In the Name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit.
My beloved children in the Lord,

According to the Gospel we have just heard, today is “the last day, that great day of the feast.” The work that was begun at the time of the Lord’s Nativity and perfected in his Pascha has now borne its fruit.

The Spirit whom Christ promised has come. The Comforter whom Christ desired to send is poured out on all flesh. And with his coming, with his outpouring, the eschaton, the end of the world, has come upon us. We Christians are, in the words of St. Paul, those upon whom the end of the ages has come. Christ came to make sinners into saints; the years that we lived in sin are now restored to us as the years that lead us to repentance in Christ. And henceforth, anointed with the Spirit, we are empowered to live in accordance with his call to holiness.

Wherever the Spirit blows and comes to rest, there life flourishes; what is dead is made alive and fruitful. Wherever the Spirit is, there the fruits of the Resurrection are already known. Wherever the Spirit is, the end of time, the fullness of the ages, is already present, though hidden from the eyes of the world.

According to the Book of Acts, “divided tongues, as of fire” came to rest upon the disciples on the day of Pentecost. They all received the same fire—and yet the tongues were divided: each received the gifts of the Spirit suited to his particular mission and vocation. So it is with us. Each of us has received a portion of the Spirit according to our need: choir member, reader, deacon, priest, monastic, parent, child, witness for Christ in the world.

Now, this gift does two things at once, and we must hold them together. On the one hand, it fires us for our calling. On the other, it quiets us. The Holy Fathers speak of hesychia—that interior stillness which is not our own achievement but the Spirit’s gift. The flame that rested on the apostles did not agitate them; it clarified them. It burned away the noise and the fear, and left them knowing, with luminous certainty, what they were to do next. This is the gift we must ask for: not merely enthusiasm for our vocation, but the inner quiet in which vocation itself becomes unmistakable.

The life of faith is long, and it is not always luminous. There are seasons—and perhaps many of us know them—when the initial fire seems to have cooled, when the practices that once felt vivid feel merely dutiful, when we wonder whether we are making any progress at all. This is not a sign that the Spirit has departed. It may, in fact, be the very moment when the Spirit is doing his most serious work in us: stripping away the excitement and the novelty, the consolations we mistook for the substance, so that what remains is something quieter, more deeply rooted, more truly our own. The apostles themselves passed through such a season—between the Ascension and Pentecost, ten days of waiting in an upper room, not knowing exactly what was coming. The fire did not fall until they had learned to be still.

The spiritual life is not measured by what we feel, nor by what we have accomplished, nor even by the clarity with which we perceive our own progress. It is measured, if at all, by our faithfulness—our patient, humble return, again and again, to the One who called us. That return does not need to be dramatic. It only needs to be real. The tongue of flame that rested on us at our baptism and chrismation has not gone out. It burns, perhaps low, perhaps hidden—but the Holy Spirit does not abandon his dwelling. “Quench not the Spirit,” St. Paul tells us. And the surest way not to quench it is simply to remain: to stay, to pray as we can, to receive the Sacraments, to love the person in front of us—and to trust that the God who began a good work in us is faithful to complete it.

We Orthodox Christians, all of us, have received the heavenly Spirit. We each possess a divided tongue of flame. And it is our duty to cherish that flame, to let it grow into a blaze, and to share that fire with the world, spreading the Gospel of the burning love of the God-man, the Good News of his forgiveness that consumes all the power of death and sin.

To him who came to cast fire upon the earth, our Lord and God and Savior Jesus Christ, be all glory, together with his Father, who is a consuming Fire, and the All-holy Spirit who appeared as tongues of flame. Amen.

Today Christ opens the eyes of a man born blind, and the blessedness, the happiness, of such a miraculous event seems self-evident. Yet the Pharisees react with hostility, and the formerly-blind man’s parents react with fear. What are we to make of this?

Christ says that he is the Truth, and that the truth will set us free (Jn. 14:6, 8:23). When he opens the blind man’s eyes to see the bright world that he made, the latter is no longer subject to the lies he was told, to the misconceptions that he nurtured, when once he was blind. When Christ opens his eyes, he is no longer subject to the false narratives woven by others; he sees clearly past the distortions of those Pharisees who desire to rule and control.

This is why, throughout the ages, the tyrannical authorities of oppressive regimes have hated the Christian faith. From the centuries of the Roman Empire to the decades of the Soviet Union, the petty Pharisees of the ruling ideology have feared the power of Christ and the Christian faith to open the eyes of the blind.

This is not because Christ’s kingdom is in competition with the kingdoms of this world: Christ’s kingdom is not of this world (Jn. 18:26). But when our eyes are opened, and we behold the light of the Resurrection, and we see ourselves as sons of the light and of the day, then we know that we are living for the age to come. Knowing the promise of the Resurrection, we are able to obtain to an inner freedom that no power in this world can overcome. “The kingdom of God is within you” precisely because it is unlike an earthly kingdom; one cannot say of it “Here it is” or “There it is” (Lk. 17:21).

Christ desires to open our eyes to this reality, too; he wishes that we would no longer see ourselves merely as part of this passing world. Blinded no longer by the power of sin and passions, we are called to understand our place in his eternal kingdom, and to live unbound and unburdened by the heavy-pressing chains of the lies told to us by the world, the demons, and by our own misguided and passionate thoughts.

The formerly-blind man’s confession of faith resounds with a deep power and unsurpassed peace: “Lord, I believe.” In the face of all life’s troubles and cares, let us also find strength and consolation in these words, knowing clearly who we are in Christ and to how great a salvation he has called us.

“He told me all that I ever did,” declares the Samaritan woman to her fellow residents of Sychar. All that she ever did – shouldn’t this be a source of shame and regret? After all, she has had five husbands, and the one she has now is not her husband. However, when the Lord tells her what she has done, this does not cause her to shrink back, reproached; it causes her to go to her neighbors with joy, even excitement.

This Gospel passage is an ever-timely reminder that God loves us regardless of our many sins, our ugly past, our current struggles. We may find the memory of the Samaritan woman’s liberating happiness especially encouraging whenever we prepare ourselves for the sacrament of confession. When we approach this sacrament, we are not informing God of things he does not know; rather, we are declaring what he already knows, in the presence of his priest as witness, so that we can experience the same joy and freedom that the Samaritan woman once experienced. He knows all that I ever did – and yet he has come to me in the heat of the day and granted me to recognize him as Christ, my Savior, my Lord and my God, and thus to know his unbounded divine love for me, his creature.

As we celebrate the Midfeast of Pentecost, we are reminded that the Paschal season is a movement. It is not simply a festive forty days after the Lenten fast, nor simply a lengthy celebration of Christ’s Resurrection. It is a movement from the empty tomb to the tongues of flame in the upper room, and this pause at the midpoint reminds us of that fact. Christ’s Resurrection was not the end, but a new beginning, pointing us toward life in the Spirit, the lives of the saints, the life in and of the Church.

In ancient days Jacob rolled away a stone to water the flocks, and during these days of Pascha, we contemplate how, the stone rolled away, living water flows from the tomb of Christ to water the flock of the faithful. Today, near the Sheep Gate, the paralytic waits for someone to lift him into the pool when the water is stirred, but instead the living Water stirs himself up and comes to the paralytic; Christ himself takes the initiative to rescue and heal this paralyzed man, this lame and lonely lamb.

But we notice that Christ’s healing consists precisely in loosing the man’s paralysis, so that now the former paralytic can walk on his own. Christ does not leave this man helpless, but grants him the ability he once lacked. Likewise, when we are baptized into Christ – and each time we turn again (or rather, he turns us again) to repentance and renewal of our baptism through confession of sins – we are not left helpless, either. Instead, we are imbued anew with the power of the Holy Spirit, so that we can walk, as it were, on our own two legs, doing the works God desires us to do. “If the Son sets you free, you will be free indeed” (Jn. 8:36).

On this Third Sunday of Pascha, we continue to contemplate the world-changing reality of the empty Tomb. In particular, this Sunday calls us to contemplate our role in bringing news of this reality to our fellowman. Last Sunday, Thomas Sunday, took place in the intimate setting of the sealed upper room; we saw how a single disciple, a single heart, could be changed by direct encounter with the Risen Christ. This Sunday, however, we consider the Myrrh-bearers, and how an angel commanded them to proclaim the Resurrection to the apostles. After all that we have seen and heard, how are we called to share this light, joy, peace, and hope with others? An angel brought a message to the women, the women shared it with the apostles, the apostles shared it with others, and finally that message has reached us. How shall we continue to pass this message – this all-powerful, all-transformative word of Christ’s Resurrection? – on to those whom God has placed in our lives?

We need not get carried away. “Are all apostles?” asks St. Paul rhetorically, and the implied answer is “no.” The angel, the women, the apostles: each of these had a different role in announcing the Gospel. We don’t all have to be missionaries to distant lands or street-corner evangelists. But all of us may announce the power of the Resurrection by forgiving wrongs, living in the joy of Christ’s victory, striving to conduct ourselves in accordance with the Gospel, and repenting with hope when we fail. In this way at least we can bear a meek and quiet witness to others – and to ourselves – concerning the life-changing power of Christ’s Pascha.

On the eighth day, our Lord appears to Thomas, passing through closed doors. When the Lord appeared on the first day of the week, in the evening immediately after his Rising, the other apostles had the doors shut “for fear of the Jews.” But in this case, no reason is given. Why, then, are the doors shut? The shut doors parallel Thomas’s closing of his mind and heart: “I will not believe.” Likewise, just as he passed through closed doors, the risen Lord shows that he can penetrate Thomas’s doubt, causing him to exclaim: “My Lord and my God!”

Together with the holy apostle, let us also cry: “My Lord and my God!” The risen Lord, who can pass through closed doors and overcome the apostle’s doubt, also has the power to enter the gates of our own hearts, gates which are all-too-often closed by our own fear, our self-doubt, our willingness to settle for less, for passing passions instead of immortal friendship with God. And yet, the Lord, forgiving all things by the Cross and Resurrection, desires and is able to enter once again into our hearts and our lives, offering himself to us once more for our salvation, that we may attain unto his everlasting communion of Love, which he shares eternally with the Father and the Spirit.

On this feast of feasts, I pray that each of us would experience the grace and truth that have come into the world through the Resurrection of Jesus Christ. Christ’s Resurrection is God’s victory over death, and hence over all the forces of corruption, entropy, bleakness, and emptiness. Now all is filled with light! Hopelessness, despair, resignation, nihilism: all of these are shattered forever. God is with us, and his love is stronger than death. Surely it is stronger, then, than any other passing sorrow or oppression that intrudes upon our lives. Finding our joy in the Resurrection, we found our happiness upon a radiant reality that nothing in this world can quench or dim.

Christ is risen! Indeed he is risen!

Today He who hung the earth upon the waters is hung upon the Cross. He who is King of the angels is arrayed in a crown of thorns.  He who wraps the heaven in clouds is wrapped in the purple of mockery. He who in Jordan set Adam free receives blows upon His face. The Bridegroom of the Church is transfixed with nails. The Son of the Virgin is pierced with a spear.
We venerate Thy Passion, O Christ.
We venerate Thy Passion, O Christ.
We venerate Thy Passion, O Christ.
Show us also Thy glorious Resurrection.
- Antiphon XV

In the Name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit.

Today, we gather around the throne of God, to honor in silence the King who rests upon that throne, as was spoken by the Prophet Habakkuk: The Lord is in his holy temple: let all the earth keep silence before him (Habakkuk 2:20). Having witnessed all which preceded this moment: the crown of thorns, the purple of mockery, the spitting and the scourging, the nails, the spear and the Cross, we now behold the Lord of all and the Creator of the Universe lying in the tomb, and can do nothing other than stand with the same silence within which the women stood by the Cross.

We stand in outward silence but our minds are filled with thoughts and our hearts marvel at this wonder: How did the Lord come to this point? For what purpose did He endure such sufferings? How could it be that His pure hands and feet were pierced with nails, and His precious body lifted upon the Cross, to die a shameful death? And as we ponder this we wonder: if Christ, as immortal God and perfect Man, endured such things, what hope is there for us, fallen mortals who are subject to corruption, to suffering and to death?  How can we make sense of our own life and death, if we cannot fathom the life and death of the Son of God? 

Truly, it is not ours to understand the mystery that is revealed before us. Tomorrow, we will sing: “Let all mortal flesh keep silent, and in fear and trembling stand, pondering nothing earthly-minded.”  But today, we have already entered into that silence, not for the sake of an outward quiet, but so as to find the stillness of heart that will enable us to behold the present mystery not as a defeat but as a victory: the victory of light over darkness, of truth over falsehood, of life over death.

The Lord could have brought about our salvation in any way He chose, for as God, all things are possible to Him but He chose to save us with justice rather than with power. The Enemy of mankind relies on authority and power, and it is through these that he treacherously led mankind to death and continues to tyrannize us.  In order to overthrow the tyranny of death and corruption, and at the same time to grant us the gift of eternal life, the Lord voluntarily took upon Himself human nature by His Incarnation.

He became man, not as the old man was, but as the New Adam, so that we all might be sanctified through Him. He became man, not born of seed, but born of the Virgin, so that He might become the author of new life for us. He became man and was baptized, thus revealing the grace of the Holy Trinity and allowing everyone who receives that baptism to likewise receive divine regeneration.  He lived a holy life of obedience and love to reveal His divine perfection to us and, not only that, but to call us to that same perfection. He humbled himself even unto death to show us that it was possible for human nature to overcome death and be united eternally with God. 

Christ had no need to suffer and to die upon the Cross, since He was sinless and perfect, and yet He voluntarily chose to die, so that His unjust death might become the means of overcoming the death that justly afflicted us.  His death became a condemnation of death because His death was not the result of disobedience and sin. And because of this, “His death [becomes] our life.” 

For my sake Thou wast crucified, to become for me a fountain of forgiveness. Thy side was pierced, that Thou mightest pour upon me streams of life. Thou wast transfixed with nails, that through the depth of Thy sufferings, I might know with certainty the height of Thy power, and cry to Thee, O Christ the Giver of Life: O Saviour, glory to Thy Cross and Passion. (Beatitudes for Holy Friday)

And so, for us to know with certainty the height of the Lord’s glory, we too must pass through the depth of His sufferings. Because He suffered voluntarily, His suffering becomes our release from suffering, and a way for us to bear the suffering that afflicts us, as the Holy Apostle Paul writes: For in that he himself hath suffered being tempted, he is able to help those that are tempted (Hebrew 2:18).

We know so well how we are tempted: We see our own passions and yet we condemn the passions of others; we seek purity and yet find ourselves drawn to impurity; we try to show love and yet give in to anger and irritation; we strive for perfection and yet drag ourselves down with guilt when we fail to attain it; we overlook the darkness in our own hearts and then turn and judge others for trifles; we wait eagerly for others to ask for our forgiveness and yet delay in asking for theirs; we demand love from others and then respond in anger when we do not receive it. 

Our sins and passions are like the grave-clothes that bound Lazarus and like the tie that held the hair of the sinful woman. The first was loosed by the voice of Christ and the second herself loosed her hair to wipe the feet of Christ, reminding us that both the grace of God and our own effort are needed if we are to allow the Crucified and Buried Lord to help us, who are so tempted, to taste of the immortal life which He is now proclaiming to those in Hades.

Once more, we are brought back to the silence of the present day, when the noise of all that has gone before has died away: the shouting crowds have been appeased, the questioning rulers have gone on to other things, and even the disciples themselves have fled away.  Throughout the tumultuous recent events, only a few friends remained faithful to the very small request of the Lord: that they watch and pray for one hour.  These few friends — among whom we can number the good thief, Joseph of Arimathea, and the Mother of God herself — by their silent faithfulness, reveal to us what we ought to learn from the present mystery, for they remained faithful through their offering of repentance, humility and love.

The good thief was a friend who watched with repentance. He said only a few words, but those few words revealed the depth of his contrition, and with that contrition, in one moment, he “stole paradise.”  If we could have his repentance, and humbly cry to the Lord in our weakness: “Remember us, O Lord, in Thy kingdom,” then we too, even for a brief moment, might taste of Paradise as we struggle to bend our passionate energy towards that which is pure and true.

Joseph of Arimathea was a friend who watched with humility for he bore the shame of asking for the body of a Stranger whom the whole world had abandoned. And for his humility, he was given the gift of wrapping in fine linen and anointing with spices the body of that Stranger who was a stranger to corruption.  And if we would wrap our Lord in the linen of prayer, and anoint him with the myrrh of our virtues, then we too could taste of heavenly consolation which gives us the boldness to approach the Lord of Glory.

The Mother of God was a friend who watched with love.  A sword pierced her heart as she beheld her own Lamb led to the slaughter, nevertheless she did not fail in her love but cried: “I cannot bear to see Thee crucified. Hasten and arise that I too may behold Thy resurrection on the third day.” And if we would seek after this love which the Blessed Mother showed to her Only Son, then our sorrow would indeed be turned to joy, as a mother’s sorrow is turned to joy at the birth of her child.

By the offering of their repentance, their humility and their love, these friends received, in return, the grace of beholding the first rays of the Risen Son of God. And as we stand in silence around the tomb of Christ, we too can perceive the rays of that light, for already the Lord is descending into hell, to release those held captive there and to reveal to us in the most powerful way that He is present there, even in Hell.  For just as the earth cannot remain dark when the created sun begins to shine upon it, so it is that even hell and death cannot withstand the uncreated Light and Life of Christ.  And if mighty hell and mighty death are so powerless before that Light and Life, how much more so the hell and the darkness that are in our own hearts?

Therefore, if until this moment we have not watched and prayed, let us watch and pray now. If we have allowed pain and sorrow to overcome us, let us weep over our sins and await forgiveness. If despair and the fear death darken our hearts, let us look to the Life of all who lies dead before us, and yet is not dead.  Let us endure the sufferings of our life with patience and humility, so that we may receive comfort and joy from above.  Let us bear our cross with longsuffering and meekness, so that He Who bore the heaviest Cross of all may strengthen us with His grace.  Let us make our heart a tomb, wherein Christ may dwell eternally, so that the darkness of the passions may be forever dispersed by the Light of Christ.  And let us look with expectancy to the glorious day of resurrection when we will sing with joy the Paschal hymn:

Yesterday, O Christ, I was buried with Thee,
And today I rise again with Thee in Thy rising.
Yesterday I was crucified with Thee,
Now glorify me O Savior, in Thy Kingdom.

To Him be all glory, honor and worship, together with His Father, Who is from everlasting, and the most-holy and life-giving Spirit, now and ever and unto the ages of ages. Amen.

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

“Today the grace of the Holy Spirit has gathered us together, and we all take up thy Cross and say: Blessed is he that comes in the Name of the Lord; Hosanna in the highest.”

This hymn, which we heard over and over again at Vespers last night, has a very specific historical reference. At some Palestinian monasteries, it was customary for all of the brethren — or at least the most senior monks — to scatter out into the desert for the forty days of Lent, spending that time alone in ascetic struggle. Then, today, on Palm Sunday, they would return to the monastery for Holy Week. And so the monks would sing in joy, after that period of separation: “Today the grace of the Holy Spirit has gathered us together.”

While it is interesting to know the historical meaning of that hymn, we might ask, more importantly, whether it has any meaning for us. Has the grace of the Holy Spirit gathered us together?

The answer, of course, is yes. At the highest level, everything that happens is in accord with God’s providence, and every good that occurs is thanks to His grace. But God’s grace has also called us together in a more specific way. Whether we are fully initiated Orthodox Christians, or those preparing for illumination, or catechumens, or inquirers — the grace of the Holy Spirit has gathered us together to worship and, starting from wherever we may be at this moment, to enter more fully into the mystery of the faith.

Wherever we came from, we are here now. Out of our diversity, the Most Holy Spirit has made a unity, an “us.” The Greek word for “Church” is ἐκκλησία — literally “called out of, summoned, called together.” We gather — we are gathered together — as Church to accompany Christ to His Cross, death, and Rising. As He enters His royal city, we greet Him as our King.

In the words of St. Cosmas the Hymnographer, in the Matins canon for today’s feast: “The Church of the Saints offers praise to thee, O Christ, who dwellest in Zion, and Israel rejoices in thee that made him… O ye people, sing in Zion a hymn fitting for God, and offer prayer to Christ in Jerusalem. For he comes in power and glory: on him the Church is founded.”

But I want to pause and say something particular to those of you who are here as students, as the families of students, as faculty and staff of this seminary. You have come to this place because the same grace of the Holy Spirit that gathered the monks out of the desert has gathered you out of your ordinary lives into something extraordinary: the formation of men and women for the service of Christ’s Church. This, too, is a kind of entering Jerusalem. The disciples who accompanied Christ into the city did not yet fully understand where He was going. They carried palms and cried Hosanna — and within days, they had scattered. And yet they were there. They were present to the mystery, even before they could comprehend it. Seminary is precisely that — a place of being present to the mystery of Christ before one can fully comprehend it, a school of accompaniment. The formation that happens here is not merely academic. It is a training in how to walk with Christ toward the Cross, so that one day you may lead others to do the same.

However, the hymns of Palm Sunday also remind us that a shadow lies over the feast. The people of Jerusalem who came out to greet Christ and proclaim Him King turned on Him six days later. The same crowd who strewed the streets with garments and waved branches of palm and pussy willow later cried out: “Crucify him!”

And this, too, is no mere historical memory. We, the people whom Christ has called together, His Church — we are the same people who crucified Him with our sins.

This is what it means to be bought with His life; this is what it means to be redeemed with His blood.

In the words of the Akathist “Glory to God for All Things”: “I see thy Cross — I was the cause of it. I cast my spirit down in the dust before it. Here is the triumph of love and salvation.”

To save us from our sins, our King had to die. Our sins are the cause of His death. But His death is the founding of the Church: Blood and water from His side, Baptism and the Eucharist — these are the twin streams flowing through the centuries, giving life to the Church and sustaining her. Truly, divine grace — the gift of Christ’s utterly generous self-offering — has called us together.

This is the paradox of Palm Sunday: we are called together to worship the King whom we shall put to death. And this double perspective will remain with us throughout Holy Week. Even as we celebrate Christ’s Passion in solemn triumph, we also recognize ourselves in Judas, in the mob, in the soldiers, in Pilate, in the fleeing disciples, in the denying Peter. We are all villains and sinners who gave up Our Lord to death.

And yet — not we. He. He it is who, seeing our sin and villainy, decided to give Himself up for the life of the world.

And so today, our Prince enters Jerusalem in all His splendor. Today He is ready to reign. Today He prepares Himself to ascend the royal throne of the Cross. Today He declares Himself ready for His coronation with the crown of thorns. Today garments cover His way, foreshadowing the kingly robe of mockery in which our sins will clothe Him.

We have no illusions. We are the cause of the ignominious death to which He goes. And yet that death is the source of the grace that calls us together today; that death is the triumph of His kingdom — the kingdom of light and life, a kingdom that will be revealed clearly on the eighth day hence.

Today the grace of the Holy Spirit has gathered us together, and we who were old and wizened in our sins have been made like unto little children, palms and branches in our hands, “Hosanna in the highest” on our lips.

We are sinners, but we repent. We are sinners, but today our Savior arrives in the holy city to renew and redeem us. We are sinners, but the grace of the Holy Spirit gathers us together to witness the events of our salvation.

And so, with childlike joy in our hearts, “we all take up” the “Cross” of the Lord “and say: Blessed is he that comes in the Name of the Lord; Hosanna in the highest.”

To Him who enters Jerusalem riding in royal triumph on the foal of an ass — Christ our true God and King and Savior — be eternal glory and adoration, together with His Father and His Most Holy Spirit, by Whose grace we are gathered in worship, unto ages of ages.