He squeezed a brick in his hand. Fire blazed out, water dropped to the floor, and in his hand remained a lump of earth. This is the account made by historians in the fourth century, who observed the debates between Christian bishops. Arius taught that Jesus was a creature, like an angel; holy but not divine. The Church defended its Orthodox faith in the Trinity. After heated discussion, a simple, agrarian bishop stood up. Everyone hushed. He held up the brick. The onlookers witnessed this miracle with astonishment. Then the saint remarked: “There was only one brick, but it was composed of three elements. In the Holy Trinity there is only one God, but three Persons.”
If you want to love God, you have to know who He is and who you are.
“Better to reign in hell, than to serve in heaven.”
These are the devil’s final words in Paradise Lost. This famous, British epic describes the devil’s wars against everything good and beautiful. He begins as prince of heaven. In his pride he plummets down to earth, where, slithering in mud, he seduces humanity and spoils paradise. What drives him on? He will not condescend to let God be God. The book ends with the devil’s boasting words: He will reign in hell rather than serve in heaven. As he speaks this, the scene draws back and gives us one last glance at Satan in his glory, and the best depiction ever of pride: the devil’s head stuck in the fire and his rear end pointing to heaven.
An old woman sits in her chair, remembering. She has had her fill of sorrows. She has known loss as only someone can who has watched many years pass by. But she sits there, in her poverty, with a joy overflowing in her heart. There was once an interruption to her losses. Something broke through the expected norm. It shattered the delusion that this world is all there is: a glimpse into something other.
“When you ask, you must believe and not doubt, because the one who doubts is like a wave of the sea, blown and tossed by the wind” (James 1:6).
He stepped out into the sea. What possessed his soul? Thick gusts of salty air rocked the boat, the wind howled, and the disciples behind clung to their seats. Yet, Peter was enraptured. The world was in storm, but there before him Christ walked on the waves in perfect calm. Something lit in Peter’s heart and he stepped out. For one moment, his whole being was zeroed in to Christ. He gazed at our Lord with such focus, such intense, perfect adoration — chaos tossed around him, an abyss loomed beneath — but he stood still caught up in wonder. Then he took his eyes off of Christ, looked down, and started sinking.
“There are two ways to look at the world. You can see everything to be merely dirt, or you can see everything to be utterly sublime.”
This is what a young man told me, who had spent most of his life as an atheist. He had grown up in a meaningless, disenchanted world. When he found Christ, he discovered that same world to be charged with beauty and eternity. He found Christianity to be a leap from boredom to wonder. This is exactly how we must understand our religion. This is how an authentic faith should stretch us, to give us hearts of adoration.
Ten lepers fell down before Jesus Christ, begging for mercy. Leprosy is a hideous disease. The spread of bacteria called Mycobacterium Leprae, gradually eats away at the body. Swelling and ulcers cover the skin. Crippling of hands, paralysis, blindness, and disfigurement follow. In the ancient world, this contagious disease meant rejection from human society — a life of isolated suffering.
There is a spiritual element to this too. In the Old Testament, leprosy was considered an analogy or picture of sin. God refers to Israel’s sins as being leprous: “from the sole of the foot to the head there is no soundness in it, but wounds, bruises, and putrefying sores” (Isaiah 1:6). In Leviticus, the law required lepers to live outside of a town. “He shall be defiled; he is unclean: he shall dwell alone; without the camp shall his habitation be” (Lev. 13:46). Lepers could never enter the temple. They were cut off from God. When you hear this description, and think about the state of life, you cannot help but feel compassion. What did a leper do to deserve this? Nothing. He was born into it. He was infected by an outside source. He was a hopeless victim. In the same manner, we were born into sin and all its crippling effects.
“Have mercy upon me, O God, after thy great goodness…Behold, I was shapen in wickedness, and in sin hath my mother conceived me…Make me a clean heart, O God, and renew a right spirit within me” (Psalm 51:1,5,10).
There is a kind of leprosy of the soul. It is numbness of the heart. A leper loses a sense of touch, can no longer enjoy taste or colors. Spiritual leprosy is losing the ability to perceive and cherish the beauty of God. It means being unable to ever look up at the clouds or moon with wonder. It means never contemplating paradise in a beautiful piece of music or never waking up in the morning feeling God’s love and intimacy. Spiritual leprosy is seeing the world as mere dirt, a universe of:
“electrons and selfish genes, blind physical forces and genetic replication… [with] no design, no purpose, no evil, no good, nothing but pitiless indifference” (in the words of the atheist, Richard Dawkins).
We are plagued by this spiritual leprosy in our times. It is the condition of so many teenagers nowadays who only know the world portrayed by Hollywood, marked by divorce, broken families, bullying, and the absence of loving role-models. Spiritual leprosy is the state of living, day after day, in a world where you can buy anything but which is constantly haunted by a specter of meaninglessness. Even for us Christians, we breathe it in the air. We become depressed or simply numb.
The ten lepers who fell down before Jesus Christ, begging mercy, represent all of us in the 21st century who are frightened, scared, exhausted, dirty, or disenchanted.
“When [Jesus] saw them, he said to them, ‘Go and show yourselves to the priests.’ And as they went, they were made clean” (Luke 17:14).
‘Eκαθαρίσθησαν’ – ‘They were cleansed.’ What does God promise us? “
“Come now…though your sins are like scarlet, they shall be as white as snow; though they are red like crimson, they shall become like wool” (Isaiah 1:18).
Christ sent the lepers to the priests. He finds us in our spiritual leprosy and sends us to Holy Church.
“The Church is the hospital for souls,” St. John Chrysostom teaches. “She does not condemn…She grants forgiveness.” Here, God brings us to the one refuge from insanity — a place to find a clear conscience and a soul opened to God’s beauty.
But the story does not end here. Its climax comes after the healing. Ten lepers were healed. Only one leper returned back to thank Jesus Christ.
“One of them, when he saw that he was healed, turned back, praising God with a loud voice. He prostrated himself at Jesus’ feet and thanked him. And he was a Samaritan. Then Jesus asked, ‘Were not ten made clean? But the other nine, where are they? Was none of them found to return and give praise to God except this foreigner?’ Then he said to him, ‘Get up and go on your way; your faith has made you well’” (Luke 17:15-19).
The nine were healed of their physical leprosy. They were not healed of their spiritual leprosy. They no longer had sores and ulcers on their skin, but their souls were still numb. One returned, “praising God with a loud voice.”
He was cured. His heart was awake. He praised God with every fiber of his being. He was alive.
We were created to live in a constant state of wonder, praise, and adoration. St. Ephraim of Katounakia tells us to pray, to pray fervently, “Lord Jesus Christ, have mercy on me.” In praying fervently and repeatedly, he says, our hearts will start to thaw and we will discover inner joy:
“The first thing you will find is joy…another radiance, another beauty, another sweetness, another state of wellbeing. You will see the entire nature bathed in beauty, in a sweetness. You will see the entire nature, all of creation of the Unseen God…You will have a new spiritual horizon, new spiritual nourishment, a new spiritual garment; things which now you cannot even conceive.”
How different is this universe than the universe described by Richard Dawkins. To the secularist, the universe is empty and meaningless. To the man or woman touched by Christ, the world is charged in God’s majesty. May God open our hearts so that we too, along with the righteous leper, may live our remaining time on earth filled with awe and adoration.
“We make our friends; we make our enemies; but God makes our next-door neighbor” (G. K. Chesterton).
God does not ask us to love humanity. God asks us to love our neighbors. Indeed, dig and search through all the scriptures and you find no mention of love in the abstract. Our vocation to love is always personal. The kind of love God wants in us is love for the person directly in front of your nose.
There was once a physician who loved humanity. He had dreams of giving it all up to serve humankind. Through each day, he contemplated ways that he could better the world. Yet, he could not stand people. As soon as someone grew close to him, that person got on his nerves. His acquaintances all took too long to eat, or blew their nose too frequently. “I become the enemy of people the moment they touch me,” he admitted. “On the other hand, it has always happened that the more I hate people individually, the more ardent becomes my love for humanity as a whole.” It is silly, is it not? Yet, does this ring true?
We are good at fooling ourselves. We think we are loving, because we love the people who make us happy, or we love the idea of loving. We have all seen those television ads. There is a starving child in Africa, then a phone number, and a chance to change a life. We watch it. We feel compassion. We entertain a little thought about giving money. Because of that noble thought, we pat ourselves on the back, saying, “You know, you’re a good guy.” Then we forget about the ad afterwards, but we sure feel righteous. Can you see how subtle this is? We praise ourselves for our fantasies. But love has nothing to do with fantasy. Love has nothing to do with thoughts. Love is action.
Christ tells us in a parable what true love looks like.
“A man was going down from Jerusalem to Jericho, and he fell among robbers, who stripped him and beat him and departed, leaving him half dead. Now by chance a priest was going down that road, and when he saw him he passed by on the other side. So likewise a Levite, when he came to the place and saw him, passed by on the other side. But a Samaritan, as he journeyed, came to where he was, and when he saw him, he had compassion. He went to him and bound up his wounds, pouring on oil and wine. Then he set him on his own animal and brought him to an inn and took care of him. And the next day he took out two denarii and gave them to the innkeeper, saying, ‘Take care of him, and whatever more you spend, I will repay you when I come back.’ Then our Lord tells us: “Go and do likewise” (Luke 10: 23-37)
What was going through the minds of the Priest and Levite? They were probably not bad people. In fact, I am ashamed to admit, they were probably like most of us, myself first and foremost. We can only imagine what was happening in their heads. They had important work to do, compassionate work, holy work. They were probably on their way to a grand religious service or to cut an inauguration ribbon at a new charity.
Did they notice the man bleeding on the road? Probably not. They might have winced for a moment. A quick thought passes, “How sad,” as they walk forward whistling. They were too caught up in their own important things to do, too occupied by thoughts of loving humanity, and they could not even notice a person in need.
Two words stand out about the Samaritan. “He saw him, and he had compassion.”The Priest and Levite never saw the person. They saw a bum, a loser, or just some guy in their way. They did not see him truly: a living breathing, fellow man; a child of God. The Samaritan saw him. When God looks at us, he sees the core of who we are. “The Lord does not look at the things people look at. People look at the outward appearance, but the Lord looks at the heart.” (1 Samual 16:7). This is how we need to learn to look at one another. Metropolitan Kallistos Ware has said, “I become truly alive when I look into your eyes and you look into mine.” Seeing is living. Only when we learn to see the person in front of us, as a person, are we fully alive.
“He had compassion.”
He had “εσπλαγχνισθη” (in Greek). The word comes from the root σπλαγχνη, which literally means the guts or bowels. To have compassion is to be moved in the gut by the reality of suffering. This goes deeper than intellectualism. It is not about having some lofty idea about human good. It is recognizing a fellow human being and sharing his burden. Compassion is an ache in the heart and the determination to help.
Do we see one another? Do we have compassion?
What is Christian love, true Christian love? There was an old ditty in the early Church: “No Christian is an alone Christian and an alone Christian is no Christian.” This sentiment runs thick in Orthodoxy. There is no Christianity apart from Christian community. There is no such thing as individualistic faith, faith cut off from a parish, a faith simply between me and Jesus. You cannot have a relationship with God that is not shared with your fellow parishioner. Our relationship with Christ is our relationship with one another; our relationship with one another is our relationship with God. So Christ tells us: “By this all people will know that you are my disciples, if you have love for one another” (John 13:35).
St. Paul says boldly:
“For just as the body is one and has many members, and all the members of the body, though many, are one body, so it is with Christ…If one member suffers, all suffer together; if one member is honored, all rejoice together” (I Corinthians 12:12,26).
To whom is he speaking? He is speaking to Christian community. He is speaking to a parish, a random assortment of people from different walks of life, who come together for a purpose. We are not here to get “my Jesus fix.” We are here to die for one another. We are here to share each other’s personal burdens and to celebrate one another’s joys. If Christianity were only about “me and Jesus,” then we might as well stay home, tune into a screened-in service, and sip our Starbucks latte. Church is our chance to learn to forgive and love.
Why do you think it is called “Mass”? The very name “Mass” shatters any idea that we go to Church on Sunday for a personal fix. Sunday is the day for amassing. It is the profound moment in the week, when the Christian body comes together to see one another and to have compassion on one another. This mass love culminates when we break bread together. We encounter God in the act of sharing.
“We make our friends; we make our enemies; but God makes our next-door neighbor.” G. K. Chesterton explained this as he looked at the real struggle in our hearts to learn to love. He continues:
“The old scriptural language showed so sharp a wisdom when [it] spoke, not of one’s duty towards humanity, but one’s duty towards one’s neighbor. The duty towards humanity may often take the form of some choice which is personal or even pleasurable. . . . But we have to love our neighbor because he is there — a much more alarming reason for a much more serious operation. [Our neighbor] is the sample of humanity which is actually given us.”
You see how simple it is. God calls us to love the person directly infront of our nose, not that person far off in a distant country, not your best friend who always says the right things and wears the right clothes. That is all nice and good, but it is not the quality love God desires. We must learn to love our neighbor, to see and have compassion — starting here in parish community, and then to each and every person we encounter through the week.
How on earth can we do this? It means dying to oneself and filling up with Christ.
”Ask for repentence in your prayer and nothing else, neither for divine lights, nor miracles, nor prophecies, nor spiritual gifts — nothing but repentance” (St. Paisios of Mount Athos).
St. Paisios was a peaceful man. He had the peace that comes from above, not something put on, nor a merely peaceful temperament. His was an internal peace. Indeed, he warned people not to seek external peace, nor to avoid situations because of their strains or tribulations. Rather, St. Paisios discovered true peace — the peace that comes only from a life of repentance. Rarely understood, and more rarely walked out, repentance is the return of all our inner thoughts, the murmur of our heart, to God. Repentance is the wandering sheep, our soul, brought back into the pasture of prayer.
We have all known obsession. Earnest Hemingway was obsessed with writing. He spent years scrutinizing over his manuscripts. They were rejected again and again, but his obsession for writing carried him to succes. Vincent van gogh was laughed at and ridiculed for his art. Yet, he was obsessed with color. Night after night passed as he dipped his brush in exotic mixes and finally created his great works of art. Benjamin Franklin was obsessed with a hairbrain dream of inventing a lightbulb. He tested over 3,000 materials, and failed some 3,000 times, before finally triggering light. How many men and women have stayed up all night obsessed with a vision? How many of us have lost sleep because of one idea, one love, one hurt that consumed all our thoughts and soul?
Moses walked into the darkness which hung over the mountain. In the cloud of mystery, he met God. He was still, and in that stillness, knew God.
Today, we celebrate the mystery of the Holy Trinity. God is one and three; three in one. It baffles human reason. God’s very essence, Trinity, is incomprehensible to us. What does this mean to us in our lives? It means our only proper relationship with God is a relationship on our knees. We can never trap God in a corner. We can never pin him down. We can only fall flat on our faces in adoration and wonder, and this is our job here on earth.
Hope is the word promised to the Church. Hope was the word on His resurrection day. Hope when he ascended. Hope when the spirit descended. Yet, there was so little hope in her eyes.
I spoke with a number of people this week about the riots in the country. In each conversation, there was a tone of voice that I cannot shake off. This was most pronounced a couple days ago when a young, professional woman asked me for my thoughts about the situation. What word of hope can you offer to the people protesting this weekend? It was such a genuine moment. She was looking for hope. In fact, there was a slight tremor in her voice. Where is the hope?
