On the Sunday of the Last Judgment, the Gospel reveals that judgment takes place not in a courtroom, but in the throne room of God—a reality the Church enters every Sunday in the Divine Liturgy. This homily explores how worship forms repentance, trains us in mercy, and sends us into the world with lives shaped by the pattern of Christ’s self-giving love.

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The Throne Room Now: Judgment, Mercy, and the Work of the Liturgy
A Homily on the Sunday of the Last Judgment
(Matthew 25:31–46)

When we hear the Gospel of the Last Judgment, our attention is usually drawn—rightly—to the command to do good: to feed the hungry, clothe the naked, visit the sick and the imprisoned. And the danger every year is that we hear this Gospel as if Christ were saying something like this: “Be good people during the week (ie take care of people)—and then come to church on Sunday.”

But that is not what the Lord is saying.

In fact, the Gospel appointed for today does something far more unsettling—and far more hopeful. It places the Judgment not in a courtroom, but in the throne room of God.

Christ says, “When the Son of Man comes in His glory, and all the holy angels with Him, then He will sit on the throne of His glory.”
That is not legal language. It is liturgical language.

The people who first heard this would have known exactly what that meant. They would have filled in the details instinctively from the Scriptures and from worship: the throne surrounded by cherubim and seraphim; the unceasing hymn of praise; even the River of Fire—not as punishment, but as the light and heat of God’s own glory.

And here is the first thing we must understand:

We are not only told about that throne room. We are brought into it.

Every Sunday, the Church does not merely remember something that will happen someday. We are brought into that reality now - as much as we can bear it. The Kingdom is revealed to us here and now, sacramentally, liturgically, truthfully.

And that changes how we hear today’s Gospel.

First: There is a connection between doing good and coming to church

Sunday is not an interruption of the Christian life. It is its measure.

In a real sense, every Sunday is a little judgment—not a condemnation, but a revelation. We come into the light, and the truth about us is allowed to appear.

And notice how this begins in the Divine Liturgy.

It begins not with confidence, not with self-congratulation, but with repentance. The priest, standing before God as the leader and voice of the people, pleads at the very beginning:
“O Lord, Lord, open unto me the door of Thy mercy.”

That is not theatrical humility. That is the truth. We are asking to be let in—not because we deserve it, but because without mercy we cannot even stand.

And then, before the Trisagion, the priest names what God already knows about all of us: that He “despisest not the sinner but hast appointed repentance unto salvation.” And so he begs Him directly:
“Pardon us every transgression both voluntary and involuntary.”

This is what Sunday is. It is the people of God standing before the glory of His altar and asking to be healed. Asking to see clearly. Asking to be made capable of love.

But repentance in the Liturgy does not remain on the lips of the clergy alone.

Before Communion, the entire Church takes up the same posture and says together words that are almost shocking in their honesty:
“I stand before the doors of Thy temple, and yet I refrain not from my terrible thoughts.”

We do not pretend that standing in church has magically fixed us. We confess that we are still conflicted, still distracted, still broken.

And then, with no room left for comparison or self-justification, we each say:
“Who didst come into the world to save sinners, of whom I am first.”

And finally, we make the plea that fits today’s Gospel with frightening precision:

“Not unto judgment nor unto condemnation be my partaking of Thy holy mysteries, O Lord, but unto the healing of soul and body.”

The Church is honest with us here. The same fire that heals can also burn, depending on whether we approach it with repentance or with presumption. This is not a threat meant to drive us away, but truth meant to help us approach rightly.

That is why Sunday is a little judgment—not because God is eager to condemn, but because His throne room is opened to us now in mercy, so that we may be healed, corrected, and trained to recognize Christ when He comes to us in the least of His brethren.

Second: Sunday worship is where we actually do the work Christ commands

And once we see that, we can begin to understand what the Church is actually doing here -  and why worship cannot be separated from judgment.

Before we ever offer bread and wine, the Church first intercedes for the world. We pray for peace from above and the salvation of our souls; for the peace of the whole world and the good estate of the holy Churches; for this city and every city and countryside; for travelers by sea, by land, and by air; for the sick, the suffering, and the captive; for deliverance from tribulation, wrath, danger, and necessity. We even pray for civil authorities—not to bless power for its own sake, but that peace and order might make room for mercy and justice.

In other words, before we do anything else, we place the needs of others before God.

And in addition to interceding for all of this, here—at the heart of the Divine Liturgy—the Church actually performs the works of mercy Christ names in today’s Gospel. Not in theory.  Not symbolically.  But truly.

Here:

• Strangers are welcomed and given a home.
• Prisoners are freed from the shackles of sin and the sentence of death.
• The naked are clothed with baptismal garments.
• The thirsty are given living water.
• The hungry are given the Bread of Life.

This is not allegory. This is reality at its deepest level.

God Himself tells us to care even more for the soul than for the body. During the week, we sacrifice ourselves to meet bodily needs—and we must grow in that work. But on Sunday, we are commanded to do the most important work of mercy: to restore people to life in Christ.

That is why worship is not optional. It is not private devotion. It is the Church doing what the Church exists to do.  And because that work is real, it carries with it genuine hope.

Third: Sunday gives us a foretaste of the reward

The Gospel of the Last Judgment is not only a warning. It is also a promise.

Those who learn to serve Christ in the least of His brethren are not merely rewarded—they are invited to rest in God, to share in His life, to participate in His rule.

Saint Paul says something astonishing:
“Do you not know that the saints will judge the world? … Do you not know that we shall judge angels?” (1 Corinthians 6:2–3)

This does not mean we become harsh or self-righteous. It means we are being trained—here and now—for a future of responsibility, faithfulness, and love.

What we do here is forming who we are becoming.

Conclusion

What happens in this Divine Liturgy is the automatic response of the Church—that is, of a people devoted to sacrificial love—to God’s command to care for others as we care for ourselves.

This is not a dead ritual.
It is a powerful tool for doing essential work.
It is the throne room of God revealed to us now.

But it is not meant to remain here.

The expectation of the Church is that the pattern of the Liturgy becomes the pattern of our life. That the repentance we practice here becomes the repentance that shapes our weeks. That the mercy we receive here becomes the mercy we extend beyond these walls. That the intercessions we make here train us to notice, remember, and bear the burdens of others when we leave.

That is why the Liturgy does not end with applause or reflection, but with a command:
“Let us go forth in peace.”

We are sent out not having finished our work, but having been formed for it.

And when the Son of Man comes in His glory,
He will recognize those whose lives have taken on the shape of His worship—
those who learned, here,
how to repent, how to intercede, and how to love.

Meatfare/The Last Judgment
Matthew 25:31-46 

On the Sunday of the Last Judgment, the Gospel reveals that judgment takes place not in a courtroom, but in the throne room of God—a reality the Church enters every Sunday in the Divine Liturgy. This homily explores how worship forms repentance, trains us in mercy, and sends us into the world with lives shaped by the pattern of Christ’s self-giving love.

---

The Throne Room Now: Judgment, Mercy, and the Work of the Liturgy
A Homily on the Sunday of the Last Judgment
Matthew 25:31–46

When we hear the Gospel of the Last Judgment, our attention is usually drawn—rightly—to the command to do good: to feed the hungry, clothe the naked, visit the sick and the imprisoned. And the danger every year is that we hear this Gospel as if Christ were saying something like this: “Be good people during the week—and then come to church on Sunday.”

But that is not what the Lord is saying.

In fact, the Gospel appointed for today does something far more unsettling—and far more hopeful. It places the Judgment not in a courtroom, but in the throne room of God.

Christ says, “When the Son of Man comes in His glory, and all the holy angels with Him, then He will sit on the throne of His glory.”

That is not legal language. It is liturgical language.

The people who first heard this would have known exactly what that meant. They would have filled in the details instinctively from the Scriptures and from worship: the throne surrounded by cherubim and seraphim; the unceasing hymn of praise; even the River of Fire—not as punishment, but as the light and heat of God’s own glory.

And here is the first thing we must understand:

We are not only told about that throne room. We are brought into it.

Every Sunday, the Church does not merely remember something that will happen someday. We are brought into that reality now—as much as we can bear it. The Kingdom is revealed to us here and now, sacramentally, liturgically, truthfully.

And that changes how we hear today’s Gospel.

First: There is a connection between doing good and coming to church

Sunday is not an interruption of the Christian life. It is its measure.

In a real sense, every Sunday is a little judgment—not a condemnation, but a revelation. We come into the light, and the truth about us is allowed to appear.

And notice how this begins in the Divine Liturgy.

It begins not with confidence, not with self-congratulation, but with repentance. The priest, standing before God as the leader and voice of the people, pleads at the very beginning:

“O Lord, Lord, open unto me the door of Thy mercy.”

That is not theatrical humility. That is the truth. We are asking to be let in—not because we deserve it, but because without mercy we cannot even stand.

And then, before the Trisagion, the priest names what God already knows about all of us: that He “despisest not the sinner but hast appointed repentance unto salvation.” And so he begs Him directly:

“Pardon us every transgression both voluntary and involuntary.”

This is what Sunday is. It is the people of God standing before the glory of His altar and asking to be healed. Asking to see clearly. Asking to be made capable of love.

But repentance in the Liturgy does not remain on the lips of the clergy alone.

Before Communion, the entire Church takes up the same posture and says together words that are almost shocking in their honesty:

“I stand before the doors of Thy temple, and yet I refrain not from my terrible thoughts.”

We do not pretend that standing in church has magically fixed us. We confess that we are still conflicted, still distracted, still broken.

And then, with no room left for comparison or self-justification, we each say:

“Who didst come into the world to save sinners, of whom I am first.”

And finally, we make the plea that fits today’s Gospel with frightening precision:

“Not unto judgment nor unto condemnation be my partaking of Thy holy mysteries, O Lord, but unto the healing of soul and body.”

The Church is honest with us here. The same fire that heals can also burn, depending on whether we approach it with repentance or with presumption. This is not a threat meant to drive us away, but truth meant to help us approach rightly.

That is why Sunday is a little judgment—not because God is eager to condemn, but because His throne room is opened to us now in mercy, so that we may be healed, corrected, and trained to recognize Christ when He comes to us in the least of His brethren.

Second: Sunday worship is where we actually do the work Christ commands

And once we see that, we can begin to understand what the Church is actually doing here -  and why worship cannot be separated from judgment.

Before we ever offer bread and wine, the Church first intercedes for the world. We pray for peace from above and the salvation of our souls; for the peace of the whole world and the good estate of the holy Churches; for this city and every city and countryside; for travelers by sea, by land, and by air; for the sick, the suffering, and the captive; for deliverance from tribulation, wrath, danger, and necessity. We even pray for civil authorities—not to bless power for its own sake, but that peace and order might make room for mercy and justice.

In other words, before we do anything else, we place the needs of others before God.

And in addition to interceding for all of this, here—at the heart of the Divine Liturgy—the Church actually performs the works of mercy Christ names in today’s Gospel. Not in theory.  Not symbolically.  But truly.

Here:

·      Strangers are welcomed and given a home.

·      Prisoners are freed from the shackles of sin and the sentence of death.

·      The naked are clothed with baptismal garments.

·      The thirsty are given living water.

·      The hungry are given the Bread of Life.

This is not allegory. This is reality at its deepest level.

God Himself tells us to care even more for the soul than for the body. During the week, we sacrifice ourselves to meet bodily needs—and we must grow in that work. But on Sunday, we are commanded to do the most important work of mercy: to restore people to life in Christ.

That is why worship is not optional. It is not private devotion. It is the Church doing what the Church exists to do.  And because that work is real, it carries with it genuine hope.

Third: Sunday gives us a foretaste of the reward

The Gospel of the Last Judgment is not only a warning. It is also a promise.

Those who learn to serve Christ in the least of His brethren are not merely rewarded—they are invited to rest in God, to share in His life, to participate in His rule.

Saint Paul says something astonishing:

“Do you not know that the saints will judge the world? … Do you not know that we shall judge angels?” (1 Corinthians 6:2–3)

This does not mean we become harsh or self-righteous. It means we are being trained—here and now—for a future of responsibility, faithfulness, and love.

What we do here is forming who we are becoming.

Conclusion

What happens in this Divine Liturgy is the automatic response of the Church—that is, of a people devoted to sacrificial love—to God’s command to care for others as we care for ourselves.

This is not a dead ritual.

It is a powerful tool for doing essential work.

It is the throne room of God revealed to us now.

But it is not meant to remain here.

The expectation of the Church is that the pattern of the Liturgy becomes the pattern of our life. That the repentance we practice here becomes the repentance that shapes our weeks. That the mercy we receive here becomes the mercy we extend beyond these walls. That the intercessions we make here train us to notice, remember, and bear the burdens of others when we leave.

That is why the Liturgy does not end with applause or reflection, but with a command:

“Let us go forth in peace.”

We are sent out not having finished our work, but having been formed for it.

And when the Son of Man comes in His glory, He will recognize those whose lives have taken on the shape of His worship—those who learned, here, how to repent, how to intercede, and how to love.

The Father Who Does Not Control
A Homily on the Sunday of the Prodigal Son
St. Luke 15:11-31

In the parable of the Prodigal Son, our attention is often drawn to the repentance of the younger son or to the resentment of the elder. But before we look at either son, we must first look carefully at the father.

What stands out immediately is not simply the father’s mercy at the end, but the way he loves throughout the story. The father gives an astonishing amount of freedom to his sons—but his love is not passive, negligent, or withdrawn. It is neither controlling nor indifferent. It is something more demanding than either.

When the younger son demands his inheritance, the father does not argue. He does not threaten. He does not bargain. He does not attempt to manage the future. He divides his living and lets the son go.

This is not ignorance.
This is not indifference.
This is love that refuses to become domination.

As Nikolai Velimirović reminds us, the father in this parable gives far more than justice requires. When the son demands what is “his,” justice would permit the father to give him nothing at all—for apart from what his father gives, the son possesses nothing but dust. Yet the father gives him more than dust. He gives him life and breath, conscience and understanding. He leaves within him a spark that can still recognize hunger, remember the father’s house, and find the road home. As St. Nikolai says, he gives this “not out of justice, but out of mercy,” preserving within the son a light that may yet be rekindled—even in the far country.

Freedom is permitted, but grace is not withdrawn.

And this unsettles us—because we know the danger the young son will face.

And so does the father.

Freedom Is the Risk the Father Takes—But Not the Whole of His Love

The father does not need to be warned about what lies ahead. He knows the far country and all its terrible temptations. He has watched his son grow. He knows his immaturity as well as his great potential. He knows that his son will probably fail. He knows that his son will probably be hurt.

And still, he lets him go.

The younger son leaves because he is free.
The elder son stays because he is free.
And the father loves both sons without controlling either.

But this does not mean the father is hands-off.

The father does not manage his son’s choices—but he does shape the conditions in which those choices will be understood. He does not eliminate consequences—but he ensures that consequences can teach rather than annihilate. He does not chase his son—but he preserves the meaning of home.

A human parent is often tempted to intervene constantly—to explain, threaten, restrain, or negotiate—motivated by what the parent calls “love.” This father does something harder.

He does not protect his son from failure.
Instead, he protects the possibility of return.

The Far Country and the Formation of Repentance

The son’s freedom leads him exactly where freedom so often leads when it is exercised without  wisdom: [it leads] to waste, hunger, and despair. He spends what he has been given. He discovers that independence cannot sustain life. He finds himself reduced to feeding swine, longing even for their food.

This is not accidental. The far country is real and so are its dangers. Freedom has weight. Choices have consequences.  The younger son suffers.

Yet even here, something remains alive within him; the memory of his home and of real love.

The spark the father put into him through years of his strong example and sacrificial love has not gone out.

He remembers the house.
He remembers bread.
He remembers that it would be better to be a doorman in the house of his father than live in the palaces of the far country – much less among its swine.

And so, at last, he comes to himself.

This is the risk the father was willing to take—not merely rebellion, but suffering—so that wisdom could be learned rather than imposed; so that the movement from willfulness to self-control would not be coerced; so that repentance would be real, and not merely compliance; so that the son’s growth into authentic manhood would be genuine.

Love, here, does not manage outcomes.
It prepares for, cultivates, and then, Lord willing, blesses the return.

The Father Runs: Love That Restores Without Controlling

When the son returns, the father does something no respectable patriarch would ever do.

He runs.

He does not wait on the porch.
He does not demand explanations.
He does not require proof of sincerity.

He runs, falls upon the son’s neck, and kisses him.

The son begins his confession, but the father will not let him finish. The father does not allow him to negotiate his way back as a servant. He never seems tempted to belittle him or his bad choices.  The repentance is already there.  And so He restores him fully—as a son.

The robe is placed on him.
The ring is given.
The shoes are fastened.
The feast is prepared.

This is not manipulation.
This is resurrection.

The father does not restore the son cautiously, with conditions and safeguards. He restores him completely—because love that controls repentance would threaten to undo and replace repentance itself.

Restoration, however, is not the end of the son’s story.
It is the beginning of his real formation.

The father does not restore his son so that nothing will be asked of him. He restores him so that, once again, he can live as a son—within the life of the house, under the same roof, nourished at the same table, finally able to follow his father’s example.

From this point forward, the son’s life will be shaped not by fear or regret, but by gratitude.
Not by apathy or micromanagement, but by participation.
Not by rules imposed from outside, but by imitation from within.

He will learn patience by living with a patient father.
He will learn generosity by breaking bread at a generous table.
He will learn mercy by watching mercy given freely—now to him, and later, perhaps, through him.

This is how ascetical formation truly works in the Kingdom: not as control imposed after repentance, but as the means to a more beautiful life shared after restoration.

The father does not need to stand over his son.
He only needs to remain who he has always been.
And now his younger son is finally ready to benefit from his father’s witness and from his love.

When Righteousness Becomes Control

How about the elder son?  He never left the house—but did he ever really live there?  Like his younger brother, he never entered into the beauty his father had cultivated there.

He hears the music.
He sees the celebration.
And he refuses to go in.

His obedience has quietly become a claim.

“I have served.”
“I have obeyed.”
“You owe me.”

This is the righteousness that keeps accounts.
This is the righteousness that resents mercy.
This is the righteousness that expects goodness to produce predictable results.
For us, and for the people in our lives.

And here the parable turns toward us.

Because this temptation is painfully familiar.

We want to make sure the people we love turn out “right.”
We want holiness to guarantee outcomes.
We want obedience to function as insurance.

So we pray harder.
We structure more tightly.
We supervise more closely.

And when things still fall apart, we grow angry—at our children, at others, sometimes even at God.

But righteousness that must control outcomes does not build the father’s house.

It builds Babel.

The House That Is More Than a House

Only now are we ready to see what has been before us all along.

This father is not merely a father.
This house is not merely a house.

The father in this parable is God.
And his house is the Kingdom as it must be lived on earth.

The Kingdom is not sustained by manipulation.
But neither is it sustained by abandonment.

It is sustained by trust, order, beauty, memory, mercy—and freedom.

God does not save by coercion.
He saves by allowing Himself to be rejected—and by transforming that rejection into something glorious.  The cross becomes the path back to our heart’s true home.

The father does not chase his son into the far country.
He does something harder.

He keeps the house intact.
He keeps bread on the table.
He keeps the feast ready.
He keeps himself open.

The Measure of Love

The measure of love is not how well we control the lives of those we love.

But neither is it based on how easily we detach ourselves from them.

The measure of love is whether we build and sustain a culture that forms people who know how to come home.

The father risks heartbreak rather than violate freedom.
Christ offers salvation through the Cross rather than coercing obedience.
The Spirit works quietly, patiently, without domination—yet never without presence.

That is the Kingdom.
That is Orthodoxy lived rightly.
That is the home we are called to build.

And when the son appears on the horizon—still filthy, still broken, still free—the father runs.

To Him be all glory, honor, and worship.  Amen.

 

Sanctifying the Moment:
The Publican, the Pharisee, and the Seeds of the Kingdom
Fr. Anthony Perkins; Luke 18:9-14

All of creation is good—and yet it was never meant to remain merely good. From the beginning, God made the world not as a finished product, but as something alive, dynamic, and capable of growth. Creation was designed to become better, to move toward beauty and perfection. Humanity was placed within it not as passive observers, but as gardeners, stewards, and priests—called to tend what God has made and lead it toward and into His glory.

This brings us to the heart of the matter:

The question is not whether God gives us good seeds, but whether we cooperate with grace so that the good becomes better—and the moment becomes a place where Christ and His Kingdom are made manifest among us.

Nothing in God’s creation is neutral. Everything that exists participates, however faintly, in the goodness of God—otherwise it would not exist at all. What is not offered toward its true end will still “grow,” but in distorted directions—toward thorns rather than fruit. Grace is not resisted only by doing evil; it is resisted just as often by refusing to cultivate what God has given.

Creation stands ready, waiting for the attention of its stewards. When what God has placed into our hands is met with humility, love, and understanding, it grows into something beautiful, bearing fruit that nourishes others and manifests the glory of God in tangible ways. But when it is met with pride, fear, or apathy, it still grows—only into something misshapen and bitter. As God warned after the Fall, we are perfectly capable of harvesting thorns and thistles as well as wheat.

This is not abstract theology; it is how life actually works.

Consider a newly married couple. Their relationship carries extraordinary potential. Will they cultivate it with patience, repentance, and self-giving love, allowing it to grow into a marriage that blesses their family and their community? Or will they water it with pride and resentment, forcing it to grow into something poisonous that wounds everyone who comes near? The same gift can grow in either direction.

Consider, too, the life hidden in the womb. Like time and treasure, it is a gift entrusted to us, carrying breathtaking possibility. Will it be received with love and protection, allowed to grow into a bearer of light? Or will it be met with fear and rejection—so that what should have grown into life instead grows into wounds—shaping both a person and the culture that failed to guard it.

Or think of the first meeting between strangers. In that brief moment lies the possibility of friendship, love, cooperation—or of manipulation, exploitation, or cold indifference. The moment itself is a seed. Whether it bears fruit depends on how it is received.

If these examples feel distant, let us turn to what Americans understand very well: money and time.

Every dollar we possess is a seed. It holds the potential to heal, to feed, to comfort, to build—or to be spent in ways that reinforce our addictions and fears. And every moment of time is heavy with possibility. Will it be offered in prayer or surrendered to distraction? Will it draw us toward communion or deeper into delusion? Each moment asks to be sanctified.

This applies even to moments that seem only painful or broken. St. Dionysius reminds us that nothing exists without some participation in the Good, because God alone is the source of being. Even sorrow can become a seed—not because suffering is good, but because God can transfigure what we cannot fix. Such moments should not be rushed or explained away. But when they are met with humility and trust, God can draw forth fruit that would otherwise remain hidden.

Today’s Gospel gives us a clear image of how moments are either redeemed or ruined.

The Pharisee was praying. He had the appearance of cultivation—fasting, tithing, religious seriousness—but pride spoiled the soil. The moment was not merely wasted; it was corrupted.

The Publican was praying too. Whatever he had done with the gifts of his past, in this moment he offered humility. And God entered that small, pure offering. That single moment, received rightly, grew like a mustard seed, crowding out what had grown before. One humble moment outweighed years of distorted cultivation.

St. John Chrysostom says it plainly: God is not offended by fasting; He is offended by pride. Humility can lift a life full of sins, and pride can ruin a life full of virtues.

Within each of us lies the possibility of perfection, ready to manifest itself through every thought, word, and action. But this possibility can be warped by willfulness and pride. Let us not do that.

Instead, let us receive every moment as an opportunity to cooperate with grace—to do something good and something beautiful—so that we ourselves, and the world entrusted to us, may become better and more beautiful.

The Gospel today shows us that the sanctification of the moment does not begin with mastering Scripture, fasting rigorously, or tithing precisely. The Pharisee did all of those things—and they closed his soul to grace. Sanctification begins where the Publican began: with humility.

On our own, we have nothing worthy to offer the moment, our neighbor, or God. And so we offer the only fitting gift: humility. That humility becomes an opening. Through it, grace enters and transforms the garden of the moment.

And here is where we end, simply and directly:

Every moment God gives us is a seed.
When it is met with humility, Christ enters it.
And when Christ enters a moment, the Kingdom is already there.

So, brothers and sisters, let us sanctify the moment.
Let us tend the seed.
And let us allow what God has made good to become, by His mercy, truly beautiful.