Dad's Tears on Veterans' Day

Few things made my father cry, and Sarkis was one of those.

Sarkis is forever-20 in my head. He was killed in Viet Nam on a day that I cannot forget. That day was one of renewal for the Armenians living in Los Angeles. It was the Summer of 1970 and for the first time, a group of dancers and musicians had journeyed from Armenia to fill our hearts and souls with the ancient culture. We were at the Wilshire Ebell Theater (Los Angeles) and it was a crowd akin to a rock concert today, with their enthusiasm and joy. I think it was Levon Gasoyan dancing Zourni Dringi or perhaps the Shepherd’s dance, when he demonstrated his acrobatic coordination, set to an Armenian tune and beat. It was the same dance I had seen Sarkis perform many times before his deployment to the war. Sarkis danced in the Jora Markarian Ensemble with my parents at the time.

That afternoon in the Ebell theater Sarkis’ father loudly applauding and cheering the Armenian dancer, probably remembering his son as he watched this demonstration from the homeland. It was on that day, later, that we found out that Sarkis had died in a grenade attack.

The details didn’t matter to my dad. He’d never really talk about it to us, his kids. But we would see the pain in his eyes.

A couple of times a year, we would go to honor our family dead at the Inglewood Park Cemetery. Both my grandfathers’ graves are at this cemetery and later, my grandmothers would be buried there as well. There was a ritual we’d go through – purchasing flowers at the cemetery florist, driving to the grave, searching the park trying to find the tombstones. We’d find one grandpa, clean the grave, place the flowers in the metal cup, say a prayer and listen while grandma would remember her husband. Then packing everyone in the car, we’d head over to the other grandpa’s grave. Same gestures of grave-cleaning, placing flowers, offering prayers, while the other grandma would have her turn to reflect here.

Before 1970, that was the end of the ritual. But things changed after Sarkis’ death. My dad would stop the car at Sarkis’ grave just before we left the park. We didn’t understand it quite well – after all, this dead person didn’t belong to us, why clean the grave? Place flowers? Offer a prayer? But dad had the keys to the car and he made the decisions. So we made this stop. There we would offer the same formula-prayer, but no grandma to talk, instead we’d see my dad cry. It was a silent witness to the big injustice of war. He couldn’t reconcile the notion of a young life being gone for a war no one understood. He’d shake his head. One time, I vaguely remember him saying something like “the grandpas died when they were old. There was no reason for Sarkis to die.”

We didn’t realize that there was more to my dad’s tears than Sarkis’ loss until many years later. It was at a local parade, when a group of soldiers and veteran’s marched by that my sister told me dad was crying away. He’d swell up with emotions over the loss of life during war.

My turn came at my dad’s funeral. I remember making it fairly well through the speeches and services both in the church and at the gravesite. But at the end of the service, when they removed old glory from the top of my dad’s casket, folded it and handed it to our mom, I lost it. They presented it to her saying, “This is for your husband’s service to his country.” My dad served as a medic in the Army during the Korean War. He never talked about it. He just was proud to be an American, understood the sacrifice to stay American and hurt that some people never had a chance to enjoy the fruits of their labor and sacrifice.

I know it was more than Sarkis that made him cry. It was the price of freedom. It was the nonsense of war. It was the injustice of the pick –the poor and naïve fought the wars brought about by the rich and educated.

This morning I heard that Obama was going to go through the Veteran’s Day ritual of placing a wreath at the tomb of the Unknown Soldiers. The newscaster may or may not have taken a breath before reporting the next story that Obama would then meet with his “war council” to deliberate about the Afghanistan war and US options. Today is Veteran’s Day. We honor the Veterans of all wars. Formerly it was called “Armistice Day” marking the end of the First World War. Either way, it’s connected to something for which we need to find a solution for the sake of our tears, for the sake of our lives.

Tweeting from an Ordination (for the record)

On October 12 & 13, the Western Diocese held its annual clergy conference in Rancho Mirage, California. At the conclusion of two days of meeting, Abp. Hovnan Derderian, Primate, accepted Deacon Martin into the priesthood and renamed him Father Krikor.

Below is a log of the tweets I sent from both the meetings and the ordination. Originally published on my Twitter account, I post them here merely as a matter of record. No more commentary than what you find in these small essays. These are in reverse chronological order. The time references are tagged with a clock at 10/14/09, at 11:30A.M. PDT

· We all are invited to receive kiss of peace from newly consecrated Fr. Krikor.about 18 hours ago

· Abp Hovnan gives blessing and now preachers from Prophet Ezekiel - to hear command of God.about 18 hours ago

· Fr. KRIKOR gives first blessing.about 18 hours ago

· Abp. Hovnan consecrates forehead of Fr. Krikor- newly named.about 18 hours ago

· Holy Miuron entering sanctuary.about 18 hours ago

· Fr. Arshag amazing voice.about 18 hours ago

· Hymn of vesting. Mystery deep, without beginning.about 18 hours ago

· Archbishop Hovnan now prays for 7 graces on Martin. Places vestments on him.about 18 hours ago

· United we recite the Creed.about 19 hours ago

· Luke 4:14 is read. This again is the mission- more tomorrow on Next Step podcast.about 19 hours ago

· Archbishop on behalf of the church calls Martin. Now in apostolic manner lays his hands on him.about 19 hours ago

· Turning away from worldly pursuits. We witness he is worthy.about 19 hours ago

· At St. Margarite Episcopal- Palm Desert.about 19 hours ago

· Martin approaches altar to receive order of priesthood.about 19 hours ago

· Discovered a Broadsword bootleg which added the flavor to this trip.about 20 hours ago

· Because none of us admit to belonging to this group.about 23 hours ago

· Little bit of knowledge is very dangerous thing. Frightening too.about 23 hours ago

· Chicken Little - The sky is falling.about 23 hours ago

· Eoff... (OK to try to pronounce it out loud. You'll know where i'm at.)about 23 hours ago from txt

· imagine Fr. McKenzie here. Wiping his hands... Anyone saved?about 24 hours ago

· MTday2- prayer is cool. Talk really is cheap.about 24 hours ago

· Satl'jan time.7:17 PM Oct 12th

· Ordination continues tomorrow.7:10 PM Oct 12th

· Remembers words of Karekin i, keeping image of God.7:05 PM Oct 12th

· Abp Hovnan reflecting on priesthood. Accenting mystery.7:03 PM Oct 12th

· Martin confesses the faith of the fathers.6:51 PM Oct 12th

· Martin renounces heretics.6:39 PM Oct 12th from txt

· Archbishop asking of his worthiness.6:38 PM Oct 12th

· Tiny clouds to the horizon. Gentle breeze.6:35 PM Oct 12th

· Open chr service in desert.6:33 PM Oct 12th

· Deacon Martin being called to the service of the Church.6:33 PM Oct 12th

· @suziesunshine - that's why i'm choosing to put these notes under the MT label. Btw. still going.5:26 PM Oct 12th

· Lively (no pun) discussion on creamation and suicide.5:17 PM Oct 12th

· The mind twist is this- make the square peg fit. There is no solution. It doesn't fit.3:53 PM Oct 12th

· Curvature of the spine- physically a sign of age? Otherwise defeat.3:14 PM Oct 12th

· @ahnoosh see early tweet re Mind Twister.3:02 PM Oct 12th

· Agree to call this the MT meeting? It's part of the 30% trade off to do the 70% work.2:58 PM Oct 12th

· @ahnoosh i was chopping down a palm tree when a friend came by and asked if ...he could help me swing the ax12:38 PM Oct 12th

· Starting a two day mind twist in the desert. Stand still on the 210 at Rialto.12:22 PM Oct 12th

Beyond the Ojakh (Ojax)

9/9/9 - We did it!

We "turned the devil over"! Not sure how far, but at least we had some fun doing it.

Last night, with the Epostle.net people, we took another step toward a virtual Armenian Church with our first STREAMING Bible Study. We had quite a few viewers. From first indications it seems like they were from the U.S. - I guess because of the time zone issues. Chicago and San Francisco were two of the big cities that joined our group in Glendale. We had a FANTASTIC turn out locally - and everyone seemed very engaged in the discussion.

AFTER the show was over, we found a LONG list of comments and chats. We're new at this, but hopefully, by next time we'll be able to aswer some of these questions and comments in real time.

The 9/9/9 Bible Study has been archived on the epostle site - via the Ustream site. My sincere thanks to Suzie Shatarevyan who produced the show and essentially made it happen. It's been a stressed-filled few weeks just getting to this milestone, but well worth it. We have submitted plans for a permanent electronic ministry and this was a necessary next step (building on the NEXT STEP). And I can't let the moment go without thanking all the regular Bible Study members for their prayers and constant support of the steady stream of steps we've been taking.

I saw an image the other day, of the iconic 1950's family - huddled around the TV and watching media provided to them by the networks. It was all branded - regulated, measured and provided. Today, we create our own brands. It's NOT uncommon - think about it in your own home - to have a TV turned-on in the background, while each member of the family is engaged in his/her own world on a video screen on his/her lap.

In the Armenian language, one of the words we use for "family" is "Ojakh." The word means "stove" but its easy to extrapolate its other meaning - it was the central huddle-area for the family. It gave heat and an opportunity for the family to converse and discuss. Also, a distance from the town, a count of the smokestacks would be a mini-census for an surveyor. The television set was the ojakh of the last century and the TV antennae on each house were the tally devises.

Our ojakh-s are of a different sort these days. Time evolves and history continues to be written. These are exciting times. Its an opportunity to bring together, to grow and love.

Off to

Searching for the Veedon Fleece

Mass at the Catholic Cathedral of Our Lady of the Angels

I’m not sure why this church affects me the way it does. It’s certainly not the type of church that I’d ordinarily associate with. It’s big. It seems impersonal. Still, it speaks to me like no other sanctuary in the Los Angeles area. My eyes swell up with tears and I find it hard to contain my emotions. It forces me to close my eyes and pray.

It’s getting to be a habit. I escape here on an annual pilgrimage of sorts. On the road to this sanctuary I listen to some haunting sounds from 1982 – Armenian chants and prayers that I’ve digitized from analog recordings. I get to hear my spiritual father and myself on this recording, exchanging words of ordination expressed in the finest of classical term. The words I hear mean so much more to me today and it makes me wonder. I think back to those days, and confess that at the time I didn’t fully understand the meaning of these words nor the thoughts behind them. In reciting them, I hear the attempts at a fluent reading and the quality of my voice, even from its analog sources, betrays a true naiveté.

Grabbing an extra breath in this huge church, I meditate on that naiveté: the dreams and intentions that were there. Happily, the dreams remain but the frustration of making them real are sometimes overwhelming. I think of the naiveté that young children are supposed to have; I think of my kids and know that life is moving at a difference pace today. Perhaps I can blame that uncontrollable momentum for my deafness to the sounds of naiveté in the youth today.

Maybe that’s why I come to this big cathedral on my ordination anniversary. It’s big. It’s spacious, yet it’s simple. It’s much like my life - unfolded now into a weave that's sometimes uncontrollably large, but the sight of a sunset or a child's smile brings me back to the simplest of pleasures. And, when in prayer, now with my eyes closed, I try to be in touch with that naiveté.

"Let the little children come to me, and do not hinder them, for the kingdom of heaven belongs to such as these." (Matthew 19)

Noon Mass – it is as grand and as simple as the Cathedral where it takes place: Procession in. A soloist sings the introit. The priest welcomes everyone to worship. The Holy Scripture is read and the priest speaks the sermon appropriate to the day. He then invites the congregants to prayer. He remembers the words of Institution and invokes the Holy Spirit to change the bread and wine to the Sacred Body and Blood. The Peace of Christ is proclaimed throughout the church with real hugs and handshakes. The congregation participates in the Holy Eucharist. And now… without any further delay… some 30 minutes after the service began… are you ready? The congregation is dismissed! And the Lord Jesus be with everyone. Amen.

It certainly was grand. It was overwhelming. It was simple. I imagine much like the Original Supper in the Upper Room. "Grand," "overwhelming" and "simple" would probably be terms used by the original twelve who ate with Jesus that evening.

We’ve complicated matters, haven’t we? We’ve lost our youth. We’ve lost our naiveté. But we don’t give up. This ministry began with Christ’s words from Luke 4* and it’s why we still fight for a dream that can come true: A day when God’s children can all unite on a common table of Love.
---

This coming Sunday is Varaka Khatch. It’s unique to the Armenian Church. It is a grand yet simple expression of the Cross. And yes, I'm listening to Van Morrison's "You don't pull no punches..." on the Veedon Fleece Album as I write this.

* Luke 4^{: 16}He went to Nazareth, where he had been brought up, and on the Sabbath day he went into the synagogue, as was his custom. And he stood up to read. ¹⁷The scroll of the prophet Isaiah was handed to him. Unrolling it, he found the place where it is written: ¹⁸"The Spirit of the Lord is on me, because he has anointed me to preach good news to the poor. He has sent me to proclaim freedom for the prisoners and recovery of sight for the blind, to release the oppressed, ¹⁹to proclaim the year of the Lord's favor."^e]">

²⁰Then he rolled up the scroll, gave it back to the attendant and sat down. The eyes of everyone in the synagogue were fastened on him, ²¹and he began by saying to them, "Today this scripture is fulfilled in your hearing."

A different sort of 9/11 prayer

A different sort of 9/11 prayer.

The eighth anniversary of the 9/11 terrorist attack on the United States came and went. We watched on TV as they listed the names at ground zero and we saw video clips and heard commentary.

Sunday – 9/13 – it was the Feast of the Holy Cross. During the Der Voghormia prayer when I usually ask for and receive prayer requests from the congregation, I wanted to remember the victims of 9/11 in my announcements but I was moved to say more:

Join me today with your prayers, especially on this anniversary of 9/11, and remember all of those who lost their lives that day and their families and friends who were left behind. And even more, remember the countless lives that were lost as a result of that day, in the War in Iraq and the War in Afghanistan. Remember all our soldiers and their families as they sacrifice for the ideals that we hold so dear to our heart, and especially remember two of our members Razmig (USNavy) and Leah (USAirforce) who valiantly serve to defend the freedoms we enjoy. But more than anything else let us pray for peace – the lasting peace that comes from God, so that we may see the day when wars will be obsolete and no one will ever again pick up a weapon in anger or hatred.

I haven’t been this moved in quite a while. As I turned back to the holy altar, with chalice in hand, I was picturing the faces of our children Razmig and Leah, and for a moment I could actually visualize peace. It was a strange sensation, but very real. We talk of peace as an ideal and attaining it sounds far-fetched, but for that moment it occurred to me that it is the only dream worth dreaming here in this lifetime.

---

Last night – got an email from Razmig:

"... but I know that without God or the Armenian church I would have never been able to survive these hardships. I tell my family and friends all time, to not pray for me but to pray for the politicians to stop creating war around the world for their personal greed. Pray for the drug lords to stop making a type of business that kills kids. Pray for the radical Muslims that terrorize innocent people all over the world, because they believe that they will go to paradise. Pray for all those evil people, for they know not what they do. Also, pray for the soldiers and sailors out in Iraq and Afghanistan... for they have it worse than us.
By the way, I know that you are thinking if you can read what I said above to the congregation, and I have no problem with that, actually it would be good if they hear this.”

You're right Razmig. I do want to share it and so here it is. A prayer request along with an extra prayer for peace.

Keyboard Prayer Hermeneutics

Don't know where this originated. I've printed this on a small card and have kept it next to my computers for the last 25 years. So it goes back a while and probably had more meaning back then anyway (as you can tell by the technical terms).

Thought I'd present it here just to share something from the past, BUT even more to exemplify a theme we've kicked around many times, particularly in our Bible Study program, that all writing must be viewed in the context in which it was created, written and developed. I look at this prayer and remember a time when commands would echo on screen and printer, when it was necessary to understand algorithms in order to make sense of program structures and development, and I remember when all programming led to hours/days/weeks of debugging frustration and a prayer for smarts was always in order. Today, someone reading this prayer without an understanding of early computer-programming might offer a courteous smile or harshly condemn it as mocking Christianity. It certainly has a different meaning for the person who used a computer back in the late 70's as a opposed to someone who's first computer application was setting up an account on Facebook.

So here it is, from the early days of computing with this small prayer added from me - especially to those who would quote Holy Scripture in a literal manner - that this serve as a reminder that even the Bible was created in a time and place in history and not outside of it.

KEYBOARD PRAYER

Our Program, who art in Memory,
'Hello' be thy name.
Thy Operating System come,
Thy commands be done,
On the Printer
As they are on the Screen.
Give us this day our daily data,
And forgive us our I/O errors
As we forgive those whose
logic circuits are faulty.
And lead us not into frustration,
But deliver us from power surges.
For thine is the algorithm, the
application and the implementation
Looping for ever and ever.

RETURN.

Armenian Stepchildren

Verse of the Day for August 21, 2009:
James 2:1 My brethren, show no partiality as you hold the faith of our Lord Jesus Christ, the Lord of glory.

There is a conversation (if you can call it that) that I get caught in many times. It is triggered after I’ve spoken a few sentences in Armenian and the listener has been unable to detect an accent.

“Where are you from?”

“I’m from here, Los Angeles.”

“No. Where were you born?”

“I was born here in America.”

“But you speak such good Armenian.” Now, mind you, this is being said to me from someone who is born in the Middle East, that is, not from Armenia.

So depending on the favor of my mood, I may retort with, “Well, so do you. So do you.”

“Yeah, but you’re from America.”

“And you’re from Beirut.”

“How about your parents? Where are your parents from?”

Now the fun begins. “They’re from America too.” Now, I notice that the inquirer is completely baffled and confounded. I may offer, “Are you asking about where our family is from, before the Genocide?” And as they nod, I’ll offer, “They’re from Kharpert.” Of course, this is the easy-answer, because the person’s inquiry is so superficial that I really don’t care to get into the details with them. The grandmother who was most influential in my life was from Sivri-Hisar, while my grandparents on the other side came from Palu.

Why the inquiry? I have a sneaky suspicion that it has to do with deep rooted anti-American prejudice. Yup! The American Armenian is the stepchild of the nation. S/he’s not real. And so, begin all the inquiries – to make sure that there’s a connection with something more solid. Ironic, isn’t it? Most people leave the Middle East looking for a solid foundation where to raise their family. They choose America for that stability – a place where they can prosper. But for some reason, America doesn’t hold much weight in the pre-hyphen descriptor to being Armenian.

Here’s to the Armenian-American: the stepchild of the Armenian nation. We’ll never be fully accepted until the next generation of children grow up to be identified as Armenian-Americans. They are the children of the inquirers.