When it was Eva Farkas' turn, she said -- in English -- that she was there to defend her parents.
"Speak Romanian!" several people immediately shouted at her.
Paolo Vescia
RMS Titanic , Inc.
Emanuel Farkas with his wife, Margareta, and daughter Eva at their Glendale home.
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"You guys just believe any lies," Eva continued in her native tongue, undaunted. "I lost everything because I stood for this church, but I'm not afraid of this church."
She went on to say her younger sister, Diana, was refusing to attend Elim anymore because of the strife, and that had broken her heart.
Dorin Druhora stared impassively at Eva Farkas as she stepped off the pulpit, and returned to her seat next to her grandmother.
Last April, about 400 people gathered at Elim for a Sunday evening service. Conspicuous by their absence were still-exiled Ted and Zack Oprea, and the others who had been kept away by the court's injunction.
At the pulpit, a grade school girl standing behind the altar shyly approached a microphone.
"Since I was a child, I have believed in God," she sang in the sensuous language of her parents' homeland, her voice vibrant. "The kingdom of God is what we're searching for."
The service featured a wide selection of music, from entrancing folk melodies (many with lyrics about how wonderful mothers are) performed by a girls' choir, to a men's tuba orchestra doing oompah music. The latter was fronted by a girl on the piccolo.
Later in the three-hour service, associate pastor Dorel Michula spoke to the assemblage.
"A child's character has a lot to teach us," he said, his voice trembling with passion. "A child forgives easily. Adults take so long to forgive. Adults say hurtful words. We need to learn that God's kingdom is for those who forgive."
Hearing Michula, a weathered woman started to sob softly, soon joined by others around her.
"We are desperate," he continued, gesturing skyward. "Many times in this church, we have lost hope and don't know what to believe. I don't know what to believe, except that Jesus wants us to have peace. We need to give this peace to each other. Why is this not so? Only He knows."
Dorin Druhora sat in a chair a few feet from Michula, pokerfaced as ever. Weeks earlier, he had announced plans to leave Elim in the early summer.
In May, Druhora wrote to Judge Klausner, asking her to lift the injunctions against the six parishioners, but under one condition:
"Please, ask them to give you and to sign a written statement expressing their regrets and promising to cause no more trouble, verbal or physical abuse . . ."
A few days later, Klausner signed an order that allowed the six to return to Elim if they wished, but warned them to steer clear of Druhora. The judge ignored the pastor's request for a written apology from his enemies.
On June 3, Elim was filled to capacity as Druhora prepared to say goodbye. Things had come full circle: Eva Farkas and her parents were there, as were the Oprea brothers, keeping their distance from the pastor as ordered.
Jacob Cotan also was in attendance. A month earlier, on May 1, he'd filed a civil lawsuit against Druhora, the Elim church, its governing board, and the two Phoenix police officers who had the misfortune of working security that January morning. (That suit is pending in Maricopa County Superior Court.)
If the congregation expected a fiery farewell, it didn't get it.
"I don't want to have a goodbye speech," Druhora said, his voice barely audible, "because I don't want to disappear just like that. I will be back if you want me. If I did something wrong, it's my fault and I accept blame. If I did something good, it's due to His grace. You remain the sweetest church for me. I've learned patience and suffering here. You will never be replaced in my heart."
About a dozen people approached Druhora after the service to offer best wishes. But most kept their distance, huddled in groups at the back of the sanctuary.
The pastor bear-hugged a visitor, and made an urgent plea in English, as tears filled his eyes.
"You must disregard what you hear about me," he said. "I am not a bad man."
Soon after Dorin Druhora left for Missouri, the entire church board at Elim resigned.
Then, late last summer, a few hundred church members, including many of those who had resigned, also quit Elim and started the new Maranatha church. Some of them had donated thousands of dollars, and had spent untold hours at the church since coming to the States.
On a recent Sunday night, Marius Chelmagan worshiped at the gym/church with about 100 other parishioners. The 25-year-old Chelmagan explained that the low number was because of a wedding that night at Elim.
"It's going to be interesting over there tonight," he said, chuckling at the thought of ex-Elim parishioners returning like prodigal sons and daughters to their former church home. "People will be seeing each other for the first time since we came over here. Lots of bad blood, bad memories. Stupid stuff. But I'm sure everyone will be polite. At least I hope so." (The wedding went off without a hitch.)
