They christened me Lubomirus. They named me in Kingston, in the St James Chapel of St Mary’s Cathedral. It was Tuesday June 29, 1954.

I learned of this name a few weeks ago after the Chancellor of the Ukrainian Catholic Eparchy of Toronto and Eastern Canada, Father Zenon Walnyckyj, kindly provided a copy of my baptismal certificate. I had called for this document to confirm other details of my christening, particularly my baptist’s name. 

I was told he was Father Marko Stek, a Studite priest who, with the blessing of Metropolitan Andrei Sheptytsky, and despite grave dangers, rescued Jews during the Holocaust. He provided false documents, including baptismal certificates, and safe conduct to hiding places in many monasteries and convents across western Ukraine. For saving Jewish children from the Nazis, at a risk to his own life, Father Stek was recognized by Yad Vashem as one of the Righteous Among The Nations on 14 February 1995. I have yet to find this good man’s grave, but I will. 

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To mark my retirement, after 35 years as a professor of political geography at the Royal Military College of Canada, I organized a ceremony of thanksgiving and reflection at St James Chapel, joined by a few close friends, including the celebrant, Monsignor Joe Lynch. When I was at Regiopolis-Notre Dame High School Lynch tried to teach me French. I was a poor student, but I sensed he was a man of faith, someone I should be thankful to have in my life. Decades later, he honoured me by presiding over this service.

For me, St James Chapel remains a particularly sacred space. Throughout my life, I have returned to it again and again. It is where I was baptized, took first communion, and confirmed. I served at the altar for many years when members of the St Michael the Archangel Ukrainian (Greek) Catholic parish still came together every second Sunday to celebrate the Divine Liturgy. 

It is where I first met Reverend Father Jules C. E. Riotte, who fostered my faith and an interest in natural history, arranging my first summer job as his field assistant, involved with entomological research for the Royal Ontario Museum. For several years, I joined him at the Queen’s University Biological Research Station, near Chaffey’s Locks. His influence and this experience set me on my journey to graduate studies and the academic career now coming to an end. I never forgot this boon. And so, when Father Riotte’s time came, I buried him out of this chapel. I still tend to his grave in St Mary’s Cemetery. When my end comes, I pray my remains will rest here, one last time.

But the chapel was more than just a place of prayer. It was also a cradle. Those who worshipped there were members of a community that collectively raised me, even if not intentionally. Most were Displaced Persons (DPs) who found asylum in Canada after the Second World War. There were men like Stefan Kuzmyn, a Ukrainian nationalist whom the Nazis interned in the Dachau concentration camp. Or women like my godmother, Nina Dejneha, who survived the genocidal Great Famine of 1932-1933 in Soviet Ukraine (the Holodomor). 

Others, like my mother, Maria, were enslaved by the Third Reich. And there were veterans of the Ukrainian Insurgent Army, a national liberation movement that fought resolutely against the Nazi and Soviet occupations. I grew up surrounded by victims of fascism and communism, women and men who suffered the traumas of war, forcible displacement and the uncertainties of an exile existence. 

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Driven from the paradise they remembered as their homeland, they were motivated, more or less, by an abiding interest in liberating Ukraine, hoping to someday return “home.” None ever managed that repossession although a few, like my parents, bore joyful witness to the collapse of the Soviet empire and Ukraine’s return to its rightful place in Europe.

Whatever my nature may be, it is what it is. That is outside my control. My nurturing, in contrast, happened in the crucible of this chapel. I am just beginning to discern this, only now, from this end of my life. It is why I asked for very particular readings. From Isaiah, 53:5: “But he was pierced for our transgressions, he was crushed for our iniquities; the punishment that brought us peace was on him, and by his wounds we are healed.” 

From Psalm 91, 15:16: “He will call on me, and I will answer him; I will be with him in trouble, I will deliver him and honour him. With long life, I will satisfy him and show him my salvation.” 

For the Gospel reading, Matthew 8:8, “Lord, I am not worthy that you should enter under my roof, but only say the word and my soul shall be healed.” As far back as I can remember, that Roman centurion’s understanding of Christ comforted me. I am not quite sure just why.

So as I return, and will yet again leave, this venerable setting from where Lubomirus emerged, I recall a poem written by my adopted “uncle,” Yaroslav Opyriuk, inscribed on his gravestone. 

“I lived as I knew how. I laboured as I could.
I did not forget about God and my people.
I studied, read, and thought and thought,
Connecting every little word.
I recorded lines of words
For my children’s sake.
So that they would love and not shun
Their own Ukrainian people.”

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I took up my commission and endured. It is finished. Amen.

(Lubomyr Luciuk is currently preparing his memoirs.)