On April 1 of this year (foolish for Christ) I was baptized and chrismated as a member of the Orthodox Church.
That statement is bald enough: it doesn’t sound the wretchedness of separation; nor the jubilee-time of coming home. After all, I had been much more than a Sunday Episcopalian for 18 years. I was diligent and loyal; the parish knew my work: the region, too: and the diocese. My decision (conceived in vitro over three years) was lacerating. It meant, first, that I would no longer share the eucharist with my wife and children. It disjoined me from a hundred friends: devout folk, who—when the Episcopal Church dies of its terrible fever—will, by their grace and presence alone, touch it with an absolving unction. Several partook of my anguish: in these latter years, watching the Episcopal Church has been like watching a father kill himself with strange debauchery. But they could not leave: I understand that; I celebrate it. Nothing I may say about the Episcopal Church is intended as a repudiation of them. These are men and women (I name just one: Archdeacon Robert Willing) who, when gathered two or three together in prayer, are a legion.
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