Homily – Repent… and Change the World (Embrace Boredom)

Sunday before Theophany 2 Timothy 4:5–8; St. Mark 1:1–8

This is the Sunday before Theophany, when the Church sets before us St. John the Baptist and his ministry of repentance—how he prepared the world to receive the God-man, Jesus Christ.

John was the son of the priest Zachariah and his wife Elizabeth, the cousin of the Mother of God. When Mary visited Elizabeth during her pregnancy, John leapt in his mother's womb. But what we sometimes forget is what followed.

While Zachariah was serving in the Temple, the angel Gabriel appeared to him and foretold that his son would be filled with the Holy Spirit from his mother's womb, that he would turn many of Israel back to God, and that he would go before the Lord in the spirit and power of Elijah—preparing a people ready to receive Him.

That preparation came at great cost. When the wise men later alerted Herod to the birth of the Messiah, Herod ordered the slaughter of all male children two years old and under. John would have been among them. Elizabeth fled with her son into the wilderness. When soldiers came seeking the child, Zachariah refused to reveal his whereabouts and was martyred between the temple and the altar. Elizabeth soon died, and John grew up in the wilderness, emerging years later to preach repentance and prepare the way of the Lord.

John's ministry brings us toward the heart of Theophany. This feast reveals humanity's true relationship with creation. From the Fall onward, mankind failed to live according to his calling. Creation continued to respond as God ordained, but human sin distorted that relationship. Christ alone entered creation without sin, and so creation responded to Him with blessing, not resistance. As we sing at Theophany, "The Jordan was driven back." The corruption in the water fled from His presence, and the waters became holy.

This is not only Christ's work—it is also our calling. United to Him, we are meant to bring healing and grace to the world.

But first, we must listen to John. First, we must prepare. And preparation begins with repentance. This is the calling of the Baptizer: "REPENT!"

Why is repentance so necessary? Because even when we want to do good in the world, our inner lives are disordered. Without healing, our efforts—however sincere—can miss the mark or even cause harm. This is not because we are evil people, but because we are wounded people living in a wounded world; because we are corrupted people living in a corrupted world. Without repentance, our action in the cosmos – here represented as the Jordan – is corrupting rather than salvific.

A story may help.

In nineteenth-century Vienna, infant mortality was tragically high. Doctors were educated and well-intentioned, yet many babies died under their care. Ignaz Semmelweis discovered why: doctors who washed their hands before delivering babies had dramatically better outcomes. Those who did not—even with the best intentions—were spreading disease.

Many doctors resisted this discovery. They were offended by the suggestion that they were unclean. But the truth remained: no matter how good their intentions, if they did not wash their hands, they caused harm.

It is the same with us. We have tremendous power to change the world—with our time, our money, and our love. But if we have not allowed God to heal us, we will unintentionally pass along the wounds we carry.

The Church teaches that this wound affects and disorders every part of us. This includes the three parts of our mind.

First, it affects and disorders our desires. We were created to desire what is good, true, and beautiful, but over time those desires become confused. We begin to crave things that promise comfort or distraction, yet leave us restless and unsatisfied. Much of modern life is built around amplifying these cravings, which makes it difficult to recognize how shaped we have been until we step back.

Second, it affects and disorders our thinking. We all rely on ideas and narratives to make sense of the world, but we absorb far more than we realize—from media, culture, and the people around us. Even when we know manipulation exists, we often assume it affects others more than ourselves. Learning to think clearly and truthfully takes time, patience, and humility.

Third, it affects and disorders the heart—the spiritual center of the person, which the Church calls the nous. It is meant to perceive God and discern what leads to life. But the heart, too, becomes clouded. Instead of clarity, we experience confusion; instead of peace, anxiety. This does not mean the heart is useless—it means it needs healing.

This is why repentance is required. Repentance is the decision to stop pretending we are already whole and to place ourselves where healing is possible.

So repentance cannot remain a vague desire. It must become practical—like doctors washing their hands.

That means first stepping away from what continually stirs and infects our wounds. Cut back on social media. Reduce news consumption. Step away from political and religious commentators who thrive on outrage. If something is truly good, it can be added back later. Right now, many of us need distance so our discernment can recover. We need some boredom so that we can recover our sanity.

Second, we need to return to the basics. The prayers and services of the Church are reliable. They are not entertaining—but they are not meant to be. We are addicted to stimulation, and healing requires quiet faithfulness. After prayer comes Scripture—not commentary about Scripture, but Scripture itself. And then silence. Instead of constant noise, spend time working quietly, reading a good book (a book free of targeted advertising), or simply being still.

Another part of repentance is restoring the rhythms of daily life within our homes: cooking together, cleaning together, eating together, talking, working, and resting together. These ordinary practices form character and community—precisely what the world works so hard to replace with habits that isolate, distracts, and exhaust us.

Let me conclude simply.

Without repentance, we carry our wounds into the world and pass them on. With repentance, Christ's healing flows through us into our families, our parish, and our communities.

This is why the voice of St. John the Baptist still echoes today: "Repent, for the Kingdom of God is at hand." The Kingdom is within you. Repent. Wash your soul. And let God's healing mercy work through you.

If you are new to the Church, remember this: repentance does not mean hating yourself or trying to fix everything at once. It means turning toward Christ and trusting Him enough to let Him heal you. The Church gives us safe and reliable ways to begin—prayer, worship, Scripture, and a quieter life. Stay close to these, and over time you will find that Christ not only changes you, but also begins to heal the world through you. This is the sacramental reality of Theophany.

Homily for the Sunday after Nativity The Child Christ in the World—and in Our Hearts Gospel: St. Matthew 2:13–23

[Retelling the Lesson] God humbles Himself to save mankind. He leaves His rightful inheritance as God and becomes man, born as a child in Bethlehem. And how does the world receive Him? Is He born in a temple? In a palace? Places that might seem fitting for the Ruler of the Ages? No—He is laid in a manger, in a stable.

And even that is not the worst of it. When the leaders of the day learn of His birth, do they submit to Him? Do they nurture and protect Him so that He may grow into manhood as prophet, priest, and king? No. In today's Gospel we hear that the Holy Family must flee into Egypt to escape assassination. Christ the Logos, the awaited Messiah, the answer to all the worlds ills, enters the world, and the world tries to kill Him. The slaughter of the innocents becomes the terrible offering laid on the altar of human evil and hard-heartedness.

[This Story is OUR Story] This is a shameful story, and it is told to us each year at this time as a warning. It is tempting to imagine ourselves as the angels, the wise men, or the shepherds. But Scripture is far more useful when we recognize that we are often the ones who belittle Christ, who persecute Him, and who push Him to the margins.

Just as Christ humbled Himself to enter the world as a child in Bethlehem in order to transform it, so He humbles Himself now to enter the temple of our hearts in order to transform us. And the parallel continues: what kind of place does He find this time? Is our heart a dwelling fit for the Ruler of the Ages—or is it more like a forgotten corner of our lives, our own version of the manger?

And once we realize that it really is Christ who dwells within us, how do we respond? Do we give Him the due He deserves and reorder our lives around Him, or do we quietly push Him aside—to the periphery of our thoughts, our plans, and our priorities?

[Gnostic America] Many scholars have noted that the dominant religion in America has never truly been Christianity, but a kind of modern Gnosticism. Gnosticism teaches that the divine already dwells within us, that we are already enlightened, already whole. This belief permeates our culture and is magnified by consumerism and – dare I say it - Orthodox triumphalism. When clothed in Christian language, this belief sounds familiar—and dangerous. Whether consciously or subconsciously, when we hear that Christ dwells in our hearts, we are tempted to hear confirmation we already knew: that not only are we basically good people, and not only are we right pretty much all the time, we are already divine.

But this is not true. God is God, and we are not. Yes, His desire is to transform us—that is the meaning of the Nativity—but when we claim divinity for ourselves, we do exactly what Herod did: we place ourselves on the throne and push Christ to the margins.

Why did Herod seek to kill the Christ Child? Out of self-preservation. Christ was a threat. And if we are not careful, we will do the same. Our pride constructs a false reality in which we are the good ones—the good gods, if you will—and God merely works through us. This is spiritual delusion. It is prelest.

We convince ourselves that we have built a glorious temple for God in our hearts from which He rules in glorious benevolence, when in fact we are still really only worshiping ourselves, no matter what words we use.

[A Restatement] Let me come at this a different way. Christ truly has been born within us. He lives at the center of our souls. But our souls are clouded by thoughts and passions, and so we often fail to notice Him. If we do not struggle against our fallen nature, we will nurture our pride or our fallen conscience and call it "God." But the god of pride cannot save—it can only deceive and our conscience is rarely more than our feelings.

So how do we tell the difference? How do we know whether Christ reigns within us, or whether it is our ego?

The answer is not abstract; it is clear from scripture. Christ did not live for Himself. Every action of His life was offered in sacrificial service to others—especially to those who did not understand Him or appreciate Him. He did not act out of fear of punishment or hope of reward. He acted out of love. He was Love.

If our lives are truly marked by this kind of self-giving love, then Christ is indeed growing within us. But we must beware: pride is a master illusionist. Encouraged by the enemies of the air, the master marketers and manipulators, it will always try to convince us that we are more generous, more loving, more sacrificial than we really are.

Here is a practical test for us: Are we willing to leave our comfort zones, deny ourselves, and take up the cross? Are we willing to give without expecting anything in return? Are we willing to love even those who cannot repay us? What are we willing to give up so that some may be saved?

Let's be even more concrete. What is our attitude toward sacrificial giving? Toward tithing? Towards almsgiving? How much time are we willing to give each day to prayer for those who suffer? For those who hate us and those who wrong us? How much effort do we invest in healing broken relationships in our families, our parish, and our community? When was the last time we tempered our self-righteousness with humility and admitted we were wrong and asked forgiveness of someone we perceived as less than ourselves?

When challenged to real self-sacrifice, most of us will rebel – even pre-cognitively – and our big brains will begin to justify ignoring the need and "crossing to the other side of the road" as did the priest and the Levite in the parable of the Good Samaritan. But Christ never made excuses to avoid doing what was right. He rolled up His sleeves and did what needed to be done without counting the cost. His sacrificial service was a natural expression of His love. Can we say the same? If not, then let's change our story so that we can. Orthodoxy is about more than words and being right. God didn't consider Himself to be so right that he wasn't willing to come and suffer with and for us. Orthodoxy is just a bunch of prideful words for us until we are willing to do the same.

Christ is born!

He has made His home in the manger of our souls. What happens next is us to us.

St. Matthew 1:1-25

Why was the Son of God commanded to be named Jesus—the New Joshua? In this Advent reflection, Fr. Anthony shows how Christ fulfills Israel's story by conquering sin and death, and calls us to repentance so that we may enter the victory He has already won.

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Homily on the Name of Jesus Sunday before the Nativity

In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.

"They named Him Jesus, because He would deliver His people from their sins." (Matthew 1:21)

Names matter in Scripture. They are never accidental. A name reveals identity, vocation, and mission. And so when the angel commands that the Child be named Jesus, we are being told something essential about who He is and what He has come to do.

The name Jesus is simply the Greek form of Joshua. And that is not incidental.

So we should ask: Who was Joshua? And why did the angel of the Lord insist on that name?

Joshua was the successor of Moses, the one chosen by God to lead His people when Moses could not. Long before Joshua's time, God had made a covenant with His people and promised them a land—a place of rest, inheritance, and blessing. But that promise had been obscured by centuries of slavery in Egypt, under pagan gods who claimed power but offered only bondage.

God sent Moses to remind the people who they truly were: not slaves, but God's own people. Through signs and wonders, God revealed His power over Pharaoh and over the false gods of Egypt. The people were delivered. They were free. They were heading toward the Promised Land.

And yet, because of their disobedience and unbelief, that generation—including Moses himself—was not worthy to enter the land. And so God appointed Joshua to do what Moses could not: to lead the next generation into the inheritance God had promised.

Joshua defeated the enemies of God—not by his own strength, but by God's supernatural power—and led the people into the Promised Land.

All of this matters, because it prepares us to understand the name of Jesus and the mission it announces.

"They named Him Jesus, because He would deliver His people from their sins."

Now consider the situation at the time of Christ's birth. In many ways, it looked very much like the time of Pharaoh. God's people were again under foreign rule, again surrounded by pagan power, again longing for deliverance. The prophets had promised a Messiah, and the people waited for one who would set them free.

But here is the crucial difference: this Joshua would not come to conquer territory. This Joshua would come to conquer the true enemy.

Not Rome. Not armies. Not borders.

But sin itself.

In his homily on this Gospel reading, St. John Chrysostom says:

"He did not say, 'He shall save His people from their enemies,' but 'from their sins,' showing that this is a greater and more fearful tyranny than any foreign power." (Homily on Matthew 2)

And this is precisely why the Son of God had to be born as a child.

In his homily on the Nativity, which, Lord willing, you will hear on Thursday, Chrysostom draws the connection between the Nativity and our salvation with striking clarity:

"He became Son of Man, that He might make us sons of God. He took what was ours, that He might give us what was His." (Homily on the Nativity)

Jesus is the New Joshua—not leading one people into one land, but opening the Kingdom of God to all who would receive Him. He conquers not by the sword, but by the Cross. He defeats not nations, but death itself.

And we know how He did it.

By obedience where Adam fell. By humility where pride ruled. By offering Himself fully to the Father, even unto death.

As the Fathers remind us, the victory was not loud or coercive, but hidden and faithful—won through righteousness rather than force.

So what, then, is our situation?

It is tempting to compare our world to Egypt, or to the time of pagan occupation, and to imagine that we are still waiting for deliverance. After all, many of us know what it is like to feel tired, burdened, or trapped in patterns we cannot seem to break, even while outwardly everything appears fine. We live in a culture that constantly distracts us, that teaches us to manage our desires rather than heal them, and that quietly encourages us to accept forms of bondage as normal. Like God's people of old, we forget who we are and whom we belong to, and so we begin to live as though freedom were still far away.

But the truth is far more sobering—and far more hopeful.

We are not waiting for the Messiah. He has already come.

If we live as slaves, it is not because Pharaoh rules us. It is because we have refused the Deliverer.

Christ has already opened the doors of freedom. Advent is the season in which the Church calls us to turn back, to repent, and to remember who we are—so that we may step again into the life He has already given us.

Christ lives within the heart of every believer. He comes into the midst of all who gather in His name. He is present here, now, in the Holy Liturgy—offering the same grace, the same power, the same deliverance.

He delivers us from the death of sin and leads us into the true Promised Land: the life of the Kingdom, the inheritance of the saints, communion with God Himself.

So let us give thanks for the Deliverer—Jesus, the New Joshua. Let us praise Him, trust Him, repent, and return to Him, so that we may join Him in His victory. And let us receive His supernatural grace and power here and now, as we prepare to welcome Him anew at His Nativity.

[For in the end, all of us must decide:

Am I a sinner – of whatever type; a fornicator, a gossip, a glutton, a miser, a coward, a bully – (are we a sinner) who occasionally does Christian things but repents and reverts to my chosen sinful form.

-OR-

Am I a Christian who occasionally falls into sin, repents, and reverts to his chosen path of holiness?

If we truly are sinners who only play at being Christians - if we only play at being holy – then when the Lord comes looking for a place to be born and dwell, there will be no room in the worldly varmint-infested inn our heart for him to lay and He will leave us to wallow and drown in the bondage of our sin.

-BUT-

If we are Christians who fall into sin but truly repent, the cave of our hearts is swept clean and He will be pleased to be born in our hearts and His glory will shine within and even from us.

Christ has come into the world to deliver us – how have we responded?]

To Him be glory, together with His Father and the Holy Spirit, now and ever and unto ages of ages. Amen.

Fr. Anthony preaches on three types of pilgrimage and how they work towards our salvation.

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.

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!

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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.

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.

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.

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.

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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!

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.

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.

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.

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)

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.