On the Sunday of the Myrrhbearers, this homily examines the temptation to treat Christ as a figure of the past rather than the Living Lord. It explores how even faithful Christians can reduce Him to something studied at a distance—especially in an age of endless religious content. Grounded in the Church’s sacramental and communal life, the message calls us to encounter Christ where He truly speaks: in His Body. The result is both comforting and demanding, as the living Christ not only teaches, but calls us to repentance and transformation.  Enjoy the show!

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Homily for the Myrrhbearers
St. Mark 15:43–16:8; Acts 6:1–7

Today we celebrate the holy Myrrhbearers: Joseph of Arimathea and Nicodemus, the most holy Theotokos, Mary Magdalene, Mary the wife of Clopas, Joanna, Salome, Mary and Martha, and Susanna—those who loved Christ enough to come to Him even in death.

Their love is beautiful. It is courageous. It is faithful. But it is also, in one very important way, mistaken. They came to anoint a corpse. They came expecting silence, stillness, finality. They came to do one last act of love for someone who was no longer present to receive it. And that is where we must be careful—because we can do the same thing.

We sing again and again, “Christ is Risen!” But how often do we live as if He were not? Think about how we relate to the dead. We remember them. We honor them. We reflect on their words. We study what they said, and we try to apply it to our lives. But we do not expect them to speak to us now. We do not expect them to guide us in real time. And this is exactly how many Christians treat Christ. We treat Him as a figure from the past—a great teacher, whose words are preserved in a fixed collection of texts. If we want to know what He thinks, we go back and study what He said, like we would with Plato or any other historical figure.

Please—do not misunderstand me. We need the Scriptures. We must study them. But if that is all we are doing—if Christ is only someone we study—then we are treating Him as if He were dead. Because if He were truly risen—if He were truly alive—then we would expect Him to still be teaching. And He is.

Christ is alive—not only in heaven—but here and now. He lives in the hearts of the faithful. He lives in His sacraments. He lives most fully as the Head of His Body—the Church. And that means something very concrete: the Church is not a memory. She is not a museum. She is not an archive. She is alive.

And here is where the danger comes in—because just as we can treat Christ as if He were dead, we can also treat the Church as if she were dead. We do this when we reduce her to an institution, when we treat her traditions as relics instead of life, when we experience the Liturgy as repetition instead of encounter, and when we assume that nothing truly happens here—nothing new, nothing real—only the preservation of the past. We do this when we think, “I already know what the Church says,” “I’ll decide how to apply it,” or “I’ll take what is helpful.” But a living body does not work that way.

If Christ is alive, then His Body is alive. And if His Body is alive, then it speaks—not just in the past, but now. In the hymns, in the prayers, in the canons, in the counsel of those who are faithful and wise, in the real, sometimes difficult life of the parish—where we are taught through living out our salvation with one another, in patience, repentance, and love—and in the quiet voice that speaks when we have learned to be still.

And this leads to the second reaction—the more difficult one. It is one thing to doubt that Christ is speaking. It is another thing to realize that He is. Because “it is a fearful thing to fall into the hands of the living God” (Hebrews 10:31). A dead teacher can be interpreted. A living Lord must be obeyed. A dead teacher can be studied at a distance. A living Lord sees you, knows you, and calls you to change.

And here is one of the ways we avoid this. We listen to the Church—but at a distance. We listen through podcasts, through videos, through discussions online. We hear sermons, teachings, arguments, explanations. And again, these things can be good. But notice what happens when this becomes our primary way of listening. We receive the words, but not the life. We hear, but we are not known. We learn, but we are not accountable. We can pause it, skip it, choose one voice over another, agree or disagree without consequence. In other words, we remain in control.

But that is not how the living Christ teaches. The living Christ teaches through His Body—a Body that we must enter, a Body that sees us, a Body that corrects us, a Body that calls us to repentance, a Body that we cannot curate or control. You can learn about Christ anywhere, but you can only be taught by Him within His Body. To receive Christ only as content—even Orthodox content—is still, in a subtle way, to treat Him as if He were not fully alive. Because the Risen Christ does not simply inform us; He forms us.

It is much easier to interpret what Christ said two thousand years ago—indeed, much easier to interpret what the Councils and Fathers said hundreds of years ago—than it is to hear what He is saying to you today. Because interpretation can be shaped by our pride, by our ego. Obedience cannot.

So how do we learn from the living Christ? The answer is not new. We give our lives—our bodies, our minds, our souls—to Him and to His Church. We pray. We enter into the Liturgy. We love our neighbor. We learn from the Fathers. We seek counsel. We quiet ourselves so that we can hear—not because this is a system, but because this is where He is: ministering to us, teaching us, healing us, enlightening us.

The Myrrhbearers came looking for the dead. Instead, they encountered the Living One. And that is the same invitation given to us. Do not come here to remember Christ. Do not come here to study Him from a distance. Do not come here as if nothing real is happening. Come here to meet Him.

Because He is not in the tomb. He is not confined to history. Christ is risen. Indeed He is risen—and He is with us, here, now, and always.

This homily reflects on belief as trust that creates communion and makes true life possible in Christ. Drawing on the encounter with Thomas, it shows how Christ patiently leads honest doubt into faith while calling us away from prideful questioning that blocks love.

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St. Thomas Sunday
St. John 20:19–31

Does God hate doubt? Does He shame those who struggle to believe? No. He does something very different.

Christ does not simply want us to know facts about Him. He wants us to know Him. Because He does not say, “I teach the truth.” He says: “I am the Truth” (cf. Gospel of John 14:6). This changes everything. Belief is not first about ideas—it is about relationship.

And yet, God does not want us to remain in doubt. He does not want us to be uncertain about His love, His power, or His promise to save us. Because, as He says elsewhere, “Whoever believes in Me shall never die” (cf. John 11:26). Belief is not optional. It is the doorway into life. But notice how He brings people to belief. He does not force it. He does not shame it into existence. He draws it out—patiently, personally, just as He did with Thomas.

So what does it mean to believe in someone? It means you trust them. You trust their intentions, their character, and their power to do what they say. We understand this instinctively. In a healthy marriage, a husband believes in his wife, and a wife in her husband. In a healthy home, children believe in their parents—not because they have proven every detail, but because they have learned to trust who they are.

And when that kind of belief is present, something happens. There is freedom. A husband does not second-guess every word his wife says. A wife does not interpret every silence as betrayal. They are free to give themselves to one another without fear. There is peace. The home is not filled with suspicion or quiet anxiety, but with a steady confidence that they are for one another. There is growth. Because when you are not constantly defending yourself, you can repent, forgive, and become better. And there is joy—not because everything or anyone is perfect, but because love can actually be received and returned.

This is what belief does. It creates the conditions where life—real life—can exist.

And when that belief is gone, the relationship begins to collapse. If a spouse becomes convinced the other is unfaithful, the mind will begin to manufacture evidence to support that fear. Everything changes: suspicion replaces trust, distance replaces unity, and anxiety replaces peace. Without belief, there is no communion—no harmony, no shared life. And where communion is lost, what remains begins to resemble hell: isolation, suspicion, and the slow unraveling of love.

Christ has come to trample down that isolation and to bestow life. Trust and belief are how we share in that victory.

This is what makes today’s Gospel so important. Christ is worthy of our trust. His intentions toward us are not hidden: He loves us and desires that we share eternal life with Him. His power is not uncertain: He has risen from the dead. And He has not left us empty-handed. He gives us Himself—His Body and His Blood—so that this trust is not abstract, but lived, received, and renewed.

You have already begun this. You have united yourself to Christ. You believe in His love, and you have accepted it as your own. You believe in His power, and you are learning to live in it.

But the fallen mind will still produce doubts. That is what the fallen mind—especially the intellect—does. It generates possibilities, questions, fears. And that is not, by itself, a problem.

Do not be afraid of your doubts. In any real relationship, questions must be brought into the light—not during the Liturgy, but within the life of the Church, within this community, where truth can be sought in humility and trust. You are not the first to ask hard questions. Some of the greatest minds and the greatest saints have wrestled with them.

If your questions come from love—from a genuine desire to know God—then working through them becomes a holy act. Because honest dialogue leads to deeper communion. Not every thought needs to be followed—only the ones that lead us toward Christ.

And this leads us to another kind of questioning—a kind that works against the asker’s salvation. Questions that come from pride, from mockery, from a desire not to know but to dismiss. “I’m only asking questions.” But pride blocks the way to truth. Because the problem of our salvation is not lack of information—it is a prideful and poisoned heart. And no amount of facts can heal that. Only repentance can.

And Christ shows us one more thing. He is patient with doubters like Thomas, but He is not patient with those who “believe” in the wrong way—those who cling so tightly to false beliefs that they harm others in the name of God. The Pharisees were not condemned because they questioned, but because they refused to be corrected. And even more, because they refused communion. Their questions were designed to show their own righteousness and served as a barrier to communion—a barrier to love.

So what are we to do?

Believe. Not harshly. Not defensively. Not with fear. But gently, patiently, and with love.

Trust Christ—His love for you, His power to save you, and His promise to give you life. And bring your questions to Him honestly. Because He is not afraid of them. He will meet you in them. And He will lead you—from doubt, into trust, and from trust, into life.

 

Philippians 4:4-9; John 12:1-18

Palm Sunday reveals both our love for Christ and our temptation to abandon Him when He does not meet our expectations. This homily invites us to see ourselves in the Gospel, to embrace the deeper work of transformation, and to follow the King who leads us not to comfort, but to life through the Cross.

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Palm Sunday Homily 2026

For the Jews two thousand years ago, today was the culmination of their long waiting: the Messiah had come to save them.

“Hosanna in the Highest! Blessed is He who comes in the name of the Lord—the King of Israel!”

It is a great day for us as well—the end of Great Lent, the celebration of Christ’s triumphal entry into Jerusalem. We take up the first fruits of spring—palm leaves and pussy willows—not just as decoration, but as a sign of renewal. The winter of waiting is over. Christ has come among His people.

As the Church sings in the Triodion:

“Today the grace of the Holy Spirit has gathered us together,
and we all take up Thy Cross and say:
Blessed is He that comes in the name of the Lord.”

And more than that: He has come into our lives.

This feast is not only about what happened in Jerusalem long ago. It is about the moment when Christ entered into our own story—when we first recognized Him as Lord, when we opened our hearts to Him, when we felt the relief of His presence. For many of us, that moment was marked by healing: the easing of despair, the forgiveness of sins, the restoration of hope.

And so we cried out:

“Hosanna in the Highest—the King has come to save!”

Not just Israel.

Me.

But here is where the Gospel becomes dangerous for us.

Because the people who cried “Hosanna” were not wrong to rejoice.

They were wrong about what that joy meant.

They loved Christ because He met their expectations.
He healed the sick.
He raised the dead.
He gave them hope that their visible, worldly problems would be solved.

Of course they loved Him.

And we do the same.

We love Christ when He meets our expectations:
  when He brings peace
  when He answers prayers the way we want
  when He restores what we think should be restored

We love the Church for the same reason:
  when it comforts us
  when it feels like home
  when it confirms what we already believe

We cry “Hosanna” when Christ—and His Body, the Church—fit into the life we already want.

But then something happens.
Christ moves beyond our expectations.
He refuses to remain what we first loved Him for.

And here the Church gives us words that both celebrate and correct us. In the hymns of this feast, we sing:

“Seated in heaven upon Thy throne
and on earth upon a colt, O Christ God,
Thou hast accepted the praise of the angels
and the song of the children who cried unto Thee:
Blessed art Thou who hast come to call back Adam.”

He comes as King—but not the kind of king we expect.

He comes not to confirm our plans—but to restore Adam.

And this is why Lent has prepared us.

All through the season, in the Great Canon of St. Andrew of Crete, we have been taught how to read Scripture:

“I alone have sinned against Thee.”
“I am the one who has fallen.”

We are not spectators in the Gospel.
We are participants.

So when the crowd turns from “Hosanna” to rejection—
we do not say, “they did this.”

We say:
“I am capable of this.”

We are the ones who welcome Christ when He fits our expectations
—and are tempted to abandon Him when He does not.

And this is not just about Christ in abstraction.  
It is about Christ in His Body—the Church.

We love the Church when it gives us what we expect:
     beauty
     stability
     meaning

But when the Church calls us to something harder—
     to repentance
     to forgiveness
     to self-denial

—we can become disappointed.

Even resistant.
Even tempted to step back.

But that later moment—the moment of disappointment—
is often more important than the moment of joy.

Because that is the moment when Christ is no longer fitting into our life—
He is transforming it.

And this transformation is not accidental.

As Maximus the Confessor teaches, the spiritual life is the purification and reordering of our desires. We begin by loving God for what He gives us—but we are called to love Him for Himself. What begins as expectation must be healed into communion.

We see this even in the Liturgy.
In the Great Entrance, Christ comes among us.
He is received with honor and reverence.

But then a turn is made; the stairs up the amvon to the altar
    are the mountain of Golgotha.
And His throne is revealed—not as a seat of earthly glory—
but as an altar of sacrifice.

And the hymns of this Great Feast prepare us even for this.
We sing:

“Today the Master of creation
and the Lord of glory
enters Jerusalem seated on a colt.
He hastens to His Passion,
to fulfill the Law and the Prophets.”

The One we welcomed in joy—
is already going to the Cross.

This is the truth the crowd did not expect.
And it is the truth we struggle with.

Christ does not come simply to solve our problems.
He comes to transform us.

Not to meet our expectations—
but to purify them.

Not to give us the life we imagined—
but to give us His life.

So today we are given a choice.
When Christ meets our expectations, we rejoice.

But when He overturns them—when He exceeds them—when He leads us through the Cross—
     what will we do then?
     Will we turn away?
     Or will we follow Him still?

Some saw this day as the end—the fulfillment of everything they had hoped for.
But it was not the end.
It was the beginning.
The beginning of a path that leads through suffering, through death—
and into resurrection.

So do not make your heart a place that welcomes Christ only on your terms.
Do not turn your heart into a tomb for the King.
Let it be His throne.

Receive Him not only in triumph—but in sacrifice.
Not only in consolation—but in transformation.

Because He will not remain what we expect.
And thanks be to God—

He will become something far greater.

“Let us also, like the children, bear the symbols of victory,
and cry out to the Conqueror of death:
Hosanna in the highest!
Blessed is He that comes in the name of the Lord.”