your calls meant to me. I never
had any children, and I used to look forward to your calls."
I told her how often I had thought of her over the years and I asked if I
could call her again when I came back to visit my sister.
"Please do," she said. "Just ask for Sally."
Three months later I was back in Seattle. A different voice answered,
"Information."
I asked for Sally.
"Are you a friend?" She said.
"Yes, a very old friend," I answered.
"I'm sorry to have to tell you this, she said. Sally had been working
part-time the last few years because she was sick. She died five weeks
ago."
Before I could hang up she said, "Wait a minute. Did you say your name was
Paul?"
"Yes."
"Well, Sally left a message for you. She wrote it down in case you called.
Let me read it to you." The note said, "Tell him I still say there are
other
worlds to sing in. He'll know what I mean."
Anonymous
Never underestimate the impression you may make on others. Whose life have
you touched today?
BETWEEN THE DASHES
I read of a man who stood to speak
At the funeral of a friend
He referred to the dates on her tombstone
From the beginning...to the end.
He noted that first came her date of birth
And spoke the following date with tears,
But he said what mattered most of all
Was the dash between those years. (1934 -1998)
For that dash represents all the time
That she spent alive on earth...
And now only those who loved her
Know what that little line is worth.
For it matters not how much we own;
The cars...the house...the cash,
What matters is how we live and love
And how we spend our dash.
So think about this long and hard...
Are there things you'd like to change?
For you never know how much time is left,
That can still be rearranged.
If we could just slow down enough
To consider what's true and real,
And always try to understand
The way other people feel.
And be less quick to anger,
And show appreciation more
And love the people in our lives
Like we've never loved before.
If we treat each other with respect,
And more often wear a smile..
Remembering that this special dash
Might only last a little while.
So, when your eulogy's being read
With your life's actions to rehash...
Would you be proud of the things they say
About how you spent your dash?
School Prayer
>
>
Now I sit me down in school
Where praying is against the rule.
For this great nation under God
Finds mention of Him very odd.
If Scripture now the class recites
It violates the Bill of Rights.
Anytime my head I bow
Becomes a federal matter now.
The law is specific; the law is precise.
Praying out loud is no longer nice.
>
Praying aloud in a public hall
Upsets those who believe in nothing at all.
In silence alone we can meditate
And if God should get the credit-great!
They are bringing their guns;
I don't dare bring my Bible,
To do so, might make me liable.
So, now Oh Lord, this silent plea I make;
Should I be shot in school,
My soul please take.
>
WRITTEN BY A 12 YEAR-OLD-GIRL in Boston
Date: Tue, 22 May 2001 22:36:21 -0400
From: nick cobb
Subject: Puppies for sale
A Storeowner was tacking a sign above his door,
"Puppies for Sale."
The signs have a way of attracting children. Soon
a little boy appeared at
the sign and asked, "How much are you gonna sell
those puppies for?"
The store owner replied, "Anywhere from $30-$50."
The little boy reached
into his pocket and pulled out some change. "I
have $2.37, can I look at
them?"
The storeowner smiled and whistled. Out of the
kennel came his dog named
Lady, running down the aisle of his store followed
by five little puppies.
One puppy was lagging considerably behind.
Immediately the little boy
singled out the lagging, limping puppy.
He asked, "What's wrong with that little dog?"
The man explained that when
the puppy was born the vet said that this puppy
had a bad hip socket and
would limp for the rest of his life.
The little boy got really excited and said "That's
the puppy I want to buy!"
The man replied "No, you don't want to buy that
little dog. If you really
want him, I'll give him to you."
The little boy got upset. He looked straight into
the man's eyes and said "I don't want you to give him to me! He is worth
every bit as much as the
other
dogs and I'll pay the full price. In fact, I will
cents every month until I have him paid for."
The man countered, "You really don't want to buy
this puppy son. He is
never
gonna be able to run, jump and play like other
puppies."
The little boy reached down and rolled up his pant
leg to reveal a badly
twisted, crippled left leg supported by a big
metal brace. He looked up at
the man and said, "Well, I don't run so well
myself and the little puppy
will
need someone who understands."
The man was now biting his bottom lip. Tears
welled up in his eyes. He
smiled and said "Son, I hope and pray that each
and every one of these
puppies will have an owner such as you."
IN LIFE, IT DOESN'T MATTER WHO YOU ARE, BUT
WHETHER SOMEONE APPRECIATES YOU
FOR WHAT YOU ARE; AND STILL ACCEPTS YOU AND LOVES
YOU UNCONDITIONALLY.
A REAL FRIEND IS ONE WHO WALKS IN WHEN THE REST OF
THE WORLD WALKS AWAY.
What The Spirit of Christmas
Means To Me
Written by Greg Burnes
As a child, I grew up in a little town called GeorgenBorn, located about 30
kilometers outside Wiesbaden, Germany. Those were happy days. Playing in
the woods. Taking long walks hunting for wild berries and mushrooms with my
mother. Sledding down snow covered hills in the winter. Catching wild
rabbit with the old stick and box trap (and immediately letting them go
'cause they were so cute).
I remember one Christmas in particular. Things weren't going too well for
my mother. She'd been laid off from work and she was having more than a few
personal troubles. To say that we were poor that year would be an
understatement. The day before Christmas, she sat my brother and I down and
told us that there was no money for Christmas presents that year. She then
picked up a book and read us a story. I don't know which story it was, but
I do remember that it was about the spirit of Christmas, of giving and
sharing that spirit with your family and friends. Not about that bicycle or
BB gun you want or all the other presents that come with the day. To say
the least, my brother and I were sad about not being able to get any
presents that year. What little boys wouldn't be? However, I do remember
that after hearing that story, it took some of the sting out of our
situation. What it must have felt like for my mother to have to say these
things to two bright-eyed little boys, I can't even imagine.
That Christmas eve, my mother went into town and bought a copy of the New
York Times Sunday edition newspaper. She left us with the landlords. They
were an elderly German couple and they always treated us like the
grandchildren they never had. Some time in the evening they asked us what
we were getting for Christmas and we told them (as innocently as two little
boys do) about our situation. Being stoic Germans, they didn't say another
word about it for they must have realized how embarrassing it would be for
my mother if it ever came up again. I do remember that both had tears in
their eyes as they quickly changed the subject.
That night my mother made a huge paper Christmas tree out of the New York
Times newspaper she bought. We decorated it with wild holly and strung wild
berries and popcorn on dental floss. We turned out all the lights and lit
some candles. We then sat around the tree singing Christmas carols and
eating Saltine crackers with peanut butter and jelly because that was all
we had to eat. As she sent my brother and I to sleep, I turned back to look
at my mother and the handmade Christmas tree. She was sitting there with
her head in her hands sobbing. I quickly ran back to her and gave her a big
hug and told her everything was going to be OK. She smiled down at me and
told me she knew.
We woke up the next day to the realization that there wasn't going to be
any presents under the tree, but that it was OK. We had each other and
thankfully, we had our health.
We spent the day sledding down snow covered slopes, making a snow man,
building a snow fort and having snow ball fights with the neighborhood
kids.
That night as my mother was looking through the cupboard to try and figure
out what she could make for dinner, there was a knock on the door. Our
landlords were standing there smiling from ear to ear. As is the custom,
they began to sing carols to us from the front porch. We all stood there
and listened to the wonderful songs they sang. After they finished, my
mother invited them in for a cup of tea. They shook their heads and said
that they couldn't, but that she should get herself and her two boys ready
because they had somewhere special to take us. My mother began to object,
but there was no stopping them.
They piled us all into their car and we headed out. Just as the sun set, we
turned off the Autobahn and started heading down an old country road lined
with majestic trees that were older than all the people in the car
combined. We recognized that we were heading to the local game warden's
house, a kind old man who had become a good family friend. We used to see
him all the time on our walks through the woods. He would always join us
and teach my brother and I which mushrooms we could pick and which ones
were poisonous, which berries could be eaten and which ones to stay away
from, or even how to make a nutritious tea out of the lichen and moss you
find growing on trees, or which tracks came from different animals and how
to track them all. He and his family had come to our house on many
occasions for dinner or just a visit.
As we came to his cabin's front door, he was waiting on the porch. He gave
us all a big hug and invited us in after wishing everybody a Merry
Christmas. I remember my mother being very confused and full of questions
like, "what's going on?"
The old hunter wouldn't say a thing, but herded us up into the sitting room
and gave all three of us strict instructions not to come out until the
bells rang. Confused, we just kind of let him shut the door without another
word. I remember we only sat for about 10 minutes, but because of all the
mystery, it seemed like ages, especially to two young boys with no
patience.
Suddenly from upstairs through the door, we heard an absolute racket of
Christmas bells and shouts of greetings and glee. That was it, the signal.
My mother held us back as she cracked open the door to the hallway. The
noise was coming from the upstairs. She tentatively started creeping up the
stairs with my brother and I in tow. At the top of the landing, it became
too much. My brother and I broke from behind our mother and made a dash for
the huge double doors that were hiding all this noise. We crashed through
them like two tiny steam rollers. The sight before us was almost beyond
description. The room was in absolute darkness except for the 8 foot blue
spruce, completely decorated in traditional German style. Close your eyes
and think of a live Christmas tree. Now, decorate it with hundreds of shiny
glass balls, miniature brass trumpets, harps, wrapped boxes, angels and
small red holly berries. Real lead tinsel hung everywhere looking like
shards of mirrored icicles. Now clip about 50 small white candles in silver
acorn holders on every little branch that you can find. On top of that,
light about 40 or so sparklers in the tree. To say that it was a heavenly
sight just doesn't seem to do it justice.
In the room was the old game warden and his family, our landlords and all
the friends my mother had made while living in that neighborhood. Each and
every one of them had a grin from ear to ear. As the sparklers died down,
they all began to sing traditional German Christmas carols. My brother and
I looked up at my mom with big shiny eyes filled with the reflection of
every little candle on that Christmas tree. She was in absolute tears. But,
even at my young age, I could tell that these were tears of joy, not tears
of fear or doubt or sorrow. The smile on her face said it all.
That wasn't even the beginning of it though. Under the Christmas tree were
what looked like hundreds of presents. We all took seats. My mother sat
flanked by the old couple that just didn't seem like landlords anymore. My
brother and I plopped ourselves down in front of the Christmas tree, eyes
never leaving that heavenly spectacle. The old hunter sent his daughter to
the tree to start bringing out the presents. Lo and behold, most of them
had our names on them. My mother tried to protest, but no one would have
any of it.
Then came dinner, roasted wild pheasant, rabbit stew, grilled venison,
mounds of sausages, potatoes, vegetables and gravies. I'm not going to
bother with dessert, I'm sure you get the idea.
It was an absolutely breathtaking experience. For all of us. And I must say
it was the best Christmas I've ever had. The memory of it I will treasure
dearly throughout my life. I really think that it embodies what the spirit
of Christmas is all about.
I know that I will take the lessons learned that night with me everywhere I
go in this world.
This is a true Christmas story of when I was a child living in Germany