Our communities will never be accused of homogeneous thinking—that would be boring; we prefer arguments and seemingly endless debates; there is one domain, however, in which a majority seems to agree: we love our anniversaries; it does not seem to matter whether it is the 25th of this or the 50th of that—energy levels rise with attendees aplenty; these commemorations serve multiple needs that I am certain sociologists have studied: they afford us an opportunity to remember while living in the present and jumpstarting a new future; they also are an opportunity to raise much-needed funds or simply reunite people whose lives were impacted by the institution or individuals being recognized; of course, it also satisfies our almost insatiable appetite for socializing—we should be thankful for such a cultural norm; nearly all of our community infrastructure celebrates important anniversary milestones, but our churches seem to be the most experienced—often attracting the most diverse audiences; recently, the St. Illuminator’s Cathedral of New York City celebrated the 110th anniversary of its consecration; known in our communities as the “Mayr Yegeghetzi” (Mother Church), it has had a remarkable history of service and resilience; its consecration on the Lower East Side of Manhattan in 1915 took place during the genocide and pre-dates the division in our church; for decades, it was the first and only cathedral of the Apostolic Church in the U.S.; for multiple generations, it has operated as a bastion of benevolence for countless waves of immigrants arriving in New York—from Western Armenia, Baku, Iran and the Middle East; for many, the “27th Street” church was their first meal on these shores and their first connection to fellow Armenians; St. Illuminator’s has been a spiritual center and sanctuary for those yearning to chart a new path in this country; that mission continues today, as new immigrants and longtime parishioners alike find common purpose and connection through its Armenian Christian mission; what a joyful occasion: to gather to recall and reinvigorate such a loving purpose; this parish has seen it all—from a bustling immigrant neighborhood to the challenges of gentrification; the Prelacy and the parishioners of St. Illuminator’s should be commended for their devotion and endurance; it is no wonder so many Armenians speak of this church with such emotional attachment; to make a substantial difference in the lives of thousands of vulnerable brethren across generations and geographies is such a blessing; this fall, another iconic pillar of the early Armenian diaspora in America will celebrate a milestone of its own; St. Stephen’s Armenian Church in New Britain, Connecticut, will mark its 100th anniversary with a special celebration in October; reaching a century of existence is no small feat, given the pressures of economics and assimilation on some of our communities; it is an accomplishment most worthy of recognition; St. Stephen’s is not only one of the oldest Armenian churches in the country—it is the oldest in Connecticut, where Armenians have lived for over a century; this parish also predates the church division of 1933; its affiliation was later settled in court, causing unfortunate tension in the community for decades; other parishes were established later in Bridgeport (Trumbull), another in New Britain and in Hartford; many years have passed, and thankfully, the wounds of division have healed; today, the regional parishes enjoy healthy Christian Armenian relations, as the walls of separation have been removed; like many communities, we have come to realize that our adversary is not another church but the ravages of indifference and ambivalence; St. Stephen’s in New Britain has always held a quiet, special place in my My mother was born and raised in the Armenian community there; she met my dad at an AYF Olympics before he served in World War II, and they married after his return; through my high school years, we would visit my grandparents in New Britain; when the church was built in 1925 (and consecrated in 1926), the land it stood on was donated by Karekin “Harry” Kevorkian, who lived across Tremont Street with his family; Harry was successful in real estate and served as the deacon of the new parish; my grandmother Nevart’s mother, Takouhi, was Harry’s sister; Harry and his wife Mari’s children were close cousins of my mom; Shirley was the church organist for well over 50 years; her brother Steve was the de facto caretaker, always keeping a watchful eye on the church grounds; their brother Arthur was active from a young age, and their sister Susan—a vibrant 104 years of age—remains a local, dedicated parishioner; my grandfather, Takvor, was a charter trustee of the church; deeply religious individuals, they all were wholly committed to the Apostolic church; during our youth, we often stayed at my grandparents’ house; Grandpa Takvor had a shoe repair business in New Britain, and we would arrive there on Saturday afternoons; my parents would let me stay with him in his shop while he fixed some chicken noodle soup for me; it was always a joy (and a bit scary) to drive home with grandpa while he smoked his cigar and drove his three-speed standard transmission sedan; when we stayed over, my parents would attend an AYF dance or a cultural event in the community; my sisters and I loved that time as it became our chance to have our dear grandparents all to ourselves; Grandpa usually went to bed early, and I still recall seeing a silhouette of him praying in bed; his deep faith has left a deep impression on me to this day; on Sunday morning, we always attended Badarak at St. Stephen’s; it was a treat to ride with Grandpa and Grandma the few miles to Tremont Street; the church does not have a dedicated parking lot; Grandpa would drop off Grandma and my sisters at the entrance, while we continued down Tremont Street to look for a parking spot; Grandpa was a master of parallel parking and could navigate almost any opening; walking down the sidewalk with this wonderful man were special moments in my youth; he was a humble and dedicated servant of the church; when he would introduce me as his “tornig,” I would respond with a mixture of shyness and pride; we always sat on the fourth or fifth pew on the left side, facing the altar; that habit has followed me ever since—I still sit on the left side facing the front in every church I attend; we truly are creatures of habit; after services, we would see friends from the parish at the fellowship; the church grounds were fairly limited with a small but functional backyard in this urban residential neighborhood; the church picnics were held at a rented facility in wooded areas with a dance pavilion; through my grandparents and parents, St. Stephen’s became a second parish for our family during those very important development years; our visits to St. Stephen’s were not complete without a visit to the Kevorkian family home across the street; the patriarch, Harry, had passed away when I was a baby, but we were fortunate to know his wife, Mari, and her adult children; we were instructed by our parents early on to address her as “Mari Hars”—a sign of respect for the bride of Harry; their home was a treasure for our young eyes, with its exquisite exterior stonework and detailed stained glass windows; Shirley and Steve, who lived there, were always warm and engaging to young people; they would serve us mezze in addition to the church fellowship refreshments; we loved our time at the Kevorkian home, which felt like visiting humble royalty; by mid-afternoon, we would return to our grandparents’ home for Sunday dinner; aside from seeing our beloved grandparents, what made our visits to New Britain special was that the church was the center of our time together; at the dinner table, I would listen to my parents and grandparents talk about community matters as if we were home in Indian Orchard; this church community was at the core of my grandparents’ lives; we adored them—and so, we embraced their church as part of our story; love makes logic simple; my grandfather was also a great storyteller; those Sunday afternoons in New Britain were great entertainment; he always wore a white shirt and tie on Sundays; by late afternoon, the sleeves were rolled up, the tie loosened, and he was settled into his favorite chair to recount another tale; these moments—and our experiences at St. Stephen’s—are embedded in my soul; like many of our oldest parishes, St. Stephen’s has faced challenging times in recent years; demographic shifts and economic pressures have taken their toll; yet, the parish continues, guided by a core of incredibly dedicated parishioners; this is a moment to remember how churches like St. Stephen’s have impacted your lives; it is time to come forward and give back to our communities in their time of need; the weekend of October 4, 2025, is an opportunity to re-engage, reconnect and, as Catholicos Aram I stated, revitalize.