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.

In the troparion for this two-day Feast of Palms, we sing: “By raising Lazarus from the dead before thy Passion, thou didst confirm the universal resurrection, O Christ. Like the children with the palms of victory, we therefore cry to thee, O Vanquisher of death.” Even as Christ goes to his Passion, we children of the Church already recognize, acknowledge, and celebrate the power of his Paschal victory. This is important to bear in mind during the coming week. Holy Week is not about historical commemoration, but about our own encounter with Christ’s saving work, work that was finished on the Cross and manifest in the Resurrection, but which continues to transform lives and hearts. May God grant us the grace to open our hearts to him throughout the coming days.

It is during these final days of the Great Fast – the fifth Thursday and the fifth Sunday, especially – that we contemplate the memory of St. Mary of Egypt. Her life serves to remind us that repentance is not the work of one day or even forty days. Rather, just as St. Mary spent the greater part of her life in the desert, remaining there to her dying day, repentance must be for us, too, a lifelong and daily labor. Lent may end, but our need for repentance does not.

In order to make this abiding repentance something more than a vague aspiration, it may be beneficial to adopt some concrete practices, such reciting Psalm 50 daily (or several times a day) and/or making a daily confession of our sins to God at the end of each day. This latter practice, by the way, is no replacement for the Sacrament of Confession; it is, however, a very useful way to prepare for the sacrament.

Could each of us make the time to read the akathist at least once a week, perhaps on Saturdays? For just as Saturday precedes Sunday, so it is that, through the Theotokos, we encounter Christ, who comes into the world through her.

Most holy Theotokos, higher than all creation and Mother of the new creation, O most pure and holy Lady, save us!

Your Holiness,
Your Beatitudes,
Your Eminence Metropolitan Shio and members of the Holy Synod
Your Eminences and Your Graces,
Your Excellencies, Mr. President and Mr. Prime Minister
Venerable clergy, monastics, and faithful of the Church of Georgia,
Distinguished guest,

His Holiness Patriarch Ilia once explained how one of his hymns came to be written. He said: “There were days, months and years when the church was in a very difficult situation. I could not find the way anymore — and at that time these words and this hymn came from the heart: I am tired, I am tired, come to me Lord.”
დავიღალე, დავიღალე, მოდი ჩემთან, უფალო
[transliteration: “Davighale, davighale, modi chemtan, upalo”]

Those words, which we heard at this morning’s liturgy, surprise us, coming from a man of such strength. But they are precisely the words that reveal his greatness. They are the words of a true father.

When we hear the Parable of the Prodigal Son, we naturally think of ourselves — wandering and lost, but perhaps coming to our senses and turning toward home. But today, standing here in the midst of your great grief, I find myself thinking not about the son, but about the father.

The father in that parable is mostly silent. He does not lecture or demand. But while his son is still “a great way off,” the father sees him — which means he has been watching and waiting, long before the son turned toward home. And when the moment comes, the father runs to meet his son.

Patriarch Ilia bore the weight of a father’s watching and waiting for nearly half a century. In moments of exhaustion and darkness, he did not reach for earthly power. He reached for God. “I am tired, I am tired, come to me, come to my side, Lord.” This is the prayer of a true pastor — one who has given everything and knows that what remains must come from beyond himself.

The thousands filling the streets of Tbilisi these past days have recognized in their Patriarch this image of fatherly love. They are not only mourning a great leader. They are mourning one whose great leadership remains precisely because he was a father.

To the Georgian faithful I say: the father in the Parable does not disappear at the end of the story. The One to Whom your Patriarch cried out — come to me, come to my side — is the same One who received him. And He is the same One who holds you now, even if you are tired, even in your sorrow.

May the Christ-like love and humility of your patriarch continue to shine as a beacon of our heavenly Father’s abundant and abiding love and may his memory be eternal.

მარადიულ იყოს მისი ხსენება.
[Transliteration: “Maradiul ikos khseneba misi”].