Homily for the Sunday after Nativity
The Child Christ in the World—and in Our Hearts
Gospel: St. Matthew 2:13–23

[Retelling the Lesson]
God humbles Himself to save mankind. He leaves His rightful inheritance as God and becomes man, born as a child in Bethlehem. And how does the world receive Him? Is He born in a temple? In a palace? Places that might seem fitting for the Ruler of the Ages? 
No—He is laid in a manger, in a stable.

And even that is not the worst of it. When the leaders of the day learn of His birth, do they submit to Him? Do they nurture and protect Him so that He may grow into manhood as prophet, priest, and king? No. In today’s Gospel we hear that the Holy Family must flee into Egypt to escape assassination. Christ the Logos, the awaited Messiah, the answer to all the worlds ills, enters the world, and the world tries to kill Him. The slaughter of the innocents becomes the terrible offering laid on the altar of human evil and hard-heartedness.

[This Story is OUR Story]
This is a shameful story, and it is told to us each year at this time as a warning. It is tempting to imagine ourselves as the angels, the wise men, or the shepherds. But Scripture is far more useful when we recognize that we are often the ones who belittle Christ, who persecute Him, and who push Him to the margins.

Just as Christ humbled Himself to enter the world as a child in Bethlehem in order to transform it, so He humbles Himself now to enter the temple of our hearts in order to transform us. And the parallel continues: what kind of place does He find this time? Is our heart a dwelling fit for the Ruler of the Ages—or is it more like a forgotten corner of our lives, our own version of the manger?

And once we realize that it really is Christ who dwells within us, how do we respond? Do we give Him the due He deserves and reorder our lives around Him, or do we quietly push Him aside—to the periphery of our thoughts, our plans, and our priorities?

[Gnostic America]
Many scholars have noted that the dominant religion in America has never truly been Christianity, but a kind of modern Gnosticism. Gnosticism teaches that the divine already dwells within us, that we are already enlightened, already whole. This belief permeates our culture and is magnified by consumerism and – dare I say it - Orthodox triumphalism.  When clothed in Christian language, this belief sounds familiar—and dangerous. Whether consciously or subconsciously, when we hear that Christ dwells in our hearts, we are tempted to hear confirmation we already knew: that not only are we basically good people, and not only are we right pretty much all the time, we are already divine.

But this is not true. God is God, and we are not. Yes, His desire is to transform us—that is the meaning of the Nativity—but when we claim divinity for ourselves, we do exactly what Herod did: we place ourselves on the throne and push Christ to the margins.

Why did Herod seek to kill the Christ Child? Out of self-preservation. Christ was a threat. And if we are not careful, we will do the same. Our pride constructs a false reality in which we are the good ones—the good gods, if you will—and God merely works through us. This is spiritual delusion. It is prelest.

We convince ourselves that we have built a glorious temple for God in our hearts from which He rules in glorious benevolence, when in fact we are still really only worshiping ourselves, no matter what words we use.

[A Restatement]
Let me come at this a different way.  Christ truly has been born within us. He lives at the center of our souls. But our souls are clouded by thoughts and passions, and so we often fail to notice Him. If we do not struggle against our fallen nature, we will nurture our pride or our fallen conscience and call it “God.” But the god of pride cannot save—it can only deceive and our conscience is rarely more than our feelings.

So how do we tell the difference? How do we know whether Christ reigns within us, or whether it is our ego?

The answer is not abstract; it is clear from scripture. Christ did not live for Himself. Every action of His life was offered in sacrificial service to others—especially to those who did not understand Him or appreciate Him. He did not act out of fear of punishment or hope of reward. He acted out of love. He was Love.

If our lives are truly marked by this kind of self-giving love, then Christ is indeed growing within us. But we must beware: pride is a master illusionist. Encouraged by the enemies of the air, the master marketers and manipulators, it will always try to convince us that we are more generous, more loving, more sacrificial than we really are.

Here is a practical test for us: 
Are we willing to leave our comfort zones, deny ourselves, and take up the cross? 
Are we willing to give without expecting anything in return? 
Are we willing to love even those who cannot repay us?
What are we willing to give up so that some may be saved?

Let’s be even more concrete. 
What is our attitude toward sacrificial giving? Toward tithing? Towards almsgiving? 
How much time are we willing to give each day to prayer for those who suffer?  For those who hate us and those who wrong us? 
How much effort do we invest in healing broken relationships in our families, our parish, and our community?
When was the last time we tempered our self-righteousness with humility and admitted we were wrong and asked forgiveness of someone we perceived as less than ourselves?

When challenged to real self-sacrifice, most of us will rebel – even pre-cognitively – and our big brains will begin to justify ignoring the need and “crossing to the other side of the road” as did the priest and the Levite in the parable of the Good Samaritan. But Christ never made excuses to avoid doing what was right. He rolled up His sleeves and did what needed to be done without counting the cost.  His sacrificial service was a natural expression of His love.  
Can we say the same?  If not, then let’s change our story so that we can. Orthodoxy is about more than words and being right.  God didn’t consider Himself to be so right that he wasn’t willing to come and suffer with and for us.  Orthodoxy is just a bunch of prideful words for us until we are willing to do the same.

Christ is born!

He has made His home in the manger of our souls. What happens next is us to us.

St. Matthew 1:1-25

Why was the Son of God commanded to be named Jesus—the New Joshua? In this Advent reflection, Fr. Anthony shows how Christ fulfills Israel’s story by conquering sin and death, and calls us to repentance so that we may enter the victory He has already won.

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Homily on the Name of Jesus
Sunday before the Nativity

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

“They named Him Jesus, because He would deliver His people from their sins.”
(Matthew 1:21)

Names matter in Scripture. They are never accidental. A name reveals identity, vocation, and mission. And so when the angel commands that the Child be named Jesus, we are being told something essential about who He is and what He has come to do.

The name Jesus is simply the Greek form of Joshua. And that is not incidental.

So we should ask: Who was Joshua? And why did the angel of the Lord insist on that name?

Joshua was the successor of Moses, the one chosen by God to lead His people when Moses could not. Long before Joshua’s time, God had made a covenant with His people and promised them a land—a place of rest, inheritance, and blessing. But that promise had been obscured by centuries of slavery in Egypt, under pagan gods who claimed power but offered only bondage.

God sent Moses to remind the people who they truly were: not slaves, but God’s own people. Through signs and wonders, God revealed His power over Pharaoh and over the false gods of Egypt. The people were delivered. They were free. They were heading toward the Promised Land.

And yet, because of their disobedience and unbelief, that generation—including Moses himself—was not worthy to enter the land. And so God appointed Joshua to do what Moses could not: to lead the next generation into the inheritance God had promised.

Joshua defeated the enemies of God—not by his own strength, but by God’s supernatural power—and led the people into the Promised Land.

All of this matters, because it prepares us to understand the name of Jesus and the mission it announces.

“They named Him Jesus, because He would deliver His people from their sins.”

Now consider the situation at the time of Christ’s birth. In many ways, it looked very much like the time of Pharaoh. God’s people were again under foreign rule, again surrounded by pagan power, again longing for deliverance. The prophets had promised a Messiah, and the people waited for one who would set them free.

But here is the crucial difference: this Joshua would not come to conquer territory.  This Joshua would come to conquer the true enemy.

Not Rome.
Not armies.
Not borders.

But sin itself.

In his homily on this Gospel reading, St. John Chrysostom says:

“He did not say, ‘He shall save His people from their enemies,’ but ‘from their sins,’ showing that this is a greater and more fearful tyranny than any foreign power.” (Homily on Matthew 2)

And this is precisely why the Son of God had to be born as a child.

In his homily on the Nativity, which, Lord willing, you will hear on Thursday, Chrysostom draws the connection between the Nativity and our salvation with striking clarity:

“He became Son of Man, that He might make us sons of God. He took what was ours, that He might give us what was His.” (Homily on the Nativity)

Jesus is the New Joshua—not leading one people into one land, but opening the Kingdom of God to all who would receive Him. He conquers not by the sword, but by the Cross. He defeats not nations, but death itself.

And we know how He did it.

By obedience where Adam fell.
By humility where pride ruled.
By offering Himself fully to the Father, even unto death.

As the Fathers remind us, the victory was not loud or coercive, but hidden and faithful—won through righteousness rather than force.

So what, then, is our situation?

It is tempting to compare our world to Egypt, or to the time of pagan occupation, and to imagine that we are still waiting for deliverance. After all, many of us know what it is like to feel tired, burdened, or trapped in patterns we cannot seem to break, even while outwardly everything appears fine. We live in a culture that constantly distracts us, that teaches us to manage our desires rather than heal them, and that quietly encourages us to accept forms of bondage as normal. Like God’s people of old, we forget who we are and whom we belong to, and so we begin to live as though freedom were still far away.

But the truth is far more sobering—and far more hopeful.

We are not waiting for the Messiah.
He has already come.

If we live as slaves, it is not because Pharaoh rules us.
It is because we have refused the Deliverer.

Christ has already opened the doors of freedom. Advent is the season in which the Church calls us to turn back, to repent, and to remember who we are—so that we may step again into the life He has already given us.

Christ lives within the heart of every believer.
He comes into the midst of all who gather in His name.
He is present here, now, in the Holy Liturgy—offering the same grace, the same power, the same deliverance.

He delivers us from the death of sin and leads us into the true Promised Land: the life of the Kingdom, the inheritance of the saints, communion with God Himself.

So let us give thanks for the Deliverer—Jesus, the New Joshua.
Let us praise Him, trust Him, repent, and return to Him, so that we may join Him in His victory.
And let us receive His supernatural grace and power here and now, as we prepare to welcome Him anew at His Nativity.

[For in the end, all of us must decide:

Am I a sinner – of whatever type; a fornicator, a gossip, a glutton, a miser, a coward, a bully – (are we a sinner) who occasionally does Christian things but repents and reverts to my chosen sinful form.

-OR-

Am I a Christian who occasionally falls into sin, repents, and reverts to his chosen path of holiness?

If we truly are sinners who only play at being Christians - if we only play at being holy – then when the Lord comes looking for a place to be born and dwell, there will be no room in the worldly varmint-infested inn our heart for him to lay and He will leave us to wallow and drown in the bondage of our sin.

-BUT-

If we are Christians who fall into sin but truly repent, the cave of our hearts is swept clean and He will be pleased to be born in our hearts and His glory will shine within and even from us.

Christ has come into the world to deliver us – how have we responded?]

To Him be glory, together with His Father and the Holy Spirit, now and ever and unto ages of ages. Amen.

Fr. Anthony preaches on three types of pilgrimage and how they work towards our salvation.

Do You Want to Be Healed? Letting God Rewrite the Story
Ephesians 8:5-19

Today, Fr. Anthony reflects on how the deepest obstacles to healing are often the stories we tell ourselves to justify, protect, and control our lives. Drawing on the Prophet Isaiah, the Gospel parables of the banquet, and the power of silence before God, he explores how true healing begins when we let go of our fallen narratives and allow Christ to reconstruct our story through humility, prayer, and repentance. The path of peace is not found in domination or self-justification, but in stillness at the feet of the Lord where grace remakes the soul. As St. Seraphim teaches, when we acquire peace, myriads around us are healed as well.

One of the great problems we encounter in life is this: we desire healing, but we do not always know how to arrive at it. One helpful way to understand this struggle is through the language of story. Very often, the problem is that we do not have our story right. Scripture tells us to redeem the time, because the days are evil. One of the ways that evil operates is by corrupting our story—our personal story, the way we understand ourselves, the way we frame our relationships, and even the way we understand the great arc of history, what Christians call the economy of salvation.

When we live in evil times, that evil does not remain outside us. It enters in, and our story becomes crooked. If all we do as Christians is add religious language to that crooked story—new words, even new scriptures—we have not truly been healed. We have only changed the decoration. The path itself remains bent. One day that story will be brought into the light. This is what the Apostle means when he says, “Awake, O sleeper, and arise from the dead, and Christ will shine upon you.” As St. Jerome once observed, St. Paul seems to be paraphrasing Isaiah here—especially that great prophecy where the crooked ways are made straight.
This theme runs deeply through Advent and the Nativity Fast. One small personal ritual during this season is listening to Handel’s Messiah. Through that music, the words of Isaiah become alive: the great darkness that covers the earth, and the light that rises to overcome it. But darkness is not overcome by changing words alone. If all we do is rename our brokenness with religious language, the world’s darkness will only pollute us more deeply.

So the first discipline of the Christian life is this: we must let go of our story. Our fallen story becomes a way to protect the ego, to justify ourselves, to excuse the very things Saint Paul warns us against. Salvation begins with humility, with letting go of our justifications, with abandoning the need to construct a story that protects us from the world or grants us domination over it. We are called to let go and stand before the Lord in silence. Not to explain ourselves, not to defend ourselves—but simply to be our story before Him in quiet awe.
If we do that work faithfully—and for many of us this must be done daily—then the reconstruction of the story can begin anew. This is where the disciplines of the Church come in: the prayer rule, the psalms, the prayers given to us by the Holy Spirit through the Church. These do not shame us; they heal us. They allow us to see our shortcomings not as excuses to hide, but as wounds that need restoration. This is how our crookedness is straightened so that we can be healed.

The Lord also gives us Scripture to interpret our story. In Isaiah 60 we hear of darkness and of a light that rises. Israel is called a light to the nations—but whenever Christians hear that language, our minds are drawn immediately to the Prologue of the Gospel of St. John. And there, light is not mere illumination. It is transformation. It is grace. It is the energy of God entering the world. And when Scripture moves back and forth between Christ and Israel, it is not a mistake—it reveals our participation in this great movement of salvation. Just as we are healed by grace, so the world is transfigured by that same grace flowing from the Body of Christ into all creation.

The Lord also teaches us through parables. Many parables may not resonate with many of us because of their agricultural contexts, but we can understand a banquet. We understand meals. We understand invitation. And in this parable, we are the ones who were called—and we came. We may not have been the first invited. We came blind, wounded, ashamed, hiding behind excuses. But the invitation came, and we showed up.

Yet getting through the door is not the end of the story. The Lord teaches us what it means to live inside the banquet. When you enter the house, do tell the master how he should run it? Do you take the highest seat as if it belongs to you? No—He says take the lowest place, and let the master raise you up if he wills. This is the posture of true humility. If we were the authors of our story, it would end in darkness. But instead, we are invited into a feast that never ends. And none of our fallen tools—control, manipulation, ego-protection—belong in the Father’s house.
This is why the psalmist says he would rather be a servant in the house of the Lord than sit among kings. That is our true inheritance. There is no such thing as a low seat at that table. Every place at that feast is glory beyond imagination. The only way it becomes distorted is if we try to overlay God’s story with our fallen one.

So yes—do we want to be healed? Of course, we do. That is why we are here. Do we want to grow into our inheritance? That is why we came. But it is not enough merely to arrive. We must live your part in the story.

There is a false humility that sometimes creeps into us—especially if we have been wounded or manipulated. We become afraid to acknowledge anything good about ourselves or even our relationship with God, as if gratitude were pride. But that is not humility. We need to be ashamed of what truly needs repentance and bring it into the light. But we should never be ashamed of our relationship with the Lord. Do not pretend the banquet is a shack just because we know we do not deserve it. Hold both truths together: the infinite distance between God’s glory and our brokenness, and the infinite mercy by which He draws us into His glory.  Following St. Silouon the Athonite, we should keep our mind in hell – and despair not.
The lowest seat at that table is greater than any throne the world can offer. It is the seat prepared for us in the council of God. There is no low place there—only mistaken stories that make us think otherwise.

So during this season, let’s spend time with the Lord in silence. Let’s let go of the instinct to create stories that justify, control, and fix everything. These wandering thoughts only deepen confusion. We need to seek peace and pursue it quietly at the feet of God. Then we can come out from that silence and allow His Word to reconstruct us.

Our Lord is not manipulative. He does not heal through domination. If there is one relationship in which we can finally release our need for control, it is our relationship with Him. If we skip silence, we will guard ourselves even against God, and the crooked ways will remain crooked—only renamed with religious language.

Go in silence before the Lord. Come out and allow His Word to heal you. Then, in that peace, allow your relationships with others to be healed as well. This is how the world is remade: not by power, not by manipulation, but by peace.

St. Seraphim of Sarov put it simply: “Acquire the Spirit of peace, and thousands around you will be saved.” When peace grows in the heart, the handles of manipulation fall away. The saint no longer needs to prove anything. There is no hunger for worldly approval. The only desires left are to love, to serve, and to receive love. These are not tools of control—they are mechanisms of grace.

We still have time to prepare for the Lord’s coming. Let this be the beginning. And as part of this renewal of our story, we still have time to come to confession. The Church teaches us to come during every Lenten season, and yes, that can be frightening. Authority in this world has often been abusive or manipulative. But confession is not that. It is not tyranny—it is liberation. The Lord does not want us carrying this weight. He wants us free. This is the Church’s gift to us. We must not leave it unused.

Let the Lord heal you. Let Him tell you your true story. And then, at last, relax into its glory.

I Corinthians 4:9-16
St. John 1:35-51

In this homily for the Feast of St. Andrew, Fr. Anthony contrasts the world’s definition of success with the apostolic witness of sacrifice, humility, and courageous love. Drawing on St. Paul’s admonition to the Corinthians, he calls Christians to recover the reverence due to bishops and spiritual fathers, to reject the corrosive logic of social media, and to return to the ascetical path that forms us for theosis. St. Andrew and St. Paul's lives reveals that true honor is found not in comfort or acclaim but in following Christ wherever He leads — even into suffering and martyrdom.  Enjoy the show!

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St. Andrew Day, 2025

The Orthodox Church takes apostolic succession very seriously; the preservation of “the faith passed on to the apostles” is maintained by the physicality of the ordination of bishops by bishops, all of who can trace the history of the ordination of the bishops who ordained them back to one or more of the apostles themselves.  You probably already new that.  But there is another part of that respect for the apostles that you may not know of: the ranking of autocephalist (i.e. independent) national Churches.  The Canons (especially those of the Council of Trullo) give prominence to the five ancient patriarchates of Rome (Sts. Peter and Paul), Constantinople (St. Andrew), Alexandria (St. Mark), Antioch (St. Paul), and Jerusalem (St. James).  

St. Andrew travelled into dangerous barbarian lands to spread the Gospel, to include the Middle East, and, most notably, then North to the lands around the Black Sea; Ankara and Edessa to the south of the Black Sea in what is now Turkey, to the East of the Black Sea into the Caucuses, and up to the North of the Black Sea to the Scythian lands into what is now Ukraine.  That was his first journey.  After this, he returned to Jerusalem and then went on his second journey to Antioch, back up into the Caucasus, out to the land of the dog-headed people in Central Asia, down through what is now Afghanistan to the Arabian Sea, and then back up through Persia and finally into Greece, where he was martyred.
He sacrificed so much for the Gospel and brought so many souls to salvation through the Christ he himself knew, both before and after His glorious Resurrection.  His virtue and sacrificial service allow God’s grace to flow into the world and he serves as the patron of several countries, cities, and all Christians who bear variations of His name such as Andrew, Andrei, and Andrea.

As Orthodox Christians, we should know his story, ask for his intercession, and imitate his witness.  And everyone, whether Christian or not, should respect his virtue.  But does it?  Does it even respect virtue?  Do we?

As Saint Paul points out in today’s Epistle, many of us do not.  And don’t think the problem was just in Corinth; St. John Chrysostom’s homilies on this epistle show that the people there were at least as guilty.  And that was in the center of Eastern Orthodoxy, during the time of alleged symphonia between the Church and State.  Should there be any doubt that we, too, allow the world to define the sorts of worldly things we should prioritize?

After all …

What is it that the world respects in a man?  What is it that the world respects in a woman?  Think for a second what it is that impresses you the most about the people you admire – perhaps even makes you jealous, wishing that you had managed to obtain the same things.
I cannot read your minds, but if you are like most Americans, the list would certainly include:

• A long, healthy life, without chronic pain or major physical injury
• A life free of indictment, arrest, or imprisonment
• The respect, admiration, and popularity of their peers
• Money, a big house, a vacation house, and the ability to retire comfortably (and early)

These are some of the things that many of you are either pleased to enjoy, regret not having obtained, or, if you are young, are currently striving for.

The Apostles Andrew and Paul, gave up the possibility for all these things to follow Christ.  Not because they wanted to; not because God made them; they gave up the life of worldly comfort and respect because – in a culture and time as messed up as theirs was – this is the only Way to live a life of grace and to grow in love and perfection.

• A long, healthy life, without chronic pain or major physical injury?
  • Nope – gave it up.
• A life free of indictment, arrest, or imprisonment?
  • Nope – gave it up.
• The respect, admiration, and popularity of their peers?
  • No again.
• Money, a big house, a vacation house, and the ability to retire comfortably (and early)
  • I don’t think so (unless a prison in Rome and martyrdom count!).

Because St. Paul is writing as an Apostle, instructing a parish that he was called to lead, it is tempting to put his sacrifices into the category of “things that clergy do”.  And clergy certainly should follow their example.  While my example is not so bright, you may know that I gave up a life of wealth, admiration, and the possibility of a comfortable retirement so that I could serve as a priest.  God has blessed that and protected me from harm, but the opportunity costs are real, nonetheless.  

And while I am a pale shadow of him (and he of Christ), I, like the Apostle Paul, did these things not because I wanted to (I liked my life then!) and not because God made me, but because in a culture and time as messed up as ours is, such a life of simplicity and complete service to others is the only Way I can live a life of grace and to grow in love and towards perfection in Christ.

I have made some sacrifices, but I know other clergymen who – in our time – have given up more.  Their entire lives given over to sacrificial servce to Christ.  Who have become experts in both academic theology and the real theology of constant prayer.  Who have and continue to lead their dioceses and Churches through such difficult times.  And yet, who, like St. Paul, are not only reviled by the world, but even by Orthodox Christians.  Yes, to paraphrase St. Paul, we are so smart and educated that we can criticize and heap piles of coal on their heads because we know so much more than they do – because they, like St. Paul, are fools.  We can trash-talk them on social media and applaud others who lead the charge against them because they are so weak and we are so strong.

How long does it take for a Patriarch’s priestly ministry to make him respectable in our sight?  For us to respect him, or at least to forebear him?

It must be more than 55 years, based on the things I have heard and read us saying about Patriarch Kyrril who has been leading his Church and people through an incredibly difficult time, as he believes the West works to undermine his people’s faith and traditional Christianity everywhere.

It must also be more than 55 years, based on the things I have heard and read us saying about Patriarch Bartholomew, as he works amidst the persecution of the government in the place he lives to bring Christians and Christians who have long been divided into and towards the unity for which we pray daily and which our God desires us to work towards.

It must be more than 42 years, based on the things I have heard and read us saying about our own Patriach John, who has seen his people and Church crucified and persecuted and who seeks to encourage the local authorities to protect the weak and the Church and people he serves (while leading the people he serves in the West to avoid the excesses of liberty).  
I hope you feel the shame, if not your own personal shame for having participated in slandering and judging our bishops and patriarchs, then feel shame for seeing the world and those Orthodox Christians who are living by its rules attacking them and questioning their virtue.

This is the same shame that St. Paul was trying to elicit in Corinth.  Do you feel the shame?  If not, then the world, probably through social media, has deadened your noetic senses.  It is time for repentance.  

And like St. Paul, I have to tell you that – while few of you may be called to priestly or monastic service – all of us are called to reject those things that the world has led us to value, because all of these things are like barrier between us and the eternal joy and perfection we were called to enjoy.

Listen to me, my brothers and sisters, as I repeat the words of St. Paul we so desperately need to hear:  

“For though you might have ten thousand instructors in Christ, yet you do not have many fathers; for in Christ Jesus I have begotten you through the gospel.  Therefore I urge you, imitate me.”  

We do not have St. Paul as our father, but we have one of his successors, Patriarch John, and those whom he has assigned to us, such as Metropolitan Saba, Bishop John, and even this, your unworthy servant.  Let’s stop giving attention to those who attack Orthodox clerics and thereby sow division within the Church and undermine its witness to others.

Let's give up our attachment to this world and its ways.  Let’s give up everything worldly we love, follow Christ, and gain the things that are really worth our love, admiration, and sacrifice.