Shortly after I became an Episcopalian, I met a new senior warden, Dr. Michael Shada - a name unusual to my Kentucky ears. He was short, thick, an ex-Marine, head of student teaching at the university in our town, and a commanding presence. Unusual, too, was his wife's name: Margaret Yanney Shada. Short like Mike, with even blacker hair, she had Scheherazade's black eyes.

I soon learned that both were local Syrians, born into the Lebanese community that grew up around the town's Orthodox Church, founded in 1903. Faithfully, the Shadas attended my St. Luke's because their St. George's was without a priest.

In any town where there is no Orthodox church, or one is vacant, the devout are instructed to become Episcopal communicants, as the worship is closest to their own. When St. George's did gain a new priest, after a long search, Mike and Margaret left us for leadership positions among their own. But 20 years later, their birthdays and their anniversary still recur in our parish's calendar, and their frequent re-visits are joyfully greeted.

Meanwhile, my curiosity about these Arabic-speaking neighbors led me across town to acquaint myself with Orthodox liturgy and life. Of course I could not receive communion, being "unchrismated," but I could share the holy bread, kiss the priest's proferred cross, learn names, learn ritual, relish homemade baklava, and carry the Episcopal Church in friendship to a Sunday gathering remote indeed from Anglican Eucharist.

Yet not so remote. Churches are people, and liturgy is the handiwork of peoples. With a Greek/English Divine Liturgy in hand, supplemented by St. George's pew-book pointed in Arabic, I can find my way as nimbly as once the shape of Anglican worship led me through a Welsh service in the Cathedral of Bangor. The essentials among Christians are everywhere the same.

Still entrancing are the differences. St. George's acolytes in purple, green and gold brocades; the chanting on formal modes; the lessons in familiar RSV and clicking Arabic; the navelong file of crystal chandeliers, no two alike; a widowed matron from the Greek enclave shrouded in veils of black. A baptism in the immense golden caldron presents a naked babe, dripping from his immersion, to be clothed in brand-new garments by his godparents.

Generations of Nebraska baptisms have woven new names into Syrian fibers; the Shadas, Shaddys, Abboods and Maloleys are infused with Steinbrinks and Freburgs. Under ordinary public-school names come the exquisite little maidens to communion with crossed arms, lowering their eyes.

The pastor of this 100-odd flock is a former English professor, a colleague from the university, who answered a late calling to the Antiochian Catholic priesthood. More than once in the past 10 years, he has shared ministry in St. Luke's sanctuary with St. Luke' clergy. Relations between our two churches are exceptionally warm. And my own frequent Sunday visits serve to reinforce our relationship.

Always a stumbling block for me will be the firmly secondary place of women: never beyond that gated icon-screen except to polish and scrub once a year. But they are lively, intelligent women. I enjoy their vivacious responses in an intergenerational class in Arabic I take with them. Many still speak and understand, but have lost their reading and writing. Our young teacher, a Lebanese exile, began the class primarily so that his daughters would not lose their native tongue.

Together, Orthodox and Episcopalian, we are learning who our neighbors are. I for one will never again be able to say of Orthodoxy, "It's all Greek to me." q

In any town where there is no Orthodox church, the devout are instructed to become Episcopal communicants, which can be an opportunity to meet one's neighbors. Nancy Westerfield is an occasional contributor to TLC who resides in Kearney, Neb.