Episodes

  • Homily - The Publican, the Pharisee, and the Seeds of the Kingdom

    Homily - The Publican, the Pharisee, and the Seeds of the Kingdom
    Feb 1 2026
    Sanctifying the Moment: The Publican, the Pharisee, and the Seeds of the Kingdom Fr. Anthony Perkins; Luke 18:9-14 All of creation is good—and yet it was never meant to remain merely good. From the beginning, God made the world not as a finished product, but as something alive, dynamic, and capable of growth. Creation was designed to become better, to move toward beauty and perfection. Humanity was placed within it not as passive observers, but as gardeners, stewards, and priests—called to tend what God has made and lead it toward and into His glory. This brings us to the heart of the matter: The question is not whether God gives us good seeds, but whether we cooperate with grace so that the good becomes better—and the moment becomes a place where Christ and His Kingdom are made manifest among us. Nothing in God's creation is neutral. Everything that exists participates, however faintly, in the goodness of God—otherwise it would not exist at all. What is not offered toward its true end will still "grow," but in distorted directions—toward thorns rather than fruit. Grace is not resisted only by doing evil; it is resisted just as often by refusing to cultivate what God has given. Creation stands ready, waiting for the attention of its stewards. When what God has placed into our hands is met with humility, love, and understanding, it grows into something beautiful, bearing fruit that nourishes others and manifests the glory of God in tangible ways. But when it is met with pride, fear, or apathy, it still grows—only into something misshapen and bitter. As God warned after the Fall, we are perfectly capable of harvesting thorns and thistles as well as wheat. This is not abstract theology; it is how life actually works. Consider a newly married couple. Their relationship carries extraordinary potential. Will they cultivate it with patience, repentance, and self-giving love, allowing it to grow into a marriage that blesses their family and their community? Or will they water it with pride and resentment, forcing it to grow into something poisonous that wounds everyone who comes near? The same gift can grow in either direction. Consider, too, the life hidden in the womb. Like time and treasure, it is a gift entrusted to us, carrying breathtaking possibility. Will it be received with love and protection, allowed to grow into a bearer of light? Or will it be met with fear and rejection—so that what should have grown into life instead grows into wounds—shaping both a person and the culture that failed to guard it. Or think of the first meeting between strangers. In that brief moment lies the possibility of friendship, love, cooperation—or of manipulation, exploitation, or cold indifference. The moment itself is a seed. Whether it bears fruit depends on how it is received. If these examples feel distant, let us turn to what Americans understand very well: money and time. Every dollar we possess is a seed. It holds the potential to heal, to feed, to comfort, to build—or to be spent in ways that reinforce our addictions and fears. And every moment of time is heavy with possibility. Will it be offered in prayer or surrendered to distraction? Will it draw us toward communion or deeper into delusion? Each moment asks to be sanctified. This applies even to moments that seem only painful or broken. St. Dionysius reminds us that nothing exists without some participation in the Good, because God alone is the source of being. Even sorrow can become a seed—not because suffering is good, but because God can transfigure what we cannot fix. Such moments should not be rushed or explained away. But when they are met with humility and trust, God can draw forth fruit that would otherwise remain hidden. Today's Gospel gives us a clear image of how moments are either redeemed or ruined. The Pharisee was praying. He had the appearance of cultivation—fasting, tithing, religious seriousness—but pride spoiled the soil. The moment was not merely wasted; it was corrupted. The Publican was praying too. Whatever he had done with the gifts of his past, in this moment he offered humility. And God entered that small, pure offering. That single moment, received rightly, grew like a mustard seed, crowding out what had grown before. One humble moment outweighed years of distorted cultivation. St. John Chrysostom says it plainly: God is not offended by fasting; He is offended by pride. Humility can lift a life full of sins, and pride can ruin a life full of virtues. Within each of us lies the possibility of perfection, ready to manifest itself through every thought, word, and action. But this possibility can be warped by willfulness and pride. Let us not do that. Instead, let us receive every moment as an opportunity to cooperate with grace—to do something good and something beautiful—so that we ourselves, and the world entrusted to us, may become better and more beautiful. The Gospel today shows us...
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    8 mins
  • Retreat - Justifiable but Not Helpful: Discernment in an Age of Manipulation

    Retreat - Justifiable but Not Helpful: Discernment in an Age of Manipulation
    Jan 29 2026
    In this pair of talks, Fr. Anthony examines why discernment so often fails in the Church—not because of bad faith or lack of intelligence, but because discernment is a matter of formation before it is a matter of decision. Drawing on insights from intelligence analysis, psychology, and Orthodox anthropology, he shows how authority, moral seriousness, and modern systems of manipulation quietly exploit predictable habits of perception, producing confidence without clarity. True discernment, he argues, is neither technical nor private, but ecclesial: formed through humility, ascetic practice, and participation in the Church's communal rhythms, where judgment matures over time through accountability, repentance, and shared life in Christ. --- Talk One: Why Discernment Fails Expertise, Authority, Manipulation, and the Formation of Perception Fr. Anthony Perkins Introduction Brothers, I want to begin today not with Scripture or a Father of the Church, but with a warning—from someone who spent his life studying failure in complex systems. Nassim Nicholas Taleb, in The Black Swan, writes this: "You cannot ignore self-delusion. The problem with experts is that they do not know what they do not know. Lack of knowledge and delusion about the quality of your knowledge come together—the same process that makes you know less also makes you satisfied with your knowledge." (pause) Taleb is talking about intelligence analysts, economists, and technical experts—people who are trained, credentialed, experienced, and entrusted with judgment under uncertainty. But if, just for a moment, you change one word in your mind—from expert to priest—the danger becomes uncomfortably familiar. We wear cassocks instead of suits, but the temptation is the same. Not arrogance. Not bad intentions. But unintentional self-delusion born of taking our calling to serve well seriously. A Necessary Pastoral Safeguard Before we go any further, I want to be very clear—because this matters. Taleb is not accusing experts of pride. He is not describing a moral failure. He is describing what happens to the human mind under complexity. And clergy live permanently in complex systems: human souls suffering families conflicted parishes incomplete information real consequences The danger is not that we don't care. The danger is that experience can quietly convince us that we are seeing clearly—especially when we are not. A Lesson from Intelligence Work When I worked in military intelligence, there was a saying—half joking, half deadly serious: The most dangerous person in the world is an intelligence analyst in a suit. At first, that sounds like gallows humor. But it isn't. The danger wasn't that analysts were malicious. The danger was that analysts don't just possess information—they interpret reality for others. And here's where psychology matters. Robert Cialdini has shown that one of the strongest and most reliable human biases is deference to authority. People are far more likely to accept judgments when they come from someone who looks like an authority—someone in a suit, a lab coat, or standing behind an official desk. Jonathan Haidt adds something crucial: people formed in conservative moral cultures—cultures that value order, continuity, and tradition—are especially inclined to defer to legitimate authority. That's not a flaw. It's one of the strengths of such cultures. It's one of the strengths of our Orthodox culture. But it carries a cost. Because when authority speaks, critical perception often relaxes. And when authority speaks with confidence, coherence, and moral seriousness, people don't just listen. They trust. And they trust in a way that they, like us - the ones who guide them - feel connected with the truth and the Source of all truth. But in our fallenness our sense of certainty may be driven by something other than a noetic connection with the deeper ontological of truth. Scripture about the devil appearing as angel of light (2 Cor 11:14-15) and wolves going around in sheep's clothing (Mat 7:15) are not just designed to keep us from trusting everyone who offers to speak a good work; a spiritual meaning is that our own thoughts can be deceptive, appearing as angelic and meek but lacking true virtue. All of this, combined with the seriousness of our calling, should reinforce our commitment to pastor humbly and patiently, erring on the side of gentleness … and trusting in the iterative process of repentance to bring discernment and healing to those we serve. From Suit to Cassock In intelligence work, the suit mattered. In science, it's the lab coat. In the Church, it's the cassock. When a priest speaks—especially confidently, decisively, and with moral gravity—people don't just hear an opinion. They receive guidance. And that means any blind spot—any overconfidence, any unexamined habit of thought—does not remain private. It spreads. Why This Is ...
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    1 hr and 19 mins
  • Class - The Architectural Beauty of Eden

    Class - The Architectural Beauty of Eden
    Jan 21 2026

    From Eden to the Church
    Beauty, Architecture, and the Space Where God Dwells

    Christian architecture is not primarily about style or preference.
    It is about ordering space so that human beings learn how to dwell with God.

    The Church building is Eden remembered and anticipated—a place where heaven and earth meet, so that God's people can be formed and then sent back into the world.

    Key Biblical Insights

    1. Eden Was God's Dwelling Place

    Eden is first described not as humanity's home, but as God's planted garden—a place of divine presence, beauty, and order.

    • Genesis 2:8–9 — God plants the garden; trees are "pleasant to the sight."

    2. Eden Is a Garden and a Mountain

    Scripture explicitly identifies Eden as elevated sacred space.

    • Ezekiel 28:13–14 — "Eden, the garden of God… the holy mountain of God."

    3. Eden Is a Source of Life

    Life flows outward from God's dwelling.

    • Genesis 2:10–14 — A river flows out of Eden and becomes four rivers.

    4. Eden Is Not the Whole World

    Eden is placed within creation, not identical with it.

    • Genesis 2:8 — Eden is "in the east."
    • Genesis 1:28 — Humanity is commanded to "fill the earth."

    5. Humanity's Original Vocation

    Human beings are called to guard sacred space and extend its order outward.

    • Genesis 2:15 — Adam is placed in the garden "to till and keep it."

    6. Gardens and Groves as Sacred Space

    After the fall, God's presence continues to be associated with cultivated places.

    • Genesis 12:6–7; 13:18; 18:1 — God appears to Abraham at the oaks of Mamre.
    • 1 Kings 6:29–32 — The Temple is carved with palm trees, flowers, and cherubim.
    • Psalm 92:12–14 — The righteous are "planted in the house of the LORD."
    • Isaiah 51:3; Ezekiel 36:35 — Restoration is described as becoming "like the garden of Eden."

    7. Sacred Space After the Fall

    God re-establishes Eden's pattern through mountains and temples.

    • Exodus 24:9–10 — God enthroned on Sinai.
    • Psalm 48:1–2 — Zion as the mountain of the Great King.

    8. The Church as Eden Continued

    The Church gathers the patterns of Eden—mountain, garden, throne, and life-giving water—into one place so that God may dwell with His people.

    9. Eden Fulfilled, Not Abandoned

    Scripture ends with Eden expanded to fill the world.

    • Revelation 21:3 — "The dwelling of God is with men."
    • Revelation 22:1–2 — River of Life and Tree of Life healing the nations.

    Why Architecture Matters

    • Architecture forms us slowly and quietly through repeated dwelling.
    • Ordered, beautiful space trains us for patience, reverence, and stability.
    • The Church is not an escape from the world, but a seed of the world's renewal.

    Takeaway

    Architecture is theology you inhabit.
    Eden is still the pattern—and the Church is where we learn to carry that pattern into the world.
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    1 hr
  • Homily - The Green Hand of Hell

    Homily - The Green Hand of Hell
    Jan 18 2026
    Luke 17:12-19; The Grateful Leper I've included my notes, but I didn't follow them, choosing instead to offer a meditation on the "go show yourself to the priest" part of the Levitical command and noting how we do the same - and will all do the same one day at the Great Judgment. Homily: Healing, Vision, and the Mercy of God Onee of the things that sometimes gives people pause—especially when they encounter it for the first time—comes from the Book of Needs, in the prayers the priest offers for those who are sick. If you have ever been present for these prayers, you may have been surprised by what you heard. We expect prayers like: "O Lord, raise up this servant from the bed of illness and restore them to health." And those prayers are certainly there. But woven throughout are repeated petitions for the forgiveness of sins. And that can feel jarring. "Why talk about sin?" we think. "This person is sick—not sinful." But the Church is very intentional here. Imagine this: a person is lifted up from their bed of illness, restored to perfect physical health—yet still carries unrepented sin within them. Outwardly, they look alive. Inwardly, they are not. They are, in a real sense, a living corpse. On the other hand—and this is harder for us to accept—someone may remain physically ill, yet live in Christ: healed in their soul, united to Him, walking in holiness and freedom despite bodily weakness. That person is truly alive. Our Lord Himself tells us not to fear those things that can harm the body, but to attend to what shapes the soul. We often joke that it might be easier if spiritual states were visible—if holiness and sin showed up like physical symptoms. Imagine walking through the world able to see, immediately, who was struggling, who was wounded, who needed gentleness or prayer. But most sins are hidden. We become very good at concealing them. Some sins, however, are easier to spot. A habitual drunkard, for example, eventually reveals himself. And there is one sin in particular—one we often excuse—that Scripture treats with great seriousness: the sin of speaking badly about others. In the Old Testament, what we translate as leprosy was often not simply a medical condition but a visible sign—a manifestation of sin made public. Not every skin disease fell into this category, but some did. It was a way God taught His people: what you carry within eventually shows itself without. Consider Miriam, the sister of Moses. She was a holy woman, faithful, devoted—yet when Moses acted in a way she did not expect, marrying a foreign woman, she spoke against him. She gave herself over to resentment and gossip. And the consequence was immediate and unmistakable: she was struck with leprosy and sent outside the camp until she was healed. The warning is clear. How different would our lives be if sins like gossip and disparagement were marked visibly upon us? If a sign hovered over our heads that said: "This person cannot speak about their neighbor with charity." "Do not trust their words; they tear others down." We would recoil at such exposure. Yet spiritually, those signs already exist. And in our time, this sin has become not only habitual, but normalized—especially through social media. Even among Orthodox Christians, we see people eager to label one another heretics rather than first seeking understanding. The slow, patient work of charity has been replaced by accusation. To those with noetic vision—spiritual sight—these sins are as visible as white blotches on the skin. So how do we examine ourselves? One test is how we respond to criticism. Another is how we respond to praise—or its absence. But another, deeply revealing test is this: How do I speak and think about others—especially those who have wronged me? Do I love my enemies? Do my thoughts and words reflect what St. Paul describes as the natural fruit of love? Or do I secretly rejoice when others fall? Scripture gives us another powerful image in the story of Naaman the Syrian—a pagan general afflicted with leprosy. He obeys the prophet Elisha, washes in the Jordan, and is healed. More than that, he turns to the God of Israel with gratitude and humility. He even takes soil from the Holy Land so that he may always remember whom he serves. But then we see the tragic contrast: Gehazi, Elisha's servant. Greed overtakes him. He lies. He exploits grace for gain. And the leprosy that left Naaman clings to him instead. Grace rejected becomes judgment. And finally, we see the greatest transformation of all: St. Paul. Raised among God's people, zealous for the law, Paul persecutes Christ Himself. He bears the unmistakable mark of sin—not on his skin, but in his actions. Yet the Lord blinds him, then restores his sight. And what does Paul do? He does not presume upon grace. He repents. He gives thanks. He becomes like the Samaritan leper in today's Gospel—the one who returns to glorify God. This...
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    15 mins
  • Class: The Beauty of Creation and the Shape of Reality

    Class: The Beauty of Creation and the Shape of Reality
    Jan 14 2026
    Beauty in Orthodoxy: Architecture I The Beauty of Creation and the Shape of Reality In this class, the first in a series on "Orthodox Beauty in Architecture," Father Anthony explores beauty not as decoration or subjective taste, but as a theological category that reveals God, shapes human perception, and defines humanity's priestly vocation within creation. Drawing extensively on Archbishop Job of Telmessos' work on creation as icon, he traces a single arc from Genesis through Christ to Eucharist and sacred space, showing how the Fall begins with distorted vision and how repentance restores the world to sacrament. The session lays the theological groundwork for Orthodox architecture by arguing that how we build, worship, and inhabit space flows directly from how we see reality itself. --- The Beauty of Creation and the Shape of Reality: Handout Core Thesis: Beauty is not decorative or subjective, but a theological category. Creation is beautiful because it reveals God, forms human perception, and calls humanity to a priestly vocation that culminates in sacrament and sacred space. 1. Creation Is Not Only Good — It Is Beautiful Beauty belongs to the very being of creation. Creation is "very good" (kalá lian), meaning beautiful, revealing God's generosity and love (Gen 1:31). Beauty precedes usefulness; the world is gift before task. 2. Creation Is an Icon That Reveals Its Creator Creation reveals God without containing Him. The world speaks of God iconographically, inviting contemplation rather than possession (Ps 19:1–2). Right vision requires stillness and purification of attention. 3. Humanity Is the Priest and Guardian of Creation Humanity mediates between God and the world. Created in God's image, humanity is called to offer creation back to God in thanksgiving (Gen 1:26–27; Ps 8). Dominion means stewardship and priesthood, not control. 4. The Fall Is a Loss of Vision Before a Moral Failure Sin begins with distorted perception. The Fall occurs when beauty is grasped rather than received (Gen 3:6). Blindness precedes disobedience; repentance heals vision. 5. True Beauty Is Revealed in Christ Beauty saves because Christ saves. True beauty is cruciform, revealed in self-giving love (Ps 50:2; Rev 5:12). Beauty without goodness becomes destructive. 6. Creation Participates in the Logos Creation is meaningful and oriented toward God. All things exist through the Word and carry divine intention (Ps 33:6). Participation without pantheism; meaning without collapse. 7. The World Is Sacramental Creation is meant to become Eucharist. The world finds fulfillment as an offering of thanksgiving (Ps 24:1; Rev 5:13). Eucharist restores vision and vocation. 8. Beauty Takes Form: Architecture Matters Sacred space forms belief and perception. From Eden to the Church, space mediates communion with God (Gen 2:8; Ps 26:8). Architecture is theology made inhabitable. Final Horizon "Behold, the dwelling of God is with men" (Rev 21:3).How we see shapes how we live. How we worship shapes how we see. How we build is how we worship. --- Lecture note: Beauty in Orthodoxy: Architecture IThe Beauty of Creation and the Shape of Reality When we speak about beauty, we often treat it as something optional—something added after the "real" work of theology is done. Beauty is frequently reduced to personal taste, emotional response, or decoration. But in the Orthodox tradition, beauty is none of those things. Beauty is not accidental. It is not subjective. And it is not peripheral. Tonight, I want to explore a much stronger claim: beauty is a theological category. It tells us something true about God, about the world, and about the human vocation within creation. Following the work of Archbishop Job of Telmessos, I want to trace a single arc—from creation, to Christ, to sacrament, and finally toward architecture. This will not yet be a talk about buildings. It is a talk about why buildings matter at all. Big Idea 1: Creation Is Not Only Good — It Is Beautiful (Creation Icon) The biblical story begins not with scarcity or chaos, but with abundance. In Genesis 1 we hear the repeated refrain, "And God saw that it was good." But at the end of creation, Scripture intensifies the claim: "And God saw everything that He had made, and behold, it was very good." (Genesis 1:31) In the Greek of the Septuagint, this is kalá lian—very beautiful. From the beginning, the world is not merely functional or morally acceptable. It is beautiful. Archbishop Job emphasizes this clearly: "According to the biblical account of creation, the world is not only 'good' but 'very good,' that is, beautiful. Beauty belongs to the very being of creation and is not something added later as an aesthetic supplement. The beauty of the created world reveals the generosity and love of the Creator." Pastoral expansion: This vision differs sharply from how we often speak about the world today. We describe ...
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    1 hr
  • Homily - Repent and Burn (in a good way)

    Homily - Repent and Burn (in a good way)
    Jan 11 2026
    Homily: The Sunday after Theophany Hebrews 13:7–16; Matthew 4:12–17 This homily explores repentance as the doorway from darkness into light, and from spiritual novelty into mature faithfulness. Rooted in Hebrews and the Gospel proclamation after Theophany, it calls Christians to become not sparks of passing enthusiasm, but enduring flames shaped by grace, sacrifice, and hope in the coming Kingdom. ---- Today's Scripture readings give us three interrelated truths—three movements in the life of salvation and theosis. First: darkness and light. Second: repentance as the way from darkness into light. Third: what children of the light actually do once they have been illumined. Point One: Darkness and Light In today's Gospel, St Matthew quotes the prophet Isaiah: "The people who sat in darkness saw a great light; and upon those who sat in the region and shadow of death, light has dawned." This is not merely a poetic description of history. It is a diagnosis of the human heart. Scripture teaches us that our calling as human beings—our calling as Christians—is to become "children of the light and children of the day." Light is not something we admire from a distance. It is something we are meant to live in, to be shaped by, and to reflect. Darkness, in Scripture, is not simply ignorance. It is disorder. It is the twisting of desire. It is the heart turned inward on itself. And Christ comes—not merely to expose darkness—but to heal us of it. That is why today's epistle begins by reminding us: "Remember your leaders, those who spoke to you the word of God; consider the outcome of their life, and imitate their faith." (Hebrews 13:7) Light becomes visible in lives that endure. The Christian life is not meant to flash briefly and disappear. God desires something steadier—not sparks, but flames. Point Two: Repentance — Leaving the Darkness Immediately after this proclamation of light, Christ begins His preaching with a single command: "Repent, for the kingdom of heaven is at hand." If we want to be part of the Light of Perfection, then the darkness in our lives and in our souls must be removed. Repentance is not optional. It is the doorway into illumination. Here we must confront a deep confusion in our culture—and often in our own hearts. We have the relationship between happiness and goodness exactly backwards. We tend to think: "It is good for me to be happy." And then we go looking for ways to become happy. But Scripture teaches the opposite: Happiness is not the path to goodness. Goodness is the path to real happiness. The epistle warns us: "Do not be led away by diverse and strange teachings; for it is well that the heart be strengthened by grace, not by foods." (Hebrews 13:9) Indulgence does not strengthen the heart. Novelty does not strengthen the heart. Only grace does. There is a danger here for neophytes because Orthodox is novel for them; there is an experiential conflation of the happiness that comes from new fascinations and their new connection with The Good Itself. More on this in a moment. Back to repentance. Repentance is how the heart is strengthened. It is how the flickering light of intention becomes steady. The iterated acts of repentance that constitute the Christian life is how God turns sparks into flames. Repentance and Tears This will bring tears. Christ does not say, "You have suffered enough—come get comfortable in the light." He says, "Repent." Repentance is rarely pleasant. We do not repent because it makes us happy, although it occasionally will in the short term; again, because of our fascination with things that are new and shiny. But regardless, we do not repent for happiness; we repent because the darkness that has accumulated in our souls cannot survive in the presence of the Light and we want to grow in that light. And that is going to involve suffering on account of the darkness that is within us; a darkness that has often come to define us. The epistle reminds us: "So Jesus also suffered outside the gate in order to sanctify the people through his own blood. Therefore let us go forth to him outside the camp, and bear the abuse he endured." (Hebrews 13:12–13) Repentance means leaving what is familiar and comfortable. It means stepping outside the camp. It means allowing the old life to die so that a new one can endure. Point Three: What Children of the Light Do Christ does not defeat the devil in the wilderness and then rest. He immediately begins His ministry. And so must we. We do not hide the light God has given us. We let it shine. And because we have been given different gifts, we shine in different ways. But we must be clear about the direction of this life: "For here we have no lasting city, but we seek the city which is to come." (Hebrews 13:14) Children of the light do not live for momentary brightness. They live toward the Kingdom. God is not basing the establishment of His Kingdom on bright ...
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    14 mins
  • Homily - Repent, Transcend Boredom, and Change the World

    Homily - Repent, Transcend Boredom, and Change the World
    Jan 4 2026
    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 ...
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    18 mins
  • Homily - Our Herodic Responses to Christ

    Homily - Our Herodic Responses to Christ
    Dec 28 2025
    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? ...
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    13 mins