Gathered Together By Christ
Primatial Address of His Beatitude Metropolitan Tikhon
to the Orthodox Church in America
Twenty-First All-American Council
Phoenix, Arizona
July 14, 2025
In the Name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.
On September 16, 1979 a crew of eight men set sail on a three-month expedition which would take them from Saint Malo, a commune in Brittany, on the west coast of France, to the island of South Georgia, a British Overseas territory in the Antarctic region. The French crew was composed of four sailors and four alpine guides, including my paternal uncle, and had set for itself the goal of undertaking a journey by sea and by land, inspired by the expeditions of the early 20th century in the period known as the “Heroic Age of Antarctic Exploration.” That age is remembered for the exploits of well-known figures such as Ernest Shackleton, who made the first crossing of South Georgia; Roald Amundsen, who was the first to reach to South Pole; and Robert Falcon Scott, who reached the South Pole but, on the return trip, perished of starvation and cold along with his entire crew.
My uncle’s expedition had the more modest goal of sailing to South Georgia, crossing the island, and ascending its central peak, Mount Paget, with an altitude of 9,629 feet. The chronicler of this expedition relates that the inspiration for this voyage was a sense of the fleeting nature of existence, a desire to accomplish something more challenging, and a quest to avoid boredom. Perhaps these, and other factors, have served as the impetus for most human endeavors, heroic or not, throughout history. One may find similar examples of heroic exploration within the Orthodox tradition. Looking to the history of the Orthodox Church in America specifically, we immediately think of the travels by sea and by land undertaken by Saint Herman and his companions.
What is it, one might ask, that distinguishes Saint Herman and his companions from the many notable explorers of the Antarctic or scalers of significant peaks? Saint Herman indeed traveled the length of Siberia, crossed the Bering Strait, and ascended the mountain of Spruce Island, but his goal was not the avoidance of boredom. Rather, given the fleeting nature of our existence in this world, Saint Herman had devoted himself to the life of the world to come. Having reached his earthly destination of Spruce Island, he built there a chapel in which he and others might glorify God through repentance and prayer, through worship and service to others.
Seas and other bodies of water, as well as mountains and hills, figure prominently in the life of our Lord, and in fact throughout the Scriptures. In the Old Testament, it is above all in the mountains that the glory of the Lord is revealed. By making the effort to ascend such heights, the patriarchs and prophets were striving to enter into the glory of the Lord.
Often, when our Lord gathers his disciples, he gathers them in high places, such as Mount Tabor or the Mount of Olives. He also calls to them from the water, as he did when he called to them from a boat “a little ways off from the shore.” But whether on land or sea, the Lord was clearly the focal point of the gathering, the center of those gathered in the midst around him.
The appearance of the Lord in these remote and dangerous places, in the heights and hovering over the depths, reminds us of the ascetical effort required to enter into communion with Christ, the one who is revealed on the mountain-top in glory to those who can behold this “as far as they were able.” If the explorers of the past, if that crew of French adventurers, could make an extraordinary effort to cross seas and climb mountains just to stave off ennui, then it should be no surprise that the saints would make greater efforts—not only with their bodies, but with their minds and hearts—in order to behold the face of the living God.
At the last All-American Council, our theme was “Becoming Vessels of Grace,” and I spoke of the Orthodox Church in America’s past, present, and future by using the images of a nautical journey. This is one way of speaking of our collective and individual life as Christians, as the Church. This is a horizontal image, a vision of our progress as a passage from point A to point B.
But today, I would like to speak, not so much in terms of the voyage from Saint Malo to South Georgia, but in terms of the subsequent ascent of Mount Paget. Christ calls us, not just from one place to another, but from the low places to the high places. He has ascended on high and taken captivity captive, and he calls us to follow him to the heights. Just as Moses and Elijah encountered the Lord in high places, so he gathers us in an upper room in order to leave behind worldly things and encounter the Most High God.
The axis here is not horizontal, but vertical. The movement is not a passage through time, but an ascent beyond the constraints of time and space. In this address, I would like to reflect on the past, present, and future of our Orthodox Church in America, but I would like to do so with this vertical axis always in mind. I would like to consider our Church, not just in historical terms, but in transhistorical and superhistorical terms. To use an image common to the ancient Western Fathers of the Church, we are pilgrims in time, but, as our holy Eastern Tradition constantly reminds us, to be in the Church is also already to be outside of time. As we sing on September 13, the feast of the Dedication of the Basilica of the Resurrection, “The Church is shown to be a heaven filled with light, enlightening all the faithful.”
First, then, I would like to consider the legacy of the Orthodox Church in America—our heritage and our accomplishments in the 55 years since receiving the Tomos of our autocephaly.
Certainly, a major part of our legacy is liturgical. The Orthodox Church in America has been at the forefront of the revival of the practice of frequent communion, which is now once again commonplace throughout the Orthodox world. This is rightly celebrated; the faithful should be encouraged “in the fear of God, with faith and love [to] draw near” and to “taste the Fountain of immortality.” The Divine Liturgy is the summit of our existence; it is the place where, laying aside all earthly cares, we receive the pre-eternal God into our very bodies, souls, and hearts.
Frequent approach to the holy chalice can come with temptations, however: we can grow casual, lukewarm, entitled, and thoughtless. Without frequent confession and repentance, without awe, without care, the Body and Blood of Christ, a divine Fire that warms and enlightens, instead can become a dread Fire that consumes the heedless. Communion of the holy Mysteries should raise the mind on high; if we commune thoughtlessly and as a matter of habit, however, we will remain earthbound.
I quote the words of the holy bishop Seraphim of Dmitrov, martyred by the Soviet regime in 1937: “The whole meaning of this earthly life is found in nothing other than in continual preparation for the reception of the holy Mysteries of Christ: in prayerful struggle, abstinence, and pure-hearted repentance. The whole meaning of a Christian’s life is contained in this preparation for the holy Mysteries, and in the very communion of the holy and life-giving Mysteries of Christ. A Christian ought to commune as often as possible.” Our life’s meaning is found in communion itself and in preparation for communion; frequent communion should never be divorced from constant preparation.
In this regard, it is helpful to remember the long-standing guidance of the Holy Synod of Bishops on the subject of confession and communion, issued fifty years ago: if a person communes most every Sunday, he ought to make his sacramental confession at least once per month. The transformative power of communion is not magical. Though we are never worthy of holy communion, if we do not at least make an effort to prepare ourselves, the Mysteries become a source, not of healing, but of spiritual danger.
Another element of our legacy is the adoption of English for liturgical use. Though this is now widespread among the so-called jurisdictions, the Orthodox liturgical use was pioneered by the Orthodox Church in America (and by the Metropolia prior to autocephaly) and it is in our Church that the use of English is most widespread.
The use of English in most of our communities is perhaps the clearest expression of our identity as the local autocephalous Church on this continent. In our tradition, liturgical translation is the cornerstone of missionary activity, as we see in the Lives of Sts. Cyril and Methodius, St. Stephen of Perm, and St. Nikolai of Japan.
However, though the missionary value of English is clear, and though its liturgical dignity, at least in potential, is undeniable, this focus on the English language also has drawbacks. We are a young Church, with much to learn from our older sisters, but relatively few of our clergy, at least outside of our non-territorial dioceses, have fluency in either the liturgical or vernacular languages of the other Orthodox Churches. This can further isolation, eccentricity, and ignorance.
Furthermore, many liturgical materials await translation into English, especially in conformity to the use of the Orthodox Church in America; at the very least, many texts are poorly disseminated. Hence, because we have lost the ability, in most of the communities of our territorial dioceses, to make even partial or occasional use of liturgical languages other than English, this incompleteness means that our liturgical life remains impoverished.
The haphazard process of implementing English in the liturgy has moreover led to a plurality of translations unknown in any other Orthodox Church; the idea that a parish priest might employ his own version of a liturgical text is a phenomenon unique to Anglophone Orthodoxy. Though unity does not mean uniformity, the lack of uniformity in this area does not accord with the tradition that we received and with the tradition and life of our sister Churches.
Finally, our rapid transition to English has meant a rapid obscuring of our heritage. In particular, the Church Slavonic and East Slavic heritage common to the territorial dioceses of the Orthodox Church in America is not merely a matter of now-fading ethnic identity; it is something sacred. Until 1970, our Church was part of the Russian Orthodox Church. This means that the saints and traditions of the Russian Orthodox Church belong to us, too, regardless of our own ethnic background. The rapid loss of Church Slavonic and our sense of connection to East Slavic Orthodoxy has weakened our connection to the great cloud of witnesses who went before us, who suffered and labored for the Faith over the course of centuries so that it could eventually be brought to North America and proclaimed in the United States, Canada, and Mexico. We must never be tempted to Protestantize our history, leaping from the apostolic era to autocephaly.
I acknowledge, and indeed emphasize, that this is not just true of our Russian Orthodox heritage; the same applies to the heritage of our non-territorial, so-called ethnic dioceses. Moreover, what I have said here concerning English equally applies to the other North American languages and language communities, notably Spanish and the Hispanophone community as well as French and the Francophone community.
Again, however, this is not merely a matter of historical understanding; there is a vertical element. A consciousness of our heritage helps connect us with the Church Triumphant. In the case of our territorial dioceses especially, this consciousness of our Church Slavonic, East Slavic, and Russian Orthodox heritage helps connect us to the many saints of Russia, Ukraine, Belarus, and Carpatho-Rus who belong very much to us as well. In the Orthodox tradition properly understood, identity does not divide us, but unites us; it is a bridge from our individual circumstances to the eternal and universal.
In this respect, I would quote a passage from St. Paul, one which I cited during the canonization celebration for St. Olga in Anchorage. St. Paul, writing against divisions in the Church at Corinth, says: “For all things are yours, whether Paul or Apollos or Cephas or the world or life or death or the present or the future, all are yours; and you are Christ’s; and Christ is God’s.” We do not want to become attached to elements of our heritage as a divisive, partisan matter. Neither, however, do we wish to deny that which belongs to us, both historically and eschatologically.
Much more could be said about the legacy of the Orthodox Church in America: liturgical, missionary, theological, and more. But the few matters I have discussed here serve to communicate my larger point: past achievements, if they matter, matter insofar as they raise us heavenward. History presents ambiguities; indeed, as we shall discuss, so do the present and future.
However, in Christ, through asceticism and prayer, we are offered a way to transcend this sin-made earthly mess. In God is “no variableness, neither shadow of turning”; in him who is Light, there is no darkness at all; he is infinite yet simple and without contradiction. An earthly legacy necessarily carries uncertainty and question marks; but we strive toward the judgment of God, by which all questions are resolved and in which ultimate meaning is found.
We do this, however, by navigating the twists and turns of earthly existence; for now, we live in a world of becoming, not of being. So I turn again to our pilgrimage through time, and to our present circumstances.
In preparation for this present council, I issued a call for reflections. This call invited all the faithful, as concrete local communities—missions, parishes, and institutions—to reflect on the current moment in the life of our Church. The fruit of this invitation was a white paper formulated by an ad hoc committee appointed by me to analyze the responses. In addition to reviewing this report, I also took the time to review a number of these responses individually. Subsequently, the committee’s findings were offered up to the whole church in the form of an abbreviated report.
I will not address every element of these findings. I would, however, like to speak about one of the most ubiquitous responses. Many respondents reported a spike in interest in Orthodox Christianity during and after the COVID-19 pandemic. This seems to be a cause for both joy and concern on the part of many. We are always happy to see our churches grow. But this new wave of inquirers and converts, according to many, have brought on us a host of accompanying challenges.
Logistically, many of our facilities are being stretched to capacity. In an era of soaring real estate prices, it is often no simple matter for rapidly growing missions to scale up. Likewise, even as some speak of a supposed “clergy shortage,” our clergy are being asked to provide pastoral care for larger and larger congregations.
More challenging, perhaps, are the new dynamics behind this wave of interest in our Church. On the one hand, younger generations of North Americans are dealing with a new longing for belonging and identity. In the past, Old World ethnic identities undergirded many communities, but even the memory of ethnic identity is non-existent for large swaths of the population. Moreover, to speak from a United-States-based perspective, emergent “American” identity may have possessed more positive content in past decades; now, our national character seems more contested than ever—at least, more contested than any time since the Civil War—with definite alienating effects, regardless of one’s political proclivities. As a result of these factors, many young people feel totally unmoored from a much-needed sense of communal identity and belonging.
When these young people come to the Church, they bring along social and cultural needs together with the desire for everlasting salvation in Christ. This can be confusing for an older generation of Orthodox Christians who strove to strip away ethnic and cultural elements from our communities, viewing these as an obstacle to evangelism. In past decades, we would speak of the need to reach “the culture”; now, many young people do not feel themselves part of any culture at all, and in the Church, they are seeking what they miss.
A further challenge, according to many respondents, stems from the formation that new inquirers and converts find online, even before they set foot in the doors of a Church. According to respondents, many inquirers bring a host of preconceptions and misconceptions that priests and others involved in formation struggle to dispel. Gone are the days of a new arrival having read a few books or even viewed some forum posts or listened to a few podcasts; now, a first-time visitor may have consumed a great many hours of so-called content from one or more Orthodox Christian personalities online.
Though these circumstances are indeed challenging, I would once again like to suggest that there are further complications. The longing for identity is not intrinsically linked to the search for salvation, and certainly it comes with pitfalls. But at the very least, this longing can be a step in the right direction, a step toward a true longing for Christ. St. John Climacus says that we can play the passions against each other—using vanity to defeat other, more public sins, for example—and so it hardly seems impossible to use lesser longings as a step toward higher things.
Moreover, we often speak of the “incarnational” character of Orthodox Christianity, and this means that, normally, for most of our history, in most places and times, Orthodoxy is very much infused into culture. If we can provide new converts with a sense of social and cultural belonging, this may very well enrich and ground their faith now and provide for a deeper, more organic experience of Orthodoxy for generations to come. The disintegration of old ethnic communities and the failure of the monolithic mass culture to satisfy are an opportunity to reintegrate our heritage and build new social and cultural forms, not as ends in and of themselves, but as supports for the salvific mission of the Church. Many twentieth-century theologians recoiled at the term “religion.” But the word “religion” is often understood to come from the Latin root meaning “tie,” and there is nothing wrong with ties that bind, provided, of course, they bind us to one another in the shared mission of the Gospel and the shared pursuit of the kingdom of heaven, and not tie us down to this earth.
Likewise, when we encounter newcomers who bring in a host of preconceptions, we would do well to seek to form them without becoming prey to our preconceptions about Orthodox Christianity. Undoubtedly, some new arrivals may indeed bring truly harmful misconceptions; undoubtedly, many self-appointed authorities on the internet present dangerously imbalanced perspectives. But our focus, in catechesis, mystagogy, and all kinds of formation must be on Christ, not on our own brand of Orthodox Christianity.
Again, I return to that vertical axis, that ascent: the goal of formation isn’t to make Christians that conform to our ideas, but rather to help those for whom we care to ascend to Christ.
All of which is to say, it is easy to look at our present moment and present challenges and view our problems solely through a worldly lens. But this ultimately results in absurdity. If we do not place Christ and his kingdom at the center of our endeavor, our pursuit of other particular ends is meaningless. Whether the challenge be the price of land or the number of clergy, the longing for identity or the formation of catechumens, our focus must always be Jesus Christ: his glory, his adoration. We must avoid the temptation to get bogged down in the journey from one point to another; we must always bear in mind the call to ascend.
This remains true as we turn from the present to the future. In preparing these remarks, I wrote down a lengthy list of those challenges that lie on the horizon. I will not rehearse them here, however. Much more important than addressing particular “issues” is remembrance of the one thing needful. Whatever the issue at hand is, our question should always be: how can I be saved? What does this have to do with my salvation?
In this regard, I think of that quotation from Archimandrite Zacharias of Essex, one many of us have seen on our wall calendars this month: “Just as people in the world are immersed night and day in the cares of life, so too are the workers of godliness consumed by one: ‘What shall I do that I may inherit eternal life?’”
Even when it comes to issues and controversies within the Church—perhaps especially when it comes to issues and controversies within the Church—we are often tempted to introduce other criteria. But really, our goal is single: the kingdom of heaven. Therefore, our criterion is one: how shall we inherit that kingdom? In other words, what does this 0r that matter have to do with my salvation?
When we ask that question, we find that so many issues become clear, and perhaps even more of them simply die away. “Let the dead bury their own dead,” says the Lord; let others concern themselves with trivial issues. As for us, we are called to ascend, to leave behind the snares of the fowler and to soar aloft with the spiritual eagles.
Yes, it is true: we always ascend from somewhere. We begin in time, in history, in between past and future. Yet the goal of the ascent is the endless present of the one named I AM.
But how do we ascend to Christ? We must first descend into the deep heart by persevering in humble, patient, quiet, consistent prayer. We cannot catechize those who are searching if we ourselves are not likewise searching; we cannot feed the hungry, clothe the naked, visit those in prison, if we are not longing for our Lord – the one whose divine image is reflected in their human persons; we cannot point those broken in heart or broken in mind to genuine healing if we ourselves are not seeking that very healing; we cannot proclaim the Gospel with boldness, or offer the liturgy with purity, or provide the holy mysteries with integrity, if our own hearts are not drawing closer to the source.
Our goal is not to draw God down to ourselves but rather to lift up our mind and our spirit in order to present it before God in what Archimandrite Zacharias calls “an uprush towards heaven.”
And so, in conclusion, I return to those eight Frenchmen and their voyage to the summit of Mount Paget. As I mentioned, their reason for this journey was to escape boredom, the tedium of existence. In this age of constant content and entertainment, this may seem strange: why would you go to an isolated mountain peak to escape boredom?
But then we realize, though the color and clamor of the world may present itself to us as a source of fulfillment, ultimately this parade of noise and opinion and appearances is boredom itself. All of these lie at the base of the mountain. If we wish to go on a real adventure, if we want to breathe reality, if we want to encounter true joy and excitement, the journey is not outside, but within. It takes place in silence and struggle; it is not escapism, but true liberation.
The resolution to our finitude is indeed the ascent of a mountain, a mountain which is both Golgotha and Tabor: the place where we encounter the one who is crucified and risen, slain and ever-shining. It is he who has gathered us together in his Name, and it is he who is the One Thing Needful: the Word uttered in the silence of the Father, who is carried to us, not in the thunder of opinion or the whirlwind of busy-ness, but on a still, small voice.
Let us strive to hear that still, small voice, to keep our eyes on the things above, and to ascend together to the kingdom of Christ.
To him, our true Lord and God and Savior, be all adoration, together with his Father and the Holy Spirit. Amen.