This essay, by Dn. Evan J. Freeman, seminary alumnus (M.Div. ’09, Th.M. ’12), reminds us of the recent Gospel admonition heard on the “Sunday of the Last Judgment”: “I was a stranger and you took me in.” (Matt 25:35). Deacon Evan, who is a Ph.D. candidate at Yale University and also the lecturer in Liturgical Arts at St. Vladimir’s Seminary, explains how the sacred arts—at times through powerful imagery—can proclaim God’s Word in every age.

31 “When the Son of Man comes in his glory, and all the angels with him, he will sit on his glorious throne. 32 All the nations will be gathered before him, and he will separate the people one from another as a shepherd separates the sheep from the goats. 33 He will put the sheep on his right and the goats on his left.

34 “Then the King will say to those on his right, ‘Come, you who are blessed by my Father; take your inheritance, the kingdom prepared for you since the creation of the world. 35 For I was hungry and you gave me something to eat, I was thirsty and you gave me something to drink, I was a stranger and you invited me in, 36 I needed clothes and you clothed me, I was sick and you looked after me, I was in prison and you came to visit me.’

37 “Then the righteous will answer him, ‘Lord, when did we see you hungry and feed you, or thirsty and give you something to drink?38 When did we see you a stranger and invite you in, or needing clothes and clothe you? 39 When did we see you sick or in prison and go to visit you?’

40 “The King will reply, ‘Truly I tell you, whatever you did for one of the least of these brothers and sisters of mine, you did for me.’ (Gospel of Matthew, chapter 25)

I recently visited Cologne Cathedral, a towering Gothic edifice and UNESCO World Heritage Site overlooking the Rhine in western Germany. Begun in 1248 but not completed until 1880, it was the tallest building in the world from 1880-1884 and remains one of the world’s largest churches to this day. Pilgrims and tourists flock to the cathedral daily, both to pray but also to admire its impressive architecture and numerous other masterpieces of sacred art contained within. On my recent visit, two artworks in particular struck me—one medieval and the other postmodern—that each highlight the vital role of artistic creativity in Christianity’s perennial quest to understand and proclaim God’s eternal Word in every age

The renowned Gero Cross was at the top of my list of things to see in Cologne Cathedral (recently discussed by Annika Elisabeth Fisher in “Cross Altar and Crucifix in Ottonian Cologne—Past Narrative, Present Ritual, Future Resurrection”). Probably commissioned by Archbishop Gero around 970 to stand above an altar dedicated to the Crucifixion, the Gero Cross is now set in a Baroque frame and situated north of the high altar. Carved in oak then painted and gilded, the life-size sculpture renders the dead Christ with striking naturalism. Christ’s distended stomach projects outward toward the viewer, while His taught arm muscles strain to support the weight of His lifeless body. Eyes closed, His head slumps in death.

To the modern tourist walking through Cologne Cathedral, the Gero Cross might seem like just another medieval crucifix, a traditional Christian image from a time long past. But it would be wrong to dismiss the Gero Cross as a conservative work, since it was remarkably innovative in its own time. Before the Ottonian period (919-1024), sculpture in the round had been virtually absent from Christian art, still carrying connotations of pagan idolatry. The Gero Cross marks a period of revival of freestanding statuary in the Christian artistic tradition.

Depicting a dead Christ was also a relatively recent innovation. Images of the dead Christ on the cross emerged in Byzantium in the post-Iconoclastic period as a means of emphasizing Christ’s human nature. They also appeared in the west in the ninth century in conjunction with theological writings like Paschasius Radbertus’s ninth-century De Corpore et Sanguine Domini that emphasized the real presence of Christ’s body in the Eucharist. What’s more, an eleventh-century text called the Chronicon of Thietmar of Merseburg (written between 1012 and 1018, just a few decades before the Eucharistic debates erupted between Berengar of Tours and Lanfranc in the mid-eleventh century) suggests that the Gero Cross once contained a relic of the True Cross and some of the consecrated bread of the Eucharist. This inclusion of relic and Eucharist made the Gero Cross more than a mere depiction of Christ, and instead transformed it into a kind of reliquary and proto-monstrance (anticipating the appearance of monstrances in the fourteenth century that displayed the Eucharistic bread for veneration).

We can only imagine how surprising and compelling the Gero Cross, with its triple presentation of Christ in image, relic, and Eucharist, must have been to its original medieval audience. Today, crowds of tourists dutifully stop beneath it to consult their guidebooks (or smartphones) for a moment or two before moving on to the next attraction.

But on my recent visit to Cologne, a much newer artwork also attracted crowds of visitors, and it caught my attention too. Installed in 2016 and located just north of the church’s west entrance, the title of the installation is projected on the floor in multiple languages beginning with German: Christus sitzt im Flüchtlingsboot, “Christ sits in the refugee boat.” Drawing close to the installation, the viewer encounters a small, wooden boat resting on the stone floor of the Gothic church like a Duchamp readymade. The boat is entirely unremarkable, except for its curious presence within the Gothic cathedral.

A caption beside the boat reads:

This fishing boat was confiscated by the Maltese Army in the Mediterranean Ocean. Smugglers were using it on the route from Libya to Italy. The boat is seven meters long and carried up to 100 people. The refugees had no protection from sun, storm or cold. They were not allowed to bring anything, not even food or water. So many people were packed on the boat on the trip over that some suffocated and many survivors collapsed from being unable to breathe.

Some visitors peer into the boat. Despite the title, Christ is nowhere to be found. Flüchtlingsboot is an image of Christ without a Christ. Or rather, Flüchtlingsboot is a kind of mirror, revealing Christ in the twenty-first century viewer’s own time and place. A projector shines photographs of refugees onto the wall behind the boat, evoking Christ’s words in Matthew’s Gospel: “I was hungry and you gave me food, I was thirsty and you gave me drink, I was a stranger [xenos] and you welcomed me… as you did it to one of the least of these my brethren, you did it to me” (Matthew 25:35-40). Through these projected images, Flüchtlingsboot invites the viewer to acknowledge Christ in the stranger and to practice hospitality (philoxenia), or “love of the stranger,” as commanded by God in the Hebrew Scriptures (e.g. Gen. 18; Exod. 22:21; Lev. 19:33-34, 23:22, 25.35; Deut. 10:19, 14:19, 23:7, 24:14-22, 27:19; Job 31:32; Ps. 94:1-6, 146:9; Wis. 19:13-14; Isa. 58:7; Ezek. 22:7-22; Zech. 7:9-10; and Mal. 3:5), as well as in the New Testament (e.g. Luk. 10:25-37; Rom. 12:13; 1 Tim. 3:2, 5:10; Tit. 1:8; Heb. 13:2; 1 Pet. 4:9; and 3 Jn. 1:5).

Combining a found object with projected words and images, the multimedia Flüchtlingsboot is unapologetically postmodern in format. Its power lies precisely in its poignant combination of otherwise disparate elements. The work’s caption transforms a seemingly ordinary fishing boat into a tangible illustration of the migrant’s suffering. Even more than an illustration, the boat is an actual artifact of human suffering, a kind of contact relic akin to the piece of the True Cross inside the Gero Cross. But whereas Gero’s life-size scale and illusionistic carving thrusts an emphatically kataphatic image of the suffering Christ into the physical space of the viewer, Flüchtlingsboot answers with an apophatic vision of Christ, an absence that urges the viewer to look beyond the artwork and into the faces of his or her fellow human beings represented by the projected photographs of refugees. On my recent visit to Cologne, Flüchtlingsboot’s effectiveness was manifest in the constant stream of pilgrims and tourists who gathered around the boat to contemplate the refugee’s plight, offer prayers, and place alms in the nearby collection box for Migrant Offshore Aid Station (MOAS).

Although they both claim to represent Christ, the Gero Cross and Christus sitzt im Flüchtlingsboot are two very different works, serving distinct liturgical functions and aimed at unique historical audiences. The Gero Cross employs medieval materials and techniques to create an illusionistic cult image originally intended for a cross altar in Cologne’s Ottonian cathedral. It combines image, relic, and Eucharist to offer the viewer an embodied encounter with the crucified Christ that evokes medieval descriptions of Christ’s physical presence in the Eucharist.

In contrast, Flüchtlingsboot is a postmodern, multimedia installation that greets tourists and pilgrims alike at the entrance of the cathedral and challenges them to recognize Christ in the suffering refugee before they seek Him in iconic works like the Gero Cross or in the Eucharistic bread. Recalling Last Judgment scenes that decorate the entrance portals of Romanesque churches like St. Foy at Conques in France, Flüchtlingsboot confronts those entering Cologne Cathedral with Christ’s stark description of the Last Judgment in Matthew’s Gospel, paraphrased and contextualized by Cardinal Rainer Maria Woelki, archbishop of Cologne: “Whoever lets people drown in the Mediterranean lets God drown.”

But despite their differences, the Gero Cross and Flüchtlingsboot are both exemplars of the same dynamic Christian artistic tradition that has embraced creativity in every era as a means of communicating the timeless message of the Gospel to contemporary audiences. As the Greek Orthodox iconographer George Kordis recently told me in an interview for the Sacred Arts Initiative, “Tradition is creativity. If there is a tradition with no creativity it is no tradition anymore, it is something dead… Creativity is a basic characteristic of tradition.” In the tenth century, the Gero Cross daringly innovated by employing a novel naturalistic style and three-dimensional format to promote a new theological insight about Eucharistic realism. Through its postmodern combination of found object and projected words and images, Flüchtlingsboot compellingly reveals the crucified Christ in suffering refugees to its twenty-first century audience.

And as we witness the dark tides of nationalism and xenophobia rising across Europe and North America today, Flüchtlingsboot’s powerful call for hospitality—the Biblical mandate to the love the stranger—couldn’t be more timely or more potent.

We are pleased to share a Homily on Luke 18.10–14 by Priest Paul Coats, Alumnus (M.Div. ’08), Assistant Priest at St. Anthony the Great Orthodox Mission, Rock Hill, SC. As we anticipate our Lenten journey, his thoughtful words on “The Sunday of the Publican and the Pharisee” offer us a lodestar to understand how to “fulfill all righteousness,” as the Gospel commands.

[9] He also told this parable to some who trusted in themselves that they were righteous and despised others: [10] “Two men went up into the temple to pray, one a Pharisee and the other a tax collector. [11] The Pharisee stood and prayed thus with himself, `God, I thank thee that I am not like other men, extortioners, unjust, adulterers, or even like this tax collector. [12] I fast twice a week, I give tithes of all that I get.’ [13] But the tax collector, standing far off, would not even lift up his eyes to heaven, but beat his breast, saying, `God, be merciful to me a sinner!’ [14] I tell you, this man went down to his house justified rather than the other; for every one who exalts himself will be humbled, but he who humbles himself will be exalted. (Luke 18.10–14)

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

In today’s Gospel, Christ tells what must be a shocking parable to many who were doing their best to obey God, as good Jews, and be obedient to the law to the best of their ability. In this parable, it seems that all the best efforts of those trying extra hard to follow God, the Pharisees, are said to be of little value.

With this parable and others like it, for some Christ shattered their whole belief system. He takes someone despised as a lawless sinner, a tax collector, and says that this man can be justified simply by a sincere acknowledgment of his sin, and a request for mercy. This must have been outrageous to those who were convinced that strict obedience to God’s law was the only way to please God and have salvation. After all, isn’t this what all the prophets, beginning with Moses, had said? Isn’t this what God had been communicating with his people all along?

In regard to zealously following the Law and trying to obey the commandments, Christ was on the side of the Pharisee! We must remember that at the very beginning of his teaching ministry, Christ said, Do not think I have come to abolish the Law and the Prophets, I have come to fulfill them. And further, whoever relaxes the least of these commandments and teaches men so, shall be called least in the Kingdom of Heaven; he who does them and teaches others to do so, will be called great in the Kingdom of Heaven. Christ was pleased with the Pharisee’s good works.

But listen to his next words: For unless your righteousness exceeds that of the scribes and Pharisees, you will never enter the kingdom of heaven. And Christ goes on to talk about the kind of righteousness that exceeds that of the scribes and Pharisees: not only do not kill, but do not even be angry with another. Not only stay chaste in marriage, but do not lust—you must be chaste in your mind, too. Instead of being fair (an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth), suffer injustice. Instead of loving those who love you, love those who hate you. And lest we think the bar is set too high, he simply confirms it: You must be perfect, as your heavenly Father is perfect.

This is the radical inner righteousness that Christ requires of us.

Christ does not condemn the Pharisee for being honest, just, and moral as the Pharisee claimed himself to be. But the Pharisee’s righteousness was incomplete. His pursuit of righteousness did not lead to love for God or men. He had started down the path of righteousness, toward God, but on the way he took a wrong turn! He had probably started honestly, as many of the Pharisees, such as St. Paul, had started out honestly in pursuit of God. But it had taken such a wrong turn that even someone who had not even started on the path—the tax collector in the story—was ahead of him.

What was the problem here?

One of the things I learned very early growing up in rural northern Illinois was how to find the North Star in the night sky. We would sometimes be out camping or even hiking in the woods at night, and we needed a way to orient ourselves and find our way back home, back to the road, or back to the camp. If we tried to get a sense of direction from things on earth, things around us, the landscape, some lights in the distance, or trees, we were very likely to get lost in the dark. . . things didn’t seem as they really were at night, and so forth. But if we could find the North Star, we could find our way. In other words, it took a permanent, unchanging reference point to find our way; the moon didn’t work, it changed locations constantly . . . the other stars didn’t work, they also changed directions. But the North Star is always in the same location, directly north, and never moves.

How had the Pharisee gotten so far off track? I think it was this: the Pharisee had as his reference point other people, instead of God. He didn’t have his eyes on God’s righteousness and holiness, he had his eyes on other people.

And this was disastrous, because in his sinfulness and pride, this led to exalting himself above others, inwardly condemning others, and despising them. And so therefore he really blew it. Because of this wrong turn, all his good works were useless, because they strayed from the ultimate goal. Not only that, but he had turned 180 degrees and was using his works of righteousness as a weapon against others, to condemn them, and to despise them.

The tax collector, on the other hand, saw no one but God. He wasn’t looking at the Pharisee . . . he didn’t even physically look up to God, out of shame. But this was because God was too present in his vision. It’s safe to say the only thing in his mind, the only thing in his inner vision, was God and his righteousness. And making God his reference point, he was able to honestly pray the prayer, God, be merciful to me, a sinner. And here, we have what is essentially the Jesus Prayer, one more time. In recent Sundays we heard it from the blind beggar, we heard it from the Canaanite woman, and today we have it from Christ’s own words, which he put in the mouth of the tax collector as he tells this story.

This story that Christ tells should never be used to somehow try to promote “having faith” over and against good works. This is a false opposition. Christ commanded good works. Good works are meant to be a means to learn true love of God and others, just as the Law was also meant as a means to learn to love God, for the Jews. Orthodox spirituality teaches that we cannot cultivate love for God in our hearts without overt acts of mercy and service to others. In two weeks, we will hear the parable of the Last Judgment to drive this home.

But this parable is a strong warning from Christ that our good works can become a curse if we turn from our true reference point; that good works are meant to lead us to repentance, not self-justification; that our good works are a necessary beginning, and paradoxically the end fruit, of a heart turned toward God, a heart that recognizes its own need for God, a heart that truly loves God with everything it has, and other people as well.

So today Christ warns us strongly about comparing ourselves to others. . . using others, instead of God, as our reference point. I have found this to be very subtle. Do you find yourself subtly judging others? This is an inward disposition that leaves no room for true love. It’s destructive to others because it is not loving them; it’s destructive to ourselves, because it breeds a confidence in oneself, a trusting in ourselves for our own salvation.

Not everyone struggles with this. There are those who have been given the grace of compassion and full acceptance of others. But for those of us who do struggle with it, it is one of the hardest things to stop. When we see someone who bothers us, or who is so different from us in personality and interests and approach, we may almost involuntarily and automatically judge that person. But we become the Pharisee in the parable when we do that.

I have one suggestion in this regard: one of the quickest cures for this is to pray for people we are tempted to judge, and ask God to bless them with all the same things that we ask God to bless us with. Inwardly, then, we’re giving to that person, serving them, and not judging and condemning them. It’s a double blessing—we are released from the sin of comparison, judgment, condemnation and pride, and they are the recipients of a prayer heard by God, and God will honor that prayer in the way best for both the one who prays and the one prayed for.

Brothers and sisters, we are in the preparatory Sundays leading up to Great Lent. We will soon be saying the prayer of St. Ephraim, which ends with “grant me to see my own transgressions, and not to judge my brother.” Let us begin to prepare, then, by trying to set aside the comparing of ourselves to others, completely. Let us set our eyes on the true reference point, our Lord Jesus Christ. The more we do this, the more we will be able to pray the prayer of the tax collector with sincerity, God, be merciful to me, a sinner. We will not inwardly exalt ourselves over others, and our good works will be a blessing to us and to others and will lead to the love of God. May Christ strengthen us all for this. AMEN.

Homily on Luke 8.22–25 delivered in Three Hierarchs Chapel on October 12, 2016
By Seminarian Philip Maikkula

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

“Where is your faith?” Did you notice that question? Our Lord asked his disciples…where is your faith?

It’s almost a silly question. After all, the disciples seemingly did everything right. They got into the boat with Jesus to sail across the Sea of Galilee, and when the weather turned for the worst, they cried out to Jesus in their moment of distress.

You might imagine their emphatic reply to our Lord’s question: “Our faith is in you Lord! That is why we called out to you to rescue us.” But is that really what’s going on? After all, if the disciples were faithful to Christ, then why then did our Lord question their faith?

Notice a few things.

Notice, our Lord didn’t say, “Have a little more faith,” as if the disciples were panicking because they didn’t quite think that Jesus could handle the situation. If that were the case, you might imagine Christ turning to the disciples to say: “Don’t worry…I’ve got this.” But of course our Lord didn’t say that, because, the disciples weren’t struggling with too little faith.

Notice also, our Lord didn’t say, “Keep the faith,” as if the disciples were losing faith at the sight of waves crashing into their boat. If that were the case, you might imagine Christ turning to his disciples and saying with a reassuring nod: “Keep your chin up!” But of course Christ didn’t say that, because the disciples weren’t struggling to simply keep their faith.

Notice again, our Lord didn’t say, “Understand your faith,” as if the main problem for the disciples were the quality of their catechesis. If the solution to the disciples fear and panic were purely academic, then you might imagine our Lord saying, “Get a little education.” But of course, our Lord didn’t say that.

Instead what did he say? “Where is your faith?” You see, the disciples had faith. They had it. But their faith was in their own ability, their own skills, and their own achievements. These were profession fisherman, after all, who spent countless hours on the Sea of Galilee. They were experts with boats and knew about storms on the sea.

You see, the disciples’ main problem was that they had placed their faith in themselves.

They treated our Lord like we might treat a life preserver: there in case of emergency, but normally we manage things on own. You can see this is true because the disciples only turned to Christ when it seemed that all hope was lost and the boat was going under. They only needed Him when their own skills had come to an end.

Today, Our Lord is asking us, “Where is your faith?” I would guess that all of us have found ourselves, like the disciples in some degree, experts in our own little worlds that we know so well and can control. Professionals. Skilled. Practiced. Whether it be at our jobs, our homes, our schooling, or our hobbies.

Yet, I dare say we all have found ourselves like the disciples, overwhelmed by the storms of life. In those situations, it’s so easy for us to trust our own strength, our own abilities, and our own talents. In fact, like the disciples, it precisely in those areas in which we feel most confident that we tend to forget that God is in the boat with us. And when the storms of life rage, how often do we find ourselves overwhelmed by fear, anxiety, and despair because we have been relying on ourselves instead of Christ.

The Holy Prophet Moses reminds us in his farewell speech to the Israelites: “Be strong and of good courage, do not fear or be in dread…for it is the Lord your God who goes with you; he will not fail you or forsake you.”[1] You see, because the Lord Our God is with us always, whether in the calm or in the midst of the storm, we need not rely upon our own strength. Because Christ is with us, we place our faith in Him rather than ourselves.

I’m reminded of the example of the Three Holy Youths, Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego. I’m sure you remember the story. King Nebuchadnezzar had set up a giant statue of gold in Babylon and commanded all the people of the land to bow down in worship when they heard the music play. But when the music began, Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego refused to worship the idol of the king. When spies informed the king of the actions of the young men, he was filled with fury. He had warned that those who would not obey would face death in a fiery furnace. How dare anyone disobey his command!

Yet, even when brought before the king and offered another chance to bow down and worship the golden image, Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego refused the king’s command. You see, the Three Holy Youths remembered the God was with them, and because their faith was completely in our Lord, they had peace.

They told the king: “Our God is able to rescue us from the fiery furnace, and he can deliver us from your hand, but even if he doesn’t, we will not worship the idols of Babylon.” Because their faith was in God, they could calmly face any storm, even death.

So when the king heated the furnace seven times hotter than normal, and the flames leapt so high that even those who threw the three youths into the furnace perished because of the heat, even still, Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego were faithful to the last.

And what did the king see?…four men standing in the flames. Just as Moses had promised long ago, our Lord Jesus Christ is with us. He was with the Three Holy Youths in the furnace. He was with the disciples in the midst of the storm. He is with us in the midst of our lives.

Today Christ asks us: “Where is your faith?” Let us answer as the Three Youths did from the midst of the storm of flame… “With all our hearts we follow thee.”[2]

Amen.

[1] Deuteronomy 31.6

[2] Prayer of Azariah 1.18 LXX version of Daniel

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Philip Maikkula is a second year seminarian in the Master of Divinity program. Philip and his wife, Whitney, have two children together. After seminary, Philip and his family hope to pursue further studies in the area of Scripture in order to serve the Church.

Sermon delivered October 30, 2016
By the Very Reverend Timothy Baclig, SVOTS Class of 1983
Pastor of St. Michael Antiochian Orthodox Church of the San Fernando Valley

The lesson of the Fifth Sunday of Luke is among the lessons that introduce us to the season of Advent, preparing us for the Feast that celebrates the birth of our Lord. It focuses our attention upon the practice of good deeds, reminding us of God’s love and personal sacrifice by sending His Son into the world.

In our time there is a great deal of attention being given to the subject of wealth and poverty. St. John Chrysostom spoke at length on the subject. (His writing is available in English, published by St. Vladimir’s Press, entitled: On Wealth and Poverty.)

People whose lives are shaped either by wealth or poverty manifest certain attitudes and behaviors. Significant attitudes and behaviors can also be evident among those whose lives move from poverty to wealth and from wealth to poverty. Very often, whether someone worked to earn his or her wealth, or simply inherited wealth, is very telling.

For Christian believers, the core virtue in the case of both—which is the true test of one’s sincerity—is humility. Humility as a virtue is the foundation Christian love. It is the basis of a “good confession” and the true motive of love. Its opposite is arrogance, selfishness, greed, and hatred—all of which we are warned about by our Tradition, beginning with Christ, the Apostles, and the Holy Fathers. And, their warnings come with their pointing out consequences.

We also hear in the Gospel our Lord’s own warning: “To whom much has been given—much will be required” (Luke 12.48). Money will not buy you everything.

Sadly, there are many who think the opposite. It amazes me how some have believed that pouring millions into a political campaign will guarantee an election. People are not as naïve as some would think. It is sad to think what all of that money could have done to help those who are now facing incredible suffering.

The parable of “The Rich Man and Lazarus” of today’s Gospel lesson is in two parts: 1) the life of the rich man and Lazarus on earth, and 2) their life after death. The two are contrasted to make the following points: There is an eternal perspective to life; and this eternal perspective gives us a sobriety, and an understanding that a spiritual quality is acquired in this life, whether a person is wealthy or in poverty.

In commenting on this parable, St. Gregory the Great speaks of the effects of poverty and riches on the rich man and Lazarus: “The fire of poverty cleansed Lazarus of his evil deeds, and the happiness of this passing life rewarded the good deeds of the rich man. Poverty afflicted [Lazarus] and wiped him clean; wealth rewarded the [rich man] and deprived him of everything else.”

In a commentary by St. Ambrose we hear: “Lazarus was a pauper [one of extreme poverty and lived by charity] in this world, but [was] a rich man before God . . . Yet not all poverty is holy nor is wealth sinful, but as excess dishonors riches, so sanctity commends poverty.”

One’s eternal destiny, therefore, is something that begins in this life, and our stewardship of material things—whether in abundance or in poverty—has a direct effect on our spiritual life.

The message at the beginning of Great Lent (in the Paschal Season) is very similar: “What doth it profit a man if he were to gain the whole world and lose his own soul?” (Mark 8.36). We are reminded before Great Lent that insofar as we are merciful to others, so will our Father in heaven be merciful to us; and that doing good to the needy is the same as having done a good deed to the Lord.

Likewise, at the start of the Nativity Fast, and at a time of the year when we are commemorating our nation’s many blessings at Thanksgiving, we are again reminded that merciful kindness, Christian charity, and love are among the spiritual virtues that save us from needless agony and eternal torment.

Prayer

O Lord, our God of love and great mercies, we thank Thee for your goodness in providing for all of our needs. Purify our hearts and minds from all forms of selfishness, neglect, and arrogance. Grant us the vision to see and to understand the meaning of your Gospel message as we gather about your table and anticipate dining in your heavenly kingdom. Forgive us our sins of omission and renew in us the desire to serve others as serving Thee. For Thou art He who came to serve and not to be served, and unto Thee do we ascribe thanksgiving and worship, together with Thy Father who is from everlasting and Thine all-Holy good and life-giving Spirit, now and ever and unto ages of ages. Amen.

A sermon of Fr. Alexander Rentel

“ So it was, as the multitude pressed about Him to hear the word of God, that He stood by the Lake of Gennesaret, and saw two boats standing by the lake; but the fishermen had gone from them and were washing their nets.Then He got into one of the boats, which was Simon’s, and asked him to put out a little from the land. And He sat down and taught the multitudes from the boat.

When He had stopped speaking, He said to Simon, “Launch out into the deep and let down your nets for a catch.”

But Simon answered and said to Him, “Master, we have toiled all night and caught nothing; nevertheless at Your word I will let down the net.” And when they had done this, they caught a great number of fish, and their net was breaking. So they signaled to their partners in the other boat to come and help them. And they came and filled both the boats, so that they began to sink. When Simon Peter saw it, he fell down at Jesus’ knees, saying, “Depart from me, for I am a sinful man, O Lord!For he and all who were with him were astonished at the catch of fish which they had taken; 10 and so also were James and John, the sons of Zebedee, who were partners with Simon. And Jesus said to Simon, “Do not be afraid. From now on you will catch men.” So when they had brought their boats to land, they forsook all and followed Him.”  Luke 5.1-11

The God of Heaven in the Wilderness (Ex 24.15-25.22).

Upon a high mountain, the great prophet Moses entered the dark cloud and went into the silence of mystical contemplation. For forty days he heard things that cannot be spoken and saw things that cannot be described. When he left that mountain, he commanded the people of Israel to do what had been given to him on that mountain by God. His face shone brightly from talking with God himself, he gave the people the law and also the specific order for their worship of the God who had revealed himself to them on that high mountain, in the midst of the cloud. God told Moses, “make an ark of wood, here are the dimensions, overlay it with gold, put holes in it so that it can be carried with poles. Make two  cherubim out of gold, one there and one there, with their wings outspread.” And there, God said, “there, I will make a mercy seat, seated upon which, is where I will meet with you, where I will speak with you.”

The God of Heaven in the Temple (Is 6.1-10).

In the year that the king of Judah died, King Uzziah, eight centuries before the birth of the Christ, Isaiah, great amongst the prophets, stood in the temple and beheld the glory of the Lord. Isaiah saw the Lord himself sitting enthroned and his glory filling the wide expanse of the temple. Not cherubim here, but seraphim; here they are made not of gold, and are alive and crying “Holy, holy, holy,” one to another. From this temple also goes the word of God to his people, challenging them, “hear and hear, but do not understand; see and see, but do not perceive.” Hear and see the Lord God of heaven and earth, revealing himself seated upon his throne.

The God of Heaven along the River (Ez 1.1-3.21).

“In the thirtieth year, in the fourth month, on the fifth day of that month,” Exekiel, not the least among the prophets, stood astride the banks of the river Chebar in the land of the Chaldeans and looked and beheld the appearance of the glory of the Lord, sitting upon a chariot, led on by four fantastic beasts, with four faces, wings gleaming like bronze, shining like flashes of lightning.  As their wings beat and as the chariot moved, a sound of many waters was heard, the thunder of the Almighty. Ezekiel, like Moses and Isaiah, immediately became aware that he was unworthy and fell on his face before the Lord. Again, like Moses, like Isaiah, Ezekiel was given the Spirit of God to speak to the people of Israel, “Thus says the Lord God, end your rebellion, turn away from death and come to life.”

The God of Heaven at the Lake at Gennesaret (Lk 5.1-11).

At the northern tip of Palestine, as we have heard from our deacon today, in a dusty, dry, and impoverished area, along the banks of the lake of Gennesaret, this same Lord reveals himself again to a people desirous of hearing the “word of God.” Here again, he resumes the posture typical of revelation, seated, though in a working fishing boat, where they were cleaning their nets, but not on a high mountain, or in the temple, or only to the prophet in exile, but to people pressing about him clamoring for the word. Where these people are working, where they are living, the Lord reveals himself, he meets them, and he speaks to them directly, teaching them of the ineffable mysteries. Here there are no cherubim and seraphim visible, but a great catch of fish loudly proclaiming the holiness and the glory of God present on a boat in this lake. The witnesses to this revelation are many and their record is neither scroll, nor parchment, nor paper, but the living apostolic witness of Simon Peter and James and John, sons of Zebedee, into whose nets we too are caught in fulfillment this day of the oracle spoken that was spoken on that day.

The God of Heaven is with Us.

This manifestation found in the gospel today, this theophany, above all tells us who Jesus is. It is he whom Moses met on the mountain in the dark cloud. It is he whom Isaiah saw enthroned in the temple. It is he who came to Ezekiel along the banks of the river Chedar. It is he, the one who teaches the people while seated on a boat. In Christ, however, God has turned everything upside down so as to fulfill his promise that he made to Isaiah that “God is with us (Is 7.14).” The place again of this theophany is quotidian, it is in the midst of day-to-day work. No doubt fisherman doing their work, fishing, cleaning their nets, were not involved in the lofty and sublime, but in the hard work of scratching out a living, in the hot sun, the sweat of effort, aching bones, and sore muscles. Where they worked, no dark cloud descended, no mystical vision appeared, only the Word of God himself, who appeared directly to them and the people pressing about him. Jesus Christ, the Gospel tells us, is God with us.

Such a Manifestation.

Such a revelation proclaims for us too that God is with us, and that Jesus Christ manifests, reveals himself, teaches us, speaks to us, meets us in our day-to-day lives. The place of this revelation is not only sacred ground, but throughout all our lives: in the work, in the effort, in the hardness, in the difficulties. Any perceived wall that would separate one place, one way of being with the way we live the rest of our lives, the sacred and the profane – God is here, but not there – simply does not exist. God is with us when we pray in the Church at services, but also in our homes, in our work, in our leisure. That this is true should provide us comfort and consolation: we are not alone. Jesus Christ, by the grace of the Holy Spirit, remains with us, in good and bad, in happiness and in sorrow, when we are sick or healthy, rich or poor. It should also challenge us, because this same Christ, by the same grace, remains with us in righteousness and in our sins, when we “do good,” and we do evil. By this we do not profane God, but rather God comes to us to make all our lives holy through his presence.

Love.

Throughout all the theophanies I have recounted today, those that I have connected with the Gospel today, one theme stands out above all others: it is that God at every point reaches out to us. He makes himself known to those whom he has created, to meet them, to speak to them, to challenge them, to teach them and us. He does this out of the love and goodness that desires that all of us, those to whom the original message came, and we who receive this word today, come and be with him, now and in the world to come. Amen.

Saint Vladimir’s Seminary Alumnus Antwian (Anthony) Davis has returned to St. Vladimir’s to join the staff. Davis was hired in January 2021 as manager of the SVS Press Bookstore.

"It feels good to be back at St. Vladimir's and being around the daily lifecycle of the Church,” said Davis. “In my time away I missed the daily services and being around people whose aim is to spread the Gospel of Jesus Christ. Working as the bookstore manager gives me a unique opportunity to use ministry in a different way and to continue to spread the Good News through shipping books all over the world.” 

Davis graduated from St Vladimir’s Master of Divinity (M.Div.) program in 2019 with a commendation for service to the community. Davis served diligently as the student sacristan and helped establish the St. Moses the Black Society on campus; In 2017 he also participated in an IOCC Action Team with two other seminarians and helped rebuild homes in New Orleans, an area devastated by Hurricane Katrina in 2005. 

Davis’s home parish is St Barbara Orthodox Church, Fort Worth, TX, but he originally hails from St Louis, MO. Before joining St Vladimir’s as a seminarian in 2016, he was a sixth grade reading teacher for five years. Before that he spent time coaching football in both high school and college levels and interned with the then-St. Louis Rams of the NFL. 

In 2016, Davis shared what drew him to the Orthodox Church and later St. Vladimir’s:

As long as I can remember, I have always felt a draw from God calling me closer to Him. As a Protestant in the Baptist Church I thought the calling was for me to be a minister, and so I became one. I was later ordained in the Baptist Church but still felt like there was more. I did not feel like I had the fullness of the faith. Fortunately the Baptist pastor I was under gave me a few Orthodox books to read, and that is what led me on my path to Orthodoxy. Once I found the Church, it just felt like home, but there was still that thirst for more. The more books I read, the more I wanted more. Nothing seemed to fill my thirst, and after many discussions with my priest he suggested that a few years at seminary might be good for me, just to learn as much as I can during this time.

Before accepting his new position with the Bookstore, Davis had been working as a hospital chaplain in Texas.

Today marks the 30th anniversary of the falling asleep in the Lord of Professor Serge S. Verhovskoy professor emeritus of Dogmatic Theology and Ethics, and Provost of St. Vladimir’s Orthodox Theological Seminary (SVOTS) from 1955 until his retirement in 1981.

He was born in Sarzha Russia in 1907. He left Russia with his parents and sisters in his early youth following the Bolshevik Revolution. He completed his secondary education in Prague, Czechoslovakia before moving to Paris, France. Greatly influenced by Fr. Georges Florovsky, while studying at St. Sergius Theological Institute between 1932–36, he became known for his passion for Orthodox Tradition, grounded in the Patristic Fathers and the Holy Scripture, and he was an open and vocal critic of the popular “Russian émigré intelligentsia,” to Paris. By the early 1950s he was recognized as an important theologian and writer, and was invited by Fr. Florovsky to join him in NYC in the forming of SVOTS.

Professor Verhovskoy always seemed to live “beneath the radar,” until it was necessary for someone to step forward to speak the Truth, which he always did without hesitation—an issue for which he continually chided his students: “You are called to be ‘Ezekiels,’ yet you are silent.” And when [seminary Dean] Fr. Alexander Schmemann expressly and adamantly responded to the “Sorrowful Epistle” of Metropolitan Philaret (Voznesensky), by stating, “I trust people like Prof. SS Verhovskoy,” he might well have duly cited him in his description of the role of the theologian:

The theologian has no rights, no power to govern and to administer that which belongs exclusively to the hierarchy. But it is his sacred duty to supply the hierarchy and, indeed, the whole Church with the pure teaching of the Church and to stand by that truth even when it is not considered “opportune.” It must be admitted that much too often our official “academic” theology has failed to accept this “obedience” and preferred quiet complacency. It has thus become accomplice to many deviations and distortions from which the whole Orthodox Church suffers today. But again, it was not so with the Fathers…they suffered from the various “power structures” of their days for their refusal to opt for the compromise or to accept silent obedience to evil. And the fact is that ultimately the Church followed them and not those who, then as today, have a thousand excellent reasons for avoiding the “abstract principles” and preferring the “demands of reality.”

And like many great men, he was a character. He loved the “Motown Sound” and he borrowed every one of my original blues albums—from Muddy Waters to Howlin’ Wolf – and he loved nothing more than to have a student drop by for tea and discussion, day or evening, or listen to us play guitars and sing “the rock music.”

When his beloved wife, Olga, died of sudden cardiac arrest while preparing to attend liturgy on St. Thomas Sunday, the word went out that “Prof” wanted students to be with him. Coming to his home on campus, [we saw] a large circle of chairs was arranged in his living room; students came and went, as a samovar served tea, and he taught “dogmatic theology”—life, marriage, death, the Last Things, the Resurrection—as he told stories, wept, and laughed, and we sang, and reminisced over the course of an amazing day.

At the end of his life, I had arranged for a very small favor in arranging for his care. He called my busy office, and he would not take “He cannot take your call now,” for an answer. And when my supervisor finally was forced to interrupt me, “Prof” simply said, “Well, my dear, I don’t know, but you are somehow an angel.”

“Me, Prof?” It was all I could do not to cry like a child. It was like the life affirmation you had always wanted, and the warmest hug you never expected! Memory eternal, beloved Professor, and may your soul rest with the saints!

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Michael Stankovich is a Research Consultant in Behavioural Genetics and Forensic Psychiatry. He received his MD from the Faculté de Médecine, Pierre et Marie Curie – Sorbonne Universités, and his MSW from San Diego State University. He was employed by the UCSD School of Medicine, Department of Psychiatry, in contract with the California Department of Corrections & Rehabilitation, transitioning inmates with a mental health designation (including nearly 500 sex-offenders and child-sexual predators) into the Parole Out-Patient treatment system. He graduated from St. Vladimir’s in the Class of 1978.   

After fighting erupted between Azerbaijan and Armenia in Nagorno-Karabakh in the fall of 2020, Dn. Ezras (Ryan) Tellalian felt compelled to travel to the war-torn land and “offered myself to the people.”  

Deacon Ezras, an alumnus of St. Vladimir’s Seminary and member of the Armenian Apostolic Church, arrived in the region (known as “Artsakh” by Armenians) in mid-October. He travelled there with Michael Krikorian, a journalist who had worked for the Los Angeles Times for several years. 

“I came not only as a photographer, but with my other identities as a psychologist and deacon….” Dn. Ezras wrote on the Fordham University blog, Public Orthodoxy. “I offered myself to the people, to help in whatever way I could, and am confident that God was leading me.”

While in the warzone, Dn. Ezras stayed in a shelter near a church with other civilians and clergy, including Archbishop Pargev, who ministered to them. At the shelter, clergy and laity prayed daily offices according to the Armenian Rite.

“What else could they do in such circumstances, but pray unceasingly?”

Deacon Ezras recounted on Public Orthodoxy how the people daily prayed for their suffering brethren as well as their enemies. 

“We prayed prayed for our people in Azeri captivity, but also for Azeris, Turks, Syrian mercenaries—our malefactors, enemies, those who hate us and would torture us, those who might kill us at any moment. Can you imagine this?

“This is our faith. This is what we do as Christians.”

• Read the entirety of Dn. Ezras’ reflection on Public Orthodoxy

Deacon Ezras Tellalian is a Ph.D. student in clinical psychology at The New School for Social Research. He holds an M.A. in psychology from the same institution, an M.Div. from St. Vladimir’s Seminary (’09), and a certificate in Armenian Studies from St. Nersess Armenian Seminary. Deacon Ezras also worked as a staff member in various capacities at St. Vladimir’s, including IT. He is a fourth-generation Armenian-American, the great-grandson of genocide victims. His photography is available at rezras.com.

As a newborn, I didn’t breathe for my first two weeks. Perhaps I just didn’t feel like it, I don’t really know the reason. As a result, I was hooked up to a machine that took all the blood out of my body, oxygenated it, and then put it back in. Thinking about it now, it’s pretty cool. It sounds like something out of Star Trek. It went on for a week or two. The only real human interaction I had during that time was with my dad. He would sit next to the contraption I was isolated in and sing to me. Just sing. Eventually, I came home from the hospital. Home was filled with music. My parents, my dad especially, would just walk around the house singing…constantly. My parents were never into the music of the 80’s (I don’t know why), so the music they would often sing was church music. Beautiful hymns.

In the car, the tapes were not Michael Jackson or Van Halen, they were from St. Vladimir’s Seminary. Tuesday nights was choir rehearsal, and both parents would go—which of course meant I went. I could say that I spent my formative years immersed in the music of the Orthodox Church. As a result of this, I always felt very comfortable in the choir loft or at the chanter’s stand. As a kid, I would just stand there. One particular Sunday, however, all that changed. I went up into the choir loft as I would often do, just wandered up there, and the new choir director told me to leave. I wasn’t allowed there because I was too young. I remember it vividly—I was crushed.

Across the country, school districts have money problems that cause cutbacks in their music education programs. Programs that supported three or four music teachers are now relying on one to do all those jobs. As a result, the kids miss out on some wonderful opportunities. In parish life, if kids are talented, their parents might suggest that they sing in the choir. Unfortunately, the kids that are not considered talented are left out. More often than not, kids experience what I experienced. As a result, our youth feel left out liturgically.

During college and post-college years, I spent my summers as a counselor at the Antiochian Village. The most beautiful choir I have ever heard is found there: over 300 children singing to the glory of God, in unison. Perhaps the most amazing thing is how well they know the music of our church. When on the Challenge Course, a group will often sing a hymn while hiking or following the completion of a task. When walking from one activity to another, they sing to St. Raphael. During the morning program chanting lessons, all they want to sing is their favorite hymn. How many of us can even name their favorite hymn, let alone sing all the words from memory?

Many faith traditions utilize youth choirs. Protestant and Catholic churches often have hymns offered by children’s voices or children’s bell choirs. A close friend from college was the music director of a Roman Catholic Church in the Pittsburgh area. They had one mass entirely led by the children: the children were the choir, the cantors, and sometimes even the piano/organ players. Similarly, in many Antiochian parishes, Saturday nights often bring “Camp Vespers.” The teens of the church sing and chant Vespers just like they would at camp during the summer. This can become the foundation for a youth choir in a parish.

It is important to note that calling it “Camp Vespers” is somewhat a misnomer. Vespers is Vespers, though the practice of congregational singing is what is unique to the camp setting. Additionally, we do not want to not exclude children that have not been to summer camp. That said, the idea behind a “Camp Vespers” is what is important. Maybe it begins as a once a month occurrence on Saturdays, then twice a month, eventually every Saturday is “Youth Vespers,” and further down the line it is simply everyone singing Vespers together. The youth choir can then begin participating on Sundays. The children can sing during communion and gradually have the children singing more and more.

The keys to having a successful youth choir are bringing the children together for the first time (possibly the most difficult), strong leadership, and consistency. One way to ensure this is the integration of music education into the current education already happening within the parish. Sunday School can begin each week with singing all together and learning the hymns of liturgy for that week. Additionally, youth participation ensures the continuity of our church choirs. We begin training the next generation of our choirs with our youth. Our youth learn the Divine Liturgy and begin to take ownership of the Church as full and equal participants.

The music of our Church is some of the most beautiful music in the world and also some of the most powerful. It unites people from around the world and calls people to Christ. We must invite our children to participate in making this music.

During the Cherubic Hymn we sing:

We who mystically represent the Cherubim, and sing to the life-giving Trinity the thrice-holy hymn, let us now lay aside all earthly cares: that we may receive the King of all, who comes invisibly upborne by the Angelic Hosts. Alleluia, alleluia, alleluia.

How can we keep our children from representing the Cherubim and singing to the life-giving Trinity?

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Gregory J. Abdalah is the Youth Pastor of St. George Antiochian Orthodox Church in Phoenix, Arizona and has been working in youth ministry in various capacities for 15 years. Greg holds a Bachelor of Music in Vocal Performance from Duquesne University, Pittsburgh, PA and a Master of Divinity from St. Vladimir’s Orthodox Theological Seminary and is currently in the midst of a Doctor of Ministry from SVOTS. He serves as the President of the SVOTS Alumni Association, and on the SVOTS Board of Trustees.

 Originally printed in The Word, January 2005. Updated, December 2015.