Philokalia Ministries

The Evergetinos: Book Three - Chapter II, Part VI

The Desert Fathers knew something that many of us have forgotten. The greatest danger to the spiritual life is not always the obvious sins we can name. Often it is the secret satisfaction we feel when we discover the weakness of another. There is something in the fallen heart that delights in comparison. The moment another stumbles, we instinctively move ourselves a little higher. We become observers, commentators, judges, analysts. We speak about “discernment” while quietly nourishing condemnation. We discuss another’s failures while remaining remarkably blind to our own. Abba Poimen cuts through all of this with terrifying simplicity: “Who am I? And judge no one.” That is the beginning of monasticism. It is also the beginning of Christianity. Notice how often the Fathers return to the same theme. A brother falls. Another brother is tempted. Someone has a concubine. Someone frequents the baths. Someone neglects his duties. Yet the holy elders are almost never interested in discussing the sin itself. They are interested in the response of those who witness it. The real question is not, “What did he do?” The real question is, “What happened in your heart when you saw it?” The Presbyter of Pelousion stripped eleven brothers of the schema because of their failures. Later his conscience tormented him. Why? Because he discovered something humiliating: the same old man lived in him. The same fallen nature. The same capacity for sin. The Fathers never deny the existence of sin. They deny our right to stand above sinners. That is an entirely different thing. Again and again the Fathers teach that when we expose another’s wound, we expose our own. When we delight in uncovering another’s failure, God permits us to see the sickness hidden within ourselves. Timothy advised that a tempted brother be expelled, and shortly afterward the very temptation he condemned descended upon him. Why? Because God wanted to punish him? No. Because God wanted to heal him. Nothing teaches compassion like discovering that the line between saint and sinner runs directly through one’s own heart. The most moving story in this collection may be the one about the brother abandoned in the ravine. The anchorite’s solution was simple: “Expel him.” Abba Poimen’s solution was different. He sought him. He called him. He embraced him. He fed him. He restored hope to him. The brother had already condemned himself. He did not need another judge. He needed a father. The Church has never lacked judges. What she continually lacks are fathers. A father sees the wound beneath the sin. A father sees the despair beneath the failure. A father sees the battle that nobody else sees. And because he sees it, he goes after the lost sheep. The Fathers teach us something even more demanding than refusing to judge. They teach us to actively support the struggling brother. One brother tells Abba Poimen that he enjoys the company of virtuous men but avoids those with bad reputations. The Elder’s answer is astonishing: “If you do a little good to the good one, you ought to do twice as much good to the one about whose sin you have heard.” Twice as much. Not less. Not avoidance. Not suspicion. Not gossip disguised as concern. Twice as much. Because he is sick. When someone is physically ill, we do not withdraw our care until they recover. We increase it. We visit them. We pray for them. We encourage them. We sit beside them. Why then do we often do the opposite when a brother becomes spiritually ill? The Fathers understood that perseverance is often sustained by hidden acts of mercy. A word of encouragement. A meal. A visit. A refusal to repeat a rumor. A willingness to believe that grace is still at work. A determination to remember the brother’s dignity even while he struggles. Many vocations have been saved by such acts. Many have also been lost through their absence. St. Ephraim says elsewhere that we must never become the occasion for another’s withdrawal from the brotherhood. Those words should terrify every monastery, every parish, every Christian community. Whenever someone leaves wounded, discouraged, or broken, the question should not merely be what happened to them. The question should also be what happened to us. Did we strengthen them? Did we encourage them? Did we bear their burden? Did we pray for them? Did we conceal their weakness and protect their dignity? Did we seek them when they wandered? Or did we stand at a safe distance discussing their failures? The saints are not those who never see sin. They are those who see it and respond with tears rather than judgment. They see a fallen brother and remember their own weakness. They see a wound and cover it. They see a sinner and move closer rather than farther away. In the end, this is exactly how Christ has treated us. Every one of us has been the brother in the ravine. Every one of us has been the sinner whose shame was visible to Heaven. And Christ did not expose us. He sought us. He embraced us. He fed us. He covered us. The closer a man comes to God, the less interested he becomes in revealing the wounds of others and the more eager he becomes to bind them up. That is the way of the Desert Fathers. It is also the way of Christ. --- Text of chat during the group: 00:14:24 Anna: My daughter is asking for an understanding on judging based on Desert Fathers 00:36:42 Maureen Cunningham: What if the person is abusive to you ? 00:37:01 Maureen Cunningham: Like an alcholic 00:39:41 Julie: Like instead of assuming the sleeping monk is lazy or spiritually weak, but really is he exhausted from spiritual struggles, fasts, etc… 00:42:40 forrest: Sorry for a late comment for #15: the Greek word for "cover up" is the same used in the Septuagint Exodus 12:13 for the Angel of God "passing by" the houses marked with blood. 01:04:05 Julie: The wanting to be loved and needed by others. Our passions are hard to cut 01:10:57 una: Wait, what about the baby? 01:17:03 Rebecca Thérèse: Thank you☺️ 01:17:19 Janine: Thank you

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The Ascetical Homilies of St. Isaac the Syrian - Homily XV, Part I

1w ago01:10:09Tap to summarize

There are moments in the writings of St. Isaac the Syrian where one realizes that what he is speaking about is not “religion” as we commonly understand it at all. He is not concerned with external religiosity, spiritual image, theological sophistication, emotional experiences, or moral performance. He speaks instead about the transformation of the human being into a living place of divine communion. The entire struggle of the ascetic life is directed toward one thing: purity of heart. Not moralism. Not perfectionism. Purity. And purity for Isaac is not primarily about behavior. It is about vision. “The pure in heart shall see God.” The Fathers understood this literally. The heart darkened by distraction, anger, judgment, vanity, endless speech, lust, resentment, self-construction, and immersion in the noise of the world loses the capacity to perceive reality as it truly is. Man ceases to remember God because he has become filled with himself. The tragedy is not simply that we sin. The tragedy is that the heart becomes opaque. Heavy. Fragmented. Unable to behold the Kingdom already present within it. Isaac speaks with terrifying clarity here: “He who restrains his mouth from speech guards his heart from the passions.” Modern man speaks endlessly because he cannot bear silence. We drown ourselves in commentary, analysis, outrage, explanations, arguments, entertainment, notifications, and noise because silence threatens the ego. Silence exposes the inward chaos we spend our lives trying to conceal. But Isaac tells us something almost unbearable: the mysteries of God become visible only in stillness. A wrathful heart cannot behold the mysteries of the Kingdom because wrath keeps the self at the center of reality. A judgmental man may speak about theology endlessly and yet remain entirely estranged from the life of God. A proud man may appear religious and still dwell inwardly in darkness. Why? Because the Kingdom is not perceived through brilliance but through purity. This is why Isaac places such immense emphasis upon guarding the tongue, fleeing gossip, withdrawing from quarrels, avoiding angry speech, and refusing distraction. He is not prescribing pious behavior merely for the sake of morality. He understands something we do not: every movement of the soul either clarifies the heart or darkens it. And so Isaac speaks of continuous remembrance of God. Not occasional remembrance. Not Sunday remembrance. Not remembrance during emotional prayer alone. Continuous remembrance. The modern mind hears this and immediately turns it into technique. But Isaac is not describing a method so much as an identity. Man was created to live in continual orientation toward God. Prayer is not an activity added onto life. Prayer is life restored to its natural condition. This is why Isaac says: “That which befalls a fish out of water, befalls the mind that has come out of the remembrance of God.” What a terrifying image. We imagine ourselves spiritually neutral when we live immersed in distraction, noise, anxiety, worldly conversation, vanity, and continual mental agitation. Isaac says otherwise. The soul outside remembrance gasps for life without understanding why it is suffocating. And this is precisely the condition of modern man. We are overstimulated yet inwardly deadened. Connected constantly yet unable to descend into the heart. Religious perhaps, but incapable of stillness. Surrounded by information while starving for theoria. Isaac uses that extraordinary image of the dolphin moving through the calm sea. When the sea of the heart becomes still from wrath and agitation, divine mysteries begin moving within the soul. The Kingdom is not absent. The heart is simply too turbulent to perceive it. This is why the Fathers fled distraction so fiercely. Not because they hated the world. But because they desired reality. And reality, Isaac tells us, is infinitely more luminous than the fantasies by which we continually feed ourselves. The terrifying thing is that modern people often imagine remembrance of God to be restrictive. In truth, distraction is the prison. Remembrance is freedom. The man who remembers God continually gradually becomes transparent to divine life. His thoughts change. His speech changes. His desires change. His vision changes. Mercy begins appearing naturally. Humility deepens. Judgment weakens. The passions lose their violence because the soul has found greater beauty. Isaac’s vision is nothing less than transfiguration. The purified heart becomes Heaven itself. Not symbolically. Actually. “Lo, Heaven is within you.” The human person becomes a living icon of the Kingdom. The mysteries cease being abstractions and become life. The soul begins beholding Christ “at every moment.” Not through imagination, but through participation. Through communion. Through the gradual purification of the inner man. This is why the saints seem luminous to us. Not because they became extraordinary personalities, but because they ceased obstructing the Radiance of God within them. And Isaac insists that this path is deeply practical. Guard the tongue. Flee distraction. Withdraw from useless speech. Avoid judgment. Remain in remembrance. Practice silence. Study God continually. Refuse the fragmentation of the passions. Seek meekness. Seek humility. Seek hiddenness. Not as legalism. But because every movement either opens the heart toward the Kingdom or closes it inwardly upon itself. The modern world trains us in continual forgetfulness. The ascetic life trains us in remembrance. And remembrance gradually becomes vision. Then prayer ceases being something we “do” and becomes the atmosphere in which the soul breathes. At the center of Isaac’s vision lies something fierce and beautiful: man was created not merely to think about God, but to behold Him within the heart and become radiant with His life in the world. This is the true meaning of purity. Not moral self-consciousness. But transparency to divine life. Not religious performance. But the gradual emergence of Heaven within the human heart. --- Text of chat during the group: 00:18:52 Una: Father, do you know much about Saint Nikiphorus the Leper? 00:19:03 Una: Perhaps a saint for the disabled 00:19:10 Una: My mike isn't working 00:20:33 Bob Čihák, AZ: Remember, in these texts, “men” means all humans, “men and women.” 00:23:23 Una: Reacted to "Remember, in these..." with 👍 00:23:55 Bob Čihák, AZ: P 203 Homily 15 00:29:08 David Swiderski, WI: I guess going into politics is out. 00:30:08 Una: It's noise pollution 00:30:48 Adam Paige: How should we respond appropriately to brothers who want us to indulge in distractions with them ? I often get invited to watch movies and sports, etc. 00:31:58 Una: What about watching the Harry Potter movies dozen of times? 00:32:14 Bob Čihák, AZ: I don't think they thought about politics except for the very uncommon times when politics impacted them. 00:33:05 Art: Replying to "How should we respon..." Consider it as an act of penance. 🙂 00:35:34 Bob Čihák, AZ: P 203 second paragraph 00:48:10 Ben: Anna; If a person knows he will fall in terms of gossip or even detraction, every time this person is around friends, should he avoid his friends? 00:56:10 Una: Are these sexually explicit pictures? 00:56:23 Bob Čihák, AZ: Ben + Anna = BenAnna? 00:56:26 Una: OK 00:56:32 Una: Oh dear 00:57:01 Ben: Anna; What if the weakness/ problem is not someone else? (I have heard that if the problem is someone else, complimenting someone else is a gentle way to redirect the c...

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The Evergetinos: Book Three - Chapter II, Part V

2w ago00:52:12Tap to summarize

There is a fierce honesty in the Desert Fathers that can unsettle us if we read them too quickly. They never soften the reality of sin. They do not sentimentalize weakness. They do not pretend evil is harmless, nor do they collapse into the modern confusion that mercy means blindness or moral indifference. They knew too much of the violence of the passions, too much of self-deception, too much of how quickly the heart can justify itself while remaining far from God. And yet, what is striking in these sayings from the Evergetinos is this: the deeper they saw sin, the less willing they were to condemn sinners. This is not softness. It is revelation. The Fathers understood something we often miss: to truly see sin is to begin by seeing it in oneself. We are accustomed to thinking judgment arises from moral seriousness. The Fathers often show the opposite. Judgment frequently arises not from holiness, but from forgetfulness. We forget what we are. We forget how much of our life is sustained not by virtue, but by mercy. We forget that beneath our outward discipline, our religious language, our ordered routines, and even our ascetic efforts, there remains within us a heart capable of pride, lust, cruelty, envy, bitterness, and quiet violence. This is why Abba Agathon, when tempted to condemn another, said to himself: “Beware, lest you do the same thing.” That is not psychological pessimism. That is truth. The saint does not trust himself. Not because he despises himself, but because he has looked deeply enough into his own heart to know how fragile he is apart from grace. The negligent brother dying joyfully may be one of the most unsettling stories in this section. He had not distinguished himself by great ascetic effort. He had not become known for extraordinary fasting or visible zeal. Yet he died in peace because he could say something profound: I have not judged. I have not held a grudge. If I quarreled, I reconciled. And the Elder says something almost shocking: “You have been saved without effort, by not condemning others.” Not because asceticism is unimportant. But because the purpose of asceticism is love. What good is fasting if the heart remains hard? What good is prayer if we stand before God while inwardly prosecuting our neighbor? What good is discipline if mercy has not entered us? The Fathers knew that a man may be severe with himself and still cruel to others. Such severity is not holiness. It is often pride wearing religious clothing. Again and again, these stories reveal the same pattern. Abba Ammonas, seeing the woman accused of immorality, does not rush to impose punishment. He sees first her frailty, her danger, her humanity. He provides what may be needed for burial before speaking of penance. When another sinful brother hides a woman in a cask, Ammonas knowingly sits upon it, covering his shame rather than exposing him publicly. Then he simply grasps his hand and says: “Be attentive to yourself, Brother.” This is astonishing. The Fathers did not always correct by exposure. Sometimes they corrected by mercy. Sometimes the deepest rebuke was protection. Why? Because they understood something terrifying and beautiful: divine love does not deny truth, but neither does it delight in humiliation. How often we do the opposite. We call it “clarity,” but sometimes it is disguised satisfaction. We expose, denounce, criticize, analyze, and condemn because another’s fall secretly strengthens our own illusion of righteousness. The Fathers tear this illusion apart. Abba Moses enters the council carrying a basket filled with sand, the grains pouring out behind him. His words remain among the most piercing in all ascetical literature: “My sins are flowing out behind me, and I do not see them; and yet, I have come today to judge someone else’s sins.” This is the beginning of humility. To realize that we are often blind not to the sins of others, but to our own. And then there is Abba Isaac the Theban. He condemns a brother. Later, an Angel blocks the entrance to his cell and asks: “Where do you want me to cast the erring brother whom you condemned?” This is not merely a dramatic moral lesson. It is theological revelation. To judge another is, in a hidden way, to step into a place that belongs to God. The Fathers knew that judgment is not simply speech. It is a movement of the heart that places the self above another. Mercy, then, is not emotional softness. It is participation in divine life. This is perhaps why Abba Macarius is described almost unbearably: he covered the faults which he saw as though he did not see them, and those which he heard as though he did not hear them. Not because he denied evil. But because he had become like God. God sees all and yet bears with all. God knows what we are and still does not withdraw His mercy. God alone sees with absolute clarity and still gives time for repentance. The Fathers wanted this same heart. And so should we. These stories do not simply teach us to “be nice” or “avoid criticizing people.” They embody revealed truth. They reveal what divine love looks like once it begins to enter fallen human beings. They show what man becomes when he ceases to live by accusation and begins to live by mercy. This is the deepest challenge. Not whether we can identify sin. Most of us can do that quickly. The question is whether, while seeing clearly, we have become merciful. Whether our truth has been transfigured by love. Whether our asceticism has softened the heart rather than hardened it. Whether we can stand before another’s failure and remember our own need for forgiveness. The Desert Fathers were fierce because they were honest. They were merciful because they had met God. And the closer they came to Him, the less eager they were to condemn. Perhaps that is one of the surest signs that divine love has begun to remake the heart. Not blindness. Not permissiveness. But clarity without cruelty. Truth without accusation. Mercy without illusion. And a heart that increasingly belongs to God. --- Text of chat during the group: 00:14:52 Fr. Charbel Abernethy: Page 20 Volume 3 Section H 00:15:25 Charmaine's iPad: Hello dear family. Good to see all of you 00:15:34 Fr. Charbel Abernethy: Reacted to "Hello dear family. G..." with ❤️ 00:16:18 Charmaine's iPad: Reacted to "Hello dear family. Good to see all of you" with ❤️ 00:17:00 Fr. Charbel Abernethy: Coming Soon! [Full message cannot be displayed on this version] 00:19:08 Bob Čihák, AZ: P. 20 H 00:20:55 Julie: I’m so glad Father 00:32:40 Julie: Reminds me of the alcoholic monk that died 00:35:12 Bob Čihák, AZ: P. 21, #2 00:36:07 Julie: Today in Australia 00:36:25 Catherine Opie: In NZ too 00:36:30 Rebecca Thérèse: Today in Britain as well! 00:45:35 forrest: I'll look, but they often use euphemisms <p style="text-al...

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The Ascetical Homilies of St. Isaac the Syrian - Homily XIV

2w ago00:54:38Tap to summarize

There are passages in the Fathers that do not merely instruct us. They unsettle us because they seem to speak from a place beyond ordinary language. This portion of St. Isaac the Syrian is one of them. He begins almost defensively, and yet with extraordinary tenderness: “I shall tell you something, and do not laugh, for I speak the truth.” That opening matters. Isaac knows what he is about to describe can sound excessive, mystical, even absurd to the outward or untested mind. He knows some will mock it. Others will reduce it to sentiment or pious exaggeration. He knows he is stepping into something difficult to articulate because the reality itself exceeds words. And yet he writes. That itself is striking. This costs him something. There is a deeply personal quality here. Isaac is not writing as one giving detached spiritual theory. He writes almost like a father speaking carefully about a mystery he knows language will diminish even as he tries to preserve it. Near the end of the homily he says plainly that he has “taken no little trouble to set these things down.” One feels the labor in that line. Not merely literary labor, but spiritual labor. He is trying to hand on something fragile and luminous to “every man who comes upon this book.” His desire to help souls outweighs the risk of being misunderstood. And what does he speak of? Tears. But not tears as emotional excess. Not tears as instability. Not tears as religious theater. He is speaking of something far deeper: the awakening of the inward man. Isaac says that until this inward fruit begins, much of our life remains outward. We may pray, labor, fast, study, serve, and yet still remain largely organized around the visible self. The hidden man may still be in service to the world. Then comes his astonishing image. When tears begin, the soul has “left the prison of this world.” Not the world itself. But its prison. That inward captivity of self, illusion, hardness, fragmentation, and outwardness. And then Isaac gives one of the most beautiful images in all ascetical literature: he speaks of the soul almost as an infant being born into another reality. As an infant in the womb first begins to draw subtle breath before entering this visible life, so the inward man, born of grace through the womb of Mother Church and quickened by the Spirit, begins to perceive another atmosphere. Another age. Another reality. Another air. He says the soul begins to breathe “that other air, new and wonderful.” This is breathtaking. For Isaac, tears are not simply sorrow. They are often the birth pangs of the spiritual child within us. Grace, whom he calls the common mother of all, labors to bring forth the divine image in the soul. And because the mind is unaccustomed to this new reality, the body itself may cry out. Tears become a kind of holy wailing, but “mingled with the sweetness of honey.” What language. He is trying to describe something almost impossible: sorrow joined to sweetness, pain joined to grace, birth joined to loss, tears joined to wonder. The modern mind often has little room for this. We understand tears psychologically. We understand grief. Exhaustion. Relief. But Isaac is speaking of something deeper than emotion. He is speaking of the Kingdom beginning to stir within. Of the Spirit crying out from depths beyond words. Of the soul awakening to a reality more real than the visible world. And yet Isaac remains sober. He is careful. He distinguishes passing consolation from deeper compunction. He warns, in effect, against reducing such things to passing feeling or spiritual excitement. He speaks of stillness, of peace of thought, of gradual transition, of hidden maturation. Even here he is restrained. That restraint matters. Because what makes this passage so beautiful is not ecstatic excess. It is tenderness joined to sobriety. Mystery joined to humility. Vision joined to caution. And perhaps most moving of all, Isaac writes not to exalt himself, but to serve. These things, he says, he has written for himself and for every man who comes upon this book. That line carries enormous tenderness. He writes as one who knows words cannot capture the fullness of what grace does, yet he offers them anyway so another soul may not lose courage. Perhaps that is why this passage still pierces us. It reminds us that the spiritual life is not merely moral effort, external correctness, or religious performance. It is birth. The slow birth of the inward man. The hidden awakening of the Kingdom. The Spirit crying from within us. And perhaps, however faintly, learning to breathe another air. The air of grace. The air of the age to come. The air of Christ. --- Text of chat during the group: 00:03:13 Fr. Charbel Abernethy: Page 201 Homily 14 There are times in the spiritual life when a phrase begins as an image and slowly becomes a revelation. For some time now, the phrase Breathing the Same Air has remained with me. At first, it seemed to speak of something many of us deeply long for: to stand among those who thirst for Christ as the Desert Fathers did; to dwell within the same ascetic spirit, the same sobriety, the same inward hunger for purity of heart, prayer, and communion with God. But after returning to St. Isaac the Syrian, this phrase began to open more deeply. Perhaps breathing the same air is not first about standing among others who seek God. Perhaps it is about entering inwardly into the same atmosphere where the saints themselves learned to repent, to pray, to soften, and to become alive before God. 00:10:25 Fr. Charbel Abernethy: June 4 Week Retreat https://www.philokaliaministries.org/post/nazareth-and-the-hidden-life 00:13:45 Fr. Charbel Abernethy: Page 201 Homily 14 00:38:54 una: How is he using "laugh"? In the sense of disbelief? 00:45:04 Bob Čihák, AZ: P 201 second paragraph 00:53:30 Holly Hecker: (From Mark) sometimes I see these attachments (or walls separating from God) is born from old wounds, old traumas, and these attachments are fears, acts of protection. and tears arrive when trusting God and taking the walls of traumas down. Maybe that is a different 'tears' but its a tear of new life. 00:54:02 Nypaver Clan: Reacted to "(From Mark) someti..." with 👍 00:54:55 una: Interesting that in the natural order of thing, the child triggers the beginning of labor through a hormonal message. 01:02:58 Anna: I love the tears! I never did either Father! IT was the east that taught me 01:08:46 Julie: I seem to find the world and surroundings pull you back into in it , that one foot in and easily slip out 01:09:42 una: One foot in the grave and the other on a banana peel 01:10:03 Eleana Urrego: Reacted to "One foot in the grav..." with 😅 01:16:51 Aaron: very eye opening 01:18:29 Anna: Yes! There is nothing comparable to these saints. 01:20:38 Janine: Very class a retreat! 01:20:45 Rebecca Thérèse: Thank you☺️ 01:20:47 David Swiderski, WI: Thank you Father may God bless you, your mother and this group. <p style="text-ali...

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The Evergetinos: Book Three - Chapter II, Part IV

3w ago00:59:33Tap to summarize

There is something almost incomprehensible in this passage from St. Anastasios and St. Maximos because it reveals just how surrounded we are by mercy while continuing to behave as though condemnation were wisdom. The Fathers do not merely tell us not to judge. They overwhelm us with reasons not to judge. They show us a universe saturated with the patience of God, the intercession of angels, the prayers of saints, the tears of repentance, the mystery of hidden transformation, the power of baptism, the healing of affliction, the medicine of chastisement, the compassion of Christ, and the joy of Heaven itself over the salvation of even one sinner. And still we condemn. That is the horror. We condemn while standing inside the greatest revelation of mercy the world has ever known. St. Anastasios says plainly: you do not know what has happened between God and that soul after the moment you witnessed his sin. Not five years later. Not tomorrow. Ten steps later. That is how quickly grace can act. A man may fall publicly and repent secretly. A woman may appear outwardly shattered while inwardly clinging to God with tears unknown to the world. A soul everyone has dismissed may already be visited by the Holy Spirit. And the Fathers insist that we understand this: we know almost nothing. We see fragments and imagine ourselves judges of the whole human being. We see behavior but not wounds. Actions but not warfare. Falls but not repentance. Scandal but not tears. Weakness but not humility. Temptation but not hidden prayer. Worst of all, we do not see what God Himself is doing inside another person. The Fathers say there are souls purified through illness. Souls purified through humiliation. Souls purified through temptation. Souls purified through demonic assault endured with thanksgiving. Souls saved through the prayers of others. Souls restored in their final moments. Souls secretly reconciled to God before death. How then dare we speak so confidently about anyone? The terrifying thing is that we do this while calling ourselves Christians. Christians. Those who claim to worship the God who became man for sinners. The Incarnation alone should silence every condemning tongue forever. The angels themselves longed to behold this mystery: that God would unite Himself to fallen humanity. Not to idealized humanity. Not to polished humanity. Fallen humanity. Christ assumed the very flesh we despise in one another. He entered the human condition completely apart from sin so that no sinner could ever again say: “God does not know what I am.” He knows. He entered it willingly. And Heaven never ceased rejoicing over this mystery. St. Anastasios says the angels love mankind precisely because they beheld God become man. Imagine that. The bodiless powers who never fell into flesh are astonished by what humanity has become through Christ. Meanwhile we, who were baptized into Him, often despise one another mercilessly. The Fathers remind us that every baptized person has been entrusted to an angel. Every baptized person has been sealed by the Spirit. Every baptized person has become the object of heavenly concern. The angels themselves plead for us. Think of that. While we gossip about one another, the angels intercede for one another. While we expose each other’s failures, Heaven labors for each other’s salvation. While we speak words that crush souls, the saints and angels beg God to heal them. And still we continue as though condemnation were normal. St. Maximos says Heaven is astonished at this. Astounded. The earth quakes. But we are “insensible and unabashed.” Insensible because we no longer perceive the mystery of redemption correctly. Unabashed because we condemn others without trembling. The saints trembled before judging another human being because they knew that judgment belongs to Christ alone. To judge another is not merely to commit a moral fault. St. Anastasios says it is to usurp the office of the Lord Himself. This is why the Fathers speak so fiercely. The judging heart has forgotten the Gospel. It has forgotten the thief entering Paradise in a single moment. It has forgotten Rahab the harlot. It has forgotten the Publican justified by a sigh. It has forgotten Manasses forgiven after decades of horror. It has forgotten Peter restored after denial. It has forgotten that Judas stood among the Apostles while the thief hung among murderers, and yet by evening their places were reversed. The saints understood something we resist with all our strength: human beings are not static creatures. A single moment of real repentance can alter eternity. And because of this, the saints became exceedingly merciful. Not naïve about evil. Not indifferent to sin. But deeply aware that every person stands inside a battle for salvation surrounded by mysteries unseen to human eyes. The demons accuse. Christ heals. The demons reduce persons to failures. Christ beholds the image buried beneath the ruin. The demons delight in exposure. Christ covers nakedness. And the terrible thing is how often religious people unknowingly participate in the work of accusation while imagining themselves defenders of righteousness. The Fathers knew better. This is why the holiest among them became gentlest toward sinners and harshest toward themselves. Because the closer one comes to God, the more clearly one sees that he himself survives only by mercy. And once a man truly knows this, condemnation becomes impossible. He no longer stands above humanity. He stands beside it, beating his breast, praying: “To You, O Lord, belongs mercy.” --- Text of chat during the group: 00:02:05 Fr. Charbel Abernethy: https://www.philokaliaministries.org/post/nazareth-and-the-hidden-life 00:34:49 Julie: It feels like there is no rest 00:35:43 Julie: With the senses I mean, to cut the thought straight away 00:36:19 Bob Čihák, AZ: P. 18 paragraph 1 00:36:31 Nypaver Clan: Reacted to "P. 18 paragraph 1" with 👍 00:52:58 Janine: I always wondered if everyone has a Guardian angel or only the baptized… 00:59:22 Julie: Beautiful 01:06:50 Fr Martin, Arizona: When I was in my early twenties, i kept trying to figure out a way to live on an even keel, a constant peace. My spiritual father again and again suggest that life is ebb and flow. Forty years later I've still not been able to smooth out the spiritual path. The readings today make sense to me. 01:07:41 Anna: I have filled voicemail, phone noises off, and yes totally do not disturb and I love it!!! 😁❤️ 01:08:21 Julie: I feel the silence is sometimes louder, so reading or listening to prayers slows them down 01:09:37 Andrew Zakhari: Isaiah 26:4-“trust in the Lord forever, for the Lord, the Lord is the rock eternal.” 01:10:04 Danny Moulton: There is a part of me that wants to push back against the idea that we should NEVER judge others. (Jesus gave explicit instructions on how to deal with those who sin against us (Mt. 18), and it does not entail remaining silent.) But the reality is that the challenge I face is the 99.9% of the time when my tendency to judge is motivated by self- righteousness. It’s so predominant, that the case for judging from a po...

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The Ascetical Homilies of St. Isaac the Syrian - Homily XII & XIII

4w ago00:59:05Tap to summarize

What is striking in these homilies of St. Isaac the Syrian is not severity, though there is severity in them. Nor is it simply the exalted vision of hesychasm as the path of stillness and inner watchfulness. What pierces the heart most deeply is the tenderness hidden beneath the fierceness. Isaac speaks as one who knows the fragility of the human soul. He knows darkness. He knows instability. He knows how often the mind wanders, how quickly fervor cools, how easily discouragement enters the heart. And yet he never ceases to hold before us hope. For Isaac, the spiritual life unfolds gradually. There is the beginner, whose heart is still deeply entangled in the passions. There is the intermediate soul, divided between light and darkness, grace and temptation, longing and exhaustion. Then there is the perfect, whose heart has become transparent to God. But Isaac does not present these stages in order to discourage us. He presents them to free us from illusion. Most Christians imagine holiness as a sudden transformation. Isaac does not. He sees the greater part of human life as lived in the middle country — between bondage and freedom, between Egypt and the Promised Land. The soul experiences moments of illumination, yet also long stretches of obscurity. Thoughts from the “right hand” and the “left” move within us at once. We desire God sincerely, and yet remain painfully fragmented. This honesty is itself merciful. The great temptation in the spiritual life is despair over our instability. We imagine that because we have not become saints quickly, we are failures. But Isaac says something astonishing: even the one who dies still hoping for holiness, still longing for God, still searching from afar for the Kingdom he has never fully seen, may inherit with the righteous. This changes everything. The Christian life is not built upon spiritual achievement but upon fidelity of desire. Isaac does not glorify failure or excuse negligence. He calls for vigilance, prayer, reading of the Scriptures and the Fathers, watchfulness over thoughts, and perseverance in stillness. Hesychasm is not passivity. It is fierce labor. It is the continual turning of the heart toward God. Yet beneath all of this effort stands something greater: the mercy of God who sees the hidden inclination of the soul. A man may never attain great visions. He may never know deep spiritual consolation. He may die with weakness still within him. But if his heart remained turned toward God, if he struggled to guard the flame, if he hoped from afar and refused to surrender himself to cynicism or despair, Isaac dares to say that such a soul belongs among the righteous. This is profoundly important for our age. Many Christians today live with inward exhaustion. The noise of the modern world scatters the mind. Images flood the imagination. Anxiety fragments attention. Prayer often feels dry and impossible. And because people do not experience immediate spiritual transformation, they quietly abandon the inner life altogether. They assume contemplation belongs only to monks, or to the spiritually gifted. But Isaac refuses this conclusion. Hesychasm is not merely a monastic technique. It is the vocation of the baptized heart. Every Christian is called to interior stillness, to remembrance of God, to watchfulness over thoughts, to the guarding of the heart, to prayer within the depths of the soul. The outer form may differ according to one’s state of life, but the call itself is universal. The command of Christ — “abide in Me” — is the foundation of hesychasm. Isaac especially insists that the soul must not surrender during periods of darkness. There are moments when grace seems hidden, when prayer becomes heavy, when the mind feels clouded and the heart cold. The inexperienced soul believes something has gone wrong. Isaac says otherwise. Darkness is part of the journey. And what is his counsel? Read the Scriptures. Read the Fathers. Continue praying even without consolation. Refuse despondency. Wait patiently for help from God. This is deeply beautiful because Isaac understands that grace often returns quietly and unexpectedly. Like sunlight emerging through clouds, prayer slowly scatters the passions and restores clarity to the soul. Not through violence. Not through self-hatred. But through patient endurance beneath the mercy of God. Again and again Isaac returns to humility. Mysteries are revealed to the humble because humility alone can endure reality. The proud demand experiences, certainty, attainment, visible success. The humble man simply remains before God. He knows his poverty. He knows he cannot save himself. And because he no longer trusts in himself, he begins at last to trust in divine mercy. In this sense, these homilies are not ultimately about technique, but about hope. The one who remains turned toward God, even in weakness, even amid confusion, even without having “seen the land from close at hand,” has already begun to live the hidden life of the Kingdom. And perhaps this is the deepest word Isaac offers us: God does not despise the soul that longs for Him from afar. Even longing itself can become prayer. --- Text of chat during the group: 00:01:07 Fr. Charbel Abernethy: https://www.philokaliaministries.org/post/nazareth-and-the-hidden-life 00:01:15 Fr. Charbel Abernethy: Page 198 00:01:33 Bob Čihák, AZ: P 198 Homily 12 00:09:25 susan: did we finish homily 11? 00:16:48 Bob Čihák, AZ: P 198 Homily 12 00:31:13 Bob Čihák, AZ: P 199 paragraph 3 00:36:24 Wayne: again need to leave early today.. 00:42:44 Larry Ruggiero: Stay on the course of love for God. Continue 00:43:20 Larry Ruggiero: Continue to surrending all I am to God 00:50:30 Jessica McHale: When it comes to Scripture, I often feel pulled in two directions: I want to engage in Lectio Divina for spiritual formation, but I also have a strong desire for deep intellectual study, not "hearing" His Word" necesarily, at that time. 00:58:24 David Swiderski, WI: There is a wonderful series Ancient Christian Commentary of the Scripture which has really slowed down my reading and lots of commentaries from the early fathers which is helpful. Some passages seem to be a prism of meaning after reading the insights from the fathers. 01:07:34 Joan Chakonas: I highly recommend St Cyril of Alexandria’s Commentary on the gospel of Luke. 01:12:49 Erick Chastain: I saw a recent talk on Cassian's influence on st Thomas aquinas 01:13:59 Janine: Yes 01:14:03 Erick Chastain: heard of fr faber 01:15:26 Aaron: Thank you Father! :) 01:15:49 Joan Chakonas: How is it 8:30 already?????!!!! 01:16:08 David Swiderski, WI: Thank you Father may God bless you, your Mother and this group. 01:16:09 Andrew Adams: Thanks be to God! Thank you, Father! 01:16:10 Jessica McHale: So much gratitude! Praying for you!!!! 01:16:12 Rebecca Thérèse: Thank you☺️ 01:16:22 iPhone (2): Outstanding 01:16:28 iPhone (2): Thank you.

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The Evergetinos: Book Three - Chapter II, Part III

4w ago00:59:13Tap to summarize

There is a fierce honesty in the fathers that modern Christians often find difficult to endure. They do not allow us the comfort of remaining spectators to the Fall. We prefer to think of Adam’s transgression as history, tragedy, doctrine, or inherited condition. But the fathers insist upon something far more painful: Adam’s sin is repeated in us daily. Not first through sensuality. Not first through disobedience. But through judgment. Abba Mark says something astonishing: the tree of the knowledge of good and evil is our constant distinction between “good” brethren and “bad” brethren. The Fall occurs whenever we separate ourselves inwardly from another human being through contempt, condemnation, suspicion, derision, or hidden hatred. We imagine ourselves discerning spiritually, morally, psychologically, or ecclesially, while in reality we are tasting again the forbidden fruit. This is why the fathers fear judgment more than humiliation. The modern mind often reduces sin to the violation of rules. But the fathers understand sin as the darkening of vision. The moment we begin to look upon another person without mercy, without reverence, without grief for our own condition, our sight becomes corrupted. We no longer behold the image of God. We behold instead the projection of our own passions. And this is why Abba Mark says: “In the eyes of one whose heart is possessed by the passions, no man is sanctified.” The impure heart cannot see purely. A man filled with anger sees enemies everywhere. A vain man sees inferiors. A lustful man sees objects. A fearful man sees threats. A proud man sees fools. The world slowly takes on the shape of our inner disorder. How terrifying this is for our age. We live in a culture built almost entirely upon commentary, denunciation, suspicion, exposure, ridicule, factionalism, and perpetual judgment. Men and women sit before glowing screens daily eating the fruit of the knowledge of good and evil, deciding endlessly who is worthy and who is contemptible. Entire identities are now constructed around outrage. Even religious discourse often becomes little more than sanctified accusation. One no longer needs to enter a battlefield to lose one’s soul. One need only remain online. The fathers would tremble at the atmosphere we inhabit. Not because they were naïve about evil, but because they understood something we do not: judgment wounds first the one who judges. The punishment is already contained within the act itself. The moment brotherly love dies, spiritual perception begins to die with it. Abba Mark says that once the mind tastes this fruit, it falls into the very sins it condemned. This is one of the great spiritual laws confirmed by centuries of ascetical experience. The one who delights in exposing others becomes inwardly exposed himself. The one obsessed with impurity becomes inwardly contaminated by the images he condemns. The one who cannot forgive slowly becomes incapable of receiving mercy. And yet the fathers do not say these things to crush us. They speak this way because they have seen Christ. This is what modern readers often miss. The fierce severity of the desert fathers is born from the overwhelming revelation of divine mercy. They have seen the humility of God in Christ. They have seen the Innocent One forgive His murderers, descend into our corruption, bear our nakedness, and unite Himself even to those who abandoned Him. Therefore every movement of contempt within themselves becomes unbearable to them. Their tears are not moralism. They are astonishment before mercy. The fathers know that no man truly sees his own sins and continues comfortably condemning others. When Isaiah saw the glory of God, he did not cry: “Those people are unclean.” He cried: “I am a man of unclean lips.” This is why humility and compassion always deepen together. The modern world confuses humility with low self-esteem or emotional softness. But the fathers understand humility as truthfulness before God. The humble man no longer needs enemies in order to preserve himself psychologically. He no longer builds identity through comparison. He no longer secures righteousness through accusation. He knows too much about the abyss within his own heart. And strangely, this knowledge makes him gentler. Not permissive. Not morally indifferent. But merciful. The fathers never deny evil. They simply refuse to stand outside the human condition while speaking about it. This is especially important today because modern Christians are tempted toward two opposite distortions. One side abandons discernment entirely in the name of compassion. The other weaponizes discernment in the service of hidden hatred. The fathers accept neither path. They see clearly. Fiercely clearly. Yet they weep over what they see. The true ascetic is not shocked by human weakness because he has descended into his own heart and found there every seed of corruption. He knows that apart from grace he is capable of every sin. Therefore he approaches others not from superiority but from shared poverty. This is why the fathers continually command: “Busy yourself with your own faults.” Not because the sins of others are unreal. But because self-knowledge is salvific while judgment is intoxicating. And this teaching becomes even more radical in the light of Christ’s revelation that the true battlefield lies within the hidden man of the heart. The spiritual law judges not only external acts but secret thoughts, inward movements, concealed fantasies, silent condemnations, and hidden resentments. A man may appear peaceful outwardly while inwardly conducting trials against the entire world. Modern life makes this almost constant. We judge politically. Ecclesially. Morally. Psychologically. Liturgically. Socially. Intellectually. And often we do so while imagining ourselves defenders of truth. But the fathers ask a far more frightening question: “What has happened to your heart while you were defending truth?” Abba Mark says there is only one true goal: to rejoice when wronged because we are thereby given opportunity to forgive. This sounds almost impossible to modern ears because our entire culture is organized around self-protection, self-assertion, self-expression, and vindication. Yet the fathers understand that every injury endured without hatred enlarges the heart’s capacity for God. This does not mean enabling abuse or denying justice. The fathers are not preaching psychological passivity. Rather, they are revealing that the deepest freedom is freedom from hatred. And this freedom is impossible without grace. That is why Abba Mark says that Christ Himself fights within us after Baptism. The battle is interior. The warfare is largely invisible. Pride, vainglory, pleasure, resentment, self-justification, condemnation, fantasy, and rage move continually through the thoughts. No merely human technique can heal this fragmentation. Only Christ hidden within the heart can do battle there. The fathers therefore call us not to moral performance but to radical cooperation with grace: through prayer, through repentance, through patience, through forgiveness, through refusal of judgment, through bearing humiliation, through hidden struggle, through learning slowly to love. And perhaps nowhere is this teaching more needed than now, in an age where almost every system around us profits from outrage, comparison, suspicion, and exposure. The fathers remind us that the soul does not become luminous through winning arguments or exposing others. It becomes luminous through mercy. For in the end, purity of heart is nothing other than learning to see others as Christ sees them: not sentimentally, not blindly, but through the terrible and beautiful light of compassion. --- Text of chat during the group: 00:03:31 Fr. Charbel Abernethy: Page 13 Hypothesis II number 3 00:03:46 Bob Čihák, AZ: Vol. 3, p. 13, #3 00:08:55 Lorraine: Here is a link to the book you mentioned last week, Father 00:09:04 Lorraine: https://archive.org/d...

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The Ascetical Homilies of St. Isaac the Syrian - Homily XI, Part II

May 700:59:09Tap to summarize

There is something striking in the way that St. Isaac the Syrian speaks about the monastic life. He does not speak of it romantically. There is no sentimentalism in him. No fascination with externals. No praise of extraordinary feats meant to astonish the imagination. What he describes is hiddenness. Poverty of spirit. Chastity. Vigilance. Tears. Silence. Freedom from worldly rumor. Perseverance in prayer. The steady remembrance of one’s true country. And yet he calls these things beauty. This is important. Because the world has almost entirely lost the capacity to recognize spiritual beauty. We are trained to admire visibility, influence, accomplishment, charisma, productivity, youth, power. Even within religious life, we often admire the gifted personality more than the purified heart. We praise success more readily than humility. We are impressed by what shines outwardly while remaining almost blind to the soul that quietly dies to itself in love for God. But Isaac sees differently. For him, the true beauty of the monk is not found in appearance, status, or achievement. It is found in a human being becoming transparent to grace. A person who no longer lives from the compulsions of the fallen self but from communion with God. This is why his teaching cannot be reduced merely to anchorites living in caves or hermits hidden in the desert. Certainly, Isaac is speaking directly to monks. But what he describes is nothing less than the flowering of baptism itself. The monk becomes for Isaac an icon of what every Christian life is meant to reveal. Because Christianity is not merely moral improvement. It is not religious affiliation. It is not the management of behavior through rules and obligations. The Gospel reveals something infinitely greater and more terrifying than that. Man is created in the image and likeness of God. And through Christ, man is drawn into the very life of God. This is the great vision underlying all authentic asceticism. The struggle is not an end in itself. Fasting is not the goal. Silence is not the goal. Vigilance is not the goal. The goal is communion. Participation. The purification of the heart so that the human being might become capable of receiving divine life. Theosis. To modern ears, Isaac’s words can sound severe. “To weep without pause day and night.” “To have a sad and furrowed countenance.” “To divorce himself from worldly rumors.” But Isaac is not describing psychological misery. He is describing a soul awakening from intoxication. The tears of the saints are not despair. They are the breaking open of the heart before Love itself. A man who begins to see reality truthfully cannot remain superficial. He begins to perceive how fragmented his heart has become through vanity, distraction, gluttony, lust, self-love, and the endless noise of the world. He sees how easily he lives outside himself. How little of his life is actually rooted in God. And so mourning begins. But this mourning is luminous. Because the very pain of repentance becomes the place where grace descends. Isaac’s monk is beautiful because he has stopped fleeing. He stands before God as he is. He no longer seeks refuge in reputation, entertainment, argument, possession, or pleasure. He allows the fire of divine love to reveal everything false within him. And gradually another life begins to emerge. Prayer becomes simpler. The heart becomes quieter. The need to be seen diminishes. Compassion deepens. Chastity ceases to be repression and becomes freedom to love rightly. Silence ceases to be emptiness and becomes communion. A human being slowly becomes whole. This is why Isaac insists upon examining each virtue specifically. Not because Christianity is legalistic bookkeeping, but because the heart is subtle in its self-deception. A man must learn where he is still divided. Where he still clings to the world. Where he still seeks himself rather than God. The ascetical life is ultimately an act of honesty. And this honesty is beautiful because it restores us to reality. The monk, then, is not simply a religious specialist. He becomes a sign of humanity healed. A witness to what man looks like when he begins truly to live from God rather than from the ego-self. His life becomes a proclamation that communion with God is not fantasy but the very purpose of human existence. And in truth, every baptized Christian carries this same calling within them. The mother caring for her child in exhaustion. The old man praying quietly in hiddenness. The laborer struggling to keep his heart free from bitterness. The priest battling vainglory. The solitary widow learning to trust God in silence. The young man resisting the fragmentation of lust and distraction. The Christian who quietly forgives an enemy instead of condemning him. All of them are standing within this same mystery. The outer forms differ. The heart of the calling does not. For the Gospel itself is monastic in its deepest ethos. It calls man beyond possession, beyond self-exaltation, beyond the tyranny of appetite, beyond worldly identity, into participation in divine life. Into Christ. And so Isaac’s words remain enduringly radiant because they reveal what human life becomes when grace is allowed to act deeply within it. Not merely disciplined. Not merely moral. But transfigured. A human being becoming by grace what Christ is by nature. And this alone is the true beauty that does not perish. --- Text of chat during the group: 00:02:02 Fr. Charbel Abernethy: Homily 11 page 196 bottom of the page 00:16:05 Bob Čihák, AZ: Homily 11 page 196 bottom of the page 00:17:18 Gwen’s iPhone: We have had blizzards in May. 00:20:29 Bob Čihák, AZ: Homily 11 page 196 bottom of the page 00:20:45 una: Being in Love: A Practical Guide to Christian Prayer by William Johnston (available at Thriftbooks.com) 00:41:54 Daniel Allen: On the “plucky fighter”… I recently read a story about a young monk that went to his spiritual father and said that he couldn’t take it anymore he had to sin. So the older monk told him ok and he’d go with him. They went to a brothel and when they got there the older monk said to let him enter first. He went in and gave money to the woman and then said “a younger monk is about to come in, I am giving you this money but before anything else tell him that you both must make 50 prostrations before sinning.” Then he walked out. The young monk entered, she told him as she had been instructed to, and before the 50 prostrations were done the young monk fled the brothel and returned to the monastery with the elder and was never plagued by temptations like that again. The moral of the story was that it’s hard to proceed with any sort of sin after making prostrations, and so when tempted in any way make a physical (not just mental) effort to pray and temptations will flee. Very stark example. 00:44:34 Wayne: need to leave now... 00:45:07 Erick Chastain: Nektarios 00:57:32 Bob Čihák, AZ: P. 197, paragraph 4, first full paragraph 01:01:54 Erick Chastain: What does he mean by orderly discipline of the senses? 01:02:49 susan: what was the title of the psychologist you just mentioned? 01:03:38 Daniel Allen: It is so odd that modernity which tells man he’s an accidental random outcome of the universe seems to have ensnared the minds of most, when Christianity says “you are made in the image of God.” I don’t know how it is that the obviously elevated view of man isn’t universally embraced. 01:03:46 Aaron: Orthodox Psychotherapy, by Metropolitan Hierotheos of Nafpaktos (Vlachos) 01:08:24 Erick Chastain: To weep without pause day and night as he asks, how can one do this? 01:08:37 David Swiderski, WI: On a silent retreat I found it really interesting a priest focused a talk on using the senses to our benefit. He had us find a stone that fit our hand from the lakeshore and use it when we prayed, To use incense when doing spiritual reading, obvious have icons and crosses around the house and carry a hold card of Mary close to your heart near to your wallet. It is amazing how these senses can ...

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The Evergetinos: Book Three - Chapter II, Part II

May 501:03:06Tap to summarize

There is something in us that wants to make the spiritual life clear, manageable, and measurable. We fast. We give alms. We pray. We examine ourselves. And quietly, almost imperceptibly, something begins to form beneath it all: A self that stands. A self that knows. A self that can look at another and say, “At least I am not like that.” The Evergetinos tears this apart without mercy. ⸻ A brother hears something about his neighbor and believes it. Of course he does. Because it confirms something already living in his heart. A readiness to see another as fallen, compromised, lesser. The Elder does not argue facts. He strikes at the root. If God Himself did not judge without seeing, why do you? This is not about caution. It is about a refusal to participate in the hidden violence of the fallen heart. Because judgment is never neutral. It is a movement away. ⸻ The Elder takes a wisp of straw. Then he points to a beam. This is not a moral exaggeration meant to humble us. It is a revelation of reality. The one who sees clearly does not see himself as slightly better than others. He sees himself as the one most in need of mercy. Not as an idea. Not as a pious posture. But as something that crushes comparison entirely. ⸻ We think the problem is that we judge too harshly. The Fathers say something far more disturbing. The problem is that we see ourselves as separate. As individuals standing before God, each with our own moral ledger. This is not Christianity. ⸻ We have become something new. Not improved individuals. Not morally refined versions of ourselves. But members of a Body. A single life. A single love. A single Christ. To judge another is not simply to misjudge. It is to tear the Body. It is to reject a member of Christ. It is to step outside love. ⸻ Abba Pambo says nothing for four days. Because the question itself is wrong. Am I saved by this? Am I saved by that? The mind wants metrics. God waits for the heart. And when he finally speaks, the answer is devastating in its simplicity: Guard your heart from anger toward your brother. Everything else is secondary. Fasting will not save you. Almsgiving will not save you. Even great labors will not save you. If your heart stands against your brother, you remain outside the life you seek. ⸻ We have reduced the faith to morality because it is easier. It allows us to measure. To compare. To justify ourselves. But love cannot be measured. And so we avoid it. ⸻ Abba Isaiah gives the image that exposes us completely. We are all in a waiting room. Each one wounded. Each one diseased in a different way. And what do we do? We turn to the one crying out in pain and ask, “Why are you like this?” It is madness. Because if I truly felt my own wound, I would not have the strength to judge another. Judgment is always a sign of distance from one’s own heart. ⸻ The Fathers go further. They say that when you judge, you take the sin of the other upon yourself. Not symbolically. But actually. Because you have stepped out of mercy and into the place of God. And having abandoned mercy, you are left exposed. ⸻ This is why the holy man weeps when he sees another fall. Not out of sentiment. But out of knowledge. He has fallen today. I will fall tomorrow. This is the only safe ground. Not confidence. Not vigilance in the moral sense. But a kind of trembling solidarity. ⸻ We do not know how to live this. Because we do not yet believe what we are. We are not individuals trying to become good. We are beings brought into Love. Beings in Love. And the only way to exist within that reality is to relate to every other person from within that same love. Not because they deserve it. Not because we have judged them worthy. But because there is no other way to remain in Christ. ⸻ To judge is to step out. To love is to remain. ⸻ And this is where the teaching becomes unbearable. Because it leaves us with no ground. No superiority. No identity. No hidden place to stand. Only this: You are wounded. Your brother is wounded. Christ alone is the physician. Stay in the waiting room. Attend to your own disease. And when you look at another, do so as one who shares the same life, the same fall, the same desperate need for mercy. ⸻ Anything less is not Christianity. It is a religion of the self. And it cannot save. --- Text of chat during the group: 00:06:23 Fr. Charbel Abernethy: Volume III page 10 Section 4 00:15:01 John ‘Jack’: Good evening Father 00:18:09 Bob Čihák, AZ: Volume III page 10 Section 4 00:18:14 Fr. Charbel Abernethy: Volume III page 10 Section 4 00:31:13 Julie: Sometimes I find myself thinking I’m discerning but I’m really judging 00:31:35 Nypaver Clan: Reacted to "Sometimes I find mys..." with 👍 00:33:17 Bob Čihák, AZ: I once had expectations of others, which actually just reflected my own vainglory. 00:33:51 Nypaver Clan: Reacted to "I once had expectati..." with 👍 00:37:25 forrest: The Greek has "become a perfect monk" in two places. 00:43:21 forrest: The Greek has "stand in virtue" 00:47:24 Bob Čihák, AZ: Replying to "The Greek has "stand..." Thank you, X2 + 00:48:44 Bob Čihák, AZ: P. 12, C 00:52:03 Fr Martin, Arizona: 37 “Judge not, and you will not be judged; condemn not, and you will not be condemned; forgive, and you will be forgiven...,, For with the measure you use it will be measured back to you...

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Pentecost Retreat - Session Four

May 401:47:08Tap to summarize

The Fire That Remains Life in the Spirit After the Collapse of the Religious Self Week IV — The Heart That Bears the World Love, Intercession, and the Hidden Life in the Spirit ⸻ Opening Invocation O Heavenly King, Comforter, Spirit of Truth, Who art everywhere present and fillest all things, Treasury of blessings and Giver of life, Come and dwell in us, Cleanse us from every impurity, And save our souls, O Good One. ⸻ I. The Return — But Nothing Is the Same At the beginning, the Spirit leads a man inward. Into exposure. Into poverty. Into silence. And it can seem as though the path is one of withdrawal. A leaving behind. A diminishing. But this is not the end. Because the same Spirit who leads a man into the desert of his own heart leads him back again. 1 Not outward in the old way. Not into activity rooted in self. But into a different kind of presence. The man returns to the world. But he does not return as he was. ⸻ II. The End of Living for Oneself Something has been broken. Quietly. Deeply. The constant reference to self. The need to interpret everything in relation to oneself. The subtle movement of: How does this affect me? What does this mean for me? Where do I stand? These begin to loosen. And with this a space opens. A freedom. Where others can begin to exist without being filtered through the self. This is the beginning of love. Not as an emotion. 2 Not as an effort. But as a way of being. “Love seeketh not her own.” (1 Corinthians 13:5) And for the first time this is not an ideal. It is something that begins to happen. ⸻ III. The Heart Enlarged by the Spirit The heart changes. Not outwardly. Not visibly. But in capacity. It begins to hold more. Not by effort. But by grace. You begin to feel: The weight of others. The pain of others. The confusion of others. Not in a way that overwhelms. But in a way that includes. The boundaries of the self soften. And the heart becomes... spacious. 3 “My heart is enlarged.” (Psalm 118/119) This is not sentimentality. It is not emotionalism. It is participation. A sharing in something greater than yourself. ⸻ IV. Intercession That Is Not Chosen Prayer changes again. Not in method. But in direction. Before, you struggled to pray. Then prayer began to live within you. Now something else happens: Others begin to appear in your prayer. Not because you decide to pray for them. But because they are given to you. A face. A name. A burden. And it remains. Quietly. Persistently. 4 You carry them. Sometimes without words. Sometimes without understanding. And this is intercession. Not as an activity. But as a participation in the love of Christ. “I could wish that myself were accursed for my brethren...” (Romans 9:3) A love that does not calculate. A love that bears. ⸻ V. The Hidden Nature of This Life And yet, outwardly, very little may change. You may still live in the same place. Do the same tasks. Speak with the same people. There is no need to appear different. No need to manifest anything. Because this life is hidden. Deep within. And this hiddenness is essential. Because the moment it becomes something seen something recognized something affirmed 5 the old self begins to stir. So the Spirit preserves this life in obscurity. In simplicity. In what appears to be ordinariness. “Your life is hid with Christ in God.” (Colossians 3:3) And this hiddenness is protection. ⸻ VI. Love Without Self-Consciousness There is a further purification. Even love becomes purified. Because at first we can become aware of loving. We notice it. We reflect on it. We take some subtle satisfaction in it. But here, even this begins to fall away. Love becomes unselfconscious. It acts without referring back to itself. It gives without knowing that it gives. It responds without constructing meaning. 6 And this is freedom. Because the self is no longer at the center even of what is good. ⸻ VII. The Bearing of Suffering As the heart expands so does its capacity to suffer. Not in a destructive way. But in a participatory way. You begin to feel more. To see more. To carry more. And yet there is no resistance. Because this suffering is no longer meaningless. It is no longer isolated. It is held within something greater. Within the life of Christ. “Bear ye one another’s burdens, and so fulfil the law of Christ.” (Galatians 6:2) This is not something you choose. It is something you are drawn into. ⸻ 7 VIII. The Absence of Claims At this point something remarkable appears. Or rather something disappears. The need to claim anything. You no longer need to: Define your state. Explain your path. Assert your identity. Even inwardly. You do not need to know where you are. You do not need to measure. You do not need to conclude. You simply live. Before God. With others. And this simplicity is a great freedom. ⸻ IX. The Life That Becomes Prayer Everything begins to unify. Prayer is no longer separate from life. Life is no longer separate from prayer. 8 Silence speaks. Speech can remain rooted in silence. Action flows from stillness. There is less division. Less fragmentation. More wholeness. And this is not something you maintain. It is something given. Sustained quietly. By the Spirit. “It is no longer I who live, but Christ lives in me.” (Galatians 2:20) Not as an idea. But as a mystery slowly becoming real. ⸻ X. Closing Exhortation Do not seek this. Do not attempt to become this. Do not imitate what has been described. Remain faithful to what has been given to you. Remain in poverty. Remain in prayer. Remain in truth. And the Spirit will do His work. 9 Quietly. Hidden. Beyond your understanding. And what will emerge will not be something you have made. But a life. A heart. Capable of bearing others. Because it is held within Christ. ⸻ Closing Prayer Lord Jesus Christ, Son of God, Thou who didst bear the sins of the world in Thy Body, grant us the grace to bear one another in love. Enlarge our hearts. Purify our love. Deliver us from ourselves. And grant that, hidden in Thee, we may become a place where others are held in Thy mercy. For Thou art the Lover of mankind. Amen. 10

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All episodes

The Evergetinos: Book Three - Chapter II, Part VI

The Ascetical Homilies of St. Isaac the Syrian - Homily XV, Part I

The Evergetinos: Book Three - Chapter II, Part V

The Ascetical Homilies of St. Isaac the Syrian - Homily XIV

The Evergetinos: Book Three - Chapter II, Part IV

The Ascetical Homilies of St. Isaac the Syrian - Homily XII & XIII

The Evergetinos: Book Three - Chapter II, Part III

The Ascetical Homilies of St. Isaac the Syrian - Homily XI, Part II

The Evergetinos: Book Three - Chapter II, Part II

Pentecost Retreat - Session Four