WHEN THE ORGAN FALLS SILENT

It was after eight in the evening when the phone rang.

“Good evening, Peter Faith speaking. Is this Dezhan?”

When you live in America and your name contains the letter “J,” you quickly learn that people will call you Deejan, Dehan, or, more romantically, Dezhan.

“That’s me, my friend! An interesting surname for an independent believer!”

Calmly, without any introduction, he got straight to the point.

“Are you free tomorrow evening? I have an important religious assignment for you.”

I did not answer immediately, knowing that time is an elastic category for a philosopher.

“Depends,” I joked. “Am I supposed to defend Christianity or attack it?”

He laughed quietly.

“Neither. It’s a matter of mediating a conflict between two believers.”

He explained that a mediation had been scheduled in an Episcopal church. The priest was a good friend of his; they had known each other since college.

“There has been a conflict in the parish, so he asked me to take on the role of mediator. It’s not the first time. I’ve helped him before. It would be interesting for you to be there.”

“When the organ falls silent,” I commented, “the problem is usually not in the instrument.”

When I asked what the problem was, he told me it concerned the church’s attitude toward homosexuality. The conflict had arisen between a long-time parishioner in charge of collecting donations and the church organist, who also led the choir. One was a hardened conservative, the other a homosexual. For Trevor, tradition was not merely a set of rules, but a framework that could not be changed without consequences. He was especially concerned about how excessive inclusiveness might affect children. Brendan, by force of circumstance, had become a symbol of that change. Although he had never put himself forward, he was becoming more visible in a community accustomed to silence.

“At first glance, this church is quite liberal,” he said, “but in practice it is cautious. It does not forbid, but it conceals. It does not condemn, but it does not highlight either. That balance worked for a long time because it left enough room for everyone to hide whatever needed to be hidden. But the space suddenly became too narrow.”

It all began when the pastor thanked Brendan and hinted that, in addition to the choir, he might also entrust him with work with the young people. It was only an idea, but in communities that rely on tradition, order, and hierarchy, even a single sentence can provoke chaos. Trevor reacted sharply. What bothered him was that the priest had not thought of him, who spent most of his free time in the church, collected donations, visited parishioners… He dug in his heels and began asking uncomfortable questions about the purity of faith and original Christianity.

The pastor avoided conflict, but he did not want to change his decision either. So he turned to Peter, who was neutral but knew the matter well.

“I agreed because, in situations like that, rules are only a pretext for the fear that once a boundary is moved, it is hard to put it back,” Mr. Faith explained.

The next day, we met in front of the church. A modern building with glass doors and a board announcing services, charity evenings, youth workshops, and mental health counseling. Everything seemed open, without the rigidity of traditional temples. The attempt at reconciliation was scheduled in a small room behind the church library. A round table, several chairs, a pitcher of water, and plastic cups. We arrived a little early. Peter quietly reminded me that we were not coming to a service, but to a conversation.

“Don’t look for the guilty party,” he said. “Look for a solution.”

The priest sat to the side. He slowly moved his chair, placed his glasses on the table, and opened his notes. Peter settled next to the bookshelf. His gaze moved over the titles, and he nodded with satisfaction. Trevor entered decisively, measured each of us with his eyes, and chose a seat at the table from which he had a clear view of the entire room. He did not remove his jacket, and he turned off his phone and placed it beside him. A few minutes later, Brendan appeared. He paused for a moment, afraid he might be late. He sat across from Trevor, greeted him, and draped his jacket over the back of the chair.

Silence ruled the room. Everyone stared straight ahead. The conversation had not yet begun, but its substance could already be sensed.

The pastor spoke first. He reminded us that our common goal was not to pass judgment, but to have a fair discussion and, God willing, reach an agreement. He asked that everyone speak in their own name and avoid general expressions such as “people are saying,” “as everyone knows,” and especially the passive-aggressive little phrase “all sorts of things.”

“Since Trevor has pointed to certain problems in our parish, I would ask him to explain his concerns.”

A plump, middle-aged gentleman cleared his throat and said in a raised voice that this was not about an individual, but about the direction in which the church was moving.

“That direction, in my opinion, is wrong because the changes are not in accordance with Christian teaching. Little by little, almost imperceptibly, we are turning the wrong way.”

He did not dispute a believer’s right to a private life, nor did he call for bans. He did not speak directly about Brendan’s position in the choir or his place in the community. But work with young people, for Trevor, carried special weight.

“Children do not understand nuances; they recognize and absorb what is presented to them as an example,” he explained.

In his view, the church had a duty to send clear messages, and if we entrusted work with young people to a person whose way of life was contrary to traditional teaching, then we no longer needed the Bible.

“One should always accept the individual as a member of the community, but not present him as a model.”

He emphasized that he was not the only one who thought this way and that people often complained to him. No one wanted conflict, but silence did not mean agreement. Most believers, he said, thought the time had come for the church to define whom it considered a role model. Was it a man who did not live by Christian rules, or someone who had devoted his entire life to the church?

“We must not be led by trends, because the church should be stable even when the world around it is not,” Trevor concluded.

The priest lowered his eyes to his notes, and Peter to the bookshelves. The others sat still. The uncomfortable silence now had an address: Brendan was next.

He did not answer right away. Everything that had been said, he had heard many times before in different variations.

“I do not wish to interpret the teaching of the church, nor am I going to give lectures on morality,” he said. “I teach children what I know — and that is music. The Bible says that ‘God is our rock, our sword, our shield,’ or ‘The Lord is my shepherd,’ but we cannot interpret that literally, although there are many who insist on doing so. Literal interpretation gives them a sense of power. They are convinced that it will help them win an argument more easily. They end every debate with the words: ‘That is what is written!’”

He explained that the Bible is not a closed system, but a collection of different testimonies that do not always sound the same.

“It is often claimed that the story of Sodom and Gomorrah is about homosexuality. But what does the text actually say? In the city of Sodom, a mob comes before the house and demands to ‘know’ and punish two strangers — which, in that context, means rape. We are talking about violence, about a mass crime. The host, Lot, tries to protect them. He even offers his daughters, which only further reveals the depravity of the situation.”

He added that in the Book of the Prophet Ezekiel it is written that the sin of Sodom was pride and indifference toward the poor and the helpless. So was the problem same-sex relations, or was it violence and the abuse of power?

He did not deny that the church had the right to its boundaries, but said those boundaries had to be clearly drawn.

“If I am unsuitable because of my way of life,” he said calmly, “then say so. But do not say the problem is concern for children.”

Brendan was asking neither for approval nor recognition, but only for the same measure applied to others. If his character was being questioned, then let it be said plainly, without false moralizing.

“I cannot be both a part of the community and its unspoken mistake!”

Before taking the floor, Peter waited a little for the impressions to settle. He recognized the good intentions and concerns of two sincere believers whose views were opposed, but not necessarily mutually exclusive.

“Trevor speaks of continuity and the fear that the church will lose its recognizable identity, while Brendan emphasizes dignity and the right not to be reduced to a symbol. The Bible contains songs, metaphors, myths, and historical records that cannot all be read in the same way, because the text must be interpreted in its historical and literary context.”

Peter then reminded us that in the Acts of the Apostles, Philip baptizes the Ethiopian eunuch — a double outsider: a foreigner and a ritually castrated man. He was not a full member of the community, yet he was received into the faith without any conditions. In the Epistle to the Galatians it says: “There is no longer male and female,” and the boundaries people raise disappear.

Peter then asked why we even worry about texts that are thousands of years old.

“Because people still base their most important values on them, and so the Bible is used as an argument for discrimination. Even today there are young people who endure abuse because of their sexual orientation. That is why it matters how we interpret texts. The story of Lot speaks about protecting the vulnerable from the violence of the majority. The church does not say that being gay is OK, but neither does it explicitly declare it a sin.”

Peter suggested that the church clearly define what it expects from a person who works with young people — without hidden criteria and insinuations. If standards exist, let them be the same for everyone. If they do not exist, then the problem lies in vagueness, not in the individual.

At the end, he looked at both of them.

“The church is not a courtroom,” he said, “but neither is it a private space. It is a community that must decide whether its rules are meant to protect people or frighten them.”

I was not part of their story, which gave me a certain freedom to say what those before me had avoided. In my view, the problem was neither tradition nor dignity, but the expectation that the church should be both shelter and fortress at the same time. Most believers want the church to protect them from everything, while remaining unchanged. Seen from the outside, both Trevor and Brendan were actually afraid of losing their place in a space they considered their own. One feared that the boundary would disappear, the other that the line being drawn would erase his individuality. I added that the church often speaks of love as a universal value, but silently poses the question: under what conditions?

The priest followed by reminding us that the church was neither an ideological movement nor a private club, but a community of people with different views of the world. He explained that he did not intend to withdraw his praise of Brendan’s work with young people, but that future decisions would be made after a conversation with the wider community. He proposed that the question of work with young believers be formalized, and that the criteria, responsibilities, and expectations be clearly defined for anyone who took on that role.

He did not offer a final solution, but expressed faith in unity and tolerance.

That is how the first Christian “reconciliation” I had ever attended came to an end. On the way back, Peter and I stopped at a tavern across from the church. It was half-empty, with a silent television on the wall and a young bartender behind the counter who did not recognize us. We ordered drinks.

Peter spoke first.

“No one left angry. That is already something.”

“It seems to me that faith is always searching for a balance between truth and belonging, and whoever insists only on truth risks ending up alone,” I said.

“And you?” he asked.

“I have nothing to lose,” I replied. “I do not belong, so I cannot be excommunicated either.”

About ten days later, Brendan left the Episcopal church and accepted the position of music director at a Baptist church in another part of the city. There, his organ played without restraint.