When Honor Speaks: Cleveland Stands Unbreakable

Sunday, November 9, 2025

Today was extraordinary.

About a hundred people stood in the freezing rain outside St. Sava Cathedral Cleveland. The temperature hovered around 2°C (35°F). Water poured from the sky. Umbrellas did little good. Clothes were soaked. Hands were cold.

And yet—the mood was inexplicably, unexpectedly cheerful.

Like everything was just great and we had no worries. Like standing in a cold downpour on a Sunday morning defending our priest was exactly where we wanted to be. Perhaps because we were leaning on God. Perhaps because when you know you're doing the right thing, weather becomes irrelevant. Perhaps because faith gives you a strange kind of joy that circumstances can't touch.

It was odd. It was beautiful. It was Cleveland.

The Gathering: "Let Thy Will Be Done"

They came anyway—about a hundred faithful. Families with children. Elderly babas in headscarves, rain dripping from the fabric. Grandparents who built this cathedral with their own hands decades ago. Young people in hoodies and work clothes. Men in suits. Workers still in their weekend casual. Teenagers standing with their parents, learning what it means to have a backbone.

Multi-generational. Multi-age. United.

The gathering began with prayer. Together, standing in the pouring rain, the community lifted their voices in the Oče Naš—the Our Father. In Serbian, in unity, water streaming down their faces, voices rising together into the gray sky:

"Oče naš, koji jesi na nebesima..." "Our Father, who art in heaven..."

It felt powerful. That's the best way to describe it—just powerful. Not angry. Not desperate. Powerful. Like something bigger than all of us was happening, and we were privileged to be part of it.

The mood was one of tense determination mixed with something stranger: hope. Cheerful hope. We didn't know what would happen today. We didn't know how the priest Bishop Irinej sent would react. We didn't know what comes next in this fight.

But we knew whose fight it really is.

"Da bude volja Tvoja..." "Thy will be done..."

That's what this is about. We're fighting for justice. We're standing for Fr. Dragoslav. We're refusing to accept corruption. But ultimately? We're praying "Let it be Your will, Lord." And we trust that God will hear our prayers and save the Church and save Father Dragoslav.

Even in the cold rain, there was this sense: we're exactly where we're supposed to be.

Then Mr. Mačeski Spoke

And then came the moment that will be remembered for years.

Mr. Aleks Mačeski—Honorary Consul, holder of the Order of St. Sava, donor of $25,000 for a monastery house that was never built, man of dignity and honor—stood in the rain before the community and spoke.

His words were not diplomatic niceties. They were truth, delivered with the moral authority of someone who has earned the right to speak.

"God sees everything, including the callous way B. Irinej treated Fr. Dragoslav."

The crowd responded. Loudly. Voices of agreement rippled through the gathering. People were saying—let's put this kindly—that Bishop Irinej needs to go. Not quietly. Not politely. But with the kind of conviction that comes from years of watching corruption go unchecked and finally, FINALLY, having someone with the stature to say it publicly.

Mr. Mačeski told the story of how he asked Fr. Dragoslav to accompany him to Mt. Athos in September. It would have been Fr. Dragoslav's first visit to Hilandar, that sacred place where Serbian monasticism has flourished for centuries. Mr. Mačeski had been there eight times. He wanted to share this spiritual journey with his priest and friend.

Bishop Irinej refused to give permission.

Not for theological reasons. Not for pastoral concerns. Just... refused.

The crowd's reaction? Disbelief. Anger. More voices calling out.

Callous. Petty. Mean-spirited. Cruel.

"I have been upset with Irinej since the fund raiser three years ago for his grandiose plans for Monastery Marcha."

Mr. Mačeski didn't mince words. Three years ago, Bishop Irinej held a fundraiser with grandiose plans for Monastery Marcha. Mr. Mačeski donated generously—$25,000. Others gave what they could. The community rallied to support what they believed was a sacred project.

And then... nothing.

For two years, Mr. Mačeski asked Bishop Irinej to communicate to parishioners what was happening with those plans and revisions.

"He never did."

The money disappeared. The plans vanished. The accountability never came. And when a man of Mr. Mačeski's stature—an Honorary Consul, a recipient of the Order of St. Sava—asked for transparency, he was simply ignored.

More voices from the crowd. The anger was building, but it was righteous anger. The kind that comes from watching someone you trusted betray that trust over and over again.

A Pattern of Abuse

But Mr. Mačeski didn't stop there. He connected the dots. He showed the pattern.

"He sowed discontent in Australia, mistreated Fr. Živojin, mismanaged Monastery Marcha and now shows his insensitive arrogance in treatment of Fr. Dragoslav and his family."

The crowd erupted. This was it. Someone was finally saying it. Someone with the credentials, the honor, the position that couldn't be easily dismissed or ignored.

This isn't isolated. This isn't one mistake. This is a pattern stretching across continents and years:

• Discontent in Australia

• Fr. Živojin mistreated (though he won—he's now Dean of St. Sava NYC!)

• Monastery Marcha mismanaged into a $233,656 tax crisis

• And now, Fr. Dragoslav—removed with 48 hours' notice for the "crime" of having a community that dared to send letters to the Holy Synod

Mr. Mačeski sees it. The community sees it. And standing there in the rain, a hundred voices saying "yes, FINALLY someone is saying it," the truth became undeniable.

The question is: When will Belgrade see it?

The Kolo Dancer Who Can't Dance Around Questions

And then came the line that made everyone smile even in the rain—a flash of sharp wit wrapped in serious criticism:

"Irinej may be a good kolo dancer but he should not dance around questions regarding the back taxes accrued by Monastery Marcha."

Laughter mixed with applause. Perfect. Absolutely perfect.

Bishop Irinej may be charming at church festivals. He may dance a fine kolo. He may know how to work a room and tell people what they want to hear.

But charm doesn't pay $233,656 in delinquent taxes.

Dancing doesn't explain where $25,000 in donor funds disappeared.

Charisma doesn't justify ignoring three certified letters from faithful parishioners seeking to exercise their canonical right to appeal to the Holy Synod.

And episcopal authority doesn't excuse removing a beloved priest with 48 hours' notice as retaliation for his community daring to speak up.

You can't kolo-dance your way out of corruption, Bishop Irinej.

"I Have Written to the Patriarch"

But perhaps the most important words Mr. Mačeski spoke were these:

"I Have written to the Patriarch and Sabor about the toxic situation in the Eastern Diocese. May God provide justice going forward."

The crowd's response was powerful. This wasn't just a community complaint anymore. This was an Honorary Consul who holds the Order of St. Sava telling the Patriarch directly: this situation is toxic.

That letter doesn't end up in a drawer. That letter gets read. That letter carries weight.

Mr. Mačeski has done what the parishioners tried to do three times through Bishop Irinej: he has ensured that Belgrade knows what is happening.

The wall of silence is cracking. The information is getting through. The Holy Synod will have to respond.

A Personal Testimony

Mr. Mačeski ended with something deeply personal:

"Fr. Dragoslav and his family Father is a good friend and decent human being."

Not just "my priest." Not just "our pastor."

A good friend. A decent human being.

When a man of Mr. Mačeski's stature speaks about friendship and decency in the midst of ecclesiastical politics, it reminds us what this fight is really about. It's not about canonical technicalities or jurisdictional disputes or ecclesiastical power games.

It's about a good man—a decent human being—who was treated callously, unjustly, and cruelly by a bishop who has forgotten what it means to be a shepherd.

Then the Priest Arrived

The atmosphere shifted. The tension became palpable.

Another priest arrived. Sent by Bishop Irinej from Clearwater, Florida.

Here's what makes this even more cowardly: our Dean, Mr. Pajić, sent him. But Mr. Pajić didn't come with him. He sent this priest into the fire while making absolutely sure he himself didn't get even warm, let alone burnt.

Shameful.

The priest stepped out of his car. He didn't know what to expect. We didn't know how he would react. The mood was tense—tense determination. A hundred people standing in the rain, soaked and cold, ready to defend their cathedral peacefully but absolutely.

The community greeted him. Respectfully. We are not thugs. We are not a mob. We are Orthodox Christians who know how to treat a priest—even one sent to replace the priest we love.

And then, peacefully but firmly, we told him the truth:

"Father, thank you for coming. Thank you for caring for our souls. But you cannot enter this church. Not this week. Not next week. Not any week—until Fr. Dragoslav is restored."

No shouting. No violence. No drama.

Just an immovable wall of faithful people, standing in the freezing rain, who know the difference between authority and abuse, between obedience and complicity, between peace and surrender.

The priest looked at the crowd. A hundred faces. Old and young. Men and women. Children with their parents. All united. All determined. All standing in the rain.

He got back in his car. And he left.

Peacefully.

Because even he could see: Cleveland will not break.

The Mood After: Unexplainable Joy

Here's the strangest part: after the priest left, the mood wasn't somber. It wasn't defeated. It wasn't even relieved.

It was cheerful.

Inexplicably, unexpectedly cheerful. Like everything was just great and we had no worries. People were smiling. Talking. Laughing even. Standing in the cold rain, soaked to the bone, and somehow... joyful.

Perhaps it's because we're leaning on God. Perhaps it's because when you do the right thing, even in the hardest circumstances, there's a peace that passes understanding. Perhaps it's because we prayed "Thy will be done" and we meant it, and we trust that God heard us.

Whatever the reason, it was strange. It was beautiful. It was the kind of joy that comes not from circumstances, but from faith.

We don't know what comes next. We don't know if the Holy Synod will act. We don't know how long this fight will last.

But we know we're where we're supposed to be. We know we're doing what's right. We know God sees everything—including the callous way Bishop Irinej treated Fr. Dragoslav, and including the faithful way a hundred people stood in the freezing rain refusing to compromise.

"Da bude volja Tvoja..." "Thy will be done..."

And somehow, in the cold and the rain, that was enough.

The Gratitude We Owe

Today would not have been possible without so many people giving their time, their energy, their courage, and their faith—and their willingness to stand in freezing rain.

To Mr. Aleks Mačeski: Thank you. Thank you for your courage in speaking truth publicly. Thank you for your letter to the Patriarch and Sabor. Thank you for using your position of honor not to protect yourself, but to stand with those who have no titles, no diplomatic credentials, no Orders of St. Sava—just faith and determination. You stood in the rain with us and spoke words that will echo far beyond Cleveland. Your speech gave voice to what we've all been feeling. You have shown us what true honor looks like.

To every single person who came—all hundred of you: Thank you for standing in 2°C cold. Thank you for standing in the pouring rain. Thank you for bringing your children and teaching them what it means to stand for justice even when it's uncomfortable, cold, and wet. Thank you for your cheerful determination, your joyful faith, your unbreakable unity. You could have stayed home. You could have said "it's too cold, too wet, too hard." But you came. And you stood. And you showed Bishop Irinej and the world: weather doesn't break us. Discomfort doesn't break us. Nothing breaks us when we're standing for what's right.

To the elderly babas who stood in headscarves in the rain: You've seen harder times. You've survived worse. And you're still here, still standing, still refusing to let your Church be corrupted. You are the backbone of this community.

To the parents who brought their children into the rain: You are teaching them lessons worth more than staying dry. They are learning that faith sometimes means discomfort. That doing the right thing isn't always convenient. That the Church is worth fighting for even when it's cold and wet. Thank you for raising the next generation of faithful warriors.

To the young people who stood with us: You could have been anywhere else. But you chose to stand in the rain with your community. You are the future of this Church, and that future looks bright because of you.

To those who couldn't be there but are praying: Your prayers matter. We felt them today, standing in that rain, feeling that inexplicable joy. Every prayer lifts us. Every word of encouragement strengthens us. You are part of this fight even if you're miles away and dry.

To Fr. Dragoslav: A hundred people stood in freezing rain for you today. Not because you asked them to. Not because they had to. But because you loved them well, and they love you back. This is the fruit of faithful ministry. This is what happens when a priest shepherds rather than lords over his flock. We will not abandon you. We will not accept another priest until you are restored. A hundred people in the rain made that promise today. Cleveland keeps its promises.

To the priest who was sent today: We don't know your name. We don't know if you wanted to come or if you were ordered to come. But thank you for leaving peacefully when you saw a hundred people standing in the rain telling you "no." That took humility. We pray God guides you to where He wants you to serve—but it's not here. Not while this injustice stands.

To Mr. Pajić, who sent that priest but didn't come himself: Shame on you. Sending someone else into the fire while you stay safe and dry is the definition of cowardice. If you believe Bishop Irinej is right, have the courage to come yourself and face the community you're supposed to lead. Hiding behind others? That's not leadership. That's just sad.

What Comes Next

We don't know what Bishop Irinej will try next. More priests sent to test our resolve? More pressure? More threats?

It doesn't matter.

We know what comes next from our side: We stand. Again. And again. And again.

Rain or shine. Cold or warm. Comfortable or miserable.

Not this week. Not next week. Not any week—until justice is restored.

The gates remain blocked. The vigil continues. The community stands united. And men of honor like Mr. Mačeski stand with us.

Bishop Irinej can send as many priests as he wants. He can scheme. He can pressure. He can threaten. He can dance around questions.

But he cannot break what he did not build. He cannot take what he did not give. He cannot silence what speaks the truth. And he cannot defeat a people who pray "Thy will be done" and mean it.

The Consul Has Spoken, The People Have Stood

Today, an Honorary Consul stood in the rain and said what many have been afraid to say:

Bishop Irinej is treating people callously. Bishop Irinej is dancing around serious questions. Bishop Irinej has created a toxic situation. Bishop Irinej must be held accountable.

And a hundred people stood in freezing rain and said with one voice: "We agree. And we're not moving."

The letter to the Patriarch is sent. The speech is delivered. The truth is proclaimed. The line is drawn. And the rain couldn't wash any of it away.

Cleveland stands with Mr. Mačeski. Mr. Mačeski stands with Cleveland. And together, wet, cold, and inexplicably joyful, we stand with Fr. Dragoslav.

May God provide justice going forward.

A Final Word

To Bishop Irinej: You sent another priest today. We sent him away peacefully. You made him come from Florida while your Dean stayed safe at home. Cowardly. You can send ten more. We will send them all away—peacefully, respectfully, but absolutely. And we'll stand in whatever weather it takes to do it.

To Mr. Pajić: Come out of hiding. If you believe you're right, have the courage to face us yourself instead of sending others to do your work.

To other parishes watching: Cleveland is showing you what's possible. A hundred people in the rain. Unity. Courage. Peaceful resistance. Faith that doesn't compromise. You don't have to accept abuse from those who wear episcopal vestments. You don't have to stay silent when shepherds become wolves. Cleveland stands, rain and all, and you can stand too.

To everyone reading this: Share this story. Tell your friends. Spread the word. Let people know that in Cleveland, Ohio, in November 2025, a hundred Serbian Orthodox faithful stood in freezing rain, looked corruption in the eye, and said: "No. Not today. Not ever."

And when an Honorary Consul with the Order of St. Sava stood in that rain with them and spoke truth to power, they knew they were right.

The watch continues. The faith endures. Cleveland stands. Rain or shine.

For Mr. Mačeski's courage. For the hundred who stood in the rain. For Fr. Dragoslav's restoration. For justice in the Eastern Diocese. For the Church we love.

"Da bude volja Tvoja..." "Thy will be done..."

May God provide justice going forward.

Thank you to every single person who stood in the rain today. You are the Church. You are the reason we will win. You are the heroes of this story.

We do not break. We do not bend. We do not surrender.

Cleveland stands united. Wet, cold, joyful, and unbreakable.

Now. Tomorrow. Forever.