Saturday, Oct. 18, 1997 | 5:32 a.m.
In the beginning of this story is the Word, and that Word is "orthodox," and the Word is often misunderstood: "When people think of orthodox, they think of Jews," says the Rev. Nicholas Soraich, who is orthodox but isn't Jewish.
Likewise, the Word is often taken to denote a somberness of attitude, a strictness of lifestyle discipline, the wearing of dark clothing and hats and Old Testament-ish beards.
So it's something of a surprise to come across Soraich, or Father Nicholas, as he's known to the flock at St. Paul's, one of a handful of orthodox Christian churches in Las Vegas. He has a definite levity and a functioning sense of humor, and while he does wear dark clothing -- black priestly robes -- his beard is neatly trimmed in a decidedly New Testament fashion.
"Orthodox is true believing," says Soraich, standing in the newish sanctuary of St. Paul's, a gorgeous white chamber of filtered sunlight, equipped like all orthodox churches with candle holders and iconic paintings of Jesus, Mary and a selection of saints. "It doesn't mean you can't have a sense of humor or be a normal person. It's certainly not somber to follow Jesus Christ."
Yet it's orthodox Christianity's sense of serious purpose, of unvarying theology, that is attracting a growing number of Christians put off by changes in their own congregations. Thanks in part to converts, orthodox denominations now claim a membership larger than 5 million in the United States, more than the Episcopal and Presbyterian churches combined. Worldwide, an estimated 300 million people belong to one of the orthodox churches, which are generally lumped together as the Eastern Orthodox Church.
Unwanted change is not a problem with orthodoxy (thus the use of the word "orthodox"). Aside from switching to English-language services (in some churches, at least), things are pretty much going along the way they have since, oh, the time of Christ. Orthodoxy traces its theology in a direct, unwavering line back to the original Apostles, sent out by Jesus to teach the masses. There's been no after-the-fact interpretation, no faddish updating.
"There's nothing we do in church that hasn't been done for 2,000 years," says the Rev. David Blum, a converted Catholic priest who now serves as St. Paul's assistant pastor.
Prompted by long-simmering differences of opinion on, among other things, whether the Holy Spirit issued from the Father and Son together or from the Father alone, Christiandom split in 1054. Parishes in the orbit of Rome became the Roman Catholic Church, while those in Constantinople and points east became the Eastern Orthodox Church. In time, several geographically aligned branches arose: Greek, Russian, Antiochean (based in Antioch, once a city in ancient Syria, now in Turkey), Serbian. All share the same theology.
While Catholicism went on to adopt the weighty apparatus of pope and Vatican -- a major sticking point with orthodox believers, who see no charter for the primacy of Rome in apostolic teaching -- the orthodox churches strove not to add anything new.
"We do not shift with the wind," says Philip Saliba, the Inglewood, N.J.,-based archbishop of the Antiochian Orthodox Church. "We are not modernistic. We do not change our dogma to please this culture or that culture. We adhere faithfully to the teachings of the fathers."
It's that sense of provenance, of a clean lineage back to the original disciples, that has made orthodox churches a landing pad for Christians -- -- largely Protestants -- bailing out of other denominations. To the dismay of many, some Protestant churches have tailored their services to appeal to contemporary tastes: the ordination of women and gays, the swapping of traditional hymns for inspirational pop, a general theological jazzing-up. While such adaptations have attracted new blood, they've also alienated some churchgoers who need a faith with deeper roots.
Soraich estimates that converts make up 30 percent of his 400-member parish (the rest are lifelong, or "cradle," orthodox.) "It used to be much, much lower," he says.
One convert, Erik Patterson, was, not long ago, a disenfranchised Protestant looking for a "church of authority." "As a Protestant," he says, "I was already two generations away from the original (Protestants broke away from the Catholic church during the Reformation in the 16th century)." He'd already tried several other churches on for size; none fit. "A lot of things didn't seem to jibe. ... I almost gave up."
Then he saw orthodox Christianity mentioned on the Internet. Why not give it a try? He strolled into St. Paul's on Jan. 7. It was a propitious encounter: Soraich conducted the entire ceremony in Slavonic. Whoa! Fortunately that was a special occasion, old-calendar Christmas. Rendered in English, the orthodox liturgies provided Patterson with the gravitas he sought. Just don't ask him to put it into words.
"You can't explain the correctness of it until you experience it through liturgy and the sacraments," he says. Sunday services, with their strong emphasis on ritual -- lighting candles, burning incense, kissing icons, all heavily symbolic -- connect him to a lengthy tradition he didn't find in Protestantism. "Protestants kind of write off everything from the Reformation and before; they think Christ started in the 16th century."
His story isn't unusual. Entire congregations, in fact, have turned orthodox. According to Saliba, an Episcopalian congregation in Spokane, Wash., once converted together. In 1987, 2,000 members of what had been the Campus Crusade for Christ, searching for a true church of the New Testament, joined the Antiochian diocese en flock.
But it's rarely that dramatic; sometimes, it's just the reverse. St. Michael's, the local Antiochian parish, began in 1965 in the home of the Rev. Paul Eyler. "We started with just a couple of families," he recalls. Churchgoers had to tromp through his daughter's bedroom to attend services. "If you had a dozen people, that would fill the place up," Eyler says. "Then, the choir would have to sing from the bathroom."
St. Michael's is a bit more flush these days. The rise in membership can be seen in the rise of the church itself: Additional buildings arose as the congregation could afford them, finally swallowing the old Eyler house -- a process crowned by the church hall and kitchen added recently. The membership now stands at 150, 40 percent of whom he estimates are converts. As is Eyler himself.
"I was studying to be a Protestant minister 40 years ago when I converted to the orthodox church," he says. "I felt that this was the church that went back to the time of the early Apostles."
Converts from Catholicism are less prevalent, Saliba says; there are many similarities between the two religions, and Catholicism has something of a lengthy tradition itself. None of which was enough to keep Blum in the fold. That whole pope business was too much for him. "More and more, local churches have become branch offices of Rome," he says.
In contrast, orthodox churches don't have an administrative superstructure above them; although they are under the spiritual jurisdiction of patriarchs and archbishops, each parish sinks or swims on its own. (Orthodox priests are also allowed to be married, as long as their knots are tied before they become deacons.)
Because orthodox Christianity flourished in Greece, Turkey and Eastern Europe -- it was originally brought to America in the late 1700s by Russian monks traveling to Alaska -- the typical congregation is an ethnic goulash. "The parish is made up of any ethnic background you can think of," Soraich says. Serbs, Russians, Greeks, Green Valley residents. Some don't speak English.
An orthodox service can take two hours and has three main components: the musical liturgy (hymns and singing); the liturgy of the word (Scripture, prayers and a modest sermon); and the Eucharist, in which parishioners consume bread and wine in symbolic consumption of Christ.
The reliance on ritual can come as a bit of culture shock to refugees from Protestant churches, wherein there tends to be very little in the way of incense-burning and icon-kissing. In Protestantism, the sermon is frequently the centerpiece of the worship service, and some conduct the bread-and-wine communion less frequently.
The heavy ritualizing is meant partly to reinforce the deep mysteriousness of God and the mystical nature of faith. "The church is symbolic of heaven on Earth," Soraich says. "It's supposed to take people out of their earthly life." As it has been, so shall it be, forever and ever, amen. Says Soraich: "God said, 'I am who am,' and that's the same today as it was 2,000 years ago."
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