Monday 17th March, 2025

My dear Friends,

Today, we turn to one of the most powerful encounters in the Gospel: the healing of the paralytic in Mark 2:1-12. This passage reveals not only Christ’s power to heal but, more importantly, His authority to remove sins.

Sin is a difficult concept; its meaning covers a range of ideas, and it has changed over time. Nevertheless, it always carries a core meaning of ‘a category of behaviour which damages not only our relationship with God, but damages our true nature as well’. Jesus came not only to forgive sin, but – in some sense – to remove the category of sin altogether.  

It might be useful to replace the word ‘sin’ in most contexts with a question: ‘What is there in my life which separates me from God?’ In this way one can begin to address not the sin itself, but the relationship which the sin devalues.

Our Gospel story appears to be about physical healing. But as we look deeper, we see that Jesus’ first priority is something greater—the healing of the person’s immortal nature. This passage challenges us to consider what true healing means and what it is we most need from Christ.

St John Chrysostom explains why Jesus forgives before healing:

“For just as those who do not feel their wounds do not seek a physician, so too those who are not aware of their sins do not seek forgiveness. Therefore, before healing the body, Christ first heals the soul, so that once the greater is granted, the lesser may also be fittingly bestowed.” (Homilies on Matthew, 29.2)

Christ’s priorities are clear. The most pressing need is not always the one we perceive.

Jesus had returned to Capernaum, and word spread quickly among the inhabitants of the small village. The house where He was staying was quickly full and no one could get in. Four men arrived, carrying a paralysed friend on a mat. They couldn’t get through the door, so they climbed onto the roof, tore it open, and lowered the man down.

This is faith in action—persistence, creativity and refusal to accept barriers. These men were not deterred by the crowd or the difficulty of the situation. They had one goal— to bring their friend to Jesus.

Bede the Venerable reflects on this moment:

“The Lord, seeing their faith, both that of the one who was brought and of those who brought him, forgave the sins of the paralytic. Here, we learn that the faith of one person can benefit another, so that the Lord will sometimes grant to one person on account of another’s faith what He does not grant to the unfaithful on their own.” (Commentary on Mark, 2:1-12)

We might ask ourselves: How often do we let obstacles discourage us? How determined are we to bring ourselves and others to Christ? Notice that the men carrying the sick person did not try to persuade him with their words… they just brought him physically to Christ through their actions.

The first words Jesus speaks are unexpected:

“Son, your sins are forgiven.”

We might think, Wait, that’s not why they came! They wanted their friend to walk! But Jesus looks deeper. He sees the man’s greater need—not just physical healing but reconciliation with God.

St Cyril of Alexandria clarifies:

“Only God can forgive sins, and Christ does not refuse the accusation. Instead, He confirms it, proving by the healing of the paralytic that He possesses divine authority. If He were merely a man, He would not claim this power; but since He is truly God, He forgives, and the miracle confirms the truth of His words.” (Commentary on Luke, 5:17-26)

Jesus does not merely claim authority—He demonstrates it. His power to destroy sin is not abstract; it is real, effective and transformative.

The scribes, the religious experts, are watching. They immediately take issue with Jesus’ words.

“Why does this man speak like that? He is blaspheming! Who can forgive sins but God alone?”

St Gregory of Nazianzus exposes their blindness:

“The Pharisees are offended when sins are forgiven, as if they themselves were pure. But they do not realise that He who heals the body with a word can also purify the soul with a command” (Oration 40: On Holy Baptism).

They understood the theological principle that only God can forgive sins, but they failed to see the reality before them: God was in their midst, offering mercy, just as God is present in our lives, offering to do the same.

Jesus, knowing their thoughts, poses a question:

“Which is easier: to say to the paralytic, ‘Your sins are forgiven,’ or to say, ‘Rise, take up your bed, and walk’?”

To forgive sins is invisible—anyone could say the words. But to heal a paralysed man is verifiable. So Jesus does the visible miracle to prove His authority in the invisible realm.

He tells the man:

“Rise, take up your bed, and go home.”

The man stands up, picks up his mat, and walks out before them all. The physical healing proves the spiritual reality.

St Basil the Great explains why miracles matter:

“The miracles of Christ are not performed merely to astonish but to lead us to faith, so that seeing His works, we might acknowledge His divinity. Thus, He does not heal for healing’s sake, but to reveal the salvation He brings.” (Homily on Psalm 33)

This passage leaves us with key questions:

1. What do we seek from Christ?

• Do we come to Him only with practical needs, or do we recognise that our deepest need is forgiveness and reconciliation with God?

2. Are we persistent in faith?

• The paralytic’s friends did not let anything stand in their way. Do we bring ourselves and others to Christ with the same determination?

3. Do we recognise Jesus’ authority?

• The scribes resisted Him because He challenged their assumptions. Are we willing to accept Him on His terms, not ours?

At the end of the passage, the crowd is amazed and glorifies God, saying:

“We never saw anything like this!”

But this is not just a story to admire—it is a call to faith. The greatest miracle here is not the healing of the body but the authority of Christ to remove sins. That is what truly changes lives.

Like the paralytic and his friends, we need to approach Christ not only for what He can do for us outwardly but for the deep healing He offers to our eternal selves. Having entered His presence, we must be prepared to be changed and renewed as we return to our ordinary lives.

With love in Christ,

Meletios, archimandrite.

Monday 17^th February, 2025.

My dear Friends,

The parable of the Prodigal Son (Luke 15: 11-32) is one of Christ’s most well-known stories, yet it can become so familiar that we miss its depth. Many hear it as a sentimental tale of forgiveness, but what if we were to immerse ourselves in its realism? What if we considered the pain of the father, the shame of the son, and the resentment of the elder brother in a way that mirrors our own struggles?

The younger son’s request, “Father, give me the share of property that is due to me” (Luke 15:12), is not merely youthful rebellion. In the cultural context of first-century Palestine, asking for one’s inheritance while the father is still alive is tantamount to wishing him dead.

St. John Chrysostom explains: “To ask for the inheritance prematurely is to reject love and choose possessions over relationship”. The prodigal seeks autonomy but finds slavery; he desires indulgence but discovers famine.

Is this not the story of every one of us? We seek independence from God, believing it will make us free, but we find ourselves in the far country—distant from our true home, hungry for love, feeding on illusions.

Saint Gregory Palamas interprets this demand spiritually: “The son who departs signifies the soul that abandons God’s love, seeking the delusion of independence. Yet the soul, when divorced from the Father, is left with nothing but hunger and regret.”

The son does not leave with wisdom; he leaves with arrogance. His belief that wealth will grant him life echoes Adam and Eve’s illusion that knowledge apart from God would make them like Him. The road to the far country is not just physical—it is a descent into self-deception.

The phrase “he squandered his wealth in reckless living” (Luke 15:13) is often imagined as wild parties, but the Greek term ἀσώτως (asótōs) means “wastefully, ruinously.” His destruction is not only moral but existential—he is losing himself.

When famine comes, he descends into a state of utter degradation, feeding pigs—an unclean task for a Jew.

At his lowest moment, the prodigal realises his folly. He does not return because of an immediate love for the father, but out of hunger and desperation. This is a profoundly human moment—repentance often begins in self-interest, but God uses even this.

This is not merely about food; it is about spiritual starvation. How many have searched for meaning in things that left us emptier?

Remorse is only a tiny part of repentance. More than anything else, repentance is an awakening to reality. St. Theophan the Recluse says: “Sin clouds the mind, but repentance is lifting the fog, the restoration of sight. The prodigal does not find a new path; he simply sees again the one he abandoned.”

Yet, his return is hesitant. He prepares a speech, hoping to negotiate a place among the servants. Here, his misunderstanding is still evident—he expects a contract, but the Father offers a covenant of love.

The most shocking moment in the parable is not the son’s return, but the father’s reaction. In Jewish culture, an elderly man would never run—it was undignified. Yet, the father runs to his son, embraces him, and cuts off his rehearsed apology.

St. Cyril of Alexandria writes: “See the madness of God’s love! Before the son confesses, the Father has forgiven. Before he speaks, he is clothed. This is grace—love that precedes repentance.”

Notice that the father interrupts the son’s confession—he does not let him finish his rehearsed speech. Why? Because the father’s love is greater than the son’s failure.

We often do something similar in Confession. We are so busy trying to tell God how bad we are that we fail to notice that God is trying to tell us how much He loves us.

The robe, ring, and sandals are not rewards; they are restorations. The father does not just forgive—he reinstates his son’s dignity.

While the younger son’s sin is open, the elder son’s is hidden in plain sight. He has never left home, yet he is just as lost.

His resentment echoes that of the Pharisees, who grumbled at Christ’s mercy towards sinners. St. Basil the Great warns: “There is a way of obeying God that is no different from slavery—when duty replaces love.”

The elder son’s complaint, “I have served you all these years and never disobeyed” (Luke 15:29), reveals his heart. He sees himself as a servant, not a son. The father’s response, “All that is mine is yours” (Luke 15:31), is an invitation, not a rebuke.

The parable ends unresolved—the elder son’s response remains unknown. Why? Because Christ leaves the question open for us. Will we enter the feast of grace, or stay in our resentments, and suffer?

The Prodigal Son’s journey is our own. Some of us have wandered into far countries; others have stayed home with cold hearts. But the Father stands waiting for all.

St. Porphyrios of Kavsokalyvia said: “When we return to God, we do not find a judge, but an embrace.”

St. Isaac the Syrian captures this beautifully: “If you believe that God’s mercy has limits, you have imagined a human God. His love is an ocean; we are but a drop within it.”

May we come to our senses, step onto the road home, and receive the love that has always been ours. Amen.

With love in Christ,

Meletios, archimandrite.

Monday 10^th February, 2025

My dear Friends,

The parable of the Pharisee and the Tax Collector is one of Jesus’ most profound teachings on humility, repentance and the true essence of righteousness. It challenges not only our religious behaviour but also the innate human tendencies, driven by the ego, to compare, justify and elevate oneself above others.

Here is the text:

“Two men went up to the Temple to pray, one a Pharisee and the other a tax collector. The Pharisee, standing alone, prayed like this: ‘God, I thank You that I am not like other people: thieves, rogues, adulterers, or even like this tax collector. I fast twice a week; I give a tenth of all my income.’ But the tax collector, standing at a distance, would not even look up to heaven; instead, he was beating his breast and saying, ‘God, be merciful to me, a sinner!’ I tell you, this man went home justified rather than the other; for all who exalt themselves will be humbled, but all who humble themselves will be exalted.”

We need to be careful with the notion of “humility.” In our prayers, we tend to overdo our own unworthiness. We are unworthy, certainly, and in all sorts of ways. But we are still the children of God. Spiritual humility has more to do with “being real.” Being the person we really are is the deepest form of humility. Scraping away the false coverings of the ego not only reveals who we are… but also reveals the person whom God sees when we pray.

The Pharisee is a deeply religious man, and everything about him demonstrates this truth. He prays frequently, offering the correct prayers at the appropriate times of day. However, his inner attitude is flawed. Outwardly pious, he is inwardly self-congratulatory. He does not genuinely pray to God; instead, he speaks to himself, enumerating his moral accomplishments. The Greek term for “standing by himself” (στάθεις – statheis) implies a stance of self-importance. St. John Chrysostom remarks:

“The Pharisee did not thank God but praised himself. He came not to pray but to boast. He is not rejoicing in God’s mercy but in his own imagined perfection.”

The Pharisee’s spiritual blindness is not in his fasting or tithing—both are commendable acts—but in his self-righteousness. His righteousness is comparative; it exists only in contrast to others. This is an essential quality of the ego which always seeks to compare us with those around us. St. Theophan the Recluse, warns of this:

“Pride disguises itself as virtue. The Pharisee prays not for illumination but for validation. He does not seek God’s light but his own shadow, cast upon others.

In stark contrast, the tax collector does not attempt to justify himself. He does not approach the altar but stands “far off.” St. Ephrem the Syrian, notes that the phrase “would not even look up to heaven” reflects the ancient Jewish understanding that lifting one’s eyes to heaven was a gesture of confidence before God. His refusal to do so shows the depth of his desire to change his ways.

His prayer is short but deeply powerful: “God, be merciful to me, a sinner.” In Greek, the phrase ἱλάσθητί μοι τῷ ἁμαρτωλῷ (hilastheti moi to hamartolo) is significant. The verb ἱλάσθητι (hilaskomai) is a rare word in the New Testament, connected to the idea of making right his relationship with God.  It echoes the language of the mercy seat in the Temple—this man is not merely asking for mercy, but expressing his desire to make peace with God, to make good his relationship with the Father.

St. Isaac the Syrian writes: “God does not seek the perfect, but the humble. He does not desire sacrifices, but the heart’s contrition. A single tear, truly shed, is more precious to God than mountains of gold given in self-righteousness.

Jesus ends the parable with a shocking reversal: the tax collector goes home justified, not the Pharisee. In practical terms, this means that the prayer of the tax collector was acceptable to God, while the prayer of the ultra-religious pharisee was not. The word for justified (δεδικαιωμένος dedikaiōmenos) in Greek is the same term Paul uses for divine acceptance. It refers to the status of one declared righteous before God—not because of his deeds but because of his humble heart.

St. Seraphim of Sarov reflects on this passage:

“Justification before God is not earned but received. The Pharisee gave tithes, but the tax collector gave tears. One trusted in his works; the other threw himself upon the mercy of God. And God, who loves the broken-hearted, lifted up the humbled man.”

Prayer is rooted in humility, and humility is simply an acknowledgement of our reality. We should not seek to justify ourselves, and we certainly have no need to tell God what we need. Prayer is more like a plea – a request based on knowledge of the infinite power of the love of God: “God, be merciful to me, a sinner”. This prayer is, of course, the foundation of the Jesus Prayer in Orthodox spirituality: “Lord Jesus Christ, Son of God, have mercy”.

In this way, we can begin to understand what Jesus means when He says: “Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the Kingdom of Heaven.” (Matthew 5:3) We approach God not with fear, not with regret, but with the simple faith of one who knows that God’s love is inexhaustible.

With this Gospel, the Church invites us to anticipate the onset of Great Lent. This period encourages us to discover the essence of prayer: an expression of a relationship that transcends the constraints of time and space and reflects our highest calling as children of God.

With love in Christ,

Meletios, archimandrite.

Monday 3rd February, 2025

My dear Friends,

One of the most striking elements of the Gospel narratives is how Jesus is always moving around, walking from place to place. Nevertheless, while He is on His way somewhere, He stops for individuals, especially those who seem least deserving of His attention. Zacchaeus’ story is a prime example. We often focus on the man’s short stature, his wealth, or his curiosity about Jesus. But today, I want to approach this passage from a different perspective: What happens when Jesus stops for you?

Jesus entered Jericho and was passing through it. A man was there named Zacchaeus; he was a chief tax collector and was rich. He was trying to see who Jesus was, but on account of the crowd he could not, because he was short in stature. So he ran ahead and climbed a sycamore tree to see Him, because He was going to pass that way. When Jesus came to the place, He looked up and said to him, “Zacchaeus, hurry and come down; for I must stay at your house today”.

Jesus was just passing through Jericho.

The text gives no indication that He had planned to stop. Yet, something drew His attention. The tax collector did not call out like blind Bartimaeus (Luke 18:35-43), nor did he physically touch Jesus like the woman with the haemorrhage (Luke 8:43-48). Instead, he merely climbed a tree, a silent, silly act of longing, and that was enough to make Jesus stop.

Zacchaeus’ act, though small, placed him in a position to receive divine attention. 

Zacchaeus, hurry and come down; for I must stay at your house today.

Jesus does not ask for permission. He does not say, “May I stay?” but “I must stay”.

The Greek word “δεῖ” suggests necessity; this is not optional.

Zacchaeus, the outcast, the sinner, the collaborator with Rome, finds himself the recipient of nonnegotiable love.

Zacchaeus had spent his life acquiring wealth, but now the true Treasure invites Himself in. The personification of the love of God arrives unbidden, transforming not only Zacchaeus’ home but his heart.

All who saw it began to grumble, saying, “He has gone to be the guest of one who is a sinner”.

The people assumed they knew who deserved God’s presence. Their blindness is spiritual, not physical. Earlier in Luke, Jesus healed a blind beggar (18:35-43), yet here we find a different kind of blindness: the blindness of self-righteousness.

The real contrast in this story is not between Zacchaeus and Jesus, but between Zacchaeus and the crowd. Zacchaeus, though wealthy, knows his need. The crowd, though outwardly righteous, fails to recognise theirs.

Zacchaeus stood there and said to the Lord, “Look, half of my possessions, Lord, I will give to the poor; and if I have defrauded anyone of anything, I will pay back four times as much”. Then Jesus said to him, “Today salvation has come to this house, because he too is a son of Abraham. For the Son of Man came to seek out and to save the lost”.

The transformation is immediate. Zacchaeus does not just confess his faith; he enacts it. He gives away half of what he owns. He repays anyone he has defrauded four times over: more than the Torah required (Exodus 22:1).

Salvation is not just personal but social. Zacchaeus᾽ repentance restores justice to his community.

The story of Zacchaeus asks us to consider: What happens when Jesus stops for us? 

1. Where do we position ourselves? Zacchaeus climbed a tree. What does seeking Jesus look like in our own lives?

2. Are we ready to receive a Presence of God we did not ask for? Zacchaeus was not looking for Jesus to come to his house, but when the Presence arrived, he welcomed it.

3. Does our encounter with Jesus change how we live? Like Zacchaeus, a true meeting with Christ reshapes both our hearts and our actions. It changes everything about us, since it reframes everything that we are. In becoming a child of the Kingdom, as opposed to a child of this world, the totality of who we are: our emotions, our intellect, our behaviour, our thinking, is transformed.

When Jesus stopped in Jericho it was not a random act. It was a necessity. Zacchaeus thought he was looking for Jesus, but in fact, Jesus was looking for him.

When God stops for you, how are you going respond?

With love in Christ,

Meletios, archimandrite.

Monday 27th January, 2025

My dear Friends,

This week there are two Gospel portions, one for the (regular) Sunday and one for the Sunday after Theophany.

Here are the texts:

As he approached Jericho, a blind man was sitting by the roadside begging. When he heard a crowd going by, he asked what was happening. They told him, “Jesus of Nazareth is passing by”. Then he shouted, “Jesus, Son of David, have mercy on me”! Those in front sternly ordered him to be quiet; but he shouted even more loudly, “Son of David, have mercy on me!” Jesus stood still and ordered the man to be brought to him; and when he came near, he asked him, “What do you want me to do for you?” He said, “Lord, let me see again.” Jesus told him, “Receive your sight; your faith has saved you”. Immediately he regained his sight and followed him, glorifying God; and all the people, when they saw it, praised God (Luke 18:35-43).

When Jesus heard that John had been arrested, he withdrew to Galilee. He left Nazareth and made his home in Capernaum by the sea, in the territory of Zebulun and Naphtali, so that what had been spoken through the prophet Isaiah might be fulfilled: “Land of Zebulun, land of Naphtali, on the road by the sea, across the Jordan, Galilee of the Gentiles—the people who sat in darkness have seen a great light, and for those who sat in the region and shadow of death light has dawned.” From that time Jesus began to proclaim, “Repent, for the kingdom of heaven has come near.” (Matthew 4:12-17).

This gives us the opportunity to compare two texts and see if the comparison can shed any light on how we can progress in our spiritual lives.

Both Gospel portions are about transformation: one is physical and immediate, and the other is spiritual and gradual. In Luke, a blind man regains sight through faith in Jesus, while in Matthew, Jesus begins his ministry, calling people to repentance as the light dawns in Galilee. Together, these passages teach us about seeing clearly—both physically and spiritually—and turning toward the light of Christ.

In Luke, a marginalised blind man who relies on alms hears that Jesus is passing by. Though blind, his spiritual insight is sharp: He recognises Jesus as the “Son of David”, a messianic title. Despite the crowd’s attempts to silence him, he persists in crying out for mercy. Jesus stops, honours his faith, and restores his sight.

Here, we can compare the fact that the blind man “sees” Jesus’ true identity through faith, even before his physical sight is restored, while the crowd, physically able to see, lacks spiritual perception and tries to silence him instead of leading him to Jesus.

We know from other Gospel sources that in the popular imagination of those days, people often thought that those who were physically or mentally challenged were somehow being punished by God. Blind people, for example, not only had to contend with all the problems of being blind, but with the hostility of those among whom they lived.

However, the blind man refused to be silenced. Faith is not passive but persistent, even
in the face of opposition. His sight is restored, but more than that, he becomes a disciple, following Jesus and glorifying God. His healing leads others to praise God as well.

Matthew shifts the focus from an individual encounter to a broader ministry. Jesus begins his mission in Galilee, fulfilling Isaiah’s prophecy: “The people dwelling in darkness have seen a great light.” His message is clear and urgent: “Repent, for the kingdom of heaven is very near.”

Today, we tend to think of the Galilee region in rather warm terms, since we associate it with the life of Christ. In New Testament times, Galilee was regarded by the Jews as a rather dangerous place, both physically and spiritually. There were lots of non-Jews living in the area, and it lacked what the Jews found most important: ritual purity. Trying to keep ritually pure (i.e. being pure enough to take part in Temple worship) was almost impossible in Galilee, since there were so many people there for whom such purity meant nothing. From the point of view of the Southerners (the Jerusalemites), everything in the North was suspicious, different and dangerous.

So, it is precisely here that Christ starts to preach, showing a new and different way of approaching God. Repent… literally, “be prepared to change everything you think you know. The Kingdom of Heaven is very near.”

The phrase “Kingdom of Heaven” carries a great deal of meaning, some of which is not obvious. Instead of focusing on outward religious practice (maintaining ritual purity), Christ was inviting people to change the way they related to God. He invited them to enter God’s presence in a new and direct way, a way in which the traditional categories of sin (i.e. ritual impurity) would be replaced with an all-embracing, life-changing, devastating acceptance of love.

The Kingdom of Heaven is obviously not an actual place, nor is it only attainable after death. It is a state of being, a way of life, that could be lived here and now. People just had to open their eyes to see it.

To illustrate this point, we return to our blind man. Though physically blind, he could “see” the kingdom with the eyes of faith. Though blind, he could see the light.

The blind man shows us the power of faith to open our eyes and transform our lives. Matthew reminds us that the light of Jesus is not just for individuals but for whole communities, calling them to repentance and renewal. Whether we are blind and in need of sight or dwelling in darkness and in need of light, Jesus meets us where we are. He invites us to respond with faith, repentance and a commitment to walk in His light.

When? Right now! Where? Right here!

With love in Christ,

Meletios (archimandrite).

Monday 20th January, 2025

My dear Friends,

Sometimes, the more we try to understand, the less clear things become.

This is especially true of today’s celebration of the Baptism of Christ. We are invited to witness a Mystery, enter the Mystery, identify with the Mystery, and, more profoundly, to live the Mystery. As we go about our daily lives, the Mystery moves with us, shaping and transforming us.

At the beginning of our Christian journey, often before we have any real memories, we encountered Christ in the waters of Baptism. Though less complex than physical birth, it was no less life-changing. In fact, it marked the end of one life and the beginning of another. Through Baptism, we died with Christ in the waters and rose with Him in Resurrection—not only His Resurrection, but ours as well. The old Adam in us was put to death, and, in St Paul’s words, we put on the life of Christ, the new Man.

This deeply mystical experience is rooted in what we celebrate today.

The Gospel of today’s feast recounts:

Then Jesus came from Galilee to John at the Jordan to be baptised by him. John would have prevented him, saying, “I need to be baptised by you, and do you come to me?” But Jesus answered him, “Let it be so now; for it is proper for us in this way to fulfil all righteousness.” Then he consented. When Jesus was baptised, just as he came up from the water, suddenly the heavens opened to him, and he saw the Spirit of God descending like a dove and alighting on him. And a voice from heaven said, “This is my Son, the Beloved, with whom I am well pleased.”

Notice how John the Baptist initially hesitates, recognising Christ’s sinlessness. Yet Christ insists, not out of need, but to “fulfil all righteousness.” In doing so, He opens the way for us, aligning all human history with the Kingdom of Heaven. Through His Baptism, Christ sanctifies the waters for us, transforming them into the means of our salvation.

This moment also reveals the Holy Trinity: the Father’s voice declares His pleasure, the Spirit descends as a dove, and the Son stands in humble obedience. The presence of the Trinity invites us into their relationship, showing us how humankind can relate to God.

Christ’s Baptism also reveals Him as the bearer of God’s approval. His life, His teachings and His mission are pleasing to God. Through our Baptism, we are invited to share in His life and teachings, becoming participants in His divine mission.

There are many ways we can make this relationship tangible—ways we can notice, live with and live up to the Mystery of Baptism.

As the Logos of God, Christ is the source of all energy in time and space. This energy manifests as light, love and life. St John writes: “In Him was life, and the life was the light of men” (John 1:4). Christ’s light allows us to see, not just with physical eyes, but with the eyes of faith.

Light does more than illuminate; it enables relationship. It connects us to the cosmos—stars, planets, galaxies—but also to one another. In Christ, we “see” each other, not only as individuals but as part of a greater, shared light. This light reveals truth: it shows us ourselves, others and God as we truly are.

Through Baptism, we enter into a relationship with Christ and His Body, the Church. This Body is both mystical and local: it spans the universe yet gathers in our own parish. In Baptism, we are drawn into a shared light, one that compels us to build bridges of understanding, compassion, and forgiveness.

Baptism is not merely a tradition or symbolic act. It is a profound participation in the Mystery of being united with Christ’s death and Resurrection. It reveals both our origin and destiny:

• Our origin is God, who created us in His image and calls us His beloved.
• Our destiny is union with Him, walking in His eternal light. Revelation 21:23 reminds us: “The city has no need of sun or moon to shine on it, for the glory of God gives it light, and its lamp is the Lamb.”

Baptism encapsulates this journey. It begins in water, evoking the chaotic waters of creation, and ends in light, pointing to the new creation in Christ.

What does this mean for us?

To identify with Christ is to live as light in the world. This is both a gift and a responsibility. Christ Himself says: “You are the light of the world… Let your light shine before others, so that they may see your good works and give glory to your Father in heaven” (Matthew 5:14-16).

Light is active energy—it illuminates, guides and dispels darkness. Our faith, likewise, must be active, shining through our actions, decisions and relationships. Christ’s light not only reveals who we are but transforms us. St Paul calls us to live as “children of light” (Ephesians 5:8-9). This means allowing Christ to illuminate even the hidden corners of our hearts, leading us to greater holiness and joy. Holiness means being in a state of “in-Christ-ness”.

The Baptism of Christ calls us to live as children of light, embracing the Mystery of Christ and radiating His transformative love to a world that yearns for hope.

With love in Christ,

Meletios, archimandrite

Monday 13th January, 2025

My dear Friends,

The Gospel portion for this week is Matthew 2:13-23.

Here is the text in full:

Now after they had left, an angel of the Lord appeared to Joseph in a dream and said, “Get up, take the child and his mother, and flee to Egypt, and remain there until I tell you; for Herod is about to search for the child, to destroy him”. Then Joseph got up, took the child and his mother by night, and went to Egypt, and remained there until the death of Herod. This was to fulfil what had been spoken by the Lord through the prophet, “Out of Egypt I have called my son”.

When Herod saw that he had been tricked by the wise men, he was infuriated, and he sent and killed all the children in and around Bethlehem who were two years old or under, according to the time that he had learned from the wise men. Then was fulfilled what had been spoken through the prophet Jeremiah: “A voice was heard in Ramah, wailing and loud lamentation, Rachel weeping for her children; she refused to be consoled, because they are no more.”

When Herod died, an angel of the Lord suddenly appeared in a dream to Joseph in Egypt and said, “Get up, take the child and his mother, and go to the land of Israel, for those who were seeking the child’s life are dead.” Then Joseph got up, took the child and his mother, and went to the land of Israel. But when he heard that Archelaus was ruling over Judea in place of his father Herod, he was afraid to go there. And after being warned in a dream, he went away to the district of Galilee. There he made his home in a town called Nazareth, so that what had been spoken through the prophets might be fulfilled, “He will be called a Nazarene”.

This Gospel recounts the early years of Jesus Christ, marked by divine guidance and human suffering. We see Joseph’s obedience, Herod’s cruelty, and we can see how God intervenes in human history over (what seems to us) long periods of time. He shapes reality to bring about certain conclusions, and in doing so He uses mankind to accomplish what needs to happen. Notice how God uses both the righteous (e.g. Joseph) and the wicked (Herod).  That is to say, He works through both the faithful and the wicked to accomplish His divine will.

Joseph, betrothed to Mary, is a man of action. In the Gospels he never speaks, but he is a model of synergia, the cooperation between God and man. When the angel appeared in his dream, saying, “Get up, take the child and his mother, and flee to Egypt”, Joseph did not delay. He responded with trust and obedience.

Joseph’s trust reminds us of the words of the Prophet Isaiah: “If you are willing and obedient, you shall eat the good of the land” (Isaiah 1:19). His faith was not merely passive but active, prompting us to respond immediately to God’s call, even when the path is unclear.

The slaughter of the innocent children is one of the most tragic events recorded in Scripture. Herod, driven by fear and pride, committed this atrocity in an attempt to secure his throne. Yet, even in this darkness, God’s light shines.

The Church venerates these holy innocents as martyrs, calling them the Proto-Martyrs of Christ. Their death fulfils the prophecy of Jeremiah: “A voice was heard in Ramah, wailing and loud lamentation, Rachel weeping for her children”. St John Chrysostom writes, “God does not prevent the wicked from acting wickedly; He uses even their wickedness for His purposes.”

We see this truth most clearly in the Cross, where the greatest evil—Christ’s crucifixion—becomes the source of the greatest good—our salvation. The innocent suffering of these children prefigures the innocence of the Lamb of God, who would one day bear the sins of the world.

The Holy Family’s flight to Egypt is rich in meaning. Egypt, once a place of slavery for Israel, becomes a place of refuge for the Saviour of the world. St Cyril of Alexandria interprets this as a sign of Christ’s mission to redeem all nations, not only Israel. The prophecy, “Out of Egypt I have called my son”, reminds us that God often uses unexpected places and situations to bring about His purposes.

For us, Egypt represents the times in our lives when we feel far from God, in exile from His presence. Yet even there, God is with us.

Even in exile, Christ sanctifies the earth, making every place a potential meeting point with God.

Finally, the Gospel concludes with the family settling in Nazareth. This small, insignificant town becomes the home of the King of Kings. St Gregory Nazianzus reflects on this, saying, “Christ descended to the lowest so that He might raise us to the highest”.

Nazareth, which in Biblical times seems to have been regarded as an insignificant place, tea-ches us humility, a virtue central to Orthodox spirituality. It reminds us that greatness in the eyes of God often looks very different from greatness in the eyes of the world. As the Apostle Paul comments, “God chose what is low and despised in the world” (1 Corinthians 1:28).

This passage from Matthew teaches us that God’s providence is at work even when we cannot see it. Joseph’s obedience, the suffering of the innocents, and the exile to Egypt all point to the hidden hand of God, guiding history toward the salvation of the world.

Thus, part of our celebration of the Nativity of the Lord is to embrace humility, like Joseph. We are also called to take a stand against injustice (the massacre of the innocent children), and to embrace the humility which we witness when we find Christ not in power and grandeur, but in the quiet places of our lives.

With love in Christ,

Meletios, archimandrite.

Monday 6th January, 2025

My dear Friends,

Happy New Year!!

Here is the text for the Gospel portion for the Sunday before Christmas (Matthew1:1-25):

“The book of the genealogy of Jesus the Messiah, the son of David, the son of Abraham. Abraham was the father of Isaac, and Isaac the father of Jacob, and Jacob the father of Judah and his brothers, and Judah the father of Perez and Zerah by Tamar, and Perez the father of Hezron, and Hezron the father of Aram, and Aram the father of Amminadab, and Amminadab the father of Nahshon, and Nahshon the father of Salmon, and Salmon the father of Boaz by Rahab, and Boaz the father of Obed by Ruth, and Obed the father of Jesse, and Jesse the father of King David.

And David was the father of Solomon by the wife of Uriah, and Solomon the father of Rehoboam, and Rehoboam the father of Abijah, and Abijah the father of Asaph, and Asaph the father of Jehoshaphat, and Jehoshaphat the father of Joram, and Joram the father of Uzziah, and Uzziah the father of Jotham, and Jotham the father of Ahaz, and Ahaz the father of Hezekiah, and Heze-kiah the father of Manasseh, and Manasseh the father of Amos, and Amos the father of Josiah, and Josiah the father of Jechoniah and his brothers, at the time of the deportation to Babylon.

And after the deportation to Babylon, Jechoniah was the father of Salathiel, and Salathiel the father of Zerubbabel, and Zerubbabel the father of Abiud, and Abiud the father of Eliakim, and Eliakim the father of Azor, and Azor the father of Zadok, and Zadok the father of Achim, and Achim the father of Eliud, and Eliud the father of Eleazar, and Eleazar the father of Matthan, and Matthan the father of Jacob, and Jacob the father of Joseph the husband of Mary, of whom Jesus was born, who is called the Messiah.

So all the generations from Abraham to David are fourteen generations, and from David to the deportation to Babylon fourteen generations, and from the deportation to Babylon to the Messiah fourteen generations.

Now the birth of Jesus the Messiah took place in this way. When his mother Mary had been engaged to Joseph, but before they lived together, she was found to be with child from the Holy Spirit. Her husband Joseph, being a righteous man and unwilling to expose her to public disgrace, planned to dismiss her quietly. But just when he had resolved to do this, an angel of the Lord appeared to him in a dream and said, “Joseph, son of David, do not be afraid to take Mary as your wife, for the child conceived in her is from the Holy Spirit. She will bear a son, and you are to name him Jesus, for he will save his people from their sins.” All this took place to fulfil what had been spoken by the Lord through the prophet: “Look, the virgin shall conceive and bear a son, and they shall name him Emmanuel,” which means, “God is with us.”

When Joseph awoke from sleep, he did as the angel of the Lord had commanded him. He took her
as his wife but had no marital relations with her until she had borne a son, whom he named Jesus.

In this text, we encounter a profound narrative that intertwines divine purpose with human history. Matthew 1:1-25 presents both the genealogy and the birth of Jesus Christ, offering us deep insights into the way God works.

Genealogies were very popular in the ancient world. They established a person’s context and purpose and were often learnt by heart. They provided that person — or even a nation — with a sense of identity.

In this version (there is another one in Luke 3: 23-38), Jesus is linked through his father (Joseph) to the covenants God made in the ancient past with Abraham and King David. As we might expect, Matthew is anxious to show Jesus as the fulfilment of Jewish prophecy, a theme that runs through that Gospel. On the other hand, Luke’s genealogy takes us all the way back to Adam, making Christ the Saviour of all mankind, not just the Jews.

It is curious, perhaps, that neither genealogy attempts to link Christ with the Covenant of Moses. Jesus is not a priest in the Jewish sense. To identify Him as a priest, Theology links Him not with Aaron (the brother of Moses, from whom all Jewish priests descended) but with Melchizedek, the somewhat enigmatic “Priest of the Most High God” who is also “King of Salem”. He it was who presented bread and wine to Abraham, and blessed him, according to the Book of Genesis. This Theology is expanded in the New Testament in the Epistle to the Hebrews.

Running against what we would expect from a Jewish genealogy is the fact that Matthew’s listing includes five women: Tamar, Rahab, Ruth, Bathsheba (referred to as “the wife of Uriah”), and Mary. Their inclusion is remarkable, as genealogies of that era typically mentioned only male ancestors. Each of these women has a unique story:

• Tamar: Disguised herself to secure her rights within Judah’s family.
• Rahab: A Canaanite and former prostitute who expressed faith in Israel’s God.
• Ruth: A Moabite widow whose loyalty led her to become the great-grandmother of David.
• Bathsheba: Though involved in a scandal with King David, she became the mother of Solomon.
• Mary, the Mother of God, about whom the Gospels say comparatively little, but about whom Orthodox Theology has a great deal to say.

Verses 18-25 narrate the birth of Jesus, focusing on Joseph’s perspective. Upon disco-vering Mary’s pregnancy, Joseph, described as a just man, contemplates a quiet divorce to avoid public disgrace for Mary. However, an angel appears to him in a dream, saying, “Joseph, son of David, do not fear to take Mary as your wife, for that which is conceived in her is from the Holy Spirit” (Matthew 1:20). The angel further instructs that the child shall be named Jesus, “for he will save his people from their sins” (Matthew 1:21).

The name “Jesus” (Greek: Ἰησοῦς, Iēsous) is derived from the Hebrew “Yeshua”, meaning “The Lord is salvation”. This name encapsulates His mission on earth. Matthew then cites the prophecy from Isaiah 7:14: “Behold, the virgin shall conceive and bear a son, and they shall call his name Immanuel”, which means “God with us”.

Within this Gospel text, there are four major theological issues:

1. God’s Sovereignty: The meticulous genealogy demonstrates that God’s plan unfolds through generations, orchestrating human history to fulfil His promises.
2. Inclusivity of God’s Grace: Jesus’ lineage includes Gentiles and individuals with complex histories, revealing that God’s redemptive love extends to all humanity.
3. Obedience and Faith: Joseph’s response to the angel’s message exemplifies righteous obedience. Despite the potential societal judgment, he aligns his actions with God’s will, taking Mary as his wife and naming the child Jesus.
4. Divine Presence: The name “Immanuel” reassures us of God’s continual presence. In times of uncertainty or fear, we are reminded that God is with us, guiding and sustaining us.

Perhaps we will never understand the importance of genealogies in the ancient world. Modern society is rarely interested in such things, except regarding royalty. In the ancient context, where everything was written by hand and then copied (again by hand), historical fact was not always easy to determine. The purpose of a genealogy was to make the importance of a particular person evident by showing that person in the context of a known human history. 

A well-written genealogy concealing a pattern (the issue of the fourteen generations) was perhaps the closest that society could get to historical truth.

But spiritual truth was, in the end, even more important than historical truth. And that is what is presented to us here, in this Gospel: the Birth of Jesus the Saviour, who is called Emmanuel (“God with us”).

I wish you all a blessed Feast!  

With love in Christ,

Meletios, archimandrite.