Welcome to OrthoAnalytika, Fr. Anthony Perkins' podcast of homilies, classes, and shows on spirituality, science, and culture - all offered from a decidedly Orthodox Christian perspective. Fr. Anthony is a mission priest and seminary professor for the UOC-USA. He has a diverse background, a lot of enthusiasm, and a big smile. See www.orthoanalytika.org for show notes and additional content.
Site
RSS
Apple
Data updated on 14/07/2026
Recent rankings
Latest chart positions across Apple Podcasts and Spotify rankings.
Shared links between episodes and podcasts
Links found in episode descriptions and other podcasts that share them.
Homily - Do You Want to Be Healed? Letting God Rewrite the Story
Sunday, December 7, 2025 • Duration 14:43
Do You Want to Be Healed? Letting God Rewrite the Story Ephesians 8:5-19
Today, Fr. Anthony reflects on how the deepest obstacles to healing are often the stories we tell ourselves to justify, protect, and control our lives. Drawing on the Prophet Isaiah, the Gospel parables of the banquet, and the power of silence before God, he explores how true healing begins when we let go of our fallen narratives and allow Christ to reconstruct our story through humility, prayer, and repentance. The path of peace is not found in domination or self-justification, but in stillness at the feet of the Lord where grace remakes the soul. As St. Seraphim teaches, when we acquire peace, myriads around us are healed as well.
One of the great problems we encounter in life is this: we desire healing, but we do not always know how to arrive at it. One helpful way to understand this struggle is through the language of story. Very often, the problem is that we do not have our story right. Scripture tells us to redeem the time, because the days are evil. One of the ways that evil operates is by corrupting our story—our personal story, the way we understand ourselves, the way we frame our relationships, and even the way we understand the great arc of history, what Christians call the economy of salvation.
When we live in evil times, that evil does not remain outside us. It enters in, and our story becomes crooked. If all we do as Christians is add religious language to that crooked story—new words, even new scriptures—we have not truly been healed. We have only changed the decoration. The path itself remains bent. One day that story will be brought into the light. This is what the Apostle means when he says, "Awake, O sleeper, and arise from the dead, and Christ will shine upon you." As St. Jerome once observed, St. Paul seems to be paraphrasing Isaiah here—especially that great prophecy where the crooked ways are made straight. This theme runs deeply through Advent and the Nativity Fast. One small personal ritual during this season is listening to Handel's Messiah. Through that music, the words of Isaiah become alive: the great darkness that covers the earth, and the light that rises to overcome it. But darkness is not overcome by changing words alone. If all we do is rename our brokenness with religious language, the world's darkness will only pollute us more deeply.
So the first discipline of the Christian life is this: we must let go of our story. Our fallen story becomes a way to protect the ego, to justify ourselves, to excuse the very things Saint Paul warns us against. Salvation begins with humility, with letting go of our justifications, with abandoning the need to construct a story that protects us from the world or grants us domination over it. We are called to let go and stand before the Lord in silence. Not to explain ourselves, not to defend ourselves—but simply to be our story before Him in quiet awe. If we do that work faithfully—and for many of us this must be done daily—then the reconstruction of the story can begin anew. This is where the disciplines of the Church come in: the prayer rule, the psalms, the prayers given to us by the Holy Spirit through the Church. These do not shame us; they heal us. They allow us to see our shortcomings not as excuses to hide, but as wounds that need restoration. This is how our crookedness is straightened so that we can be healed.
The Lord also gives us Scripture to interpret our story. In Isaiah 60 we hear of darkness and of a light that rises. Israel is called a light to the nations—but whenever Christians hear that language, our minds are drawn immediately to the Prologue of the Gospel of St. John. And there, light is not mere illumination. It is transformation. It is grace. It is the energy of God entering the world. And when Scripture moves back and forth between Christ and Israel, it is not a mistake—it reveals our participation in this great movement of salvation. Just as we are healed by grace, so the world is transfigured by that same grace flowing from the Body of Christ into all creation.
The Lord also teaches us through parables. Many parables may not resonate with many of us because of their agricultural contexts, but we can understand a banquet. We understand meals. We understand invitation. And in this parable, we are the ones who were called—and we came. We may not have been the first invited. We came blind, wounded, ashamed, hiding behind excuses. But the invitation came, and we showed up.
Yet getting through the door is not the end of the story. The Lord teaches us what it means to live inside the banquet. When you enter the house, do tell the master how he should run it? Do you take the highest seat as if it belongs to you? No—He says take the lowest place, and let the master raise you up if he wills. This is the posture of true humility. If we were the authors of our story, it would end in darkness. But instead, we are invited into a feast that never ends. And none of our fallen tools—control, manipulation, ego-protection—belong in the Father's house. This is why the psalmist says he would rather be a servant in the house of the Lord than sit among kings. That is our true inheritance. There is no such thing as a low seat at that table. Every place at that feast is glory beyond imagination. The only way it becomes distorted is if we try to overlay God's story with our fallen one.
So yes—do we want to be healed? Of course, we do. That is why we are here. Do we want to grow into our inheritance? That is why we came. But it is not enough merely to arrive. We must live your part in the story.
There is a false humility that sometimes creeps into us—especially if we have been wounded or manipulated. We become afraid to acknowledge anything good about ourselves or even our relationship with God, as if gratitude were pride. But that is not humility. We need to be ashamed of what truly needs repentance and bring it into the light. But we should never be ashamed of our relationship with the Lord. Do not pretend the banquet is a shack just because we know we do not deserve it. Hold both truths together: the infinite distance between God's glory and our brokenness, and the infinite mercy by which He draws us into His glory. Following St. Silouon the Athonite, we should keep our mind in hell – and despair not. The lowest seat at that table is greater than any throne the world can offer. It is the seat prepared for us in the council of God. There is no low place there—only mistaken stories that make us think otherwise.
So during this season, let's spend time with the Lord in silence. Let's let go of the instinct to create stories that justify, control, and fix everything. These wandering thoughts only deepen confusion. We need to seek peace and pursue it quietly at the feet of God. Then we can come out from that silence and allow His Word to reconstruct us.
Our Lord is not manipulative. He does not heal through domination. If there is one relationship in which we can finally release our need for control, it is our relationship with Him. If we skip silence, we will guard ourselves even against God, and the crooked ways will remain crooked—only renamed with religious language.
Go in silence before the Lord. Come out and allow His Word to heal you. Then, in that peace, allow your relationships with others to be healed as well. This is how the world is remade: not by power, not by manipulation, but by peace.
St. Seraphim of Sarov put it simply: "Acquire the Spirit of peace, and thousands around you will be saved." When peace grows in the heart, the handles of manipulation fall away. The saint no longer needs to prove anything. There is no hunger for worldly approval. The only desires left are to love, to serve, and to receive love. These are not tools of control—they are mechanisms of grace.
We still have time to prepare for the Lord's coming. Let this be the beginning. And as part of this renewal of our story, we still have time to come to confession. The Church teaches us to come during every Lenten season, and yes, that can be frightening. Authority in this world has often been abusive or manipulative. But confession is not that. It is not tyranny—it is liberation. The Lord does not want us carrying this weight. He wants us free. This is the Church's gift to us. We must not leave it unused.
Let the Lord heal you. Let Him tell you your true story. And then, at last, relax into its glory.
Homily: Recovering Apostolic Virtue in an Age of Contempt
Monday, December 1, 2025 • Duration 14:30
I Corinthians 4:9-16 St. John 1:35-51
In this homily for the Feast of St. Andrew, Fr. Anthony contrasts the world's definition of success with the apostolic witness of sacrifice, humility, and courageous love. Drawing on St. Paul's admonition to the Corinthians, he calls Christians to recover the reverence due to bishops and spiritual fathers, to reject the corrosive logic of social media, and to return to the ascetical path that forms us for theosis. St. Andrew and St. Paul's lives reveals that true honor is found not in comfort or acclaim but in following Christ wherever He leads — even into suffering and martyrdom. Enjoy the show!
----
St. Andrew Day, 2025
The Orthodox Church takes apostolic succession very seriously; the preservation of "the faith passed on to the apostles" is maintained by the physicality of the ordination of bishops by bishops, all of who can trace the history of the ordination of the bishops who ordained them back to one or more of the apostles themselves. You probably already new that. But there is another part of that respect for the apostles that you may not know of: the ranking of autocephalist (i.e. independent) national Churches. The Canons (especially those of the Council of Trullo) give prominence to the five ancient patriarchates of Rome (Sts. Peter and Paul), Constantinople (St. Andrew), Alexandria (St. Mark), Antioch (St. Paul), and Jerusalem (St. James).
St. Andrew travelled into dangerous barbarian lands to spread the Gospel, to include the Middle East, and, most notably, then North to the lands around the Black Sea; Ankara and Edessa to the south of the Black Sea in what is now Turkey, to the East of the Black Sea into the Caucuses, and up to the North of the Black Sea to the Scythian lands into what is now Ukraine. That was his first journey. After this, he returned to Jerusalem and then went on his second journey to Antioch, back up into the Caucasus, out to the land of the dog-headed people in Central Asia, down through what is now Afghanistan to the Arabian Sea, and then back up through Persia and finally into Greece, where he was martyred. He sacrificed so much for the Gospel and brought so many souls to salvation through the Christ he himself knew, both before and after His glorious Resurrection. His virtue and sacrificial service allow God's grace to flow into the world and he serves as the patron of several countries, cities, and all Christians who bear variations of His name such as Andrew, Andrei, and Andrea.
Homily - Unity As the Deeper Magic of God's Kingdom
Monday, November 24, 2025 • Duration 25:57
Ephesians 2:14-22 and St. Luke 12:16-21
In this homily, Fr. Anthony reflects on St. Paul's proclamation that the unity of the Church is not an ideal but a profound reality accomplished in the flesh of Christ. Drawing on Scripture, the Fathers, and even C.S. Lewis' "deeper magic," he shows how humanity's divisions are not healed by sameness, compromise, or civility, but by becoming a new creation through the Cross. True Christian unity demands the death of ego, the resurrection of a new humanity, and a mutual commitment to bear one another's burdens with patience, repentance, and love. When we refuse this calling, we do not merely disagree—we blaspheme against the very Body that unites us.
Homily - Mercy, Not Sacrifice: Christ's Pastoral Method in the Calling of Matthew
Sunday, November 16, 2025 • Duration 17:46
In this episode, Fr. Anthony reflects on Christ's call of St. Matthew as a revelation of the Lord's pastoral wisdom, patience, and mercy. Drawing on St. John Chrysostom, he shows how Christ approaches each person at the moment they are most able to receive Him, gently leading sinners to repentance while shielding the weak from the self-righteous. The homily invites us to imitate this divine pedagogy—offering mercy before rebuke, healing before judgment, and a way of life that draws others to the knowledge of God.
+++
Mercy, Not Sacrifice: Christ's Pastoral Method in the Calling of Matthew
St. Matthew 9:9-13
At that time, as Jesus passed on from there, He saw a man called Matthew sitting at the tax office; and He said to him, "Follow Me." And he rose and followed Him. And as He sat at table in the house, behold, many tax collectors and sinners came and sat down with Jesus and His disciples. And when the Pharisees saw this, they said to His disciples, "Why does your teacher eat with tax collectors and sinners?" But when Jesus heard it, He said, "Those who are well have no need of a physician, but those who are sick. Go and learn what this means, 'I desire mercy, and not sacrifice.' For I came not to call the righteous, but sinners to repentance."
When looking at this encounter, it is important to know the context. Jesus had been at this for a while. He had already called at least four of the twelve; Andrew, Peter, James and John, to be his disciples. Moreover, in addition to them, many others were following him. He had already been baptized, been tempted, given the Sermon on the Mount and performed several public miracles.
Knowing this allows us to better appreciate Christ, how He operates, and therefore how we might better imitate Him as we claim to operate in + His name.
Example One: Calling the disciples
Let's go back to His calling the disciples. Why didn't He call Matthew at the same time He called Andrew, Peter, James, and John? St. John Chrysostom indicates that it was Christ's pastoral heart that determined when we called each of His disciples. Remember, as the Logos, He shares the Father's will that "all be saved and come to a knowledge of the truth." (1 Timothy 2:4). This means that He addressed people in the time and manner they were most likely to hear. St. John Chrysostom points out that Matthew's heart was not open to Christ's call at the same time as Andrew, Peter, James, and John. It took miracles and profound teaching to soften His heart for the encounter. And He didn't just do this for Matthew, look how long it took for the Apostle Paul! And perhaps, we can look at long he waited for us!
Class on Journey to Reality - Chapter Ten on Prayer, Work, and Becoming Human
Wednesday, November 12, 2025 • Duration 51:12
In this episode, Fr. Anthony reframes prayer not as a spiritual transaction but as a lifelong conversation with God that restores our capacity to see, experience, and share His beauty, light, and love. Drawing on themes of theosis, maturation, and Zachary Porcu's vision of becoming human, he explores how prayer transforms our distorted desires, heals our blindness, and trains us to do the work God made us to do. The saints reveal that repentance and prayer are not a response to crises but a way of life — a steady ascent into clarity, freedom, and real communion with God and creation.
Homily - Live in Grace (The Raising of Jairus' Daughter)
Sunday, November 9, 2025 • Duration 14:58
St. Luke 8: 41-56
Drawing on St. Nikolai Velimirović's image of divine grace as electricity, this homily on the raising of Jairus' daughter (Luke 8:41–56) invites us to become living conduits through whom God's uncreated energy continually flows. Christ's tender command, "Talitha koum," reveals the greater reality that in Him even death is but sleep, for the fire of His love transforms all who see with eyes full of light into partakers of His eternal life.
Homily on Jairus' Daughter St. Luke 8:41–56
Glory to Jesus Christ! It is a blessing to be with you this morning. I have really appreciated your hospitality throughout this weekend.
In his homily on this beautiful event in the history of our salvation, St Nikolai Velimirović compares our Lord to electricity—or perhaps to magnetism, and to light. What he is describing is what we in the West call grace. The idea is that the Lord's uncreated energy – His spiritual electricity - is continually available; and those who allow themselves to be connected to Him become receptacles and conduits of that spiritual electricity—of that grace, of that beautiful light.
We see this especially at Pascha, when the priest sings "Come receive the light," and one candle lights another, and the flame spreads from person to person.
Magnetism is a similar image: not only does it attract, but it also bestows magnetism in a lesser degree to some of the objects it touches. This a lovely and apt metaphor—though, as St Nikolai warns, don't take it too far or you'll end up spouting heresy– for instance, a screwdriver that has received magnetism from a magnetic source retains the magnetism even after the source is removed. As we discussed yesterday, anything that is removed from the Source of Divine Energy loses its spiritual life. Going back to the metaphor of electricity, our hope is not to become a sort of battery that receives grace and then stores it separate from its source; rather, our hope is to increasingly become pure conduits of divine energy through whom it continually flows.
Switching metaphors again, Jesus Christ describes this as living water in the Gospel according to St. John when He says;
If any man thirst, let him come unto me, and drink. He that believeth on me, as the scripture hath said, out of his belly shall flow rivers of living water. (St. John 7:37; also St. John 4:14)
Class on Journey to Reality - Chapter Nine on Cosmic Revolution
Thursday, November 6, 2025 • Duration 52:46
Today Fr. Anthony covers Chapter Nine, "Cosmic Revolution" of Zachery Porcu's "Journey to Reality" on the problem of suffering and evil.
+++
AI Title and Summary:
Keeping It Real About the Problem of Pain: Free Will, Moral Law, and the Ministry of Presence
Beginning from a memorial service and C.S. Lewis' Problem of Pain, this talk wrestles honestly with Ivan Karamazov's challenge, the suffering of children, and what our visceral reaction to evil reveals about the moral law—the "Tao" or Logos—written into our very being, which cannot be reduced to mere biology or sentiment. From there it explores free will as the costly condition of genuine love, the way Christ transforms suffering into a kind of sacrament, and how practices like fasting and the simple "ministry of presence" allow us to stand with others in their pain as living icons of the God who is with us in every cross and every death.
Class on Journey to Reality - Chapters Seven and Eight on Participation and the Bible
Wednesday, October 29, 2025 • Duration 44:56
Today Fr. Anthony covers Chapters Seven and Eight from Dr. Zachery Porcu's Journey to Reality, "The Life of the Church" and "The Bible and the Church." Enjoy the show!
+++
Journey to Reality Chapters Seven and Eight You are What You Do (Including Eat) 10/29/2025
As creatures, we were made malleable. It was built into our design so that we could grow towards perfection eternally. While this is a characteristic of the entire cosmos – and every member of it – it has a special purpose for us. We are the shepherds, farmers, and priests of the cosmos. The system is designed so that as we become better, we are able to shepherd or grow the cosmos from one made good – that is to say made both beautiful and beneficial into one that is even better; that is to say even better and more beneficial.
This malleability is built into us. Alas, we have left our true home, so that malleability leads to malformation.
Let's talk about the malleability. The way Dr. Porcu puts it is that we become what we do. Much of my own work reflects on the way our rituals form us. These rituals are embedded within a culture, and living within that culture shapes us into members and bearers of it.
A few weeks ago, we talked about how we live in a materialist, secular, and consumerist culture. Living in it means that we automatically participate in its rituals. These develop within us a certain way of thinking, acting, and relating to other people, God, and our environment. How could it not?
The unfortunate thing for us is that our primary culture is imperfect and reifies its imperfections into our way of being. I propose that the answer is not really to actively oppose it – as in some kind of culture war – because doing so before we break out of its conditioning is just going to ingrain its patterns more deeply into our hearts.
Rather, we must find a new way of living.
This new way of living should come with its own rituals that will gradually get enough traction to lessen the hold that the majority culture has on us and replace it with its own.
Homily - Gardening in Love (The Rich Man and Lazarus)
Sunday, October 26, 2025 • Duration 20:09
Luke 16:19-31
Fr. Anthony reflects on the parable of the Rich Man and Lazarus, revealing how our blindness—born of sin and a materialist worldview—turns the world and one another into mere commodities. Yet when we learn to see with love and humility, tending creation as God's garden, we rediscover beauty, grace, and the feast of life already set before us.
----
The Gospel of Lazarus and the Rich Man Homily – gardening in love
It is hard for us to live the way we should. From our time in Eden to now, we have failed, and the consequences to our hearts, our families, and our world have been disastrous. The world groans in agony.
One of our challenges is that we do not see things as they really are. We do not see their beauty and we do not see how they are connected. Instead of seeing things as both intrinsically good and perfectible, we evaluate them based on what they mean for us; what we can get from them.
We see through a mirror dimly, in part because of our personal sin, and in part because our corporate worldview is fallen. The two work together to blind us to the world and opportunities for grace. There is this idea that cultures that do not have a word for something, say for instance a specific color, then they cannot see it. Their visual system will receive the requisite frequencies for that color, but it will not match any concept within their minds, so it either gets mislabeled or simply missed altogether. This was certainly the case with the Rich Man in today's parable – somehow he missed seeing Lazarus and the opportunity for grace a relationship with him would have provided. Moreover, he and his community – here represented by his brothers – had missed the point of the entire religion that they claimed to be a part of. And Abraham says that even a great miracle – a man rising of a man from the dead – would not be enough to restore their sight.
Humility is the root virtue of discernment; and in humility, we have to take it as a given that we are in may ways just like the Rich Man. And I say take it as a given, because if it is true, then we will automatically mislabel – in this case meaning justify – our misperceptions and the gaps in our vision. The Rich Man missed the purpose of his riches and his calling to serve the man at his doorstep; more than that, he missed the very purpose of his life; the thing he was put on this earth to do. We are like Him and his brothers – and we claim to know the truth of the resurrection.
Talk: Music as an Icon of Cosmic Salvation
Saturday, October 25, 2025 • Duration 01:40:01
This talk was given at St. Nicholas Orthodox Church (UOC-USA) in Charlottesville, VA. In it, Fr. Anthony presents Orthodoxy's sacramental view of creation and uses music as an example of how the royal priesthood, in Christ, fulfills its commission to pattern the cosmos according to that of Eden.
My notes from the talk:
I'm grateful to be back in Charlottesville, a place stitched into my story by Providence. Years ago, the Army Reserves sent me here after 9/11. I arrived with a job in Ohio on pause, a tidy life temporarily dismantled, and a heart that didn't care for the way soldiers are sometimes told to behave. So I went looking for an Orthodox church. I found a small mission and—more importantly—people who took me in as family. A patient priest and his matushka mentored me for six years. If anything in my priesthood bears fruit, it is because love first took root here.
Bishops have a sense of humor; mine sent a Georgian convert with no Slavic roots to a Ukrainian parish in Rhode Island. It fit better than anyone could have planned. The Lord braided my history, discovering even ancestral ties in New England soil. Later, when a young man named Michael arrived—a reader who became a subdeacon, a deacon, and in time a priest—our trajectories crossed again. Father Robert trained me; by grace I was allowed to help train Father Michael; and now he serves here. This is how God sings His providence—melodies introduced, developed, and returned, until love's theme is recognizable to everyone listening.
Why focus on music and beauty? Because they are not ornamental to the Gospel; they are its native tongue. Beauty tutors us in a sacramental world, not a "God of the gaps" world—where faith retreats to whatever science has not yet explained—but a world in which God is everywhere present and filling all things. Beauty is one of the surest ways to share the Gospel, not as salesmanship or propaganda, but as participation in what the world was made to be. The Church bears a particular charism for beauty; secular beauty can reflect it, but often only dimly—and sometimes in ways that distort the pattern it imitates. Beauty meets the whole human person: the senses and gut, the reasoning mind, and the deep heart—the nous—where awe, reverence, and peace bloom. Music is a wonderfully concrete instance of all of this: an example, a symbol, and—when offered rightly—a sacrament of sanctifying grace.
Related Shows Based on Content Similarities
Discover shows related to OrthoAnalytika, based on actual content similarities. Explore podcasts with similar topics, themes, and formats, backed by real data.
As Orthodox Christians, we should know his story, ask for his intercession, and imitate his witness. And everyone, whether Christian or not, should respect his virtue. But does it? Does it even respect virtue? Do we?
As Saint Paul points out in today's Epistle, many of us do not. And don't think the problem was just in Corinth; St. John Chrysostom's homilies on this epistle show that the people there were at least as guilty. And that was in the center of Eastern Orthodoxy, during the time of alleged symphonia between the Church and State. Should there be any doubt that we, too, allow the world to define the sorts of worldly things we should prioritize?
After all …
What is it that the world respects in a man? What is it that the world respects in a woman? Think for a second what it is that impresses you the most about the people you admire – perhaps even makes you jealous, wishing that you had managed to obtain the same things. I cannot read your minds, but if you are like most Americans, the list would certainly include:
A long, healthy life, without chronic pain or major physical injury
A life free of indictment, arrest, or imprisonment
The respect, admiration, and popularity of their peers
Money, a big house, a vacation house, and the ability to retire comfortably (and early)
These are some of the things that many of you are either pleased to enjoy, regret not having obtained, or, if you are young, are currently striving for.
The Apostles Andrew and Paul, gave up the possibility for all these things to follow Christ. Not because they wanted to; not because God made them; they gave up the life of worldly comfort and respect because – in a culture and time as messed up as theirs was – this is the only Way to live a life of grace and to grow in love and perfection.
A long, healthy life, without chronic pain or major physical injury?
Nope – gave it up.
A life free of indictment, arrest, or imprisonment?
Nope – gave it up.
The respect, admiration, and popularity of their peers?
No again.
Money, a big house, a vacation house, and the ability to retire comfortably (and early)
I don't think so (unless a prison in Rome and martyrdom count!).
Because St. Paul is writing as an Apostle, instructing a parish that he was called to lead, it is tempting to put his sacrifices into the category of "things that clergy do". And clergy certainly should follow their example. While my example is not so bright, you may know that I gave up a life of wealth, admiration, and the possibility of a comfortable retirement so that I could serve as a priest. God has blessed that and protected me from harm, but the opportunity costs are real, nonetheless.
And while I am a pale shadow of him (and he of Christ), I, like the Apostle Paul, did these things not because I wanted to (I liked my life then!) and not because God made me, but because in a culture and time as messed up as ours is, such a life of simplicity and complete service to others is the only Way I can live a life of grace and to grow in love and towards perfection in Christ.
I have made some sacrifices, but I know other clergymen who – in our time – have given up more. Their entire lives given over to sacrificial servce to Christ. Who have become experts in both academic theology and the real theology of constant prayer. Who have and continue to lead their dioceses and Churches through such difficult times. And yet, who, like St. Paul, are not only reviled by the world, but even by Orthodox Christians. Yes, to paraphrase St. Paul, we are so smart and educated that we can criticize and heap piles of coal on their heads because we know so much more than they do – because they, like St. Paul, are fools. We can trash-talk them on social media and applaud others who lead the charge against them because they are so weak and we are so strong.
How long does it take for a Patriarch's priestly ministry to make him respectable in our sight? For us to respect him, or at least to forebear him?
It must be more than 55 years, based on the things I have heard and read us saying about Patriarch Kyrril who has been leading his Church and people through an incredibly difficult time, as he believes the West works to undermine his people's faith and traditional Christianity everywhere.
It must also be more than 55 years, based on the things I have heard and read us saying about Patriarch Bartholomew, as he works amidst the persecution of the government in the place he lives to bring Christians and Christians who have long been divided into and towards the unity for which we pray daily and which our God desires us to work towards.
It must be more than 42 years, based on the things I have heard and read us saying about our own Patriach John, who has seen his people and Church crucified and persecuted and who seeks to encourage the local authorities to protect the weak and the Church and people he serves (while leading the people he serves in the West to avoid the excesses of liberty). I hope you feel the shame, if not your own personal shame for having participated in slandering and judging our bishops and patriarchs, then feel shame for seeing the world and those Orthodox Christians who are living by its rules attacking them and questioning their virtue.
This is the same shame that St. Paul was trying to elicit in Corinth. Do you feel the shame? If not, then the world, probably through social media, has deadened your noetic senses. It is time for repentance.
And like St. Paul, I have to tell you that – while few of you may be called to priestly or monastic service – all of us are called to reject those things that the world has led us to value, because all of these things are like barrier between us and the eternal joy and perfection we were called to enjoy.
Listen to me, my brothers and sisters, as I repeat the words of St. Paul we so desperately need to hear:
"For though you might have ten thousand instructors in Christ, yet you do not have many fathers; for in Christ Jesus I have begotten you through the gospel. Therefore I urge you, imitate me."
We do not have St. Paul as our father, but we have one of his successors, Patriarch John, and those whom he has assigned to us, such as Metropolitan Saba, Bishop John, and even this, your unworthy servant. Let's stop giving attention to those who attack Orthodox clerics and thereby sow division within the Church and undermine its witness to others.
Let's give up our attachment to this world and its ways. Let's give up everything worldly we love, follow Christ, and gain the things that are really worth our love, admiration, and sacrifice.
We should learn from this lesson from Christ's earthly ministry and imitate Him. We may need to live among some people for a while, showing the miracle of God's love working in and through us in the way we act and the things we say, before they are ready to accept an invitation to join us in The Way that heals and perfects.
Many of us jump the gun; skipping the vital step of living a public life of miraculous love – and then are surprised when the call to "follow Christ" goes unheeded.
Yes, there are times when the modern equivalents of scribes and pharisees need to be confronted, but once again, let's imitate Christ and let them out themselves when they question our motives and sanity for performing acts of sacrificial compassion. If we skip the step of imitating Christ in His love for mankind, not only won't we win converts, we may also be indicating that we aren't really working in His Name at all.
Example Two: Leaving, not owning the opposition
Speaking of which, Christ also demonstrates his pastoral care at the very beginning of today's lesson.
You may remember that today's lesson begins with something that seems to be a throwaway line; a transitional clause that lets the reader know that the narrative is moving on to another scene. St. Matthew writes; "At that time, as Jesus passed on from there,…" and then segues into this lesson about how Christ called him, the author, to be His disciple. But what did He leave and why? What did He "pass on" from in the previous scene?
Let me share that with you; just prior to this, Jesus had publicly corrected some scribes - leaders in the Jewish community - by healing a man of his paralysis after they doubted His ability to forgive sins. Do you see how they out themselves as fools? But Christ doesn't want them to remain in ignorance. He desires that they, too, be saved and come to a knowledge of the truth … but He also knew that they were not ready to accept the truth, so He left before they could double down on their sin and thus become even less likely to change their way of thinking and eventually answer His call to discipleship.
As St. John Christostom puts it;
For when He had performed the miracle, He did not remain, lest, being in sight, He should kindle their jealousy the more; but He indulges them by retiring, and soothing their passion. This then let us also do, not encountering them that are plotting against us; let us rather soothe their wound, giving way and relaxing their vehemence.
Jesus could have owned those scribes!
This is what our polarized and self-indulgent culture seems to require of us: to immediately jump on any perceived weakness to show the superiority of our way. We even manufacture offenses so that we have an opportunity to score points and play to the crowd. But that's not what Jesus did; there was a real offense and a real weakness – but He didn't want or need to impress anyone. Again, his desire is that of His Father; that all be saved and come to a knowledge of the Truth. And so He forbeared and gave them an opportunity to cool off and repent while He moved off to spend time with someone who was ready to hear Him.
These are the kinds of lessons that are obvious to those who have "eyes to see and ears to hear," but for the rest of us, it takes time. As we have discussed previously, we still see the Gospel "through a glass darkly" and only see reality as "trees walking." But we want to learn, and so we ask those who have made this journey successfully before us, men like the Holy Apostle and Evanglist Matthew, whose memory we celebrate today and St. John Chrysostom who shares the deeper Truths that St. Matthew shared – we ask them to guide and pray for us as go deeper into The Way.
Let's see what more we can learn about Christ's approach to evangelism and pastoral care in today's lesson.
It is worth remembering that Matthew was a tax collector. When Jesus gave him the invitation to "follow me", he responded with hospitality. He opened his house to the Lord, his disciples, fellow tax collectors, and unspecified sinners. Just to make sure everyone had a good time, this was all done within view of some local Pharisees. The Pharisees spent their whole lives dedicated to righteousness (as should all of us). I am perfectly willing to believe that they were sincere in their devotion to the Law. In fact, it was probably their devotion to the Law that led to their revulsion at seeing an alleged rabbi (Jesus) eating with sinners. They shared their righteous indignation with the Lord's disciples and He overheard them. We can learn a lot about how to pastoral ministry by looking at Christ's response.
First, He said (e.g. St. Mark 2:17);
Those who are well have no need of a physician, but those who are sick do. I did not come to call the righteous, but sinners, to repentance.
This is the most obvious point: God was explaining what His mission to these sinners (and the world) was: He had come to bring them to repentance. This would hardly satisfy any ultra-Orthodox takfirists – they always want their pound of flesh! After all, they say, repentance requires tears, and the best way to bring someone to tears is not to eat with them and provide them a living example of the better way; no, surely it is more effective to beat them over the head with the Sin-Stick, right?!
Evidently not, at least according to the all-knowing and all-loving God-man Jesus Christ. After acknowledging the sinfulness of His dinner companions and their need for repentance, He corrected the Pharisees' dubious pedagogical and evangelical instincts with this (e.g. St. Matthew himself in 9:13);
Go and learn what it means, 'I will have mercy, and not sacrifice': for I am not come to call the righteous, but sinners to repentance.
Christ is quoting Hosea when He says; "I will have mercy, and not sacrifice". The full passage (which was implied) continues with (Hosea 6:6);
"… and [I desire] the knowledge of God more than burnt offerings."
This is huge. The Pharisees knew the full quote and its context; they would have seen that Christ was telling them that they were guilty of the very same sorts of things that went against God throughout the Old Testament. He was telling them that they were more concerned with fulfilling the letter of the law (i.e. doing the "burnt offerings" well) than they were with knowing God or bringing others to Him. At that meal, He was doing something that they should have been doing themselves.
How Christ Discipled His Sinners cum Apostles
More importantly, along with His entire response, Christ used this quote to describe His method for bringing the "knowledge of God" to sinners; He would use mercy to lead them to repentance, which would in turn allow them to grow in the knowledge of God.
St. John Chrysostom brings this point out at the end of his homily on this passage;
What Christ is saying through his words and deads is this, "The disciples have not yet become strong; they still need a lot of condescension. They have not been renewed by the Spirit yet. You really shouldn't put a lot of injunctions on people who are still weak." And He said all these things in order to set laws and rules for His own disciples, so that when it was their turn to train disciples, they would deal with them very gently.
To reiterate St. John Chrysostom's point, God is showing His disciples how the Gospel is to be taught: gently and with mercy … while protecting the weak from the attacks of the self-righteous. This is important for us as Christian leaders: we are called to follow Christ! We are called to take His Gospel to sinners so that they might repent, come to the knowledge of God, and be saved. Keep the Sin-Stick ready, but use it the way Christ Himself did; to defend the weak from the attacks of the self-righteous.
There is a temptation to bring sinners to a full awareness of their sin in order to drive them towards repentance, but be careful with this.
Psalm 129: 3-4 (which we often repeat as a prokimen so that we will master it – or rather so that it might master us);
If thou, Lord, shouldest mark iniquities, O Lord, who shall stand? But there is forgiveness with thee.
And later in that same Psalm, we learn from the Psalmist, in the Spirt, what the purpose of this merciful forgivness is; so that He might bring salvation to Israel (129:8).
Repentance, kenosis, and discernment are fostered over time. It is an iterated and communal process. The wounds this world inflicts on God's children are serious and it takes time for Him to heal them. This means that you may not be able to see the process through to its conclusion, but it is okay to simply begin the treatment; the Church has trained other physicians that can continue the process, just as you will be called to continue the work others have begun.
As Christ said "One soweth, and another reapeth." (St. John 4:37:4)
Conclusion
Saint Matthew's life is a testimony to the efficacy of this gentle discipleship process. He was a sinner. The Lord protected Him and showed Him mercy. Over time, through His example, His holiness, and His teachings, He brought Matthew through repentance to the true knowledge of God. As a recipient of this grace, St. Matthew could do nothing else but offer it to others.
It is true that the Church is a hospital, and that Christ is the Great Physician; and it is also true that St. Matthew found healing in the Church under the Doctor's care.
But it is also true that He did not stay in the hospital bed. After a lifetime spent spreading the Gospel, this "good and faithful servant" earned the martyr's crown in Ethiopia.
May the Lord transform us into the kind of patient, merciful, and holy pastors who can do the same.
The grace that we share as Christians is flowing to and through us from its source, and that source is God.
There is another lesson here.
St. Nikolai points out that there were many people in the crowd that day, but only one was healed. Let me develop a point from yesterday's talk. You may remember my sharing that the scripture about the newly healed blind man seeing "trees walking" as a metaphor for our need to work on seeing the world as it really is.
A related scriptural metaphor from Christ Himself has to do with the "eye of darkness;"
"The light of the body is the eye: if therefore thine eye be single, thy whole body shall be full of light. But if thine eye be evil, thy whole body shall be full of darkness. If therefore the light that is in thee be darkness, how great is that darkness!" (St. Matthew 6:22-23).
In part, these are eyes that fail to see the Lord even when He is present among us. Imagine that He turned to you and healed you after you had endured fourteen years of suffering. How would you respond? Lord willing, you would respond with thanksgiving and joy; a thanksgiving and joy that never fades. But the eye of darkness might quickly slip from thankfulness and joy back into bitterness and think or say: "Where have you been these fourteen years?"
Do you see the trap? Do you see how such a response, such an attitude, misses the whole point of God's work among us — it's kind of like saying to Christ the God-man when He appears in His glory to bring us into His Kingdom; "O Lord, I thought you'd be taller."
The eye of darkness is a terrible thing. For those who see truly, the world is permeated with the grace of God. Let us strive increasingly to the world with these eyes of light.
Another lesson the Fathers draw from this story is that the healing itself wasn't even the main point. Do you remember the plot line we are following in the Gospel lesson? A ruler of the synagogue—a leader of the Jews—comes to Christ and begs: "My daughter lies dying. Please come to our house." As the Lord goes with him, the crowd presses in around Him. And even along the way, miracles happen.
This is a lesson we need to learn: with the Lord, there is no such thing as "along the way." His grace is always active. Every moment with Him is transformed in Him and by Him. For the Christian, every moment of grace is an experience of eternal glory… and that moments lead in time to the next which is similarly transformed and transformative.
For the Christian, after such an encounter, there is no darkness left to return to, only life in Christ so full that we can say with St Paul, "It is no longer I who live, but Christ who lives in me." (Galatians 2:20) When we are connected to Him in this way, His grace—like living water, or electricity, or magnetism, or light—flows through us and straightening our connections with the world around us.
This is what St Seraphim of Sarov meant when he said, "Acquire the Holy Spirit, and thousands around you will be saved."
And this is the same things that we celebrate in the life of St. Nektarios, whose memory we celebrate today, when we proclaim this verse at Orthros: "Since thou drunkest the nectar of life eternal, thou gushest, O Nektarios, streams of healings.
Again, there is no such thing as being merely "on the way"; rather, all of life is "along the Way"—in Christ, growing in Him forever. Every moment is an opportunity to grow and share in this, the great Mystery of the Sacrament of our salvation.
Now, about this man—Jairus. Jairus had great power in his community and a relationship with God through the Law. Yet here he found himself powerless in the face of death. Everyone who tries to find salvation through secular power or the Law alone eventually meets that same limit.
At that time, the Jews were deeply divided over what death meant and whether there was truly a resurrection. So this became a teaching moment for the Lord. The other Gospels describe how the mourners had gathered, the flutes were playing lamentations, and the house was filled with grief. A twelve-year-old girl—the only child of a leader in the community—had died. And Jairus, for all his authority, was utterly powerless.
To make the moment even more striking, Jesus said something that caused the people to laugh Him to scorn: "She is not dead, but sleeping." He said this precisely so that they would affirm—beyond any doubt—that she was truly dead: the body cold, the breath gone. And then, having confirmed the reality of death, He revealed the greater reality of life.
He went in, took her by the hand with such tenderness; this pointed out most clearly in the version shared by St. Mark, in which he is recorded as having said in Aramaic, "Talitha koum"—literally, "Little lamb, arise." (Mark 5:41) "Talitha" is a term of affection, something like "little lambkin."
And she arose and He told her parents to give her something to eat.
All those who had mocked Him now faced undeniable evidence of a miracle. They could not rationalize it away or pretend they were mistaken. They had declared her dead—and now she was alive. There was only one explanation: the life-giving power of our Lord Jesus Christ. In Him is life, and in Him there can be no death. (John 1:4; John 11:25)
Now, here is a more difficult lesson. Some steak for us to chew on.
Jesus did not spend His earthly ministry going to every grieving parent to restore every child. I'm sure that's hard for you to hear—it's hard for me, too. But He did not come simply to prolong life in this world; He came to transfigure it. What good would it be to restore someone to this mortal life, only for them to die again after a few years? Instead, He performed this miracle so that we would know that when He says, "I go to prepare a [better] place for you," that He has the power to fulfill that promise. (John 14:2-3)
There will be times—there have already been times—when we are the ones saying, "She is dead." But the Church uses a different language: "fallen asleep" and "in blessed repose." These are not naive phrases. They are reminders that for the Christian, death is but a rest before the age to come. (1 Thessalonians 4:13–14)
And honestly, we long for that age, don't we? Life in this world can be exhausting —wars, suffering, the loss of children, — all the griefs that weigh us down. But as we sing in our funeral service; in the age to come, there will be "no sighing, no sorrow, no sickness, but life everlasting" This is the time, quoting both the funeral and Revelation, "God will wipe away every tear."
If I may change metaphors one last time: our God, who was earlier described as electricity, is also called a consuming fire. (Deuteronomy 4:24; Hebrews 12:29) Those of us raised in the South have heard preachers use that image as a warning. But for the Christian—for the ones who live in Christ so completely that it is no longer they who live but Christ who lives in them (Galatians 2:20)—that fire is not torment but glory. It is the radiant warmth of divine love.
For those purified by grace, the fire of God becomes the very source of joy and life. So when you find yourself saying, "Our beloved, our little lamb, is dead," remember this: our Lord, who loves our beloved even more than we do, holds her hand and says, just as He did in today's Gospel, "My dearest one, arise."
That is the future that awaits all who have given their lives to Him. May we be strengthened by this as we grow in Him.
In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.
To the extent that we must participate in the old rituals, we should reframe our participation in a way that resonates with our new life rather than our old one. We have to give them new meaning, so that, eventually, even these old ways of doing things can work with our new rituals to deepen the hold that our new way of life has on us and on our minds and how we relate to God, other people, and the environment.
Some rituals, such as pornography, fornication (i.e., sex outside marriage), and driving slowly in the left-hand lane on the expressway, cannot be redeemed and so they have to be avoided.
It will take discernment to figure out how to best engage in this process, so this way of life should involve developing a community that is all focused on the same sort of new life.
Now let's go through chapter seven, "The Life of the Church."
Quotes for discussion:
"[Y]ou don't have to do anything, but if you want to become something, you have to participate in it." (77)
"Sacramentally, the purpose of attending church services is to participate in a higher spiritual reality." (70)
"[N]othing is 'just' physical. Objects and actions have intrinsic, spiritual meaning. Everything is participatory… [I]f the physical and the spiritual can't be separated, then imitation is always participatory. … You can't participate in something physically without also participating in its spiritual meaning." (72)
"[As Orthodox Christians, our] goal is to imitate, and therefore participate in, a spiritual reality through the physical ritual. And the spiritual reality that sacramental Christians are trying to imitate through their liturgy is nothing less than heaven itself…. This is why sacramental Christians call their liturgy the "Divine Liturgy." To participate in it is also to participate in the exact same cosmic liturgy that the angels perform around the throne of God…. [W]hen you step into a sacramental church space that's correctly imitating the heavenly liturgy, you are stepping into a small bit of heaven itself – you are participating with the angelic powers in a higher spiritual reality." (73)
"Sacramental Christianity is not just about doing a particular set of actions; it's a whole way of life. One way to describe this life is as participation in what the Church calls "liturgical time." (75)
"[T]o be sacramental is not merely a matter of attendance, nor is it merely about thinking a certain way or performing certain ritual actions; it is a lifestyle… [G]oing to church and participating in the sacraments is about living out the idea that the physical and the spiritual are bound up together, and that you encounter them together through participation – not just in church, but in everything you do and are." (77)
"You can't become healthy by sitting at home and reading a lot of articles about health. You don't become a member of a family by skipping family gatherings in order to sit at home looking at pictures of past family events. If you want to be a part of something, you have to live it." (77)
"[Y]ou don't have to do anything, but if you want to become something, you have to participate in it. And in sacramental Christianity, the thing you're participating in is the higher spiritual reality of the arche' Himself." (77)
Chapter eight, The Bible and the Church
"[T]he Bible is not the source of Christianity." (77)
"The Bible is not a scientific of historical document in the particular sense that modern people mean this. It's important here to distinguish between truth and fact. Facts are those things that are objectively verifiable…. But even though facts are verifiable…, they have no deeper meaning. Truth, on the other hand, includes facts but goes beyond them to encompass the deeper meaning of reality itself." (77)
"As modern people we tend to care only about facts [read whole section] … even over meaning." (77)
"There are plenty of mistakes and errors in the Bible that have been thoroughly documented… The Bible is about truth, and truth is higher than fact. (78)
"From the very beginning, ancient Christians recognized three levels of biblical interpretation: the literal, the moral, and the spiritual (what they called the typological). (78).
"But how do you know which passages in the Bible have a literal meaning and which don't, or which have both? How do you know what the correct typological meaning is?" (81)
"To really read the Bible with the mind of the Church requires that you have a certain kind of formation – not just intellectual but spiritual." (84)
"And just as you can't really understand the Bible's true depths without participation in the life of the Church, so too the whole life of the Church [resonates with] imagery from the Bible."
"The Bible… is not merely read or memorized, but lived and experienced. Or, to put it another way, being reconnected with the arche' is not something you do only in your mind. It's a new kind of life, and it must therefore be lived.
Questions for Discussion
What are some of the new rituals that a commitment to living the Orthodox Way gives us, and how do they help transform our thinking and way of relating to others?
In addition to pornography and fornication, what are some of the rituals that you believe work against our new way of life?
What are some of the things that we have always done that can be given new meaning and help us become better Christians?
Are you concerned that the book claims that there are errors in the Bible?
The Rich Man and his brothers had the same calling that all of us have. This is the calling given to us at the beginning; we talked about this yesterday. We were designed – made as God's imagers - to bring out the best in everything and everyone; to heal those that are hurt and to build up those who are already well towards perfection. But instead of this, our fallen materialist worldview and our sin combine, for example, to get us to think of things as objects and ourselves as consumers. We want to know what we can use things for and what we can get out of people.
One of the results of this is that our souls are starving from - a lack of grace. We feast sumptuously on commodities, but cannot see the more real and and much more vital meal God has put before us. We feed our bodies, but take no thought of the food required for our souls.
Again, let's go back to Adam and Eve. Think of how they fell. One of the ways to understand their fall (from St. Nikolai Velimirovich) is that they turned the thing they were meant to tend – the garden – into a commodity; from something that deserved respect and the greatest of care to something that was useful primarily as food. Even the thing God told them not to eat became a commodity to them: they wanted what it offered. And remember what they learned? That it "tasted good." What a loss.
Hear me well: Adam and Eve were meant to eat the things that grew in the garden, but the availability of food was really just a side-effect (what economists call a "positive externality") of being a good steward. They got it all wrong when they put what they wanted from the garden before their love for it. Instead of tending the garden, they tended to themselves. They forgot about beauty; they forgot about connectedness; they forgot about service. And so all the fruits of the garden became completely unavailable to them.
We are so much worse than they were; our commodification of people and things in this world knows no end. We are always looking for an angle; looking for the best deal. Looking for how things do or do not fit into our plans. And because the materialist worldview is fallen and because selfishness is a sin, we do not see grace nor the many opportunities God has given us to multiply it in this world. And so we starve in a world of plenty.
Let me give you a concrete example. Marriage was given to us in the Garden. It was meant to bear fruit, and this fruit was meant to be both physical and spiritual. But men should not love their wives because they hope for something physical in return, they should love their wives because they want to help nurture them towards perfection (but I am not speaking of marriage but of the Church). If we cannot see this here and in our marriages, how will we see it in the world?
Christ does not love us because He wants something from us. He does not sacrifice Himself for us in hopes of getting help with His plan to restore beauty to this world. As we become perfect as God is perfect, we will help Him with this plan; but He sacrifices Himself for us because He sees the potential beauty within us and wants it to grow. He does it because He loves us.
We have to stop looking at one another as things to be used, things that either bring us pleasure or pain; that are useful or irrelevant. We have to see one another the way God sees us.
[More on Blindness: Commodification leads to a lack of proportion]
Surely one of the ways we have cursed ourselves through our blindness is that we cannot see the beauty that emanates from all of God's creatures; the potential for grace that is present in every moment and every encounter.
Why is this so hard? Why are we unable to enjoy the fruits of God's love for us? Why don't we see things the way they are? Why couldn't the Rich Man see the grace that would flow from helping Lazarus; why could he and his brothers not understand the deeper meaning of the Law and the Prophets? This blindness really is a curse; it pulls us further away from our purpose and robs us of the joy we were meant to have and share.
There are so many examples in our lives where we are blind to miracles. Yes, the problems are there, but they are so minor compared to the miracles!
This even happens in Church. I bring this up because it is the Eucharistic Feast and the Church that gathers around it that is most permeated with grace.
And yet, in many communities, parish life becomes a magnet for discontent, and a forum for judgment and complaints. I pray it not be so here. There are very real issues that parishes must deal with – things like how best to evangelize, what sorts of projects should be focused on, and how limited resources like space should be used. But our automatic inclination – even here where God's grace should flow most abundantly – we treat these things as objects about which we disagree with the natural inclination for polarization, rather than an opportunity to grow collectively in discernment, in earned harmony, and in love.
The Orthodox internet is often more perverse. Every aspect of church life becomes something to be analyzed and debated, objects to market for or against… and it all threatens to turn the celebration of God with Us into a series of political or ideological positions that can be analyzed and judged … I do this all the time; I suspect some of you do, too.
We have turned even the Church, the vessel of everything good and true, into a commodity, something to be judged, to be measured, to be evaluated like some product on a grocer's shelf.
Is it any wonder that we do the same thing with our spouses, our children…our enemies… the beggar on our doorstep?
Conclusion: Love without reservation
My point is not that the things that attract our attention in this way are not important or that they should not be discussed. Going back to the example of the garden, food is important. If we don't eat, we die. But Christ reminds us;
"Do not be anxious about what you will eat or what you will drink, nor about your body, what you will put on. Life is more than food, and the body is more than clothing." (paraphrase of Matthew 6:25).
God is right here with us, working miracles in our midst, and we miss them by focusing on His height ("Oh, is that Jesus; I imagined he'd be taller.")
Let's not get distracted. Let's love without reservation. Let's love without expecting anything in return.
Let me repeat the irony; if we tend this world – this garden – in love, we will receive what we need – the necessary commodities, if you will, in return. As the Lord says in almost the next breath, if you really love, if you really give of yourself without reservation, then "it shall be given unto you in return; a good measure, pressed down, and shaken together, and running over…" (St. Luke 6:38).
And again in St. Matthew (paraphrase of 6:33-34); "seek first God's kingdom and his righteousness, and all the things you need will be given to you as well."
The beggar is not an obstacle to our enjoyment of live – nor is our alleged enemy. They are not objects to be judged in this way at all. They are the cosmos, in need to God's grace – and we are called to be its steward, the priests who minister them towards healing and perfection.
Let's open our eyes and our hearts to beauty and feast on the abundant grace God has surrounded us with; the feast of grace here in the Church, the feast of grace that is achieved when we love our neighbor, and the feast of grace that God blesses us with when we tend to the needs of the world.
Saint John begins his Gospel with the Logos—not a mere "word" but the Word whose meaning includes order, reason, and intelligibility: "All things were made through Him." Creation, then, bears the Logos' stamp in every fiber; Genesis repeats the refrain, "and God saw that it was good"—agathos, not just kalos. Agathos is goodness that is beautiful and beneficial, fitted to bless what it touches. Creation is not simply well-shaped; it is ordered toward communion, toward glory, toward gift. The Creed confesses the Father as Creator, the Son as the One through whom all things were made, and the Spirit as the Giver of Life. Creation is, at root, Trinitarian music—harmonies of love that invite participation.
If you like, imagine the first chapter of Genesis sung. We might say: in the beginning, there was undifferentiated sound; the Spirit hovered; the Logos spoke tone, time, harmony, and melody into being. He set boundaries and appointed seasons so that music could unfold in an ordered way. Then He shaped us to be liturgists—stewards who can turn noise into praise, dissonance into resolution. The point of the story is not that God needed a soundtrack; it is that the world bears a pattern and purpose that we can either receive with thanksgiving or twist into something self-serving and cacophonous.
We know what happened. In Adam and Eve's fall, thorns and thistles accompanied our work. Pain entered motherhood, and tyranny stalked marriage. We still command tools of culture—city-building, metallurgy, and yes, even music—but in Cain's line we see creativity conscripted to self-exaltation and violence. The Tower of Babel is the choir of human pride singing perfectly in tune against God. That is how sin turns technique into idolatry.
Saint Paul describes the creation groaning in agony, longing for the revealing of the sons and daughters of God. This is not mere poetic flourish; it is metaphysical realism. The world aches for sanctified stewardship, for human beings restored to their priestly vocation. It longs for its music to be tuned again to the Logos.
Christ enters precisely there—as the New Adam. Consider His Theophany. The Jordan "turns back," the waters are sanctified, because nothing impure remains in the presence of God. He does not merely touch creation; He heals it—beginning sacramentally with water, the primal element of both life and chaos. In our services for the Blessing of Water we sing, "Today the nature of the waters is sanctified… The Jordan is parted in two… How shall a servant lay his hand on the Master?" In prayer we cry, "Great are You, O Lord, and marvelous are Your works… Wherefore, O King and Lover of mankind, be present now by the descent of Your Holy Spirit and sanctify this water." This is not magic; it is synergy. We offer bread, wine, water, oil; we make the sign of the cross; we chant what the Church gives—and God perfects our offering with His grace. The more we give Him to work with, the more He transfigures.
And then Holy Friday: the terrible beauty of the Passion. Sin's dissonance swells to cacophony as the Source of Beauty is slandered, pierced, and laid in the tomb. Icons and hymns do not hide the scandal—they name it. Joseph and Nicodemus take down a body that clothes itself with light as with a garment. Creation shudders; the sun withdraws; the veil is rent. Liturgically, we let the discomfort stand; sometimes the chant itself presses the dissonance upon us so that we feel the fracture. But the dissonance does not have the last word; it resolves—not trivially, not cheaply—into the transcendent harmony of Pascha. On the night of the Resurrection, the church is dark, then a single candle is lit, and the light spills outward. We sing, "Come receive the Light from the unwaning Light," and then the troparion bursts forth: "Christ is risen from the dead, trampling down death by death…" The structure of salvation is musical: tension, longing, silence, and a resolution that is fuller than our peace had been before the conflict.
Here is the pastoral heart of it: Christ restores our seal. Saint Paul says we are "sealed with the promised Holy Spirit." Think of a prosphora seal pressed into unbaked dough; the impression remains when the loaf is finished. Sin cracked our seal; everything we touched bore our corruptions. In Christ, the seal is made whole. In Baptism and Chrismation, that seal is pressed upon us—not only on the brow but on the whole person—so that our very engaging with the world can take on the pattern of the Logos again. We do not stop struggling—Paul's "what I would, I do not"—but we now struggle inside a music that resolves. Even our failures can become passing tones on the way to love, if we repent and return to the key.
This is why the Church's common life matters so much. When we gather for Vespers and Liturgy, we enact the world's purpose. The Psalms give us perfect words; the Church's hymnody gives us perfected poetry. Music, rightly offered, is Logos-bearing—it is rational in the deepest sense—and love is the same. Music requires skill and repetition; so does love. Music benefits from different voices and timbres; love, too, is perfected when distinct persons yield to a single charity. Music engages and transfigures dissonance; love confronts conflict and heals it. Music honors silence; love rests and listens. These are not analogies we force upon the faith—they are the way creation is built.
The world says, "sing louder," but the will to power always collapses into noise. The Church says, "sing together." In the Eucharistic assembly, the royal priesthood becomes itself—men, women, and children listening to one another, matching pitch and phrase, trusting the hand that gives the downbeat, and pouring our assent into refrains of "Lord have mercy" and "Amen." The harmony is not uniformity; it is concord. It is not sentimentality; it is charity given and received. And when the Lord gives Himself to us for the healing of soul and body, the music goes beyond even harmony; it becomes communion. That is why Orthodox Christians are most themselves around the chalice: beauty, word, community, and sacrament converge in one act of thanksgiving.
From there, the pastoral task is simply to help people live in tune. For families: cultivate attentiveness, guard against codependence and manipulation, and practice small, steady habits—prayer, fasting, reconciliation—that form the instincts of love the way scales form a musician's ear. For parishes: refuse the twin temptations of relativism and control; resist both the shrug and the iron fist. We are not curators of a museum nor managers of a brand; we are a choir rehearsing resurrection. Attend to the three "parts" of the mind you teach: let the senses be purified rather than inflamed; let the intellect be instructed rather than flattered; and let the nous—the heart—learn awe. Where awe grows, so does mercy.
And for evangelization in our late modern world—filled with distraction, suspicion, and exhaustion—beauty may prove to be our most persuasive speech. Not the beauty of mere "aesthetics," but agathos beauty—the kind that is beautiful and beneficial, that heals what it touches. People come to church for a thousand different reasons: loneliness, curiosity, habit, crisis. What they really long for is God. If the nave is well-ordered, if the chant is gentle and strong, if the icons are windows rather than billboards, if the faces of the faithful are kind—then even before a word is preached, the Gospel will have begun its work. "We no longer knew whether we were in heaven or on earth," the emissaries of Rus' once said of their time at worship in Hagia Sophia. Beauty did not close their minds; it opened them to truth.
None of this bypasses suffering. In fact, beauty makes us more available to it, because we stop numbing ourselves and begin to love. The Scriptures do not hide this: the Jordan is sanctified, but the Cross remains; the tomb is real; the fast is pangful. Yet in Christ, dissonance resolves. The Church's hymnody—from Psalm 103 at the week's beginning to the Nine Odes of Pascha—trains us to trust the cadence that only God can write. We learn to wait in Friday night's hush, to receive the flame from the unwaning Light, and to sing "Christ is risen" not as a slogan but as the soundtrack of our lives.
So: let us steward what we've been given. Let us make the sign of the cross over our children at bedtime; let our conversations overflow with psalmody; let contended silence have a room in every home; let reconciliation be practiced before the sun goes down. Let every parish be a school for choir and charity, where no one tries to sing over his brother, and no one is left straining alone in the back row. If we will live this way, not perfectly but repentantly, then in us the world will begin to hear the old pattern again—the Logos' pattern—where goodness is beautiful and beauty does good.
And perhaps, by God's mercy, the Lord will make of our small obedience something larger than we can imagine: a melody that threads through Charlottesville and Anderson, through Rhode Island and Kyiv, through every parish and prison and campus, until the whole creation—long groaning—finds its voice. Let God arise. Let His enemies be scattered. Christ is risen, trampling down death by death, and upon those in the tombs bestowing life.
