St. Isaac is not describing admirable behaviors. He is naming a different kind of human being. Mercy, humility, and almsgiving are not virtues added to an otherwise intact self. They are the outward signs that the old self has already begun to die. What St. Isaac exposes is not how difficult mercy is, but how incompatible it is with the identity most of us still inhabit. To endure injustice patiently is not an act of moral endurance. It reveals where a person now lives. The one who still derives himself from possession, reputation, or control must be troubled by loss. He cannot help it. Injury threatens his very sense of being. But the one who has been reborn in Christ no longer draws life from what he owns or from what is said about him. His center has shifted. His life is hidden elsewhere. That is why St. Isaac speaks with such severity. If loss disturbs you inwardly or if you feel compelled to tell others what was taken from you, then mercy has not yet reached exactness. The self that requires vindication is still alive. The same truth governs humility. St. Isaac does not describe humility as thinking poorly of oneself or rehearsing faults. He describes it as freedom from the need to be justified at all. The truly humble man does not argue with accusation. He does not rush to clarify himself. He does not try to persuade others that he has been misjudged. He accepts slander as truth not because the accusation is factual but because his identity no longer depends upon recognition in this age. He begs forgiveness not because he is guilty but because Christ has released him from the tyranny of innocence. This is why the examples St. Isaac offers are so severe. They are meant to break our assumptions. These saints did not merely endure misunderstanding. They entered it. They allowed themselves to be named wrongly. They accepted reputations that contradicted their inner purity. Some even clothed themselves in madness so that virtue would remain hidden. They did this not out of self contempt but out of clarity. Praise had become dangerous to them. Visibility threatened to awaken a self they had already buried. This is not spiritual theater. It is the logic of the Incarnation carried through to its end. Christ did not merely endure false accusation. He accepted it as the path of revelation. He did not correct the narrative. He did not defend Himself. He allowed Himself to be named wrongly so that His true identity would be revealed not by explanation but by self offering. Those who live this way are not imitating a moral example. They are sharing His life. The figure of Elisha makes this unmistakable. Power and mercy dwell in the same man. Elisha had the authority to destroy his enemies and St. Isaac insists on this point. Mercy is not weakness. It is strength transfigured. The man who feeds his enemies instead of destroying them does so not because he lacks power but because power no longer rules him. Mercy reveals what kind of being he has become. He acts from God rather than from self preservation. What is at stake here is identity. St. Isaac is asking a question that allows no evasion. From where do you live. From the need to be right. From the need to be seen correctly. From the hope that truth will be acknowledged and justice rendered in this age. Or from the hidden life of Christ where nothing must be defended because everything has already been given away. These paragraphs do not invite balance or moderation. They announce a death and a birth. Either we remain the kind of people who must protect ourselves from injustice or we become the kind of people for whom injustice no longer defines reality. Either we still live as those who need our names preserved or we have become those whose true name is known only to God. --- Text of chat during the group: 00:35:09 Thomas: The Man of God movie on St. Nektarios is really good for this 00:35:45 Mia: Reacted to The Man of God movie... with "👍" 00:39:21 Eleana Urrego: Soun

The Fathers do not allow us to soften this teaching. They place truth at the very center of the ascetical life and they do so without apology. A truthful mouth a holy body and a pure heart stand or fall together. Where speech is corrupted everything else soon follows. Falsehood is not a minor fault or a social lubricant. It is death. Truth is not a virtue among others. It is the new man himself breathing through the tongue. They are relentless because they know how easily we excuse ourselves. We lie not only to protect ourselves but to protect relationships. We lie to preserve peace. We lie to avoid discomfort. We lie because we fear that truth will finally sever what little love remains. And yet the Fathers insist that where truth is sacrificed love has already been lost. What we are trying to preserve is not communion but an arrangement held together by fear. The early sayings leave no ambiguity. The mouth is sanctified only by Christ who is the Truth. The liar does not merely misspeak. He places his mouth under another father. Falsehood reshapes the soul. It expels the fear of God because it replaces trust in God with management of outcomes. We begin to believe that relationships survive by control rather than repentance. Abba Isaiah exposes the root. Love of human glory gives birth to falsehood. We lie because we want to be seen as kind prudent wise or peacemaking. Humility cuts this root. The humble man can speak truth because he no longer needs to be admired or effective. He entrusts consequences to God. The tongue trained in the words of God no longer needs to improvise. And then the Evergetinos unsettles us with its hardest stories. A brother lies gently to cover another’s weakness. Another brother lies cleverly to reconcile two elders. The lies work. No one is harmed. Peace is restored. We are tempted to breathe a sigh of relief. Surely love has justified the sacrifice of truth. But the Fathers are not congratulating us. They are showing us something tragic. In both stories the lie is necessary because love has already failed. In the first story murmuring has entered the community. Cold has become judgment. Weakness has become resentment. The brother lies to prevent further harm because the truth would now wound rather than heal. But this is not the triumph of love. It is damage control after love has broken down. In the second story reconciliation does not happen through repentance confession or mutual humility. It happens through misdirection. The elders are not brought face to face with their grievance. They are gently bypassed. Peace is achieved but truth is avoided. The brother’s sagacity saves them from further hardening yet the cost is revealing. Love is so fragile that it cannot bear the truth. The Fathers do not present this as a model to imitate casually. They present it as a warning. When truth must be bent to preserve peace something has already gone wrong in the heart. The need for the lie exposes the absence of repentance. It reveals relationships sustained by pride fear and avoidance rather than by shared humility before God. This is why the earlier sayings are so severe. Truth is the root of good deeds. Without it even love becomes distorted. What we often call love is only the desire to avoid conflict. What we call prudence is often fear of exposure. What we call peace is sometimes nothing more than mutual silence around a wound no one will touch. The Evergetinos does not resolve the tension for us. It leaves us uneasy on purpose. It forces us to see how easily we justify falsehood once communion has been damaged. It also forces us to admit how rarely we do the harder work of repentance that would make truth bearable again. True love does not need lies. But when love has thinned and trust has collapsed lies become tempting because they seem merciful. The Fathers tolerate this in extremis but they never bless it. They keep pointing us back to the beginning. A truthful mouth. A pure heart. A

Here St. Isaac does not define virtues as behaviors but as states of being before God. He strips away external markers and leaves the soul alone with truth. What he offers is not a ladder of accomplishments but a geography of the heart. A stranger, he says, is not one who has left a place, but one whose mind has been estranged from all things of life. This is the quiet violence of the Gospel: “They are not of the world, even as I am not of the world” (Jn 17:16). Estrangement here is not contempt for creation but freedom from possession. Abba Arsenius fled Rome, but what he truly fled was the tyranny of relevance. To become a stranger is to consent to being unnecessary. It is to let the world continue without you and discover that God remains. The mourner is not a melancholic soul but a hungry one. He lives, Isaac says, in hunger and thirst for the sake of his hope in good things to come. This is the blessed mourning of the Beatitudes, the ache that refuses consolation because it has tasted something eternal. St. John Climacus calls mourning “a sorrow that is glad,” because it is oriented toward the Kingdom. It is grief baptized by hope. Such a soul does not despise joy; it waits for the only joy that cannot be taken away. Then Isaac dares to say what a monk truly is. Not one who has taken vows, not one who wears a habit, but one who remains outside the world and is ever supplicating God to receive future blessings. The monk stands at the edge of time and begs. His posture is eschatological. He lives as though the promises are real. This is why the monk’s wealth is not visible. It is the comfort that comes of mourning and the joy that comes of faith, shining secretly in the mind’s hidden chambers. Christ Himself names this hiddenness when He says, “Your Father who sees in secret will reward you” (Mt 6:6). The true treasure does not announce itself. It warms quietly. Mercy, too, is redefined. A merciful man is not one who performs selective kindness but one who has lost the ability to divide the world mentally into worthy and unworthy. This is the mercy of God Himself, who “makes His sun rise on the evil and on the good” (Mt 5:45). St. Isaac elsewhere says that a merciful heart burns for all creation: for humans, animals, demons, even for the enemies of God. Such mercy is not sentimental. It is cruciform. It is the heart stretched until it resembles Christ’s own. And then Isaac turns to chastity, and again he refuses reduction. Virginity is not merely bodily restraint but an interior reverence. One who feels shame before himself even when alone. This is a startling phrase. It speaks of a soul that lives before God even when no one is watching. Shame here is not self-loathing but awe. It is the trembling awareness that one’s thoughts are already prayers, or blasphemies, before the face of God. Therefore Isaac is unsparing: chastity cannot survive without reading and prolonged prayer. Without immersion in the Word, the imagination becomes a wilderness of unguarded images. Without prayer, the heart has no shelter. Abba Evagrius taught that thoughts are not defeated by force but by replacement—by filling the mind with divine fire. The Jesus Prayer, Scripture read slowly, the psalms murmured in weakness, these do not merely resist impurity; they transfigure desire itself. What unites all these sayings is this: St. Isaac is describing a soul that has accepted vulnerability. God has permitted the soul to be susceptible to accidents: not as punishment, but as mercy. Weakness becomes the doorway. Hunger becomes the guide. Shame becomes watchfulness. Mourning becomes wealth. Nothing here is safe, and nothing here is superficial. This is not an ethic for the strong. It is a path for those who have consented to be poor before God. In the end, St. Isaac is teaching us how to stand unarmed in the presence of the Kingdom; estranged from the world, aching for God, clothed in quiet prayer, and guarded not by our strength but by grace

There is something terrifyingly honest in these stories because they do not allow us to hide behind good intentions or spiritual reputation. They expose how thin the veil is between holiness and destruction when the heart is not fully purified of anger and envy. Florentius is not portrayed as weak or negligent. He is guileless. He prays. He fasts. He entrusts his life to God so completely that even a wild bear becomes obedient to the rhythm of his prayer. Creation itself recognizes innocence when the human heart is simple. The bear does not argue. It does not rebel. It returns at the sixth hour. It submits to fasting schedules. It becomes a brother. And then men who pray and chant psalms murder it out of envy. The Evergetinos does not soften this. Envy is not a small flaw. It is demonic participation. The Devil enters precisely where comparison takes root. Their teacher does not work miracles. Another is becoming known. Something inside them twists. They do not attack Florentius directly. They kill what he loves. That is how envy works. It strikes sideways. It wounds through the innocent. What follows should frighten anyone who thinks holiness gives permission to anger. Florentius prays for justice. He does not strike with his hands. He strikes with words. And heaven responds. The punishment is immediate. Public. Irreversible. And the most horrifying part is not the leprosy of the guilty monks but the lifelong repentance of the holy one whose prayer was answered. Florentius spends the rest of his life calling himself a murderer. That should stop us cold. God answers his prayer and Florentius is undone by it. He learns too late that the tongue can kill just as surely as a knife. Gregory is mercilessly clear. Revilers do not inherit the Kingdom. Not murderers. Not adulterers. Revilers. Those who curse. Those who wound with speech. Those who let anger become a prayer. Then the Fathers press the knife deeper. Makarios meets the same pagan twice. Once he is cursed and beaten almost to death. Once he blesses and converts a soul. The difference is not the pagan. The difference is the word. The disciple speaks truth without love and becomes an occasion of violence. The elder speaks love without flattery and becomes an occasion of resurrection. One word produces blood. Another produces monks. An evil word makes even a good man evil. A good word makes even an evil man good. This is not poetry. It is spiritual law. We want crosses without insults. We want asceticism without humiliation. We want holiness that never contradicts our self image. The Fathers laugh at this illusion. We behold the Cross and read about Christ’s sufferings and cannot endure a single insult without defending ourselves internally. Not even outwardly. In the heart. That is where the battle is lost. Abba Isaiah is ruthless because he knows how fast anger multiplies. Do not argue. Do not justify. Make a prostration before your heart rehearses its case. Silence is not weakness here. It is warfare. If the insult is true repent. If it is false endure. Either way the soul is saved if the tongue is restrained. The bear was obedient. The monks were not. The pagan ran in vain until he was greeted with mercy. Florentius learned that holiness without restraint of speech can still become an instrument of death. And the Fathers leave us with no escape. Words are not neutral. They either heal or rot the body of Christ. This teaching burns because it strips us of our favorite refuge. We excuse anger as clarity. We baptize sharp speech as righteousness. We call curses discernment. The Evergetinos exposes this lie mercilessly. One word can unleash hell. One word can open the Kingdom. The question is not whether we pray. The question is whether our words crucify or resurrect. --- Text of chat during the group: 00:05:16 Fr. Charbel Abernethy: Page 336 Hypothesis XLIII 00:05:29 Fr. Charbel Abernethy: Philokaliaministries.org/blog 00:09:36 Fr. Charbel Abernethy: Page 336 Hyp

The Fathers do not flatter us here. They speak with a severity that at first wounds, then heals, if we allow it. They do not treat resentment as a minor flaw of temperament or a passing emotional reaction. They name it for what it is: a poison that slowly erodes the soul’s capacity to remember God. Abba Makarios goes straight to the heart of the matter. To remember wrongs is not simply to remember events. It is to allow those events to take up residence within us, to become a lens through which everything is filtered. The tragedy is not primarily that we remain hurt. It is that the remembrance of God grows faint. The mind cannot hold both rancor and divine remembrance at the same time. One displaces the other. When resentment is cherished, prayer becomes difficult, then hollow, then distorted. The heart turns inward and begins to feed on its own injuries. The Fathers are unsparing here because they know how subtle rancor is. Other sins shock us into repentance. A lie, a fall, a moment of weakness often leaves the soul groaning almost immediately. But rancor settles in quietly. It eats and sleeps with us. It walks beside us like a companion we no longer question. Abba Isaiah and the Elder of the Cells both know this danger. Resentment does not merely coexist with spiritual life; it corrodes it from within, like rust consuming iron. The soul grows hard while imagining itself justified. And yet, alongside this severity, there is a startling tenderness. The Fathers do not say that healing comes through argument, vindication, or emotional catharsis. They prescribe something far more humbling and far more powerful: prayer for the one who has wounded us. Not a feeling of goodwill, not an internal resolution, but the concrete act of standing before God and interceding. Again and again the teaching is the same. Pray for him. Pray for her. Force yourself if you must. Obey even when the heart resists. The story of the brother who obeyed the Elder and prayed is quietly miraculous. Nothing dramatic happens. There is no confrontation, no apology demanded, no psychological analysis. Within a week, the anger is gone. Not suppressed. Extinguished. Grace works where the will yields, even reluctantly. The healing is not self-generated. It is given. The account of the two brothers under persecution reveals just how serious this is. One accepts reconciliation and is strengthened beyond his natural limits. The other clings to ill will and collapses under the same torments. The difference is not courage or endurance. It is love. Grace remains where love remains. When rancor is chosen, protection is withdrawn, not as punishment, but because the soul has closed itself to the very atmosphere in which grace operates. St. Maximos names the interior mechanism with precision. Distress clings to the memory of the one who harmed us. The image of the person becomes fused with pain. Prayer loosens that bond. When we pray, distress is separated from memory. Slowly, the person is no longer experienced as an enemy but as a suffering human being in need of mercy. Compassion does not excuse the wrong. It dissolves its power. What is perhaps most astonishing is the Fathers’ confidence that kindness can heal not only the one who was wounded, but the one who wounds. Be kind to the person who harbors resentment against you, St. Maximos says, and you may deliver him from his passion. This is not naïveté. It is spiritual realism. Demons feed on mutual hostility. They lose their dwelling place when humility and gentleness appear. Foxes flee when the ground is no longer hospitable. St. Ephraim’s image is unforgettable. Rancor drives knowledge from the heart the way smoke drives away bees. The heart was made to gather sweetness. When bitterness fills the air, nothing can remain. Tears, prayer, and the offering of oneself like incense clear the space again. This teaching is beautiful because it is honest. It does not minimize the pain of insult or harm. It is cha

What St Isaac exposes here is not a technique but a diagnosis. He is ruthless because the sickness is deep. The soul is meant to be good soil but soil is not neutral ground. It either receives the seed with vigilance or it becomes choked. Remembrance of God is not a poetic feeling but a sustained pressure on the heart a vigilance that does not sleep. When this remembrance is alive the soul becomes a place where God Himself shades and illumines. There is no romance here. Light appears inside darkness not because the darkness is denied but because the soul has chosen to stand watch within it. St Isaac refuses to let us spiritualize our way around the body. The belly is not incidental. What enters the mouth reaches the heart. He speaks bluntly because self deception thrives in vagueness. Excess dulls perception. Pleasure thickens the air of the soul. Wisdom is not stolen from us by demons alone but smothered by our own indulgence. A full belly does not merely weaken resolve it fuels lust because the body has been trained to demand satisfaction. This is not moralism. It is anthropology. The knowledge of God does not coexist with a body that has been enthroned. Here asceticism is revealed as truth telling. It strips away the lie that discipline is punishment. Labor is not opposed to grace. Labor is the ground where grace becomes intelligible. St Isaac compares it to labor pains because knowledge of God is not an idea grasped but a life brought forth. Without toil there is no birth only fantasy. Sloth does not simply delay holiness it gives birth to shame because the soul knows it has avoided the cost of truth. This is where the inner disposition becomes decisive. Asceticism without remembrance hardens into pride. Asceticism without humility becomes violence against the self. But remembrance without discipline dissolves into sentimentality. St Isaac holds them together because life demands it. The question is not how much one fasts or how little one sleeps but whether the heart is consenting to be trained. Discipline embraced with resentment breeds bitterness. Discipline embraced with attention becomes wisdom. In an age starved of living elders this teaching cuts even deeper. We are tempted either to abandon asceticism entirely or to turn it into a private project shaped by personality and preference. St Isaac offers neither comfort. He places responsibility back into the hands of the one who desires God. The absence of elders does not absolve us. It makes inner honesty more urgent. The body becomes the first elder. Hunger teaches restraint. Fatigue teaches humility. Failure teaches mercy. If these are ignored no amount of reading will save us. Christ’s closeness to the mouth of the one who endures hardship is not sentimental reassurance. It is promise and warning. He draws near to the body that has consented to the Cross. Not to the body pampered under the language of balance or self care. The care Christ offers is not the removal of hardship but His presence within it. Asceticism then is not heroic excess but fidelity to reality. It is the refusal to live divided. Priceless indeed is labor wrought with wisdom because it produces not control but clarity. The soul begins to see. And once it sees it can no longer pretend. --- Text of chat during the group: 00:01:50 Fr. Charbel Abernethy: Page 170 paragraph 5 00:06:54 susan: how is lori hatari? 00:14:30 Fr. Charbel Abernethy: Page 170 paragraph 5 00:27:40 Eleana Urrego: the brain register emotional and physical pain in the same way. 00:29:59 Jessica McHale: A question about ascetic disciplines of the body: I discerned monastic life with an order of nuns that wouldn't let me fast.(3 times a week was all I was asking) and wouldn't allow me to exercise more than a contemplative walk (which is not exercise to me). I feel very much called to fast for spiritual reasons and called to bodily stewardship as well. It's very personal. I coudl never understand how monastic nuns could

The Fathers do not speak gently about what we like to call small sins. They expose them as seeds of death planted quietly in the heart. What appears minor in the mind becomes lethal in communion. A thought of irritation. A private judgment. A silent refusal to justify the other. These are not harmless interior movements. They are choices. They shape the heart long before they surface in words or actions. Abba Poimen cuts straight through our self deception. Hatred of evil does not begin with outrage at what is wrong in others. It begins with the hatred of my own sin and the justification of my brother. Until that happens everything else is theater. We think we hate evil when in fact we are protecting our ego. We think we are zealous for righteousness when we are only defending an image of ourselves that needs someone else to be wrong. The Fathers are relentless because they know how the mind works. A God loving soul begins to feel anger not because it is pure but because it is awakening. As the heart starts to turn toward God the soul becomes sensitive to injustice. But this sensitivity is dangerous. It can become poison if it is not purified by love. What begins as a reaction to evil quickly becomes hatred of the person. The Fathers insist that this is where knowledge of God dies. Hatred and the knowledge of God cannot coexist in the same heart. The moment I consent to hatred I lose sight of God even if I continue to speak His name and defend His truth. This is not theoretical. It is experiential. The soul darkens. Prayer dries up. The heart becomes rigid. The neighbor becomes an object. God who now dwells in that neighbor is no longer seen. Abba Isaac presses the knife deeper. Do not hate the sinner because you too are guilty. Hatred reveals that love has already departed. And where love is absent God is absent. This is not moralism. It is ontology. God is love. To lose love is to lose God. We imagine that our resentment is justified. We imagine that our anger is righteous. But the Fathers tell us to weep instead. Weep for the sinner. Pray for him. Not because his sin is small but because hatred destroys you faster than his sin destroys him. The devil mocks all of us. Why then do we join him in mocking our brother. Compassion is not weakness. It is participation in the way God bears the world. The story of Nicephoros is terrifying because it shows where unrepented interior sins lead. A friendship shattered by something never healed. A priest who offers the Bloodless Sacrifice while harboring rancor. A refusal to forgive that hardens over time. Nothing dramatic at first. No public scandal. Just silence. Avoidance. The turning away of the eyes. But this silent sin grows until it devours everything. At the moment of martyrdom when crowns are already prepared rancor proves stronger than torture. The priest who endured the rack cannot endure humility. He would rather deny Christ than forgive his brother. This is the end of so called minor sins. They hollow out the heart until there is nothing left to stand on when the final test comes. Nicephoros on the other hand does nothing extraordinary by worldly standards. He begs. He weeps. He humbles himself. He refuses to protect his pride. He places communion above justice as he understands it. And this love becomes his martyrdom. The Fathers make the conclusion unavoidable. It is not ascetic feats or heroic endurance that reconcile us to God but love of neighbor. Without it everything collapses. Prayer becomes noise. Zeal becomes violence. Faith becomes an empty confession. The Evergetinos does not allow us to hide behind abstractions. God has taken up residence in the other. Every thought against my brother is a wound in my own heart. Every refusal to forgive is a refusal of communion. The tragedy is not that we fall but that we excuse what hardens us. The minor sins we tolerate in the mind become the walls that separate us from God. And the only way back is the way Niceph

St Isaac begins Homily Six like one who will not let us hide from ourselves. He does not admire our efforts nor comfort our vanity. He forces us to look directly at what we are and at what we truly desire. A man who slips into accidental sins, he says, is not wicked but weak. And God allows this weakness to appear so that the conscience is pierced and the truth becomes unavoidable. God does not let the soul rise above these falls before its second birth because He wants us awake rather than respectable. Our failures become a kind of mercy. They expose the illusion that we are strong or self sufficient or spiritually advanced. They ask one question above all others. Do you desire God at all It is a raw question. A frightening question. Yet every stumble presses it deeper into the heart. If we fall and tremble the heart is alive. If we fall and justify ourselves the heart is asleep. Isaac calls that shameless. He says that without fervent faith or fear or chastisement the soul will never truly draw near to the love of God. These are not punishments but the three torches that light the way toward Him. If I resist them I do not want God himself. I want an idol shaped like comfort or control or admiration. Then Isaac turns to the roots beneath the roots. Turbulent thoughts come from gluttony. Ignorance and superficiality come from constant talk. Worry over worldly matters scatters the soul like chaff tossed into the wind. These are not merely moral observations. They are spiritual symptoms. They show us the condition of the heart. I can fast until my stomach twists and keep vigil until my knees ache yet if my thoughts are full of resentment or anxious grasping or the need to preserve my image then all my labors remain barren. The body strains while the passions settle deeper into the mind. Nothing changes because nothing inside has surrendered. Isaac gives an image that cuts to the bone. The man who clings to anxiety or covetousness or the memory of wrongs is like one who sows seed into thorns. He works. He sweats. He prays. He begs God to respond. Yet when he lies on his bed he groans because he cannot reap a harvest. The soil itself has been sabotaged by his thoughts. He fasts and wonders why God does not see. He humbles himself outwardly yet inwardly still clings to his own desires. God answers through the prophet. In the very day of your fasts you do your own wills. You sacrifice your free will to your own idols when you should be offering it to Me. It is one of the most devastating revelations in Scripture. The greatest offering we possess is the free will. And we lay it not on the altar of God but before our own desires. Here Isaac is not simply giving ascetical instruction. He is tearing open the heart to expose its truth. He is asking us to face the one question we spend our lives avoiding. Do you really want God or do you only want the appearance of holiness. Do you want the Kingdom or do you want the feeling of being spiritual. Do you want the fire of God or do you want to protect your own self created identity. Until we answer this honestly all asceticism remains external and fruitless. The early lines of Homily Six are not gentle. They are surgical. They strip away excuses and self deception. They show us that the spiritual life is not perfected by effort alone but by the purification of desire. Not by striving but by surrender. Not by vigils and fasts but by a heart emptied of its own will. I will never know God until I want Him more than I want myself. And my accidental sins are the strange mercy that reveals how much I still cling to myself. Isaac begins with our weakness so that we might finally seek the One who heals. He begins with our falls so that true longing may rise. He reveals our poverty so that desire for God might no longer be a sentence we say but a cry that burns within us. --- Text of chat during the group: 00:05:35 Fr. Charbel Abernethy: Page 169 Homily 6 00:05:49 Janine: Father can you sa

There is a remarkable clarity in these sayings and stories a piercing simplicity that both unsettles and consoles. The Evergetinos places before us the most difficult and necessary truth. The evil done to us is not a detour on the spiritual path but the path itself. Wickedness does not destroy wickedness. Resentment never cures resentment. Anger never frees us from anger. Only goodness that is unmerited and uncalculating has the power to unmake what evil intends to build. It is a truth we often admire in abstraction and dread in practice. The Fathers do not theorize about forgiveness. They reveal what forgiveness becomes when enfleshed. A man betrayed unto martyrdom thanks his betrayer for delivering him to blessing. A brother who has been stealing bread from a starving elder receives not reproach but gratitude. The monk who finds his life endangered cries out to warn the very man who led him into danger and would have robbed him. These stories do not soften the challenge but intensify it. The gospel is not a philosophical proposition but a cruciform way of being. And the cross is never abstract. It always has a name and a face and a voice that has wounded us. It is in the seventh story that the Fathers hand us the key for understanding the rest. The one who injures me is not merely an adversary but a physician. The one who slanders or ignores or mocks me reveals the wound of my vainglory. The one who takes what is mine uncovers my greed. The encounter that disturbs my peace does not create the sickness. It unmasks it. To resent the one who exposes it is to reject the medicine of Christ. It is to say to the Healer not this way not through this pain not at this cost. Yet without accepting what is bitter there can be no cure. Such a word lands upon the heart with weight. It does not flatter our natural instincts or offer comforting sentiment. It is a summons to a death of self that cannot be faked and cannot be delayed without consequence. But if these stories demand much they give even more. The elder who kissed the hands of the thief died with the joy of one who knew the road to the Kingdom was paved by the mercy he showed to others. The patriarch who ransomed the man who robbed him knew the sweetness of compassion that does not remember wrongs. The elder who visited his accuser in prison tasted the freedom of one whose heart was no longer governed by injury. There is joy here not the fleeting spark of vindication but the deep quiet illumination that comes when the soul sees that nothing done to us can keep us from the Kingdom if we allow grace to transfigure it. To forgive is not merely to release another. It is to be released. To bless those who curse us is to breathe a different air. To see those who injure us as agents of healing is to discover that the road into God is not guarded by our enemies but escorted by them. The Evergetinos does not give us a map but it reveals the terrain of the heart. It shows that the spiritual life depends less on what happens to us than on how we respond. And in doing so it opens before us not just a path but a promise. Mercy is not only an obligation but a liberation. Love is not only commanded but possible. And the wounds we receive if we accept them in Christ become the very places where the Kingdom dawns. --- Text of chat during the group: 00:01:17 Fr. Charbel Abernethy: Page 321 00:01:23 Fr. Charbel Abernethy: Number 2 00:04:20 Fr. Charbel Abernethy: Philokaliaministries.org/blog 00:09:55 Bob Čihák, AZ: P. 321 section E, # 2 00:12:45 Catherine Opie: Apologies for being late where are we? 00:12:53 Bob Čihák, AZ: P. 321 section E, # 2 00:21:21 John Burmeister: are we talking money or a material item 00:25:16 Forrest: The Greek words in the passage for what to give is is μικρὰν εὐλογίαν, which is a literally "small good word."  that, is, a small good blessing. 00:25:49 Una’s iPhone: Simone Weil? 00:26:02 John Burmeister: Reacted to "The Greek words in t..." with 👍 00:26:14 Una’

St. Isaac speaks as one who knows the earthquake at the root of the soul where pride fractures us from God and humility alone builds a refuge strong enough to endure the storm. His words are not gentle suggestions for the religiously inclined. They are fire. They are rope flung into deep water. They are an indictment of every heart that waits for suffering to discover prayer for temptation to discover the need for mercy for collapse to remember God. “Before the war begins, seek after your ally.”This is the secret. The humbled man begins today when there is no battle when the sea is calm and the sky soft. He builds his ark plank by plank small obediences simple prayers hidden acts of self abasement not because the flood is visible but because he knows it is certain. This is the wisdom of the saints: that peace is the time for labor not repose. The iniquitous drown because they mock preparation. They call upon God after pride has stripped them of confidence. Their throat is tight when they pray because they never bent it before in the dust. Humility is the timber that keeps the soul afloat when the heavens split open. St. Isaac dares to tell us that a good heart weeps with joy in prayer. Not from sentimentality not from sorrow alone but from the unbearable nearness of God. Tears become proof that the heart has softened enough to feel Him. A proud heart however disciplined outwardly prays like a clenched fist. It asks but it does not need. It petitions but does not depend. A humble heart begs like a man drowning and this is why God hears him. “Voluntary and steadfast endurance of injustice purifies the heart.”Here the Saint wounds our sensibilities. He tells us that we cannot become like Christ unless we willingly stand beneath the blow and let it fall without retaliation without argument without self defense. Only those for whom the world has died can endure this with joy. For the world’s children honor is oxygen. To be slandered or forgotten is death. But when the world is already a corpse to us when reputation comfort applause identity have all been buried then injustice becomes not humiliation but purification. Not defeat but ascent. This virtue is rare he says too rare to be found among one’s own people one’s familiar circles one’s comfortable life. To learn it often requires exile the stripping away of all natural support so that only God remains. He alone becomes the witness of one’s patience. He alone becomes consolation. He alone becomes vindication. And then comes the heart of St. Isaac’s blow: “As grace accompanies humility so do painful incidents accompany pride.”Humility is the magnet of mercy. Pride is the invitation to destruction. God Himself turns His face toward the humble not in pity but in delight. Their nothingness is spacious enough for Him to enter. He fills emptiness not fullness. He pours glory into the vessel that has shattered self importance. But when pride rises like a tower God sends winds against it not to annihilate us but to collapse what we build against Him. The humble man does not seek honor for he knows what it costs the soul. He bows first greets first yields first. His greatness is hidden like an ember under ash but heaven sees it glowing. Divine honor chases him like a hound. It is the proud who chase praise and never catch it but the self emptying who flee honor and find it placed upon them by the hand of God. “Be contemptible in your own eyes and you will see the glory of God in yourself.”Not self hatred but truth. Not despair but sobriety. Not rejection of one’s humanity but recognition that without God we have no light no love no breath. When we descend beneath ourselves God descends to meet us. When we stop defending our wounds He heals them. Humility is not psychological abasement but the unveiling of reality: only God is great and the one who knows this sees God everywhere even within his own nothingness. Blessed truly blessed is the man who seems worthless to others yet

There is a single thread running through these lives and sayings, like a hidden vein of gold through rough stone. It is the fierce and terrifying command of Christ to love those who wrong us, to turn every injury into an open door to the Kingdom, and to see in every enemy the physician of our soul. In Saint Longinos we see what it means when love has completely displaced fear. He receives the men sent to kill him as honored guests. He feeds them, questions them gently, and when he learns they are to be his executioners, his heart does not recoil. He does not expose them, does not flee, does not calculate how to save his life. He rejoices. He calls them bearers of good things. He sees their swords as the keys that will unlock the true homeland, the Jerusalem on high. The hospitality he offers them becomes the doorway to his martyrdom, and his martyrdom becomes the consummation of that hospitality. He has so fully handed his life to Christ that those who come to destroy him are welcomed as friends. In Saint Theodora, there is a quieter, but no less burning, heroism. Those who envy her virtue set a trap for her and quietly send her into danger at night, hoping she will be devoured by beasts. God turns the malice back on itself. A wild animal guides her like a gentle servant and later nearly kills the doorkeeper, whom she then rescues, heals, and restores. When the superior asks who sent her into such danger, she protects her brothers and hides their sin. She will not expose them, even when the truth would justify her and reveal their cruelty. She bears their malice in silence and lets grace fall on those who had wished her dead. Her humility is as great a wonder as the miracle. Abba Motios shows us what reconciliation looks like in a heart that has allowed grace to ripen over time. He has been opposed, wounded, and driven away. Yet when he hears that the very brother who grieved him has come, he does not hesitate. He breaks down the door of his own hermitage in his eagerness to meet him. He prostrates, embraces, entertains, and rejoices in the one who had been the cause of his exile. The one who injured him becomes the occasion of his elevation to the episcopacy. The doorway to deeper sanctity is opened not by separation, but by reconciliation freely embraced. The conclusion is inescapable and sobering. To keep a grudge is to consent to spiritual death. To hold tightly to injury is to loosen our hold on Christ. Rancor darkens the mind, gives demons room to rest, and drives true spiritual knowledge away, like smoke driving out bees. Yet the same stories also breathe hope. Every wrong remembered can be turned into prayer. Every face that stirs distress can become the face for whom I beg mercy. Every memory of injury can be transformed into an occasion for thanksgiving, if I accept it as medicine from the hand of Christ. The elders tell me to send a gift to the one who insults me, to pray fervently for the one who harms me, to keep my countenance joyful when meeting those who speak against me, to refuse even the secret delight when misfortune falls on someone who has hurt me. This is not softness. It is crucifixion. It is the slow, deliberate choice to let Christ’s mind and heart take shape in me, until I can look at those who betray me and say with truth: you are the cause of blessings for me. If I want to belong to Christ, then I must learn to see every enemy as a hidden benefactor, every wound as a gate, every slight as a purifying fire. The saints do not simply tell me to let go of resentment. They show me how far love can go, and how much is at stake. Between Longinos and those who killed him, between Theodora and her envious brothers, I am being asked to choose which heart will become my own. --- Text of chat during the group: 00:02:49 Fr. Charbel Abernethy: Volume II Page 317 Section C 00:03:37 Fr. Charbel Abernethy: Philokaliaministries.org/blog 00:08:36 Fr. Charbel Abernethy: Volume II Page 317 Section C 00:10:2

St. Isaac speaks as one who knows the earthquake at the root of the soul where pride fractures us from God and humility alone builds a refuge strong enough to endure the storm. His words are not gentle suggestions for the religiously inclined. They are fire. They are rope flung into deep water. They are an indictment of every heart that waits for suffering to discover prayer for temptation to discover the need for mercy for collapse to remember God. “Before the war begins, seek after your ally.”This is the secret. The humbled man begins today when there is no battle when the sea is calm and the sky soft. He builds his ark plank by plank small obediences simple prayers hidden acts of self abasement not because the flood is visible but because he knows it is certain. This is the wisdom of the saints: that peace is the time for labor not repose. The iniquitous drown because they mock preparation. They call upon God after pride has stripped them of confidence. Their throat is tight when they pray because they never bent it before in the dust. Humility is the timber that keeps the soul afloat when the heavens split open. St. Isaac dares to tell us that a good heart weeps with joy in prayer. Not from sentimentality not from sorrow alone but from the unbearable nearness of God. Tears become proof that the heart has softened enough to feel Him. A proud heart however disciplined outwardly prays like a clenched fist. It asks but it does not need. It petitions but does not depend. A humble heart begs like a man drowning and this is why God hears him. “Voluntary and steadfast endurance of injustice purifies the heart.”Here the Saint wounds our sensibilities. He tells us that we cannot become like Christ unless we willingly stand beneath the blow and let it fall without retaliation without argument without self defense. Only those for whom the world has died can endure this with joy. For the world’s children honor is oxygen. To be slandered or forgotten is death. But when the world is already a corpse to us when reputation comfort applause identity have all been buried then injustice becomes not humiliation but purification. Not defeat but ascent. This virtue is rare he says too rare to be found among one’s own people one’s familiar circles one’s comfortable life. To learn it often requires exile the stripping away of all natural support so that only God remains. He alone becomes the witness of one’s patience. He alone becomes consolation. He alone becomes vindication. And then comes the heart of St. Isaac’s blow: “As grace accompanies humility so do painful incidents accompany pride.”Humility is the magnet of mercy. Pride is the invitation to destruction. God Himself turns His face toward the humble not in pity but in delight. Their nothingness is spacious enough for Him to enter. He fills emptiness not fullness. He pours glory into the vessel that has shattered self importance. But when pride rises like a tower God sends winds against it not to annihilate us but to collapse what we build against Him. The humble man does not seek honor for he knows what it costs the soul. He bows first greets first yields first. His greatness is hidden like an ember under ash but heaven sees it glowing. Divine honor chases him like a hound. It is the proud who chase praise and never catch it but the self emptying who flee honor and find it placed upon them by the hand of God. “Be contemptible in your own eyes and you will see the glory of God in yourself.”Not self hatred but truth. Not despair but sobriety. Not rejection of one’s humanity but recognition that without God we have no light no love no breath. When we descend beneath ourselves God descends to meet us. When we stop defending our wounds He heals them. Humility is not psychological abasement but the unveiling of reality: only God is great and the one who knows this sees God everywhere even within his own nothingness. Blessed truly blessed is the man who seems worthless to others yet

The Evergetinos gathers these stories around a single, unsettling truth:those who endure injustice with gratitude and refuse to avenge themselves become truly rich, and God Himself becomes their defender. Abba Mark says it simply and without comfort: “He who is wronged by someone, and does not seek redress, truly believes in Christ, and receives a hundredfold in this life and eternal life in the age to come.” The measure is not whether we suffer wrong, but what we do with it. Injustice is assumed. The question is whether we turn it into a weapon or an altar. Gelasios endures theft and humiliation at the hands of Vacatos. He stands his ground about the monastic cell for God’s sake, but he does not pursue his abuser, does not drag him to court, does not stir up others to defend him. He lets God see. And God does see. Symeon unveils Vacatos’ hidden intent, and the man’s own journey to prosecute the “man of God” becomes the road of his judgment. The Elder does nothing, yet everything is revealed. His stillness becomes the place where the truth about both men is made manifest. Pior works three years without wages. Each time he labors, each time he is sent away empty-handed, and each time he returns quietly to his monastery. His silence is not cowardice; it is poverty of spirit. The employer’s house, not Pior’s heart, collapses under injustice. Only when calamity has broken him does he go searching for the monk, wages in hand, begging forgiveness and confessing, “The Lord paid me back.” Pior will not even reclaim what is his. He allows it to be given to the Church, because his life is no longer measured by what he is owed. He has stepped out of the economy of recompense into the freedom of God. The Elder whose cell is robbed twice endures in an even more piercing way. First he leaves a note: “Leave me half for my needs.” Then, when all is taken, he still does not accuse. Only when the thief lies dying, tortured in soul and unable to depart, does he confess and call for the Elder. As soon as the Elder prays, his soul is released. The one who was wronged becomes the priest at the threshold of death. The one who stole cannot die in peace until he passes under the mercy of the man he robbed. Here judgment is revealed as truth entering the heart, and God’s “avenging” consists in turning the wound of the innocent into medicine for the guilty. In Menas, this same mystery ripens into martyrdom. Menas stands literally on bones, his flesh cut away, and chants, “My foot hath stood in uprightness.” His body is mutilated, but his praise is whole. The attempt to silence him only reveals where his life truly rests. In the end even his persecutor becomes a believer and shares his martyrdom. In Menas, injustice is not merely endured; it becomes the final gift by which God crowns His friends. Peter’s discourse with Clement names the inner logic of all this. Those who wrong others, he says, actually wrong themselves most deeply, while those who are wronged, if they endure with love, gain purification and forgiveness. Possessions become occasions of sin; their unjust loss, when borne rightly, becomes the removal of sins. Enemies, for a brief time, maltreat those they hate—but in God’s providence they become the cause of their victims’ deliverance from eternal punishment. Seen this way, those who harm us are, in a hidden manner, our benefactors. Only the one who loves God greatly can bear to see this and respond with love instead of resentment. --- Text of chat during the group: 00:03:52 Fr. Charbel Abernethy: Page 310 Volume II - Section B 00:08:56 Fr. Charbel Abernethy: Page 310 Volume II - Section B 00:10:20 Fr. Charbel Abernethy: Philokaliaministries.org/blog 00:18:09 Fr. Charbel Abernethy: Page 310 Volume II - Section B 00:18:15 Fr. Charbel Abernethy: http://Philokaliaministries.org/blog 00:21:46 Bob Čihák, AZ: P. 310 section B 00:32:59 Bob Čihák, AZ: P. 312 # 2 00:34:19 Anthony: Witholding wages is one of the few sins that cry out to h

St Isaac reveals a truth that is both luminous and frightening. He tells us plainly that nothing shapes the soul more profoundly than the afflictions God allows. In prosperity, the heart drifts. It forgets that it is a creature, and begins to imagine that the strength of its own hand has gained these things. In comfort, the soul becomes dull. In praise, it becomes intoxicated. And in success it begins, slowly, almost imperceptibly, to enthrone itself. So God, in His mercy, disrupts this illusion. He sends the tutors of grief and the teachers of fear. Not because He delights in suffering, but because He knows what the soul becomes without it. St Isaac speaks with severity because he has seen the madness of those who, having tasted power, wealth, or health, forgot the One who gave them breath and dared to call themselves gods. Nothing is more lethal to the spiritual life than a life free from the memory of God. Thus God places the soul in the crucible of adversity so that remembrance might be rekindled. He stirs us with the fear of things hostile, not to crush us, but to drive us toward the gate of His mercy. And when He delivers us, His deliverance becomes a seed of love. When He comforts us, His comfort becomes a memory of His providence. When He saves us, His salvation becomes the ground of gratitude. This is the strange and paradoxical path St Isaac sets before us:afflictions become the birthplace of divine sonship.Within their furnace the soul learns who God is, learns how He cares, learns how to love and to give thanks. But St Isaac pushes further. Affliction alone is insufficient if the soul does not respond with remembrance. Forgetfulness is the true death, the soul’s quiet apostasy. Thus he commands:Seat yourself before the Lord continually.Do not let your heart wander into trivial anxieties lest, when the hour of trial comes, you find yourself unable to speak boldly before the One you barely remember. Intimacy with God is born of continual conversing with Him. Forgetting Him is not merely a lapse but a rupture in the bond of trust. And then he reveals the fruit: from long abiding in this remembrance, the soul is drawn into wonder. The heart that seeks the Lord begins to rejoice. The condemned become strengthened. The repentant become purified by the brightness of His face. Finally, St Isaac places before us the two paths, both simple and searching.The sinner who returns will not stumble over his sins; the Lord will not remember them.The righteous man who falls and persists in his sin cannot rely on his former virtues; he will die in the darkness he has chosen. Everything depends on the present turning of the heart. St Isaac’s words strike with the clarity of desert fire. Affliction is not the enemy but the womb of remembrance. Suffering is not punishment but invitation. Every grief becomes a gate. And the soul that accepts the discipline of remembrance, that seats itself continually before God, finds that even the darkest circumstances become a field where the seeds of divine love take root and flower. --- Text of chat during the group: 00:03:23 Sam: Hi Fr. Greetings from hot and humid oz. Could you please let me know your email address. I'll reach out and let you know of my schedule as keen to travel to Pittsburg. Thanks Sam 00:03:57 Fr. Charbel Abernethy: philokaliaministries@gmail.com 00:04:04 Sam: Thanks 00:12:07 Fr. Charbel Abernethy: Page 162 paragraph 24 00:12:28 Fr. Charbel Abernethy: philokaliaministries.org/blog 00:14:50 Fr. Charbel Abernethy: https://www.philokaliaministries.org/blog 00:14:52 Thomas: Good 00:14:59 Thomas: In library for study tables so can’t talk 00:15:17 Thomas: Fall season is over but we’ve got lifts and conditions now 00:15:29 Thomas: Yeah it’s not great 00:16:05 Thomas: That has happened a couple times 00:16:42 Fr. Charbel Abernethy: https://www.philokaliaministries.org/blog 00:16:43 susan: how is laurie recovering? 00:33:56 Maureen Cunningham: Brother Lawrence 00:36:59 Maure

There are moments when the Evergetinos confronts us with a vision so stark and so luminous that it seems almost uninhabitable. It is not a juridical vision of justice. It is not a measured discourse about the protection of innocents. It does not weigh competing moral claims or concerns about equity or rights. What it reveals is something else entirely. It opens before us the divine ethos, the mode of being that belongs to those who have been seized by God, transformed by grace, and re-shaped through hesychia into a likeness of Christ that defies all earthly logic. It is the unvarnished gospel in its rawest form. When the philosophers insult the monk from the Libyan desert, and he rushes toward them with eagerness, offering his cheek to their hands, it is not a lesson in social ethics. It is not a prescription for how a parent is to protect a child or how a citizen must respond to injustice. It is a revelation of the interior world of a man who watches over his mind and hopes only in the grace of God. The philosophers fast. The philosophers keep vigil. They practice disciplines that appear nearly identical. What they cannot do—what they admit they cannot do—is guard the mind in purity and allow insults to pass through the heart without stirring anger. In this they recognize the divine in the monk. They bow to him because a man who can endure injustice without disturbance is living from a realm they cannot inhabit. The Evergetinos offers no apologies for this. It does not soften its witness. When the elder watches his garden destroyed and asks only to keep a single root so he might cook for the one who has wrecked the rest, he is not giving us a moral theory. He is revealing what the human heart becomes when it rests in the Spirit. The elder who lights a lamp for thieves and joyfully hands them his last coins is not attempting to reform criminal behavior, nor is he calculating social consequences. His joy is not naivete. It is the fire of Christ’s own meekness living in him. And yet we must be honest. These stories do not address the complexities of the world in which most people live. They do not speak directly to the father protecting his family, the mother guarding her children, the priest shepherding a wounded community, or the layperson navigating systems of injustice. The Evergetinos does not pause to balance competing goods. It does not acknowledge the dangers that arise when evil is left unchecked. It is not a handbook for civil society. It is something far more dangerous. It presents us with the highest vision of a human heart purified by grace, a life transfigured to such a degree that it can absorb wrongs as Christ absorbed them. The gospel is not diluted. In fact, it becomes unbearable in its purity. The elder who prays for the grace to respond to thieves with joy receives exactly what he asks for. God answers him not with consolation but with thieves at his door. He lights a lamp, welcomes them, opens his coffers, and blesses them as they leave with everything he owns. He asks for nothing in return, not even their repentance. When asked whether they came back like the thieves in the story, he laughs and says he preferred that they did not. He was not following a legal principle. He was walking the path he had begged God to let him walk. The suffering he endured was not a loss. It was the fruit of a longing for likeness with Christ. And then there are the stories of divine recompense, e.g., St. John the Merciful and the miraculous jars of honey that turn to gold, the injustices endured by monks which become occasions for God to act as avenger. These are not examples of magical thinking. They are testimonies that God sees everything, that the meek are not abandoned, that those who refuse to avenge themselves have placed their trust in the only One capable of true judgment. The elders are not naïve about injustice. They simply refuse to litigate their own wounds. They trust that God Himself will set things

The Evergetinos sets the bar of freedom in a surprising place: anger without cause is not when we flare up over trifles, but whenever we react to any ill-treatment aimed at us. Abba Poimen sharpens the point: even if a brother were to gouge out an eye or cut off a hand, anger would still be without cause—unless he were separating us from God. In other words, the only justified “anger” is zeal for communion with God; all other indignation binds us to the injury and darkens the nous. From this first edge, the text moves to the Christ-likeness of suffering injustice. One who willingly bears wrongs and forgives becomes “like Jesus”; one who neither wrongs nor suffers wrong is merely “like Adam”; one who wrongs is “like the Devil.” The goal is not moral equilibrium but kenosis: to descend into the humility of Christ who “was reviled and did not revile in return.” The Evergetinos then baptizes our imagination with stories. Abba Gelasios’ costly book is stolen; he neither exposes the thief nor reclaims it, but quietly commends the buyer to purchase it. His silence pricks the thief’s conscience more effectively than accusation; repentance follows, and the thief remains to be formed by the elder’s life. Abba Evprepios helps thieves carry his goods; noticing a robber’s staff left behind, he runs after them to return it. Abba John the Persian offers to wash the feet of intruders; shame breaks their hardness more swiftly than punishment. Abba Makarios not only helps a thief load a camel with his own belongings; when the animal refuses to rise, he adds the missing tool and blesses the thief’s going—only then does the camel sit again, until everything is returned. These vignettes train the heart to a habitual non-resistance that is anything but passivity; it is a deliberate, creative meekness that seeks the other’s salvation. Not all the stories end with goods restored. Sometimes the elder simply rejoices to have been counted worthy to lose. One monk prays to be given the chance to imitate such forbearance; when thieves finally come, he lights a lamp, shows them everything, even discloses the hidden coins. He does not wish them to bring anything back. Here dispossession becomes doxology. “We brought nothing into the world” and “The Lord gave and the Lord has taken away” are not verses to be quoted at funerals only; they are the grammar of freedom in the face of loss. --- Text of chat during the group: 00:05:09 Fr. Charbel Abernethy: Page 304 Letter E 00:05:25 Fr. Charbel Abernethy: www.philokaliaministries.org/blog 00:10:42 Fr. Charbel Abernethy: Page 304 Letter E 00:14:35 Fr. Charbel Abernethy: https://www.philokaliaministries.org/blog 00:16:03 Bob Čihák, AZ: P. 304, letter E, # 1 00:26:24 Forrest: I am really feeling a great challenge of these writings. Can you help integrate what is in the daily mass readings today: Luke 17:3 "Be on your guard!* If your brother sins, rebuke him; and if he repents, forgive him."  The paragraphs that we are reading here do not even counsel rebuke. 00:33:05 Kate : Would you say that this habitual non-resistance is necessary for the practice of repentance, the continual turning of the mind and heart to God?  That without this non-resistance, then our repentance is not yet where it needs to be. 00:34:04 Joan Chakonas: Its been my experience that suffering injustice is actually easier than attempting correction or pushing back. 00:34:34 Nypaver Clan: Reacted to "Its been my experien..." with ❤️ 00:36:54 Joan Chakonas: My worst qualities arise when I engage in conflict or corrective confrontation.  I’m working on this 00:38:36 Joan Chakonas: I’m pretty old so I got this perspective from experience 00:39:00 Nypaver Clan: Reacted to "I’m pretty old so I ..." with 😃 00:39:59 Forrest: Reacted to "I’m pretty old so I ..." with 👍 00:40:04 Anthony: I wish we had available St Francis relationship with his family after his traumatic break. There is an account of a story with his brother, but did they all eve

God has no need of anything, yet St. Isaac tells us that He rejoices whenever a man comforts His image and honors it for His sake. The divine joy is found not in what is given but in the mercy that reflects His own. When the poor come to us, it is not their need that is the test but our response to the image of God standing before us. To refuse them is to turn away grace itself, to pass by the honor of having been found worthy to console another. The poor will not be abandoned—God will provide for them—but the one who closes his heart has turned aside the gift of participating in God’s own generosity. When we give, we should bless God who has sent us the opportunity; when we have nothing to give, we should bless Him even more for allowing us to share in the poverty of Christ and the saints who walked this same path of want and trust. Illness, too, is a visitation of mercy. God sends sickness for the healing of the soul, as a physician would apply bitter medicine to draw out hidden corruption. A monk who grows careless in his service, St. Isaac says, will be visited by temptation or affliction so that he may not sink deeper into idleness. God does not abandon those who love Him, but when He sees them drifting toward forgetfulness, He sends a trial to awaken them, to make them wise again. And though they may cry out to Him, He delays His response, waiting until they understand that their sufferings arise not from divine neglect but from their own sloth and negligence. His silence is not absence but instruction, a sign that He wishes the soul to seek Him with greater purity and perseverance. Why, we might ask, does the merciful Lord not always answer those who pray with tears? St. Isaac, quoting the prophet, answers: “The Lord’s hand is not shortened that it cannot save, but our sins have separated us from Him.” It is not that God cannot hear, but that our hearts have become deafened by self-love. The remedy is remembrance—unceasing recollection of God in all things. When the heart remembers God, He remembers us in the hour of trouble, and what once seemed a wall of silence becomes the threshold of communion. Temptations, St. Isaac says, are as near to us as our own eyelids. They arise not only from without but from within, springing up from the depths of our nature. Yet even this nearness is arranged by divine wisdom so that we might be compelled to knock at His door continually, that through fear and affliction the memory of God might be sown deep within us. The soul learns to pray, not to escape suffering, but to dwell in the presence of the One who alone delivers. Through long entreaty and endurance, we come to perceive that God Himself sustains and forms us, and that this world, with its griefs and trials, is a teacher preparing us for the world to come, our true home and inheritance. God does not make us immune to what is grievous, for such immunity would lead to pride. If we were never wounded, we would imagine ourselves divine and fall into the same delusion as the adversary. It is the burden of the flesh, the uncertainty of our days, the constant approach of temptation, that keeps us humble and dependent upon mercy. Thus, for St. Isaac, every circumstance—whether abundance or lack, health or sickness, prayer answered or unanswered—is arranged by a wisdom beyond our knowing. The goal is always the same: that we might remember God, that our hearts might be softened, and that our lives might be drawn into the rhythm of His compassionate love. The divine mercy, then, is not sentimental but purifying. It allows affliction so that grace may take deeper root. It permits delay so that desire for God might grow more ardent. To the one who endures with thanksgiving, every sorrow becomes a revelation: God, who fashioned and sustains us, is both our Chastiser and our Healer, our Teacher in this passing world and our Father who awaits us in the eternal one. --- Text of chat during the group: 00:01:20 Fr. Charbel Abernethy

The Evergetinos continues to unveil through the lives of the saints the beauty and power of a heart freed from anger and the desire for vengeance. In the story of Saint Spyridon and the deceitful shipowner we see how divine simplicity disarms deceit. The Saint entrusted his gold to another with pure confidence and without suspicion, and when that trust was betrayed he did not rage or demand justice. Instead he allowed truth to reveal itself in silence. The emptiness of the box became the mirror of the man’s soul, and the words of the Saint, spoken without bitterness, pierced him more deeply than any accusation. You are defrauding yourself, not me, he said. The gentleness of the holy man became the instrument of repentance. By leaving judgment to God and refusing anger, he brought a sinner back to truth and left a testimony of meekness that is stronger than any earthly power. Saint Evthymios the New of Madytos embodied the same spirit. When thieves broke into his church and desecrated what was sacred, he prevented others from punishing them and instead took them into his home. He fed them, freed them, and sent them away forgiven. The wrath of men would have destroyed them, but his mercy broke their hearts and restored them to life. Later when he found other men stealing wheat during a famine he did not rebuke them but joined in their labor, taking the place of the accomplice who had fled. The thief, seeing later who had helped him, was overcome with fear and awe. For Evthymios, compassion was the only response to human need. His heart was so formed by divine love that he no longer regarded anything as his own. He had been freed from the possessiveness that feeds anger and from the blindness that makes us see others as enemies. All these holy ones teach that freedom is born of meekness. Anger enslaves the heart to the one who offends it, while forgiveness releases the soul into the hands of God. To bear injustice without vengeance is not weakness but participation in the strength of Christ who on the cross asked forgiveness for His murderers. To the eyes of the world these men seem defeated, yet they are the victors in the only battle that matters, the struggle against the passions. O Lord, grant me this peace of the saints. When I am wronged, let me remember Saint Spyridon’s quiet mercy, Saint Evthymios’ compassion, and the Elders’ serene acceptance. Let me not defend myself with anger or words but entrust all things to You who judge with truth. Let me see in every loss the chance to become poor in spirit, in every insult the seed of humility, in every theft the call to freedom. Teach me to bless those who wrong me and to keep my hope unshaken, for You alone are my refuge and my portion. May my only vengeance be love, my only wealth contentment, and my only victory the peace that comes from Your presence. --- Text of chat during the group: 00:03:12 Fr. Charbel Abernethy: https://www.philokaliaministries.org/blog 00:03:34 Bob Čihák, AZ: P. 301, # 3 00:05:35 Fr. Charbel Abernethy: https://www.philokaliaministries.org/blog 00:07:52 iPhone (6): Just letting you know new participant Joan Chakonas has joined the group. 00:09:21 iPhone (6): I’ll try to figure out how to change my id from “iphone6” if you see what I see 00:11:21 Fr. Charbel Abernethy: https://www.philokaliaministries.org/blog 00:13:09 Fr. Charbel Abernethy: Page 301 section 3 00:16:13 Janine: Sensus fidelium has been around for a long time 00:16:26 Fr. Charbel Abernethy: https://www.philokaliaministries.org/blog 00:16:38 Janine: It started with FSSP priests 00:16:57 jonathan: Reacted to "https://www.philokal..." with ❤️ 00:17:01 Myles Davidson: Reacted to "It started with FSSP..." with 👍 00:31:17 Bob Čihák, AZ: P. 302,  D 00:55:19 Jerimy Spencer: Aloha Father, I’ve often wrestled with the idea of stewardship vs ownership as a multi-instrumentalist, I guard these gifts (and instruments) very carefully, but also feel when I can play, they belong to everyone 0

St. Isaac writes with the clarity of one who has walked through the fire of trial and found the peace that follows surrender. His words do not flatter the soul or soften the edges of the truth. They are meant to awaken us to the living reality of divine love. He shows that what we call faith must be tested, and what we call trust must be purified, until both rest entirely in God. He begins with the martyrs who endured every torment that flesh can bear. They suffered, he says, through a “secret strength” that came from God. Their pain did not prove divine absence but revealed divine nearness. The angels themselves appeared to them, not as symbols but as real presences sent to encourage and to shame the cruelty of their persecutors. The endurance of the martyrs becomes the measure of faith. Where human nature reaches its limit, divine power begins to act. Their calm in suffering, their peace under torture, proclaim that the providence of God surrounds those who love Him even when the world rages. St. Isaac then turns to the ascetics and hermits who made the desert a dwelling place of angels. These men and women renounced the world not in bitterness but in longing. They exchanged earthly things for heavenly communion. The angels, seeing in them kindred souls, visited them continually. They taught them, guided them, strengthened them when hunger or sickness overcame their bodies. They brought them bread, healed their wounds, foretold their deaths. The desert became a city where heaven and earth met in silence. For those who abandoned the noise of the world, the unseen world became near and familiar. This leads St. Isaac to the heart of his teaching. If we truly believe that God provides for us, why do we remain anxious? Anxiety is born of unbelief. To trust in ourselves is to live in misery, but to cast our care upon the Lord is to enter into peace. The one who has surrendered everything to God walks through life with a restful mind. He is not careless but free. His rest is not laziness but confidence born of faith. Isaac describes the path to this inner freedom. The soul must learn non-possessiveness, for without it the mind is filled with turmoil. She must learn stillness of the senses, for without stillness there is no peace of heart. She must endure temptations, for without them there is no wisdom. She must read and meditate, for without this she gains no refinement of thought. She must experience the protection of God in struggle, for without that experience she cannot hope in Him with boldness. Only when she has tasted the sufferings of Christ consciously can she have communion with Him. Finally, Isaac defines the true servant of God as one who has become poor for His sake and compassionate toward all. Such a person mortifies even natural desires so that nothing distracts from love. To give to the poor is to entrust one’s life to God’s care. To become poor for His sake is to discover inexhaustible treasure. Here St. Isaac’s realism becomes luminous. He is not describing a harsh ideal but the hidden logic of divine love. God draws near to those who entrust themselves wholly to Him. Angels surround those who choose the path of surrender. The heart that abandons anxiety finds itself upheld by grace. This is the holy folly of trust. It is the wisdom of those who live as though God alone is enough and who discover in that surrender a peace that cannot be taken away. --- Text of chat during the group: 00:04:28 Fr. Charbel Abernethy: Page 158 paragraph 12 00:07:21 Fr. Charbel Abernethy: Philokaliaministries.blogspot.com 00:08:29 Fr. Charbel Abernethy: Page 158 paragraph 12 00:09:17 Fr. Charbel Abernethy: http://Philokaliaministries.blogspot.com 00:12:11 Janine: Congrats and best wishes! REN and Max 00:13:46 Janine: Yes… would love to see the pictures! 00:13:53 Thomas: This may be a strange questions, but Is Natalia Tapsak (formally Wohar) sound familiar 00:14:30 Thomas: She was my Sunday school teacher and changed at my

The stories from the Evergetinos draw us into a vision of holiness that reaches far beyond passive endurance. The saints do not simply bear injustice with patience; they transform it by the power of divine love. Their silence is not weakness, nor their gentleness naivety. It is the strength of souls utterly freed from the tyranny of self, who see in those who wrong them not enemies but brothers blinded by ignorance or fear. Saint Libertinus, robbed and humiliated, offers even the whip that might strike the animal taken from him. His response reveals the freedom of one who has already renounced everything. Possession and loss have become meaningless to him in the light of Christ. His forbearance becomes the instrument through which God corrects the offenders, not by wrath but by wonder. The earth itself bears witness, as the frightened horses refuse to cross the river until restitution is made. The entire creation responds to the humility of a righteous man. Saint Marcian allows himself to be defrauded repeatedly, not because he is unaware, but because his heart sees deeper than the transaction. The fraud of the banker becomes a moment of salvation. The silent goodness of the saint pierces the conscience of the wrongdoer far more deeply than accusation could have done. His hidden act of mercy becomes a living sermon, spoken not with words but with grace. When the banker’s eyes are opened, the saint’s only concern is to avoid vainglory, not to claim vindication. He would rather lose money than lose humility. Saint Spyridon, guileless and compassionate, meets deceit and theft not with censure but with patient truth. His words to the dishonest buyer, “Perhaps you forgot to pay for it,” reveal the tenderness of one who seeks not to shame but to heal. Even to thieves caught in the act, he offers kindness, releasing them from invisible bonds and sending them away with a gift. He teaches by generosity, not severity. The thief’s heart is not crushed but awakened. These lives reveal that true correction flows not from moral superiority but from love purified by humility. The saints’ compassion does not end with forgiveness; it embraces those who harm them, holding them within the prayer of mercy. They see the image of God even in the one who steals or lies. They refuse to reduce a sinner to his sin. For us, these examples uncover how easily we mistake indignation for righteousness. We defend ourselves with words, cling to our sense of justice, and separate ourselves from those whose actions wound us. The Fathers remind us that this self-defense closes the heart. The saint’s freedom lies in entrusting all judgment to God. To suffer wrong with love is not resignation but participation in the meekness of Christ. It is the hidden victory of grace over pride. The Evergetinos teaches that one good deed done in silence can awaken repentance more surely than a thousand admonitions. The holy do not impose virtue; they unveil it through gentleness. They correct not by exposing others’ shame but by bearing their wrongs with dignity. Such love, born of prayer, makes the conscience tremble and the heart turn toward the light. May we learn from them the art of divine tenderness.May we bear injury without bitterness,speak truth without anger,and hold every soul, even the one who wrongs us,in the compassion of Christ who forgave from the Cross. --- Text of chat during the group: 00:08:19 Fr. Charbel Abernethy: Philokaliaministries.blogspot.com 00:09:09 Fr. Charbel Abernethy: Page 297 00:13:16 Sheila Applegate: It was the most perfect homily! 00:14:26 Bob Čihák, AZ: P. 297, A 00:25:34 Bob Čihák, AZ: P. 298, B 00:34:37 Fr Martin, AZ 480-292-3381: These passages seems authentic and fruitful. The common practice I encounter in our culture of defending one's rights seems to disturb people's way of being and thinking, maybe even making their thinking obtuse in regard to their theosis or healing. I have difficulty in knowing how to gently communic