The means of a sectarian return to the right faith

In the forest of Roica, a group of young men—lumberjacks—worked almost constantly, taking turns according to skill and strength: Nichita Pavel, Popovici Gheorghe, Pandia Iancu, Vișan Nicolae, Stan Marin, and others. Food was sent to them every two weeks, and on these occasions, a few boys who wished to rest or visit would go to see them. On Saturdays, they set off in a cart drawn by gentle, tame buffaloes—their “drigane.”

Towards the end of August, feeling the need to see those beautiful places myself, I packed a rucksack with plenty of provisions, added a basket of fruit and grapes, and set off alone in the middle of the night along the road that followed the Galda trail. I calculated that, with the necessary stops, I would cover the forty kilometers by midday. And so, with the words, “God help me!” I departed.

It was a moonless night, yet the visibility of the falling stars was extraordinary. Accompanied by the murmur of water rippling over the gravel of the ford, the heavens sent me their bright messengers. Reflected in the shimmering waters, they seemed to descend from both above and below, enveloping me in arrows of light. I experienced a strange, spiritual delight, silently singing within my soul the verses of the Psalms: “How wonderful are Thy works, O Lord,” until I passed through Mesentea, Galda de Sus, and arrived at Poiana Gălzii, leaving to my left the beautiful Bulz of Gălzii—a rocky peak rising from the ground like a gigantic boar’s tusk.

That was my first stop before entering the Chalk Gorge. I had walked at a steady, brisk pace, interweaving the rhythm of my steps with the rhythm of my Jesus Prayer, and had covered more than fifteen kilometers in four hours. My shoulders were tight, my arms tired from carrying the fruit basket. As I rose to continue, I saw a man with a child descending the slope to the right, following the noisy waters of the Cuțului stream in the half-light of dawn. I greeted him in our local Romanian way:

— Doamne ajută și bună dimineața, bade!

The man replied in a muffled tone, mumbling something only he could understand. Thinking he might be deaf or mute, I approached and called out louder:

— God help you, and good morning, bade!

He stepped aside as if to pass, holding his child—about ten or twelve years old—by the hand. The man looked thirty to thirty-five, with shining eyes.

— Where are you going? I asked.

— To Roica’s, he answered in a low voice, then fell silent again.

— Where do you come from?

— From Galda de Jos!

— I’m from Galda de Jos too, and I’m also heading to Roica. We’ll be traveling companions. Is that your son?

— Yes, he’s mine…

He spoke briefly, as if reluctant to converse. He carried a stick, like any traveler, and had a bag slung over his shoulder. The boy walked slowly, coughing dryly and stopping from time to time to spit.

— Is the child ill? Why does he cough and spit so much?

— No, he’s not ill—but he’s ready for the sacrifice.

— What sacrifice? I asked, sensing I was dealing with a sectarian.

— A sacrifice for the Lord!

— For which Lord?

— Well… for God, of course!

— Did God ask you for a sacrifice, as He once asked Abraham for Isaac?

— Then I decided to give it to Him!

— And how do you prepare him?

— I don’t give him any meat, milk, eggs, or cooked food—only a few apples, greens, and some dry bread.

— How long have you been feeding him like this?

— Oh, about four or five years now… and I think I’ll stop this year.

— Do you have other children?

— No. My wife said, “Why should I have any if you’re going to give them away?” That’s why she left me.

I stood before a moral and spiritual tragedy. My mind clouded, and an uncontrollable anger drove me to grab this misguided wanderer, deceived by evil, and throw him into the abyss beside us. Into what abyss does the devil cast the human soul! Believing he offers a sacrifice to God, he kills his own child. My body trembled; I felt my very soul shake within me. Into the being of our Romanian nation—pure in spirit and balanced in all acts of life, personal or communal—the sin brought by foreigners, by heresies and moral deceptions of every kind, by abandoning the grace of ecclesiastical obedience, had driven itself like a poisoned arrow.

Restraining myself, I sought to enlighten him, to free his soul from error. He was stubborn, self-satisfied in his delusion, pushed by the devil into insolent replies and false interpretations. With God’s help, I finally brought him to speak reverently so that we could converse. When I felt the frail scaffolding of his scriptural “interpretation” begin to shake, I invited him to share a morning meal with me. I laid out bread, roasted meat, and grapes on a towel and invited him to the table. I bowed my head and said the Lord’s Prayer. He remained still. The poor child drooled and swallowed dryly. The man refused to sit, took a piece of bread, and began to move away. Then I took the boy’s hand and drew him beside me.

— Eat, and your father will eat too!

The man squinted and tried to approach the child.

— Don’t eat it. It’s unclean!

I smiled, pulled the boy closer, and seated him beside me. He sat, but would not eat. I cut bread and meat, gave it to him, and ate some myself.

— Do you know that attempted child murder carries a heavy sentence?

The boy chewed timidly, glancing at his father in fear.

— You see, I said, you told me that you have cows, pigs, poultry, eggs, milk, and cheese, but you sell them all to others while your own family starves—mocked by your own mind, which prefers to make others sin by eating what you call impure. Do you believe you are pure and worthy of salvation while killing those whom God entrusted to you—to feed, clothe, and shelter?

The man was silent.

— What do you do with the money from what you sell?

— I give it to the collection plate.

— And what does your congregation do with it?

— I don’t know… they know.

— They who?

— The preachers.

— Are any of them poor, ragged, with sick children or homeless?

— I don’t know.

— How do they come to the meeting?

— In cars.

— Now you see why I asked?

— Yes… you’re right.

— You sacrifice your life and your family for nothing. You labour to enrich deceivers you don’t even know. Tell me, what religion were your parents?

— Orthodox Christians.

— And who taught you these new doctrines?

— Some Hungarian preachers came to the village and taught us.

— Are there many of you?

— No, I’m the only one left.

— You say you know the Commandments. Tell me, what is the Fifth Commandment?

— “Obey your father and mother…” he began timidly.

— Say it all.

— “…that it may go well with you, and that you may live many years upon the earth.”

— Exactly. After honouring and obeying God, He commands us to honour and obey our parents. How have you kept that, when you prefer to obey strangers—and strangers to your faith at that? You are Romanian, and Romanians are said to have good sense, good judgment. How is it that you alone, out of a thousand families, have been led astray? For nearly two thousand years—not ten, not a hundred—we Romanians have been heirs, guardians, and witnesses of these sacred truths preserved in the Church. And now a few misguided men come to teach us how to live and how to serve God? Judge for yourself how wrong you are, for as you said, the whole village considers you a man of poor spirit, and no one greets you anymore!

Something broke inside him. The child’s face brightened a little; he looked me in the eyes.

— What would you say if your father had treated you as you treat your son—if he had sought to starve you? God does not command us to obey our parents to be killed by them, but to secure life through His blessing. The Fifth Commandment is the only one that promises a reward here on earth.

I needed to say no more. The man began to weep—it was a sign that God had shown mercy. I thought he did not know me, but he looked up and said:

— I wanted to come to your house a few times. Everyone says you are faithful, and I wanted to ask you if what I’m doing is right or wrong—but I kept postponing it. It’s as if the evil one kept confusing me.

— No, you see, for this good thought, God has helped you. And here we meet on the road. You wish to reach God, but there is only one way—through the Church. Christ did not found His Church on the crowd that ate bread in the wilderness, but on the confession of His Apostles that He was the Christ. He empowered them and said, “He who obeys you, obeys Me; and he who does not obey you, does not obey Me, nor Him who sent Me.”

— Then I can atone for this sin? he said, tears streaming down his face. He clutched his child to his chest, whispering through sobs: My child, my child…

— Only unconfessed sin is unforgiven, my son. Go to your Father.

The boy too began to cry, choking on his cough. I wept with them—tears of pain and of joy: pain for the deception that had led a father to destroy the life God had given him; joy that divine grace had broken his hardened heart. I embraced them both and said:

— When we return to Galda, we’ll go to Father Oțoiu Victor and confess, asking him to release you from your sin and receive you back into the Church.

He agreed. We walked another kilometer together before the man and child turned up the Mărului stream.

— We’re going this way, he said.

— I thought you were going to Roica.

— Do you see that smoke rising over the wooded hills?

— Yes, I thought it was fog.

— It’s not fog. The whole village was ordered out last night to extinguish the forests the Hungarians have set ablaze. We all have to go to our assigned areas. My parents are on the hills behind Mogoș, so that’s where I’m heading. (The Soviets had announced that the Hungarians had set fire to the forests to provoke further conflict with the Romanians.)

I embraced him and told him to take his son to a doctor—the boy had a lung illness—and to feed him well, for he had enough. He promised he would. On the way back, I stopped to speak with Father Victor Oțoiu of Mesentea; he knew the man’s case.

Mesentea was a hamlet of Galda de Jos, nicknamed “The Little Saints.” When General Bukow’s armies devastated Galda and destroyed the church on the hill, sixty to seventy families took refuge in the nearby forest. They were later discovered there—still steadfast in their Orthodox faith.

(Virgil Maxim, Hymn to the Cross Bearer. Abecedar duhovnicesc pentru un frate de cruce, 2nd edition, Antim Publishing House, Bucharest, 2002, pp. 148–152.)