After the drab fogginess of Sunday morning, the scarlet-carpeted cathedral is a test of sensory overload, starting with the spicy fragrance of incense. Candelabra twinkle under a blue-vaulted ceiling. The holy altar lies behind panels resplendent with gold-tinged icons.

Orthodoxy's timelessness means that this cathedral, although small in scale, resembles those built by King Stefan Dusan 600 years ago in Kosovo. In 1389 the Turks conquered Serbia, clipping Dusan's Orthodox legacy, one of many seeds of enmity between Serbs and Muslim Albanians.

The long arm of history, secular and religious, helped draw the flock's leader, the Very Rev. Joseph Hirsch. He converted 25 years ago when his Episcopalian Church began adapting to secular trends, such as admitting women to the priesthood.

In a world of change, "We believe Christianity shouldn't change," Hirsch explains. Himself a towering, Teutonic specimen of German, Scottish and English descent, he mourns one unchanging reality - centuries of Serbian suffering.

"The Turks started this 600 years ago," Hirsch says. He laments that his own immigrant Serb flock bears scars of imprisonment by both Nazis and Communists. And how ironic, he says, that President Clinton condemns violence at Columbine High School yet readily resorted to violence in Kosovo.

So the fact Russian troops are hurrying to establish their own peace bulkhead is not cause for concern, but rather a message for NATO that "You're not going to do this without us."

Still, it's Sunday morning, and most worshippers politely beg off talking politics. The complexity of it all is not lost on parish council President Daroah Powell, a 34-year-old office manager who observes before going inside: "(Slobodan) Milosovic is not a very nice man, and he needs to be replaced. Unfortunately, that burden falls on the Serbian people."

"You got our guys going in, Serbs going out, Russians coming in. It's very touchy. Now here, we have Bosnians, Russians, Ukrainians, Macedonians. And we don't have any problems."

In historic Globeville, where modest white frame houses crisscross industrial alleyways, Orthodox Christianity is

A proud 100 years old last year, this compact, well-scrubbed stucco church with its shaded courtyard is spiritual home to much of Denver's Serbian population. And, as Bendzel pointed out Sunday, to many other Eastern Europeans as well.

Among the parish's most active 150 members is Russian-born Alex Mystkowsky, 77, who greets people at the door. Invariably he's the first to arrive for the full three hours of Sunday worship.

"He's been in the same spot for 35 years," whispers the affable Bendzel, 63, who arrives second. Bendzel, of Russsian-Ukranian-Polish descent, loves his Church so much, he drives here from Louisville. And don't talk to him about a far-away war: He has family in Ukraine and a son who fought in Desert Storm who now may be sent as a peacekeeper to Kosovo. Shrugs Bendzel. "I'm right in the middle of it."

At 9 a.m., a handful of worshippers join the vestment-draped priest and deacon for the murmuring chants of Matins, or morning prayer. By 10 a.m. when the two-hour Divine Liturgy begins, the 80-seat sanctuary will be filled.