I was born January 20, 1853, in a suburb of Antioch; twelfth child and
youngest son of a family of nine boys and four girls, and therefore
considered the Joseph of the family, and as a small boy went to a
missionary school with my elder brothers. My father was a banker and
merchant. His partner in the former business was Mr. Edward Barker,
English consul at Aleppo; in the latter a Greek, Jabra Antaki, their
traffic being in raw silk, for which and for silk-worms Antioch is
a great center. Millions of dollars passed through his hands, and he
was considered one of the wealthiest men in the city. A common saying
was, "If you can drain the Mediterranean dry, you can drain Filian's
money dry." This saying roused the cupidity of the local governor;
he imprisoned my father, and proposed to torture and kill him, and
confiscate his property. Americans would relish living under this
sort of government. His partner, the consul, saved him, however,
and won his undying gratitude; and when Mr. Barker died, my father
gave his son a part of his own orchard for a burial ground. The
son erected a beautiful $25,000 monument there, which still stands,
the ground being owned by my brother, Moses Filian.
When I was fourteen or fifteen, my father lost all his money through
the failure of others, became hopelessly bankrupt, and was too old
to regain his position, and sank into a poor and broken-hearted old
man: his Mediterranean was not inexhaustible. He often patted me and
said, "My dear boy, I am sorry--I helped your brothers and gave them
good educations, and I meant to do the same by you; but I cannot,
for I am too poor. You will have to make your own way." He was a
devoted friend of education, himself highly educated, master of three
languages,--Armenian, Arabic, and Turkish,--and of strong reasoning
powers, logical, imaginative, profound, and far-sighted. Moreover, he
was a zealous Christian, greatly respected and liked. In person he was
tall, and very stout, with large, bright eyes, and full, rosy cheeks;
built like my great-grandfather, from whose elephantine figure the
family took its surname. Filian means "Son of an elephant," and his
descendants--about 150 in all, one of the largest single families in
the Orient--have been mostly large-framed men and women.
At about fifteen I had to go to work. One of my brothers being
a weaver, I learned that trade from him, and kept at it for three
years, weaving both cotton and silk, and not only supporting myself,
but helping support my father. Then I took up shoemaking, which
paid better, but neither my father nor myself was satisfied to have
me remain a common workman. He wanted me to become a banker and
merchant, as he had been, and his old friends, who respected him,
would have given me a chance to start; but I had always been devout
from a little boy, and felt that I had a call to be a minister. While
making shoes, I prayed the Lord to open the way. I often thought,
"Suppose I become the richest shoemaker or even the richest banker in
Antioch, what then? Shall I ever be happy? No. Then Lord, what is my
call?" I believed I heard the answering voice of God in my soul saying,
"I have created thee to become a minister of the gospel." So I went
to a missionary of the American Board in Antioch, and consulted him;
by his encouragement I went to the Theological Seminary at Marash, in
Armenia Minor, and studied there three years in the preparatory course.
Before taking my theological lessons I was sent by the missionaries
to Caesarea (Kayserieh) to teach in a town near by. On reaching the
city the pastor of the Protestant Church invited me to preach to his
congregation the following Sunday morning. I did so; the missionaries
heard me, changed their minds, said I was better fitted for a preacher
than a teacher, and sent me to preach at a village named Chomakli,
near Mt. Argaeus. The Lord seemed to fill me with eloquence, and
crowds flocked to hear me. Then the missionaries called me to a larger
field, Talas, their central town; the same fortune attended me there,
and steadily followed me in the other places to which I went. I will
not make a long story of it. Enough to say that I always felt utterly
helpless before preaching, empty of matter and words; I went to my room
and cried to my Heavenly Father, and always overflowed with things
to say when the time came. There was no limit to my imagination;
illustrations thronged upon me by hundreds; I felt inspired from
Heaven. I never wrote a sermon before preaching it, but wrote it down
literally as soon as I had finished.--I wrote every Monday.--And they
are all ready to be published in both Armenian and Turkish.
I was a successful preacher, but I had no theological education (though
I studied my Bible hard), and felt that I needed one. I decided to go
to America for it, but the missionaries opposed the plan bitterly. One
of the ladies told me plainly it was a sin; that I had no right to
give up a successful and useful ministry to go there. I replied that
giving up the ministry would be a sin, but not going away to prepare
for higher usefulness, and coming back to carry it out. Then she said
I had no money to go, and did not understand English. I answered that
I had faith that God would create the means. She laughingly bade me
give her best regards to her friends when I came. She meant it for
a joke, but I carried it out in earnest.
How I finally came to this country would take too long to tell. I will
only say that I crossed the ocean by faith. When I reached New York in
July, 1879, I had only 15 cents in my pocket. I worked hard day and
night in a rag felt factory in the Bowery, and slept on the rags on
the floor, covering myself with a piece of flannel. But the Lord opened
the way. I went to Oberlin, Ohio, and studied there, supporting myself
by sawing wood for the professors of the Theological Seminary. In six
months I could talk English well enough to lecture, and after that time
I supported myself by lecturing. Finally I was sent to Nebraska as
a home missionary during the summer vacation. On my return I entered
the Chicago Theological Seminary, and graduated there in 1882, after
which I lectured rather widely through the country. Then I went
home, and for a time was pastor of the Constantinople Evangelical
Armenian Church. Later I had a call from Marsovan, accepted it,
and had so large a congregation there that a church with a capacity
of 2,000 was needed. I returned to this country, raised the money,
left it in a Chicago bank (where it still lies in trust), and went
back to build the church. That very success aroused the jealousy of
some wicked men, and they falsely charged me with being the leader of
the revolutionary societies in Turkey. On this charge I was banished,
and now I am here again,--free and happy with my family, but full of
sorrow for my dear people daily martyred by the Turks.