Fr. Pythagoras Caravellas

Editor’s note: The following article was written by relatives of Fr. Pythagoras Caravellas, and originally appeared in the 60th anniversary commemorative album for Annunciation Greek Orthodox Cathedral in San Francisco, published in 1996. The article has been reprinted at Annunciation Cathedral’s website, and we present it here courtesy of the San Francisco Bay Area Greek Historical Society. The Society has done outstanding work on the history of Greek Orthodoxy in the region, and its chairman, Jim Lucas, is building a virtual photo album which may be found at this link. The website includes special pages for Fr. Pythagoras Caravellas and St. Sophia/Annunciation Cathedral, where he served as a priest.

Pythagoras Caravellas was born in 1890, in Greece, on the small island of Samos, off the coast of Asia Minor. He was the son of a tobacco and cotton merchant and the youngest of four children.

At the age of 16, he completed his pre-university education at the gymnasium in Karlovassi. His schoolmasters, impressed with the young man’s curiousity and studious inclinations, recommended him for further study at one of the Greek teaching monasteries.

The year that young Pythagoras was cloistered in the mountain monastery, he applied himself diligently to the assigned subjects, religion, science, and the humanities. Perhaps it was the humility with which the monks imparted their wisdom to the young scholars that influenced young Pythagoras to cherish learning. This inspiration was to follow him always.

While under the tutelage of the monks, the Metropolitan of Corfu, Alexander, paid a visit to the monastery. The hierarchy of the Greek Orthodox faith had always taken a personal interest in the education and development of their youth. Alexander was not an exception. A man of deep perception, he was to become the first Archbishop of the Greek Orthodox Church. If his visits to the monasteries were anticipated by the students, a few requested were granted private audiences. The topics that generated the most interest were students’ personal aspirations.

During one of his private conversations with the Metropolitan whom he had known since childhood, Pythagoras confessed his secret hope to continue his education in the United States and perhaps establish a permanent home there. Expecting a small admonishment or to be dissuaded from his ambition, Pythagoras was pleased with the unexpected approval his received. The full impact of this meeting was not to emerge for twelve years, but its immediate result was that Pythagoras entered the Seminary in Athens to study for the priesthood. After a year, he was uncertain as to the wisdom of his action and decided to enroll in the University of Athens.

During the next four years he earned his degree and received his teaching credentials. While attending the university, he made occasional visits to his family in Samos. He also found time to tutor students, work for a tobacconist and take additional courses in English.

In 1911, he made his big decision to go to the United States. He went to Middleboro, Massachusetts, where a small colony of Greeks had settled, to live with his two brothers, Nicholas and Theodore, who had immigrated there two years before. Convinced that their brother was not interested in their restaurant business, they encouraged him to enter Harvard University with an offer to help him financially.

Before leaving Greece, Pythagoras had already decided to become a physician. Realizing how many long years of study lay ahead, he preferred not to accept his brothers’ generous offer. He considered ways in which he would attend school, allow time for studies, and still be able to earn an adequate income necessary for his tuition and living expenses. He would rely on his knowledge of small business accounting to earn his living and soon had a number of shopkeepers and restaurants as clients.

After graduation from Harvard with a degree in medicine in June, 1917, he became engaged to Evangeline Constantine. They were married in November, 1917. His work as a hospital intern offered some degree of fulfillment, but he was restless.

Recalling his year at the monastery and his communications with Archbishop Alexander, Pythagoras sent a letter to the Metropolitan asking for his guidance. The sincere simplicity of the Archbishop’s reply and his words of encouragement to enter the church convinced Pythagoras to give up medicine and to complete his studies in the priesthood.

Through further correspondence with the Metropolitan, Pythagoras learned of the need for Greek priests in the western part of the United States. As waves of Greek immigrants moved westward across the United States, they were dependent upon a small group of itinerant Greek priests for infrequent church services and the administration of religious rites. More Greeks lived and worked in the western states than the number of churches would suggest.

In 1921, Father Pythagoras arrived in San Francisco. At this time, his wife and daughter Theofani (Faye) were living in Chicago and it would be months later before he had the money to bring them to San Francisco. Once more the question of earning a livlihood and attending school was of immediate concern. Through letters of introduction and recommendation, Pythagoras became an assistant professor of Greek at the University of California, and attended the Pacific School of Religion. He supplemented his income writing for the Greek newspaper and the Christian Science Monitor. Soon, Pythagoras and Evangeline became an integral part of the young Greek community. Their resourcefulness and command of English, attracted the older families. They were often called upon to act as witnesses or interpreters in matters concerning immigration or in matters of law affecting members of the community. The more affluent Greeks were enthusiastic with the qualifications of the young couple and gave their wholehearted support for the erection of a church which would have Pythagoras as its priest.

After his graduation from the Pacific School of Religion in 1927, Pythagoras was ordained into the priesthood of the Greek Orthodox religion by the Patriarch of Constantinople, Metaxakis, and Archbishop Alexander, both of who were visiting in San Francisco at the time. The colorful ceremony was held in the new, small white church of St. Sophia. The presence of these eminent prelates in San Francisco created much interest and served to establish the young church of St. Sophia as a unified and integrated religious community.

With the advent of the Russian revolution, the organizational work of the Russian Orthodox Church in America came to an abrupt halt. In the meantime, the royalist-liberal controversy in Greece had divided event the Greek immigrants in America. The church could nor or would not steer a neutral course in the civil war raging between the forces of King Constantine and Premier Venizelos. This partnership, which had its beginnings in 1916, was to shake the church communities of Greece and United States to their foundation. The reaction in the United States was violent.

Reorganization required a degree of cooperation difficult to obtain. Nevertheless, Father Pythagoras managed to steer his congregation away from the repercussions of the political battles in Greece and toward the establishment of a Greek-American community whose growth would be a blending of the cultural heritage of Greece and the democratic principles of their adopted country, America.

Since coming to San Francisco, Father Pythagoras’ family increased by two daughters, Helen and Joan. After his ordination, Father Pythagoras budgeted his family severely. Occasionally, his small salary was supplemented by farmers; gifts of produce, fruit, and fowl. His parish was a poor one, and living became more difficult during the depression when members of his congregation dwelt on the edge of poverty. He administered to their needs, with words of encouragement and guidance. He would officiate at services during his frequent visits to farming communities. He taught the children of the community Greek after their regular school hours. He found time to program social activities for the community in observation of national and religious holidays. He made his rounds at the hospitals giving communion to the sick, the injured, and the dying. He conducted services every Sunday, every Holy Day and in the Greek church this alone is a rigorous and demanding schedule.

In 1931, the physical strain had taken its toll. Father Pythagoras was will with tuberculosis. He was a patient for three years at the California Sanitorium in Belmont. During his confinement, he continued to read avidly and began work for his degree as a Doctor of Divinity. He looked forward to returning to his church and his congregation. In late 1934, the doctors told him that he was cured and that he would soon be going home. On December 6, 1934, he suffered a heart attack and died. He was mourned by Greeks throughout the nation and his body lay in state in the church of St. Sophia for 7 days to afford his many friends the sad privilege of a final farewell.

Clockwise from top left: Vera Johnston, Charles Johnston, Henry Olcott, Vera Zhelihovsky, and Helen Blavatsky

In the early 1900s, a woman named Vera Johnston was involved with the Russian cathedral in New York and the seminary in Tenafly, New Jersey. With a name like Johnston, you might think that she was a convert, which is exactly what I thought when I first ran across her name. But Vera Johnston was actually a cradle-born Orthodox Christian. She was born in the Russian Empire, in what is now Ukraine, and her maiden name was Zhelihovsky. She was born in 1864, and her mother was also named Vera.

Before her marriage, the elder Vera, the mother, was named Vera Blavatsky. That last name, Blavatsky, might sound familiar to some of you. The elder Vera’s sister – so, our Vera’s aunt – was a lady by the name of Helen Blavatsky – also known as Madame Blavatsky, the founder of the Theosophical movement.

Theosophy has been described by some as a modern version of Gnosticism. It has a lot of occult and pagan elements, drawing in particular on Hinduism. Helen Blavatsky herself spent time in India. Beliefs included reincarnation, ancient pagan deities, secret teachings. Essentially, we’re talking about neo-paganism. They certainly had a kind of syncretistic place for Christianity, as one of the many pieces of the “truth” that could lead you into true knowledge, but basically, this is a neo-pagan movement.

Helen Blavatsky had founded the Theosophical movement in the 1870s, and in 1886, her niece Vera – the future Vera Johnston – spent some time with her aunt, and read drafts of her book The Secret Doctrine. Vera was in her early twenties at this point, and her mother was a follower of Aunt Helen, so it was only a matter of time before young Vera herself became a Theosophist.

Vera Johnston

In 1889, Vera published an article called, “Modern Magic” in the Theosophist journal, and by this time she had apparently joined the movement. The year before this, in 1888, she had married Charles Johnston, an English follower of Blavatsky. Johnston himself was one of the leaders in the Theosophy movement, and was especially noted for his translations of Hindu scriptures from Sanskrit into English. Vera and Charles spent some time in India themselves, and both wrote and translated numerous Theosophical articles in the coming years. For example, in 1895, they coauthored an article called, “The Priestess of Isis and Her Accusers.” This was sort of par for the course with Vera and Charles.

Helen Blavatsky herself died in 1891, and in 1896, Charles and Vera Johnston moved to New York City. Vera was still a very visible figure on the Theosophical scene, speaking at conventions and translating articles.

Sometime after the turn of the century, the Johnstons became associated with the Russian Orthodox cathedral in New York. Now, the details on this are very sketchy. What I’m giving you is basically incomplete research. I just haven’t been able to find very many materials on Vera Johnston’s life after 1900 or so, and of course this period in which we’re most interested, because this is when she was associated with the Russian Mission.

So please understand, much of this is a mystery. But I’m going to give you what I have.

In 1912, the Russian Archdiocese moved its seminary to Tenafly, New Jersey. Both Vera and Charles Johnston were professors. I don’t know what subject Vera taught, but Charles is listed in 1918 as “Teacher of English Language.” During this period, Vera ran the seminary’s booth at a Russian bazaar in New York City (New York Times, 3/28/1915). Both Johnstons were deeply involved in the work of the Russian Mission.

Also in 1915, she wrote an article in the Constructive Quarterly called, “The Coming of Archbishop Evdokim,” talking about the arrival of the new Russian bishop. One passage in particular seems to reveal something of Vera’s own religous outlook:

In the principle thus simply and eloquently enunciated by Archbishop Evdokim, what vistas there are of reconciliation, of genuine peace and good-will among men and nations: the differences between nations, in their religious as well as their secular life, are not stumbling-blocks but revelations of the wisdom of God. The mind of Christ is so wide, so deep, so rich, that no one race, nothing less than all humanity, suffices to embody and reveal it. [Emphasis in original.]

The same year, also in the Constructive Quarterly, she translated an article called, “Byzantium the Preserver of Orthodoxy.”

So it seemed, when I learned these things, that Vera Johnston had converted – or, re-converted – to Orthodoxy. She was involved, almost on a day-to-day basis, with the life of the Russian Mission. The thing is, she doesn’t seem to have given up Theosophy. Her husband Charles, who was also involved in the Russian Mission, remained a major figure in the Theosophical movement.

In early 20th century New York, a splinter Theosphical group was formed, calling itself the “Order of the Living Christ.” While small, this group included some of the city’s elite — Wall Street executives, professors, Episcopal priests, etc. – as well as Charles and Vera Johnston, whose ties to Helen Blavatsky helped bring legitimacy to the Order. The Order was essentially an attempt to merge Christianity and Theosophy. The group believed in reincarnation, but adopted the externals of Anglo-Catholicism (traditional Anglicanism). They revered the works of Helen Blavatsky and her associates, but also had a deep fascination with early Christian mysticism. Members saw it as perfectly acceptable to be a part of the Order and still participate in the life of, for instance, the Episcopal Church. It is likely that Vera Johnston shared this philosophy, and she may well have considered herself an Orthodox Christian while simultaneously adhering to beliefs which Orthodoxy recognizes as patently heretical. All this, while teaching future priests at the official seminary of the Russian Archdiocese in America.

Vera Johnston died in 1923, just shy of 60. Charles passed away eight years later. It is likely that documents survive — perhaps the OCA archives — which can help us to better understand the Johnstons’ role in the Russian Mission, and the extent to which their Theosophical ideas were known by the Russian clergy who employed them. If any of our readers can shed more light on this odd episode in American Orthodox history, please let me know.

[This article was written by Matthew Namee. I am indebted to Jake Benson for his help in researching Vera and Charles Johnston.]

Sketch of St. Herman of Alaska, by Valerian Gribayedoff (Frank Leslie's Popular Monthly, July 1895)

As his name suggests, Valerian Gribayedoff was from Russia. He was born in Kronstadt in 1858, the son of a colonel in the Tsarist army. He studied in St. Petersburg and then went to England, where he appears to have been acquainted with the exiled French Emperor Napoleon III (aka Louis Napoleon). I’ll let the Wisconsin State Journal (8/21/1885) pick up his story:

Valerian wearied of home life and ran away to South America, where he entered the Chilian [sic] army as a drummer boy. At the close of the war with Peru he went to Russia and soon identified himself with certain political societies, which brought him under the notice of the government and compelled him to seek other climes. After a prolonged residence in Paris, Berlin and other European cities, he came to this country and engaged in journalism, which profession he followed until the craze for pictorial papers induced him to turn his artistic talents to account.

Gribayedoff did all this by the age of 25. He quickly became famous as an illustrator, renowned for his “keen insight into character” (New York Times, 2/17/1908) and his ability to convey that insight in black and white. When photography became more common, Gribayedoff learned how to use a camera, took photos, and then copied them as sketches. His works led directly to the rise of Sunday newspaper supplements, full of photos and illustrations.

He wasn’t just an illustrator, though. Gribayedoff continued his journalistic writing, tackling all manner of subjects. In 1895, he published his first and only full-length book, The French Invasion of Ireland. By this time, he was well-established as the leader of a growing group of New York-based illustrators.

Gribayedoff was tall, handsome, and charming. He made friends easily, and was a popular raconteur in late 19th century New York. He spoke many languages, and, having traveled throughout the world, he was as cultured as they come. His subjects didn’t even mind his camera; according to the Times, “his natural tact enabled him to take his pictures without the audacity of those who have taken his place.”

Sketch of Metropolitan Isidore of St. Petersburg, by Valerian Gribayedoff (Christian Union, 12/10/1892)

Coming from the Russian nobility, it is likely that Gribayedoff was baptized in the Orthodox Church, but it’s not clear whether he maintained his Orthodox faith into adulthood. Certainly, his period of youthful rebellion suggests that he probably abandoned Orthodoxy at some point; whether he rejoined the Church remains an open question.

That said, he made his own contribution to American Orthodox history, authoring (and illustrating) numerous articles on Orthodoxy for different US publications. In an 1892 article on the Russian Orthodox Church, Gribayedoff called it “that wonderful branch of organized Christianity.” After briefly recounting the history of Orthodoxy, he concluded, “It has a great mission to perform, and, on the whole, it is doing its work nobly.” (Christian Union, 12/10/1892)

Elsewhere, writing about Orthodox services aboard a Russian naval vessel, Gribayedoff said, “I cannot imagine a more grateful subject for the artist’s brush than these morning and evening devotions on board a Russian war-vessel, the rugged outlines of the worshipers softened by the dim half-light of early dawn or the twilight of evening; the plash of a distant oar, the cadence of flowing waters beyond the taffrail, lend an added charm to the scene, the poetry of which can be fully realized only by those who have witnessed it.” He went on: “A glance around at the earnest throngs will convince the most skeptical that he is indeed in a house of prayer!” (Christian Union, 6/10/1893)

Sketch of Bishop Nicholas Ziorov, by Valerian Gribayedoff (Frank Leslie's Popular Monthly, July 1895)

Gribayedoff wrote several articles on Orthodoxy in the United States, which, of course, was a rather new thing in those days. He told his readers of the 1894 centennial of Orthodoxy in Alaska, and reported on the early conversions of Uniates to the Russian Church. In 1895, he reported on the creation of a Russian parish in New York; indeed, Gribayedoff’s account is one of our main sources for this landmark event. He must have known Barbara MacGahan, the Russian-born war correspondent who was largely responsible for founding the New York church. Of MacGahan, Gribayedoff wrote, “Without her efforts but little would have been attained.”

In 1897, Gribayedoff began to feel that America was becoming “too hurried and crowded.” He moved to Paris on very short notice, and he quickly gained renown there for his photos of the Dreyfus trial. During the Russo-Japanese War, Gribayedoff worked in Siberia as a correspondent for an American newspaper.

Valerian Gribayedoff died in Paris in 1908. He was just 50, but had lived a life fuller than most men twice his age. He left a wife and a 25-year-old son; the son, apparently as much a traveler as his father, was working as a surgeon in the Philippines.

From his writings, it’s clear that Gribayedoff knew a great deal about Orthodoxy. He had a good grasp of Orthodox history and theology, and he was well acquainted with many of the leading Orthodox figures of his own day. In many places, he spoke very highly of the Church, and while I have no evidence that he was a member, it would certainly not surprise me. Even if he was not Orthodox himself, his writings on Orthodoxy are valuable sources.

[This article was written by Matthew Namee.]

Bob Marley's Funeral program

Journey To Orthodoxy yesterday ran a piece about the conversion of reggae artist Bob Marley to the Ethiopian Orthodox Tewahedo Church (a non-Chalcedonian church very similar to but not currently in communion with the [Eastern] Orthodox Church). It’s worth a read. We thought it might also be of interest to see this primary source document pictured above which also witnesses to his 1980 baptism—at which he took the name Berhane Selassie (“Light of the Trinity”)—and subsequent burial in 1981 by the Ethiopian Orthodox in Jamaica.

The image we found is a little small, so here’s the full text for those whose eyes (zoom capability) might not be quite up to the task:

The grave of Fr. Philip Sredanovich

Fr. Philip Sredanovich is one of the odder characters in American Orthodox history. Perhaps not as odd as the embellishing Agapius Honcharenko or the wandering Bulgarian Monk, but in all my studies, I’ve run across few parish priests stranger than Sredanovich.

Sredanovich was born in Montenegro in 1881. I read somewhere that he was educated in Russia, although I can’t seem to track down the precise source at the moment. (This is supported by the 1920 US Census, which says that Sredanovich’s wife was born in Russia.) He came to the US just after the turn of the 20th century; by 1906, he was pastor of St. Nicholas Serbian Church in Wilmerding, PA. A couple of years later, while serving in Butler, PA, he made his first newspaper headlines. From the Washington Post (12/11/1908):

The Rev. Philip Sredanovitch, pastor of the Greek Orthodox Church and editor of Justness, today announced a discovery, which, if it works out, will put Newton, Franklin, and Edison in the amateur class. The pastor-editor declares that he has invented a means by which the rotation of the earth on its axis may be taken advantage of in travel, and that by standing still one may go around the world in 24 hours.

He says he has found a way by which men may lift themselves above the earth to a point where they will stand still while the earth, rotating from west to east, will do their traveling for them. The secret is jealously guarded by the pastor and his wife, whom he credits with suggesting the idea. He asks $100,000 for the invention.

Sredanovich says: “We will hoist ourselves above the earth and await the coming of the desired place, then we will lower ourselves where we desire to be. In this way we may go from America to Europe in less than eighteen hours. My secret is how to stand above the earth and not be affected by the earth’s attraction.”

He says his invention makes it possible to get away from gravitation and still not be lose [sic] in space.

He does not say how one may get away from the swirling earth and take his stand in the ethereal world, but any one with $100,000 may find out. So far as is known, the pastor has invented no airships nor announced any scheme for climbing a sunbeam.

This has to be a joke, right? An educated clergyman couldn’t seriously think that you could circle the globe simply by “hoisting” yourself above the earth — could he?

Moving on… Sredanovich bounced around a lot. Here is an incomplete list of the places he served:

• Wilmerding, PA
• Butler, PA
• Kansas City, MO
• South Bend, IN
• Gary, IN
• Kansas City, MO (again)
• Butte, MT
• Milwaukee, WI
• Steelton, PA
• Johnstown, PA
• Butte, MT (again)

Of course, in Sredanovich’s day, it was quite common for priests to spend just a couple of years (or less) at one parish before moving on to the next. But Sredanovich’s travels seem to have been caused as much by his own personality as by the era in which he lived. In November 1920, he was “fired” from his post in Kansas City, responded with four successive lawsuits in the span of three months. In one suit, he asked for $25,000, charging that “church officials were instrumental in causing slanderous remarks to be printed against him” in a Serbian newspaper. A few days later, he filed another lawsuit, this time merely seeking $120 in back pay. (I don’t know the outcomes of these cases; my only source is the Kansas City Times, 1/25/1921.)

After leaving Kansas City, Sredanovich went to Butte, Montana, where he took over Holy Trinity Serbian Church. One day, in November of 1922, he was walking down the street when a group of teenage boys started to bother him. One picked up a rock, at which point Sredanovich took off for his house. He went inside, got his pistol, and returned to the street. The youths continued to taunt Sredanovich, who responded by shooting one of the boys in the foot. The injured 18-year-old was taken to the hospital, and Sredanovich was arrested and charged with second-degree assault. (Idaho Daily Statesman, 11/30/1922)

Sredanovich soon left Butte, but he returned to the parish in 1949, spending the last three years of his life there. He died in 1952, and is buried at St. Sava Serbian Orthodox Monastery in Libertyville, Illinois.

[This article was written by Matthew Namee.]

I was browsing my newspaper archives recently, and came across an article about a Greek Pascha celebration in New York, exactly 105 years ago today (April 30, 1905). Here’s the whole article, from the New York Times:

While more than a thousand persons were in front of the Holy Trinity Hellenic Orthodox Church, in Seventy-second Street, between Lexington and Third Avenues, early this morning, it being the Easter of that church, a man shot off six blank cartridges with a revolver. A policeman arrested the man and started for the station house. Hundreds followed, and at Seventy-first Street they tore away the prisoner, who made his escape. The reserves of the East Sixty-seventh Street Station were then sent for and remained on guard until the crowd dispersed.

At the time of the shooting the steps of the church were crowded, and in the block between Lexington and Third Avenue there were about 2,000 persons. Every man and woman carried a lighted candle. P0liceman O’Connor of the East Sixty-Seventh Street Station was sent to keep order, and remained outside the gathering. Shortly before 12:30 o’clock he heard six shots fired in rapid succession. Men and somen pushed right and left at first and remained quiet when it was seen that the cartriges were blanks. The policeman saw the smoke and arrested a man he thought had fired the revolver.

O’Connor started through the crowd. When he reached Lexington Avenue with his prisoner there were more than 500 men and women behind him. The prisoner was a Greek, and all those following were talking in excited voices.

When Seventy-first Street was reached the crowd made a rush, and, throwing O’Connor to the ground, released his hold on the prisoner. The man was seized by friends and hurried into the crowd. O’Connor made several efforts to get the man, but the crowd surged about him and he was unsuccessful.

The policeman then went to the nearest police telephone box and summoned the reserves. Search for the man was made in vain by twenty policemen. The reserves then remained on guard outside the crowd while services were conducted. There was no further trouble.

This is hardly the most violent guns-on-Pascha story I’ve heard, but it’s nonetheless startling. Can you imagine being that policeman, followed for six blocks by a mob of Greeks, before being accosted and thrown to the ground? It’s a wonder he wasn’t beaten, but apparently the Greeks were peaceable enough, interested solely in freeing their comrade.

The incident really makes you appreciate modern technology. Today, a policeman in the same situation would have immediately radioed for backup, but Officer O’Connor had to track down a “police telephone box” to bring in the reserves.

[This article was written by Matthew Namee.]

Fr. Demetrios Petrides

On today’s episode of my American Orthodox History podcast, I focus on the life of Fr. Demetrios Petrides, a Greek priest in Philadelphia and Atlanta from 1907 to 1917. It was Petrides who, as priest in Philadelphia, wrote a letter to the Ecumenical Patriarchate recommending Robert Morgan for ordination as the first black Orthodox priest in America. But he was far more than just a footnote to the interesting story of Fr. Raphael Morgan. Petrides was a remarkable figure in his own right, and he happens to be my favorite of the early Greek priests in America.

To listen to the podcast, click here.

The court transcript includes some mildly humorous lines. Obviously, they’re more humorous to those who are reading along through the entire transcript, but they’re good enough that I thought maybe after all I’ve posted, a few lines to lighten things a bit might be acceptable.

The first is a zinger from Arseny’s lawyer, Edward A. Delaney.

Smitkin: Now, you were instrumental in causing the arrests of these defendants, weren’t you?

Court/Judge: Well, that is a statement. Put a question.

Smitkin: Were you instrumental in causing the arrest of these defendants?

Delaney: I think they were instrumental in it.

The Second is an Exchange between the judge and Smitkin

Court: but you have no right to repeat and waste time. that is a waste of time. He says he knew her. Now, go on.

Smitkin: I am going to go on in the proper way.

Court: You will go on as the Court directs you. We have a thousand cases to try in these courts, and you must no consume time by your theatrical pose here.

Smitkin: I never thought I was gifted with that, your honor.

Court: Well, you are. You waste more time than any attorney in these courts.

Judge Mulqueen was obviously tiring of the case and later, on p. 122, he says, “I would like to get this case finished.” I have to say, by page 122, I could relate to a small degree. This is one long transcript!

Pages 132-3 provide a nice exchange as well

Smitkin: I have a ight to press my question, whether she did not testify yesterday afternoon that she did have a conversation with these two men, and that all she said was what they told her to say.

Court: Well, she does not know what ‘conversation’ means. She said these men took her and she signed that affidavit on the promise of money.

Smitkin: Now, while nothing pleases me more than to have your honor correct me, it does seem to me that your honor–

Court: Well, where is the testimony of yesterday? [Smitkin was able to proceed from there.]

Finally, there is the judge’s theory of linguistic interpretation:

Court to interpreter: You are a mere phonogaph, that is all.

In other words, the language was to go in literally and come out literally. Translating is not always quite so easy.

There are other areas that are mildly humorous. On 221, for example, Garvan tells Smitkin to ask a question and not make a speech Overall, the trial transcript is long and a little convoluted, but the punctuated one liners do help with the reading. Thank God for wit!

This will be a short post, but I found this well written web page distinguishing primary and secondary sources.  This distinction is absolutely vital when researching and writing history.  The point, of course, is not that secondary sources are bad or should not be used.  Rather, they should be used to substantiate claims being made through an engagement with primary sources.  I am posting this link also because it will directly relate to my next few posts, where I will discuss the importance of acquiring and analyzing primary source materials when undertaking a canonization inquiry.   So, here you are:

http://library.ucsc.edu/help/howto/distinguish-between-primary-and-secondary-sources

[Note: This piece is authored by Fr. Oliver Herbel and is cross posted at http://frontierorthodoxy.wordpress.com]

Recently, I coauthored Wichita’s Lebanese Heritage, a new book from Arcadia Publishing. Smack-dab in the middle of the Great Plains, Wichita, Kansas is an unlikely center for Orthodoxy. But it’s a pretty remarkable place, with a resident Antiochian bishop, the greatest Orthodox-owned bookstore in America, and thousands of Orthodox Christians.

Wichita is unusual in several respects. Its Orthodox history has been dominated by Antiochians. The first two Orthodox churches in the city were Antiochian. A Greek parish was established in the middle of the last century, but it hasn’t had a resident priest in years, and many of its members are active in the Antiochian parishes. While Wichita is hardly a small town — the metropolitan area has over half a million people — all of the Orthodox priests in the city are Antiochian. Every single one of them. And as the seat of an Antiochian bishop, you could make the argument that, in some ways, Wichita Orthodoxy is more distinctively Antiochian than any other place in America.

The two churches, St. George and St. Mary, began as one community. While the communities now use the term “Lebanese” to describe their founders, the founders referred to themselves as Syrians when they began to arrive in Kansas in the 1890s. They came for economic reasons, mainly, beginning as peddlers and then becoming established entrepreneurs. The first documented Orthodox church service in Wichita took place in 1904, when Fr. George Maloof of Boston passed through town and baptized some Syrian children. Fr. Nicola Yanney of Kearney, Nebraska made pastoral visits in the years that followed. In other places, those beginnings would soon lead to the formation of an Orthodox parish in the city, but not in Wichita — it wasn’t until 1918 that the local Orthodox people organized their own church.

The first church was St. George, which is now a cathedral. Its original members were predominantly from two clans, corresponding to two villages in modern Lebanon, Jedeidat Marjayoun and Mhaithe. The two clans lived in the same neighborhood, went to the same church, and did business with each other. But, as happened in so many other Orthodox communities in that era, the original parish eventually split. In 1932, one of the clans (my own family’s, incidentally) decided to start their own parish, St. Mary.

Growing up in Wichita, I’ve heard half a dozen theories about the split, some of them quite colorful. One story goes that N.F. Farha, the patriarch of the Jedeidat Marjayoun clan, didn’t want to let his Mhaithe counterpart, E.G. Stevens, have a key to the church building. I’d love to repeat some of the more dramatic theories, but I’m afraid that wouldn’t be tactful. Along less exciting lines, my late grandfather, Sam Namee, wrote, “Following a dispute relative to the building of a larger church, [the Mhaithe clan] decided to go on their own.” Most likely, a combination of incidents led to the creation of a second parish.

In 1935, the “New York-Toledo” schism began among Antiochians in America. St. George took the side of Metropolitan Antony Bashir of New York, while St. Mary favored Metropolitan Samuel David of Toledo. In the decades that followed, there weren’t actual hostilities among Wichita’s Antiochians, so much as the two groups had little interaction with each other. They were neighbors, but they might as well have been on different continents. The New York-Toledo schism was healed in 1975, though, and today, the two parishes get along just fine.

Of course, our book isn’t just about the Orthodox of Wichita, but the vast majority of Wichita’s Lebanese are Orthodox, so the histories are inextricably intertwined. I thoroughly enjoyed working on the book, and I’m very pleased with how it turned out.

My coauthors were Dr. Jay Price and Victoria Sherry. Jay was the head of the project, and is a history professor at Wichita State University, where heads the Public History program. He’s written several books in Arcadia’s “Images of America” series, and in the process of working on this book, he became an expert on Wichita’s Lebanese history.

Victoria is a convert to Orthodoxy, and formerly ran the Heartland Orthodox Christian Museum. With the museum, she had organized an exhibit on Arab Orthodox in the Heartland, and her work on that exhibit provided a foundation for our work on the book. I’m hoping to interview Jay and Victoria on my Ancient Faith Radio program sometime in the not-too-distant future. (Incidentally, the Heartland Orthodox Christian Museum closed several years ago. It appears that someone unconnected with the original museum has revived the museum’s website, and made it appear as if the museum was still open and hosting exhibits and events. For anyone who might stumble upon this website, please note that there is no longer an Orthodox museum in Topeka, bizarre websites notwithstanding.)

We’ll certainly talk more about Wichita’s Orthodox history in the future. If you’re interested in ordering the book, I’d suggest that you do so through Eighth Day Books, a world famous Orthodox-owned bookstore in Wichita. Also, all of the authors’ royalties for the book are being donated to the two main Orthodox parishes in Wichita, St. George and St. Mary. To place an order from Eighth Day Books, click here.

Fr. Demetrios Petrides

We’ve spent a lot of time on this website talking about Fr. Raphael Morgan, the first black Orthodox priest in America. Morgan was attached to the Greek church in Philadelphia. When he went to the Ecumenical Patriarchate to be ordained in 1907, he had two letters in his possession. One was from the Greek community of Philadelphia, which supported Morgan’s ordination, and said that if he failed to establish a black Orthodox church, he was welcome to be the assistant priest at their parish. The other letter was from the parish priest in Philadelphia, a remarkable man named Fr. Demetrios Petrides.

Petrides was born on Samos in the mid-1860s. He was a married priest, with children, but his wife died before he came to America. Back in Greece, Petrides’ daughter fell in love with a young man, John Janoulis, and they wanted to get married. Petrides approved, but Janoulis’ father wanted his son to get an education, rather than get married. (I think there was also a bit of a wrong-side-of-the-tracks dynamic at work here, too.) The pair got married, Janoulis was disowned by his father, and Petrides took the couple under his wing. Janoulis went to America to earn money, which of course was common at the time, and then Petrides was asked by the Church of Greece to become the new priest in Philadelphia. He arrived in 1907, and brought along his daughter, reuniting her with her husband. Just a couple of months after he arrived in America, Petrides wrote his letter, recommending that Robert Morgan be ordained a priest. For a while, Morgan actually lived in Petrides’ home.

Like so many of his fellow priests, Petrides traveled throughout his region of the country, ministering to the Orthodox people he found who didn’t have a priest. One time, he went to Ithaca, New York, to do a baptism. After the service, unbeknownst to Petrides, a 16-year-old Greek girl had advertised that she would go into a “spirit trance.” Greeks had traveled from all over to witness the spectacle. Petrides caught wind of what was going on, and he burst into the room, stopped the girl’s trance, and told the people that spiritualism is against the teachings of the Orthodox Church. This was the sort of man he was – completely unafraid to stand up for what was right, no matter what.

It was this gumption that got Petrides run out of Philadelphia. Like a lot of early Greek communities, the Philadelphia church was dominated by a rich layman — in this case, Constantine Stephano, a millionaire cigarette manufacturer. Stephano and Petrides did not get along. Things came to a head in 1912, when Stephano sent the following message to Petrides – this is almost unbelievable. It said,

Constantine Stephano commands you to appear at his office every evening at sunset and salaam low upon entering his presence. Then you are to stand erect, with folded arms, with your eyes cast downward, awaiting a word from Stephano before sitting down or otherwise changing your position. If you are not asked to be seated you are to remain in this position until Stephano leaves his office, and when he passes through the door you are to salaam low again and depart with bowed head.

Stephano was obviously trying to humiliate Petrides, and Petrides would have none of it. He responded, “I will not thus humiliate myself before this maker of cigarettes.” Now, as you all probably know, in the early twentieth century, Greek parishes in America had only a loose connection to the church authorities in Athens or Constantinople. As a practical matter, the parishes were run by all-powerful boards of trustees, which would hire and fire priests at will. Constantine Stephano arranged for Petrides to be ousted from the Philadelphia church, by the slim margin of seven votes.

But, characteristically, Petrides left with his head held high. In September of 1912, newspapers in Georgia began reporting that a daring Greek priest was coming to Atlanta. One newspaper called Petrides “the stormy petrel of the cloth.” Another paper said that he was famous for his “lambasting of the rich Greeks who loved money for the sake of power.” He was warmly welcomed by the Greeks in Atlanta, who seemed to have a good idea of the sort of priest they were getting.

But Petrides was not simply focused on his fellow Greeks. At the turn of the twentieth century, there was a very active dialogue taking place between the Orthodox and the Episcopalians. This led to the creation of a group called the “Anglican and Eastern Orthodox Churches Union.” The group’s Orthodox members included clergy from various ethnic backgrounds, including Antiochians, Russians, and Greeks. For several years in the teens, Fr. Demetrios Petrides was the group’s Greek representative. He thus was engaged in this national inter-Christian dialogue, and he was also cooperating with his fellow Orthodox of different ethnicities.

As the teens wore on, Petrides developed diabetes, and in the days before insulin, that was a death sentence. He died in September of 1917.

Several of the early Greek priests in America were notable, significant historical figures, and Fr. Demetrios Petrides is no exception. But he was more than that — he was a courageous priest, who, time and again, did what he thought was right, regardless of the potential consequences. Practically every time I find information about Petrides, it has something to do with him standing up for his principles — supporting his son-in-law who had been disowned by his father, mentoring the first black priest in America, breaking up the “spirit trance” spectacle in Ithaca, rebuking a corrupt millionaire in Philadelphia.

In many ways, Petrides reminds me of his fearless contemporary, Fr. Ingram Nathaniel Irvine, the great convert priest in the Russian Archdiocese. And even more so than Irvine, Petrides has been almost totally forgotten since his untimely death. That is largely a function of a general ignorance of the history of Greek Orthodoxy in America prior to the foundation of the Greek Archdiocese. But Petrides is, in my view, one of the greatest Greek priests who ever served in America, and we would do well to preserve his memory, and learn from his courage.

Over at Frontier Orthodoxy I have put up a post on St. Makarii of Glukharev.  He was not an American saint.  Nor did he ever come to America.   I mention him here, though, as a reminder that the missionary work to Alaska did not occur in a vacuum.  It was part of a larger missionary enterprise within the Russian Empire itself.  This is a point that is sometimes forgotten, I think, in a haste to be anachronistic and see Alaska as the intended beginnings of converting all North Americans.  Later, of course, Alaska does become part of the United States of America as a territory.  Three years after that, the headquarters is moved to San Francisco, as recommended initially by St. Innocent when he learned of the sale of Alaska.  St. Innocent had a progressive vision, but Alaska initially is best understood not as a fulfilling of that later vision but as a further example of the missionary efforts undertaken in the nineteenth century within the Russian Empire.

For those who may be interested in learning about St. Makarii, you may read here:

http://frontierorthodoxy.wordpress.com/2010/03/23/st-makarii-glukharev/

Also, if you haven’t yet, don’t forget to take the time to complete the survey mentioned in the previous post!

My latest podcast is up at AFR. I discuss the life of Metropolitan Antony Bashir, basically repeating what I wrote a month ago, on the anniversary of his death.

Over on frontierorthodoxy, I have uploaded some English-language documents relating to the Episcopal Assembly. I won’t repeat what I typed there, so if you’re interested, go here:
http://frontierorthodoxy.wordpress.com/2010/03/01/english-language-documents-for-the-episcopal-assembley-of-the-orthodox-churches-in-north-america/

Otherwise, here are the links to the documents themselves:
Orthodox Christian Leaders meet at Ecumenical Patriarchate-1

2009Canonismos_EN_OFFICIAL-1

2009Diasporadecision_EN_OFFICIAL-1

10-27-09HAHAddressfinal

SCOBA hierarchs issue Orthodox Sunday message

Thank you to George Matsoukos for providing these.  I would also encourage people to join the Orthodox Christian Laity (OCL) and others in praying for unity, if you do not already do so:
http://frontierorthodoxy.wordpress.com/2010/02/28/orthodox-christian-laity-and-the-episcopal-assembly/

None of this will identify old clergy photos, but I think we’ll find the work of the Episcopal Assembly to be much more historically significant

Who is this clergyman?

I recently received an email from Fr. Timothy Sawchak, of Holy Trinity OCA Church in Kansas City. He sent the above photo, of a mystery clergyman. It was, apparently, discovered at an old studio and given to Annunciation Greek Church, also in Kansas City. 

There was no writing on the photo, or markings of any kind, so beyond the image itself, we don’t have much to go on. Let’s see what we can determine from the photo. 

First of all, this clergyman is probably Greek. Russian priests tended to be clean-shaven (or wear goatees) in the early 20th century, while their Greek counterparts were usually bearded until the mid-1920s. So, while it’s not definitive, I strongly suspect that this is a Greek clergyman, and that the photo was taken prior to 1930. (As a commentator noted below, this could also be a Serbian priest: the Serbian church in Kansas City predates the Greek one by a few years.)

While my initial impression was that this is a bishop, on closer study, I don’t think it is. I have photos and/or sketches of most of the early Greek bishops in America, and they obviously aren’t this man. He’s not Meletios Metaxakis, or Alexander Demoglou, or Philaret Ioannides, or any of the other bishops I’ve seen. And he’s definitely not one of the Russian bishops. Most likely, he’s an archimandrite. 

On first glance, the mystery clergyman seems to be wearing a Panagia (icon of the Theotokos) around his neck, but look closer: doesn’t that look more like Christ, rather than his mother? That’s pretty rare: normally, a clergyman wearing an icon around his neck is a bishop, and usually, that icon is a Panagia. (The most notable exception I know of is St. Raphael, who wore an icon of his patron, the Archangel Raphael.) 

Our mystery man is also wearing a medallion of some kind. I know that the Tsar often awarded medallions to clergy under the Russian jurisdiction, but I also know that the Greeks of Kansas City were not a part of the Russian Archdiocese. Does anyone out there know if the King of Greece, or some other civil or church authority, gave out medallions like this? 

One of my first thoughts was that this might be Archimandrite Theoclitos Triantafilides, who was a Greek priest under the Russian Church. As we’ve seen in the past, Triantafilides was based in Galveston, Texas, but traveled widely. He’s not known to have visited Kansas City, but it’s possible that he passed through at some point. However, looking at the only known photo of Triantafilides, it doesn’t seem like a match: 

Archimandrite Theoclitos Triantafilides

I have very rough sketches of two of the other priests. Here is Annunciation’s first priest, Fr. Chariton Panagopoulos: 

Fr. Chariton Panagopoulos

And here is Fr. James Rangos, who came to Kansas City around 1912:

Fr. James Rangos

Rangos is described by the Kansas City Star (4/30/1913) as being 60 years old. Obviously, he’s wearing a different sort of hat, and both he and Panagopoulos had crosses — not icons — around their necks. But, as these are only rough sketches, it’s hard to draw any conclusions.

Basically, I need your help. Can any of you identify the mystery clergyman in the photo at the top of the page? If so, please either leave a comment (below), or send me an email at mfnamee [at] gmail [dot] com. Thank you!

Archdeacon Antony Bashir, Metropolitan Gerasimos Messara, and Archimandrite Victor Abo-Assaley upon their arrival in America in 1922

I haven’t done a great deal of research on Metropolitan Antony Bashir, and as a result, I’ve written very little about him on this website. That said, he is a hugely important figure in American Orthodox history. Today, February 15, marks the 44th anniversary of his death, in 1966.

Bashir arrived in America in 1922, as a 24-year-old archdeacon. He and Archimandrite Victor Abo-Assaley were accompanying the Antiochian Metropolitan Gerasimos Messara, who was ostensibly coming to the US to attend a convention of the Episcopal Church in Portland, Oregon. Soon, however, another agenda emerged: the establishment of an Antiochian Archdiocese in America. At that point, there were two factions of Arab Orthodox in America — the Russy, who were loyal to the Russian-backed Abp Aftimios Ofiesh; and the Antacky, who followed the rogue Antiochian Metropolitan Germanos Shehadi. Although he was from the Patriarchate of Antioch, Met Germanos was not supported that Church.

Into this chaos came Met Gerasimos Messara and his two lieutenants. It’s a long story which we’ll tell another day, but suffice it to say that, by 1924, Fr. Victor Abo-Assaley was consecrated as the first official Antiochian bishop for America. Bashir had been ordained shortly after his arrival in the US, in 1922. He spent two years in Mexico; I’m not sure why. I know he did translation work, but why would a young priest disappear to Mexico? Anyway, he ended up back in America, serving as a parish priest in Indiana.

In 1933-34, a remarkable thing happened: all of the many Arab Orthodox episcopal claimants suddenly vanished. Well, not exactly vanished, but, as a friend once put it, “God wiped the slate clean.” The first to go was Bp Emmanuel Abo-Hatab, the leader of the Russy faction, who died in May of 1933 (ironically, Met Germanos Shehadi officiated at his funeral). Abp Aftimios Ofiesh, who had previously led the Russy group and then sort of drifted off into his own little world, effectively ended his episcopate by marrying a young girl a couple of months after Abo-Hatab’s death. The same year, Met Germanos Shehadi finally left the country, returning to Syria, where he soon died. Abp Victor Abo-Assaley hung on the longest, dying in September 1934. And just to make things complete, Bp Sophronios Beshara, who said that he had inherited Ofiesh’s (already dubious) claims, also died in ’34.

So suddenly, what had been an incredibly complex ecclesiastical quagmire morphed into a claim-free simplicity. In 1935, the now-leaderless (and thus at least nominally “united”) Antiochians held elections for a new hierarch. The top two vote-getters were the still-young (37-year-old) Archimandrite Antony Bashir, and a Toledo archimandrite named Samuel David. Bashir got the most votes, but a strong minority favored Samuel David.

To put it plainly, both men were consecrated as bishops on the very same day in 1936, Bashir in New York, David in Toledo. The story is so complicated that I won’t even try to explain it. Bottom line, the American Antiochians were still hopelessly divided, with the result being the establishment of two overlapping Antiochian Archdioceses, one based out of New York, the other Toledo. This “Toledo-New York schism” would last until the 1970s.

Metropolitan Antony Bashir

As for Bashir, he was a fascinating man. Intellectually brilliant, he was an accomplished translator and scholar. He was a strong proponent of Orthodox unity in America, and was one of the driving forces behind the formation of the short-lived Federated Orthodox Greek Catholic Primary Jurisdictions in America (or, more palatably, “the Federation). As we’ve discussed here already, the Federation was essentially a proto-SCOBA body. When it collapsed in 1944, Bashir kept it alive on life support. Into the 1950s, he was still listed as the head of the Federation, even though it did not, as a practical matter, exist at all. When SCOBA was formed in the early 1960s, Bashir was again a central player.

He also advocated the use of English in church services. Under Bashir, the convert priest Fr. Michael Gelsinger gained a great deal of influence, and numerous converts joined the Antiochian Archdiocese. Bashir founded the modern-day Word Magazine (the original Al-Kalimat having ceased publication long before; in reality, the two publications are totally distinct aside from their names). He started SOYO, the Archdiocesan youth group, as well as the Western Rite Vicariate. Many of the most distinct features of the Antiochian Archdiocese today can be traced to Bashir.

Bashir died in Boston on February 16, 1966, a month shy of his 68th birthday.

I don’t think Metropolitan Antony Bashir was a saint, by any means. But if there is ever a Hall of Fame for American Orthodoxy, he would certainly belong in it.

Bayhorse, Idaho -- the last known residence of "the Bulgarian Monk"

Back in September, I discussed the incredible story of Rev. A.N. Experidon, better known as “The Bulgarian Monk.” (Click here for the podcast, and here for the OH.org articles.) To briefly recap, for those of you who are unfamiliar with the story: “The Bulgarian Monk” was the stage name of Fr. Experidon, who claimed to be a Bulgarian monk from Jerusalem. He was in America from the 1870s until his apparent death in the early 1890s. He was an amazing character, traveling all over the United States and giving lectures on street corners and in small-town opera houses. He befriended many politicians of his day, tried to convert Brigham Young to Orthodoxy, and probably drowned in Idaho around 1891 or so.

Shortly before his death, Experidon met Ethelbert Talbot, who was, at the time, the Episcopal Bishop of Wyoming and Idaho. (By sheer coincidence, many years later, Talbot was the bishop who deposed Rev. Ingram Irvine, leading to Irvine’s conversion to Orthodoxy.) Anyway, in his memoirs (My People of the Plains, published in 1906), Talbot wrote about his encounter with the wild Bulgarian Monk:

It was at this latter place [the mining camp of Bay Horse, Idaho] that I met for the first and only time a strange, wild man of the mountains, who was spoken of as the “Bulgarian monk.” He carried a gun, and was followed by a dog. Occasionally he would descend from the hills, where he led a solitary life in the woods, to a mining-camp, and preach the Gospel to those who were attracted by his weird appearance and mysterious personality. He affected the conventional dress and bearing of the apostles, and seemed to consider himself a sort of modern John the Baptist. By the more superstitious and impressionable he was regarded with much awe and wonder; by others, and especially the young, he was greatly feared, and mothers would conjure with his name in keeping their children in the path of obedience. Whence he came and whither he went, no one knew. His movements were enshrouded in mystery. I tried to engage him in conversation and elicit from him some information as to his life and purpose. But my efforts were unavailing. As the weather grew cold in the autumn he would disappear, not to be seen again until the winter had passed and the snow had melted in the mountains. Then with his rifle and faithful dog he would once more be seen in the woods. Whenever he condescended to come to a settlement, it was only for a brief hour, to deliver his message or warning, and then disappear. He repelled all attempts to draw him into conversation, nor would he accept hospitality or kindness from any one. He suddenly ceased to make annual visits, and no one seemed to be able to solve the enigma of his life. On the occasion of my seeing him at Bay Horse he was just leaving that place, and I can vividly recall his curiously clad retreating figure, as he climbed the mountain and disappeared among the pines.

Note in particular this sentence: “By the more superstitious and impressionable he was regarded with much awe and wonder; by others, and especially the young, he was greatly feared, and mothers would conjure with his name in keeping their children in the path of obedience.”

In the 1990s, various ghost story books began to include legends of “the Bulgarian Monk” ghost. The first reference I’ve seen is from Deborah L. Downer’s 1990 book, Great American Ghost Stories. In 1995, the fullest story appeared, in Historic Haunted America, by Michael Norman and Beth Scott. Here is what they have to say about the Bulgarian Monk:

Every community has its own eccentric character – an oddly dressed or reclusive man or woman, seeking no meaningful friendships, yet amiable enough when spoken to.

In Bayhorse, Idaho, the recluse was known by all as the “Bulgarian Monk of the Church of Jerusalem.” Some said the monk had no ecclesiastical credentials because he never saved anyone from sin. But that scarcely mattered. He did look somewhat churchly, a young man, tall and lean with a long, black cloak flapping about his ankles and a red fez perched atop his head. He claimed to speak thirty-two languages and said he’d been a guide for Mark Twain in the Holy Land. All quite credible in nineteenth-century Idaho.

Two weary horses and a scrawny dog accompanied the monk as he wandered from one mining camp to another along the Salmon River. He never caused any trouble and if his strange appearance brought a comment from a newcomer to the area, the old-timers would say, “Oh, he’s a harmless coot. Just part of the scenery.” And they always said it with respect, for they both admired and sometimes feared this “missionary man” who lived among them. What proselytizing he did came in tolerable doses.

Rumor had it that the monk had a tiny cabin somewhere in the woods and that he was hospitable enough to the few lost travelers who stumbled to his door. He always left provisions for the taking.

The monk fished and hunted, his scarlet cap warning other hunters of his presence in the wilderness. Although generally he was uneasy with adults, children loved him. They came running from all directions when he stopped by the village store for supplies. It was as if they knew he was coming before they ever saw him. The smaller children thought he was so tall because he probably walked on stilts. At other times he would sprint down the road chasing after the children, the sides of his cloak flapping like giant wings, gales of laughter greeting the startled passersby. Of course, he never caught them, for that would spoil the game. He would always fall flat on his face and cry and beat the ground, as if in great suffering.

In the harsh winter of 1890, shortly before Idaho became a state, the Bulgarian Monk vanished. A blizzard blew for endless days, the temperature dropped, and ice-crusted snow made it dangerous for search parties looking for stranded prospectors and families. Avalanches killed many miners, and trains between Shoshone and Ketchum were snowbound for days. Livestock and wild game starved.

And when the storm abated, people started reappearing, searching for family and friends. The old mining town of Galena had been hardest hit, but many had escaped in time.

And where was the monk? Some said he was in Bellevue, Idaho. He wasn’t. Another said he’d seen him in Shoshone. He wasn’t there either. Children sobbed, fearing their friend had died in an avalanche.

In fact, the Monk had been at Galena when the storm struck and he stayed on, camping on Titus Creek. But when the storm grew, he knew he’d have to get over Galena Summit to the safety of the mining camps on the Salmon River. He made snowshoes for his horses and for himself and, carrying the little dog through waist-high drifts, reached safety. He said in all the thirty-two languages he knew that he had “never traveled faster than 100 miles per hour.”

In February 1891, the rains came. Roofs weakened by the weight of snow now collapsed under tons of water. Legend has it that in one section of Hailey Hot Springs people burned a whole block of shanties just trying to keep warm.

Meanwhile, a few miles outside Bayhorse, the Bulgarian Monk set about repairing his remarkably undamaged cabin. Some slabs of siding were gone and the roof had sprung a few leaks. He left for Bayhorse and the supplies he would need. At the village limits, he heard the running and the laughing of youngsters, and his heart quickened. He’d give them a good race this time. But, as he leaped over a boulder, he lost his balance and fell into the rain-swollen river. Pieces of his robe were found later tangled in some brush near the riverbank. The children wept and their parents mourned their lost apostle.

Yet two weeks later a visitor arrived in Bayhorse and was shocked by reporters of the Monk’s death. On the day of the supposed drowning, the stranger said, the monk was twenty-five miles away, playing with the children at Yankee Fork, Idaho.

Could the monk have been in two places at once? Not likely. But soon riders traveling the areas of Bayhorse, Bonanza, and Yankee Fork told of seeing a black-robed figure pacing the riverbanks. He held a lantern high in his hand, but always vanished at the approach of a rider.

Was it the Bulgarian Monk searching for his mortal remains? The questions still provide plenty of speculation around campfires in the Sawtooth National Forest.

In the 2005 book Weird U.S., the authors say that the Bulgarian Monk was “a strange young man” who “was actually no monk at all, but locals took to calling him that because of his odd choice in garb. He wore hooded burlap robes that he tied off at the waist.” They tell the same basic story — the Bulgarian Monk drowned, and then turned into a ghost.

None of the ghost story writers are aware of Fr. Experidon, as an historical figure. From those stories, you get the sense that this Bulgarian Monk was a crazy young man from Idaho, not a well-traveled lecturer and raconteur in his sixties. Of course, it’s not like these ghost story writers are historians, concerned with factual details. I actually emailed Michael Norman (coauthor of Historic Haunted America) awhile back, and he couldn’t provide me with any sources for the above story.

It’s pretty easy to see how these ghost stories would develop, though. Bishop Ethelbert Talbot said that “mothers would conjure with his name in keeping their children in the path of obedience” — Don’t make me call the Bulgarian Monk! The children who grew up in the 1880s and early 1890s would have known him personally, as a strange and frightening figure. Given this hold he apparently had on the imaginations of the locals, it’s not surprising that kids would tell campfire stories about him after his death. This would be especially likely if, as the stories say, his body was never found.

The Bulgarian Monk is not a ghost, haunting a remote region in Idaho. That said, his last known residence — Bayhorse, Idaho — is now a ghost town. Just last year, it became part of a state park, and it’s now open to the public.

The location of Fr. Paul Kedrolivansky's skull wound, based on the surviving portion of the autopsy report. Image courtesy of Richard Green.

On today’s episode of my American Orthodox History podcast on Ancient Faith Radio, I tell the story of Fr. Paul Kedrolivansky’s suspicious death. For the whole story, you’ll want to listen to the podcast. There are quite a few characters involved, and I thought it might be helpful to provide a brief introduction to each of them here:

Archpriest Paul Kedrolivansky: Dean of St. Alexander Nevsky Cathedral in San Francisco from 1870 to 1878. There was no Russian bishop in America from 1877 to 1879, so at the time of his death, Kedrolivansky was the highest-ranking Orthodox clergyman in the Alaskan Diocese.

Priest Nicholas Kovrigin: Assistant priest of the Cathedral. Kovrigin was actually the founding pastor of the church, back in 1868, but Kedrolivansky was soon assigned to be dean. In what must have been an awkward arrangement, Kovrigin was made his assistant. Kovrigin was repeatedly accused of being a corrupt philanderer, and in 1879, Bishop Nestor basically kicked him out of the Alaskan Diocese.

Mindeleff: Kedrolivansky’s roommate, with whom he went drinking on the night of his fatal injury.

Mr. Rosenthal: Owner of a tobacco shop, one of the places Kedrolivansky visited on his last night. Rosenthal said that Kedrolivansky had exhibited an official-looking document, and claimed that Fr. Nicholas Kovrigin “would give $10,000 to have it from him.”

Dr. Stivers: The police surgeon. He tried to save Kedrolivansky’s life, but it was too late. He also said that Kedrolivansky was almost certainly the victim of murder, and not an accident. On the basis of Dr. Stivers’ testimony, the coroner’s jury declared the death to be murder by person or persons unknown.

Vladimir Welitsky: The Russian consul in San Francisco. From the very beginning, Welitsky insisted that Kedrolivansky’s death was just an accident, not murder. He also downplayed the importance of the “$10,000 document,” which he claimed to have translated.

Gustave Niebaum: Head of the Alaska Commercial Company. Niebaum’s company had previously accused Kedrolivansky of transporting contraband. After Welitsky returned to Russia, Niebaum became the acting Russian consul. He accused Kedrolivansky’s widow of having an extramarital affair, thereby driving her husband to drink and thus to his (accidental) death. Alexandra Kedrolivansky sued Niebaum for defamation of character; the case went to the California Supreme Court, and Mrs. Kedrolivansky won.

Elizabeth Kedrolivansky: Widow of Fr. Paul. As I said above, Gustave Niebaum accused Mrs. Kedrolivansky of having an affair and driving her husband to drink. She later won a defamation lawsuit against Niebaum.

Detective Jehu: San Francisco police detective. He was investigating the Kedrolivansky case, and found three witnesses who claimed to have seen Kedrolivansky fall and hit his head on the ground. On the basis of this testimony, the police declared the death to be an accident, and they closed the case.

Chief John Kirkpatrick: Chief of the San Francisco police. Kirkpatrick wrote a letter to Consul Welitsky, explaining the conclusions of the police.

Bishop Nestor Zass: Bishop of the Alaskan Diocese from 1879 to 1882. Upon arriving in America, Bp Nestor immediately expelled Fr. Nicholas Kovrigin from his diocese. In 1882, Bp Nestor died at sea.

Bishop Vladimir Sokolovsky: Bishop of the Alaskan Diocese from 1888 to 1891. Bp Vladimir’s tenure was occupied by almost constant scandal. While he was nowhere near America when Kedrolivansky died, Bp Vladimir accused the Alaska Commercial Company and a man named Amosov of killing Kedrolivansky.

Amosov: A mysterious man who some later claimed had murdered Kedrolivansky. It’s not clear whether Amosov even existed in reality, much less whether he was guilty of murder.

Also, for the record, I am going to reprint the description of Kedrolivansky’s wound. This was printed in the San Francisco Examiner on May 23, 1889. It is all that survives of the original autopsy report.

The autopsy disclosed the fact that the scalp of deceased was very thick and strongly adherent, and on the whole of the left side there was a large amount of suffused blood. On the left side was found a fracture of the skull, commencing in the temporal bone, running upward and slightly backward into the parietal bone, being three inches in length; thence at right angles backward half an inch; thence downward and slightly backward two inches; thence at right angles forward one and three-fourth inches intersecting the first line described, leaving a detached piece pressing upon the brain. This portion of the skull was quite thin. From the point of intersection there was a fracture running across the temporal bone and ending in the median line of the frontal bone at a distance of about four and a half inches. There was also a fracture from the lower corner of the detached piece running backward across the parietal bone a distance of about half an inch. The brain directly under the fracture was lacerated and a brain clot weighing four ounces was found. The brain was in a healthy condition.

Kedrolivansky’s death remains an unsolved mystery. Was it an accident, or murder? If murder, then, by whom, and why? We may never know.

The original home of St. George Serbian Orthodox Church in Kansas City, Kansas, sat on the banks of the Kansas (Kaw) River.

For Orthodox Christians on the Old Calendar, today is the feast of Theophany. I’m hoping to air a whole podcast on Theophany very soon, but in the meantime, I thought I’d reprint an article about a Theophany celebration that took place one hundred years ago. 

I live in Kansas, and the first Orthodox parish in my home state was St. George Serbian Church, founded in Kansas City, Kansas in 1904. A few days after the feast of Theophany in 1910, the parish priest, Fr. John Markovich, blessed the waters of the Kansas (or Kaw) River. The following report appeared in the Kansas City Star (1/23/1910): 

The waters of the Kaw River are to be blessed as are the waters of the Danube and the rivers of Servia. The ceremony will take place at 11 o’clock this morning on the Central Avenue Bridge. The Rev. John Markovich, rector of the Servian Orthodox Church in Kansas City, Kas., will officiate. 

The ceremony is performed on what is known as the Feast of the Three Kings, in commemoration of the visit of the Magi to the infant Jesus in the manger. This feast was last Thursday, but as the members of the church were at work in the factories it was decided to celebrate today. 

In Servia and countries where the Greek branch of the Catholic Church holds sway the rivers are blessed each year. From these rivers is drawn the water used in the rites of the church. The little church of St. George at 37 North First Street, Kansas City, Kas., stands near the Kaw River, and from that stream is drawn the water used for its rites. Hence the Kaw, like the rivers of the Old World, is to be blessed on the Feast of the Three Kings. 

The Servian societies of St. George and St. Jovan will meet at the church at 10:30 o’clock this morning and march to the river. When the center of the stream is reached the priest will bless the water. Then he will lower a bucket and draw up water which he will distribute among church members. 

The Kaw is not “blue” like the Danube, nor clear like the mountain streams of Servia, but to the members of the little church in the Servian colony along its banks its muddy waters will be just as sacred as those of the rivers in their native land. 

As you can see, the reporter has confused the Orthodox feast of Theophany, which celebrates Christ’s baptism, with the Western Epiphany celebration of the Three Kings. The next day, the Kansas City Times (the sister newspaper of the Star), ran an article on the blessing of the river: 

In the midst of traffic the quaint rites of a ceremony handed down from the Middle Ages were observed on the Central Avenue Bridge in Kansas City, Kas., yesterday when the Kaw River was blessed as the Danube and the rivers of Servia have been blessed since Christianity was preached in the days of chivalry. 

Three hundred Servians gathered around a little altar on the lower floor of the bridge. They stood with bowed heads while a priest in vestments of silk brocaded with silver, like those worn on similar occasions centuries ago, performed the ceremony in the same way that it was done then. 

Trolley cars rushed along the elevated structure above them, the smoke of the packing houses formed a background and the whistle of a switch engine in the railroad yards a hundred feet away prevented the people from hearing all that the priest said. But the altar boys chanted, the censor was swung and drops of water were sprinkled upon the heads of the parishioners. 

The priest was Father John Markovich, pastor of the Servian Orthodox Church of Kansas City, Kas. The people were the parishioners of the little church of St. George at 37 South First Street, and the ceremony was a part of the services held in observance of the Feast of the Three Kings, in commemoration of the visit of the wise men to the infant Jesus. In Servia the Danube and other rivers flowing through the principality are blessed every year. Instead of the clear waters of the “Blue Danube,” the people of St. George’s Church now see every day the muddy waters of the Kaw. They work in the packing houses all week and so the feast, which was last Thursday, was not celebrated until yesterday. 

The Servian societies of St. George and St. Jovan met at 10 o’clock yesterday morning at the church, held services and led by a band marched to the Central Avenue Bridge. First in the procession came two altar boys in white surplices, one carrying a silver crucifix and the other a censor. They were followed  by the Rev. Father Markovich, dressed in the silk, silver brocaded vestments of the church brought over from the Old Country. In the middle of the bridge he took the crucifix from the altar boy, turned east, north, west and south, making the sign of the cross in each direction, and he made a prayer blessing the waters of the river. A bucket was lowered and brought up filled with water. The choir boys chanted while he cast a few drops in each direction. The people came one by one and kissed the cross. Then the priest sprinkled a few drops of what was now holy water on each bowed head and blessed each parishioner. 

Since the custom was inaugurated in Servia in the Middle Ages it has been the belief that after a river has been blessed its waters will not overflow or do any harm, but will bring prosperity to the people living along its banks. 

The Kansas City Serbs were obviously trying, as best they could, to maintain their Orthodox traditions in a rather strange land — a land with not only a muddy river and a traffic-filled bridge, but jobs that didn’t allow for a festal day off. They made do by observing the feast a few days late. 

I especially like the idea, most clearly expressed at the end of the first article, that, by blessing the waters, the Kaw becomes just as sacred as any river in Serbia (or, for that matter, the Jordan itself). In a very special way, Theophany takes America, a foreign land for Orthodoxy, and blesses it, makes it holy. It sends the message that, even though we may not have two thousand years of history and saints and ancient churches in our country, we too are Orthodox, and salvation can be accomplished here just as much as it can be in a traditionally “Orthodox” land.