Twice Exiled

They came with nothing but faith.

Some fled Hitler's bombs. Others escaped Tito's firing squads. The youngest ran from the civil war, carrying children through burning cities and villages.

The children cried then. Scared. Confused. Clutching toys they'd never see again. "Where are we going? When can we go home?"

They found refuge in Cleveland, Ohio. A new homeland. A second chance.

With calloused hands, they built St. Sava Cathedral—brick by brick, dollar by dollar. Factory workers. Steel mill laborers. Cleaning ladies. Every paycheck shared. Every Sunday devoted.

They built more than walls. They built a sanctuary where Serbian would still be spoken, where children would learn the prayers their great-grandparents knew, where Christmas would be celebrated as it had been for a thousand years.  Others worked hard to sustain St Sava

The children grew up here. They learned kolo dances in the church hall. They sang liturgy in their parents' language. They found home.

For decades, St. Sava stood. A lighthouse. A home.

Until a Bishop decided it should not.

"The bishop doesn't want you here!" the police said, reading his orders. On camera.

120 families—refugees who survived wars, who crossed oceans, who sacrificed everything to preserve their faith—turned away from the church they built and sustained with their own hands.

The children are crying again. The same fear. The same confusion. "Where will we go? Who will teach us the dances? Where will we celebrate Christmas?"

Twice exiled. Once from their homeland. Now from their refuge.

They have no country to return to. And now, no church to shelter them.

The parents who once promised their children "We're safe now, we're home" must now say "We have to leave again."

But they still gather. On sidewalks. In parking lots. In living rooms.

Because you can lock cathedral doors.

But you cannot lock faith.

Christ is born! Indeed He is born!

120 families: You are the Church. Not the building. Not the Bishop. You.

UNWORTHY