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Ninety-seven years ago, the long history of the Armenian people intersected with the terrible path of human affliction.

There had been tragedies for us prior to that time.  But the Genocide of 1915 has come to embody the suffering of our people like no other event in our history.  Indeed, it stands with a very small host of other inhuman episodes, as an embodiment of the affliction of mortal man in general.

It’s fitting therefore that Armenians should mark April 24 by gathering in our sanctuaries—beneath the cross of Christ.  For the cross illuminates the meaning of the Genocide.  On the one hand, it is the universal symbol of human suffering—a reminder that the Son of God was placed on a cross to die.

But the cross is not simply a symbol of suffering.  Christ did die on the cross.  But more: he is risen.  And so the cross must be understood in light of the resurrection of Christ: as a symbol of suffering, surely; but also as a sign of victory over suffering—a victory promised by God to His true and faithful servants.

In this way, too, the cross represents the Armenian martyrs of 1915.  Not because our martyrs themselves were resurrected—they remain dead, and we pray for the peace of their souls.  But we must remember that our persecutors contem­plated the destruction of a whole nation, and they came close to succeeding.  Our memorials to the Genocide are one way of remembering that every Armenian living in the world today has passed very close to death, through the experience of a parent or grandparent; through the larger experience of our people.

And yet, having passed so close to death, we did not die.  Indeed, in the years following the Genocide, the surviving Armenians rebuilt their lives, raised families, created worthwhile institutions, contributed to a truly great society like the United States—all the while preserving something of our distinctive Armenian Christian identity.  The cross, which depicts the miracle of Christ’s Resurrection, reminds us that our very lives are founded on a miracle: the miraculous blossoming of life out of destruction.  And that miracle has a name: Hope.

The same hope is the vital nerve of our civilization, the secret of our survival.  How often have our people walked through the valley of death?  And how could we have endured, how could we have overcome adversity, were it not for this precious gift of hope?

This is the message of hope we need to draw strength from today, as we face our own trials.  It hardly needs saying that our world of today is filled with such trials.  As Armenians, as Americans, as Christians, as individual men and women, we all sense the urgency of the present moment—the fragile quality of the life we have built for ourselves and for our society.

These are causes for concern, for prayer, for reflection.  But not for despair.  For in truth, we are not strangers to the valley of death.  Through Christ, we have been there before.  For our sake, he experienced its terrors, accepted its wounds—and emerged victorious.  Because of this, our ancestors did not lose hope 97 years ago.  They knew that Jesus Christ would always be beside them—as he is always beside us now—giving us hope for our lives.

It is the greatest hope ever offered to mankind.

Monday was Martin Luther King, Jr. Day in the United States—a day off from work for many of our fellow citizens, but also a day for serious thought and reflection. Editorials on this day typically (and justifiably) focus on King’s political legacy. But often overlooked is how his mission was a consequence of his ministry—grounded in a religious vision of human dignity and family-like solidarity, under the fatherhood of a watchful God. Reverend King’s splendid oratory had its rhetorical roots in the cadences of the King James Bible: in the prophetic poetry of Isaiah and Micah, and certainly in the Gospel utterances of Jesus.

It found another source in the vernacular of America—especially in its tradition of songs: from old-time Protestant hymns, to spirituals, to anthems of wholesome patriotism.

Armenians might find a special point of contact here, for our music likewise resonates in deeply religious ways. Through our sharagans, our people express, in a unified way, an entire system of belief; an experience of sorrow; but above all a sense of hope: a faith, really, in the ultimate beneficence of God.

Similar chords are struck in Reverend King’s famous “I Have a Dream” speech.  Its concluding words weave together the strands of religious redemption and national aspiration, using the common thread of song. The uplifting result is not so different from what churchmen of another time and place accomplished when they penned the sharagans of the Armenian Divine Liturgy. In the badarak, as in the following words of Reverend King, song creates a unity of distinct voices, lifting our hearts and our thoughts upward:

This will be the day when all of God’s children will be able to sing with a new meaning, “My country, ’tis of thee, sweet land of liberty, of thee I sing. Land where my fathers died, land of the pilgrim’s pride, from every mountainside, let freedom ring.”

And if America is to be a great nation this must become true. So let freedom ring from the prodigious hilltops of New Hampshire. Let freedom ring from the mighty mountains of New York. Let freedom ring from the heightening Alleghenies of Pennsylvania!

Let freedom ring from the snowcapped Rockies of Colorado!

Let freedom ring from the curvaceous slopes of California!

But not only that; let freedom ring from Stone Mountain of Georgia!

Let freedom ring from Lookout Mountain of Tennessee!

Let freedom ring from every hill and molehill of Mississippi. From every mountainside, let freedom ring.

And when this happens, when we allow freedom to ring, when we let it ring from every village and every hamlet, from every state and every city, we will be able to speed up that day when all of God’s children, black men and white men, Jews and Gentiles, Protestants and Catholics, will be able to join hands and sing in the words of the old Negro spiritual, “Free at last!  Free at last!  Thank God Almighty, we are free at last!”

Martin Luther King

Yesterday, December 7, 2011, was a solemn and significant milestone in two ways. Armenians the world over will always associate the date with the dreadful Armenian earthquake of 1988, and we, too, remembered it as such. But yesterday also marked a major anniversary of the attack on Pearl Harbor, and we don’t want to let the occasion pass without acknowledging it.

For many of the elder members of our community, December 7, 1941 was one of the defining days of their lives—as it was for our entire country, which roused itself to join battle against a great evil. A person born on that fateful day would be 70 years old now; a young man of fighting age at the time would be closer to 90. And with the passage of time comes the realization that, for most of those who fought, endured, and survived the Second World War, this may be the last major anniversary of this date that they will live to see.

Countless Armenian-Americans served their country dutifully, even heroically, in the days and years that followed Pearl Harbor.  To all of them, and to their contemporaries throughout America—men and women who contributed to the war effort at home and abroad, emerged victorious, and then returned to go about their humble lives as citizens of the greatest republic on earth—we acknowledge our profound debt, and convey our gratitude and admiration. God bless you all.

One week after an unseasonal snowstorm hit the eastern U.S., downing trees and power lines throughout much of the northeast, reports indicate that thousands of households are still waiting for electric power to return.  To everyone affected by the storm—our fellow citizens, and in some cases fellow parishioners—the Eastern Diocese conveys its prayers for a speedy resolution and restoration of power, light, heat, and the other blessings of modern home life.

In 21st-century America, it can be all too easy to take these amenities for granted. For people of more ancient times, the uncontrolled forces of nature could have fearsome consequences—and the Armenian Divine Liturgy reflects those mortal concerns. While the congregation sings the hymn “Hokee Asdoodzo,” a silent prayer by the priest implores God to “grant also seasonableness to the weather, and fertility to the fields, and a speedy recovery to those who are afflicted with diverse diseases.” (You’ll find it on page 35 of the Divine Liturgy book used in most of our parishes.)

That prayer has a special resonance after recent events.  It’s a thought to keep in mind this Sunday during badarak, as we give thanks to our Lord for his many bounties—and give thanks, too, that the losses of property and life this past week were not more extensive.