The Apocalypse of Minor Sin
Archbishop John (Shakhovskoy)

From the Publishers

The collection of edifying writings by Archbishop John (Shakhovskoy), which we offer to readers, is about the apocalypse taking place within each of us, about the apostasy (falling away) that begins in our hearts, absorbed by self-love, self-indulgence, and self-pity. We do not notice the “small” sins, we become accustomed to them, and they easily—almost imperceptibly—push us off the one narrow path; they slyly trip us up, and with “gentle” flattery force us into unnoticed slavery.

Vladyka John saw much in life that, with terrifying clarity, reminded him of the coming last days of the world, of the apocalypse. His youth (he was born in 1902) coincided with a grim and ominous time for Russia. Becoming a participant in the White movement, he passed through the Civil War: blood, wounds, and death he saw up close. In exile, in emigration, he experienced the inhuman cruelty of the Second World War.

Yet in the articles included in this collection (which we have gathered from various books by the archbishop), his gaze is directed not at the world in general but into the human soul. It is an analysis of the spiritual condition of contemporary people and, at times, it shocks with its accuracy. In the words of Vladyka there is merciless denunciation, but it is permeated with holy hope that purity and light will triumph within us, and that the Orthodox Faith will give us wings to rise above the kingdom of this world. And so let us turn to God with prayer and trust: “Wash me, and I shall be whiter than snow” (Ps. 50:9)!

Oleg Kazakov

On Knowledge

“What could be holier and more salvific than studying the works of the Lord, contemplating in thought the high throne of His glory, and proclaiming His majesty, wisdom, and power! To this, astronomy opens the vast structure of His hands.”
— Lomonosov

“Knowledge will pass away” (1 Cor.13:8)…

Not the knowledge by which the pure in heart behold truth;
Not the knowledge from which the saints remain in unceasing awe;
Not the knowledge that builds eternal life.

The knowledge that will pass away is that which does not know its own limitation, smallness, and temporality. Humble, reverent, and trembling knowledge will remain forever, for it belongs to the Heavenly Jerusalem.

Belonging only to this world is a mark of deadness—of both people and knowledge.
Only dead knowledge “puffs up” (1 Cor.8:1). Lacking life within, a person becomes inflated with the illusion of understanding heights and depths.The pure spirit is never puffed up by any knowledge, for even the divine fires granted from above can be extinguished. The pure spirit always trembles and stands in reverence before higher knowledge, infinitely diminishing its own. It guards its knowledge with the philosophy of unknowing.

Does heavenly knowledge—the mysteries of humanity’s salvation—contradict pragmatic knowledge, the «science» of today’s world? Certainly not. Just as heavenly laws of life do not contradict earthly laws—even though they surpass and therefore sanctify them.

The knowledge of a carpenter, joiner, camel driver, painter, doctor, or mathematician does not contradict the knowledge of a saint, a believer, a loving person. Any person in the world, regardless of their knowledge or talents, can be holy, faithful, and loving—not by renouncing their earthly knowledge, but by ascending toward the heavenly.

The “conflict” between “faith and science,” between “knowledge and faith,” is a non-existent conflict. Heavenly faith is the salt of life. Without heavenly faith, all applied knowledge, all earthly belief is bland, lifeless, and burdensome.

Earthly knowledge was sanctified by the Lord Himself when He became a carpenter.
By this, the Lord sanctified all earthly labor and all earthly knowledge: chemistry, physics, architecture, history, medicine, sociology, geometry. He blessed the structure of earthly scientific beliefs—axioms and hypotheses alike. But on one condition: that Caesar—the life of this world—does not eclipse God in the souls of people. Lomonosov, Pascal, Pasteur, Newton—knowledge of the lower order did not hinder their grasp of the higher. Contrary to the law of pride, they were not puffed up by their knowledge, their earthly brilliance and stature. In their humility (and humility is truth), they came to know life in Christ. They realized that their «scientific» knowledge was not the pinnacle for their God-formed souls, and so they found another height, another science: that of spirit and eternity. They humbled themselves and were lifted up.

How many scholars, with their metaphysical pomposity, seduce the hearts of simple people!
How many of the unlearned now run after the title “professor,” as they once chased after the title “king” or “hero”… And how many professors welcome this idolatrous stream into their hearts! A wicked and adulterous generation (Mt. 12:39)—adulterous in the most terrifying sense: in self-deification, self-worship. A time is coming when all pure-hearted scholars of earthly knowledge must strip from their human dignity every trace of practical idolatry and become witnesses to God’s glory—heralds of human diminishment in God—and through this, the resurrection of a new humanity. Let it not seem strange that a person must be taught a kind of unknowing.
This unknowing will not be ignorance. Even less will it be stupidity. Striving to escape falsely-named knowledge, a person may sometimes arrive at the glorification of ignorance—rejecting the grace-filled culture of knowledge. This is the path of false philosophy—a Pharisaic path, sometimes adopted by publicans who stand apart from the life of the world and exalt themselves above the Pharisees of science. But this is not the path God gives to overcome the temptation and emptiness of false knowledge.

On all the worn paths of life, people are inclined to “enrich themselves” and “know”; this is the very aim of our original lust.

“And the woman saw that the tree was good for food, and that it was pleasant to the eyes, and desirable for gaining knowledge; so she took of its fruit and ate” (Genesis 3:6)…

Here is the origin of the lust for knowledge—a sin in which the entire fallen world of man remains:
To “know,” to be filled, to be enriched… without God, outside of God.

But:

“Woe to you who are rich!… Woe to you who are full now!” (Luke 6:24–25)

In today’s state of humanity, no knowledge should be felt as knowledge. All knowledge should be experienced as unknowing. The more a person knows, the less he should feel that he knows. Whether in the spiritual science of contemplating heavenly mysteries or in earthly science, true attainment is always accompanied by conscious impoverishment.

“I know only that I know nothing,” said the ancient philosopher, and this truth has come closest to the heights of earthly science—philosophy.

Its forms of expression vary. It is the burning “feu, feu, feu” of Pascal. It is the rational agnosticism of Bergson. It is the mystical agnosticism of St. John of the Cross. It is the ash-covered knowledge of St. Isaac the Syrian. A few words from the frontiers of human learning are enough to confirm the firm foundations of the philosophy of unknowing:

“How great—oh, how great—is God, and how insignificant is our knowledge!” — Ampère

“I do not know how I appear to the world, but to myself I seem like a child playing on the seashore, picking up smooth stones and pretty shells, while the vast ocean of truth lay undiscovered before me.” — Newton

“What we know is a trifle, and what we do not know is immeasurable.” — Dallas

“Most scientists are aware of the limits of positive science and acknowledge that the ultimate problems of the universe are beyond its reach.” — A. Joller

“I have studied nature a great deal; therefore I believe like a Breton peasant. If I had studied more, I would believe with the simple faith of a peasant woman from Brittany.” — Pasteur

One could endlessly multiply such testimonies from earthly human science. They differ little from the testimonies of the great scholars of the science of the spirit—of the holy ascetics and Fathers of the Church. Their experience is infinite humility…

Mysteries are revealed to them—but those very mysteries reveal, more majestically still, the mystery of the unfathomable.

“When you stand in prayer before God, make yourself in your thoughts as an ant, as a reptile crawling on the earth, as a leech, and as a babbling child. Do not speak anything before God from knowledge, but draw near to Him with the thoughts of an infant.”
— Isaac the Syrian

To know oneself is a kind of perfection of knowledge; however:

“The mind enters into the depths of the Holy Spirit only after it has passed beyond all that is visible and conceivable. And among those unfathomable things, it moves and revolves without motion—living more than life itself—in life; being light within light, and yet not light in itself (i.e., it can be separated from the Light of God). Then the mind no longer sees itself, but sees the One who is above it. And being changed in thought by the glory of that place, it ceases to know itself altogether…
It becomes both blind and not blind; it sees with unnatural eyes, having risen above natural sight, having received new eyes, with which it sees beyond nature.
It becomes inactive and motionless, as one who has fulfilled every personal action.
It becomes thoughtless, as one united with Him who is above all thought, having found rest where there is no place for the activity of the mind—no room for memory, reflection, or contemplation.
Unable to comprehend or grasp the incomprehensible and wondrous, the mind in some manner finds rest in perfect stillness—in the immobility of blessed insensibility—meaning: not curiously exploring, but delighting in ineffable blessings with a feeling that is nonetheless sure and certain.”
— St. Symeon the New Theologian, Practical and Theological Chapters, 148–149

Using different words, all the ascetics of the Church, in all times and in all countries, speak of the same thing. The metaphysics of personal consciousness among true scholars of the world is also the same. Unknowing is both the beginning and the end of human understanding. It is remarkable that in none of the Gospels does the word “knowledge” appear even once. And the Apostle Paul, the only apostle who speaks of “knowledge,” refers positively to it in only three brief instances—as a gift from God:

• “To another, the word of knowledge…” (1 Cor.12:8)
• “If anyone loves God, he is known by Him” (1 Cor.8:3)
• “But not everyone possesses this knowledge…” (1 Cor.8:7)

In four other cases, Paul speaks of the harm of knowledge, both as a foundation (1 Timothy 6:20) and in its consequences (1 Cor.8:1, 10–11). And in one instance, he says:

“Knowledge will pass away.” (1 Cor.13:8)

This is an extraordinarily significant assertion. In light of the broader biblical attitude toward the problem of knowledge, it takes on exceptional meaning for the development of Christian epistemology. Christian philosophy must clearly define, understand, and confess its position on the agonizing issue of knowledge—a problem that torments fallen humanity.

Just as “the earth and everything on it will be burned up” (2 Peter 3:10)—passing through the fire of apocalyptic purification—so too will “knowledge” be burned away. Countless constructions of the fallen human mind will burn like straw. They will collapse like a house built on sand. For the higher winds of true understanding must blow, and the heavenly rains of incomprehensible revelation must fall. And every house not built on the Rock (Christ) will inevitably and irrevocably fall. The Gospel even adds:

“And great was its fall.” (Mt. 7:27)

Truly great will be the fall of all human knowledge that, in its pride, stands against the knowledge of God—failing to make room for it (cf. John 8:37). This knowledge of God—whose “first mystery,” according to Isaac the Syrian, “is purity, attained through the keeping of the commandments”—is the Divine Life within man: “God walking in man”, who was created for this very indwelling, for this knowledge of God, and of the world in God. This knowledge is pure, divine, and holy. It is the salt and crown of life, the blossoming of the spiritual within the soul.

“Man becomes mad in his knowledge,” said the prophet Jeremiah (Jeremiah 10:14).

“My thoughts are not your thoughts, nor are your ways My ways, says the Lord.
As the heavens are higher than the earth, so are My ways higher than your ways, and My thoughts than your thoughts.” (Isaiah 55:8–9)

The term “unknowing” should apply not only to false knowledge but also to incomplete knowledge—because when such knowledge is overvalued, it becomes false knowledge. This overestimation of one’s knowledge occurs constantly in human life. As a result, humanity spins in an endless cycle of false knowledge. But the awareness of this fact can become the source of constant humility before the Truth—and through that, the path to pure understanding can be opened.

This pure understanding is Divine Wisdom, which cannot be sufficiently described with words. Even the Apostle Paul expresses the extreme weakness of human language:

“The wisdom of this world is foolishness with God.” (1 Cor.3:19)
“Let him who thinks he is wise… become a fool.” (1 Cor.3:18)
“God chose the foolish things… to shame the wise.” (1 Cor.1:27)

To the old world of earthly sages, the apostle opposes a new humanity: those who are wise in Christ (1 Cor.4:10).

“I thank You, Father, Lord of heaven and earth, because You have hidden these things from the wise and prudent, and revealed them to babes.” (Mt. 11:25)

The Christian word (the one that contains “salt”) is “not in persuasive words of human wisdom, but in demonstration of the Spirit and of power” (1 Cor.2:4).

Faith—the entrance into New Life—must be founded not on human wisdom (1 Cor.2:5). But why such mistrust toward human wisdom? It’s not only mistrust—it is a fiery rejection of the entire fallen realm of knowledge, which exists apart from God.

“Greeks seek wisdom…” (1 Cor.1:22)
Who are these “Greeks”? They are the old culture of humanity—the old, self-enclosed world that cuts itself off from the Living God. They are the philosophy of this world, the worldly sages who are “always learning and never able to come to the knowledge of the truth.” (2 Timothy 3:7)

This is the endlessly analyzing and self-exalting decaying age, which only has the appearance of wisdom (Colossians 2:23).

What a terrifying power lies in these words that reject the fallen, Godless kind of knowledge.
To be foolish—to be “unknowing”—is necessary in order to, through the crucifixion of the old mind and the death of vain human intellect, be reborn into the new world of God’s Wisdom. The battle against the lust of this world ends in the rejection of even the lust for knowledge. The world will not be destroyed by transfigured knowledge. It will perish by its fleshly science—science unbalanced and unsanctified by the pure knowledge of the Spirit.

What could have been a blessing will become a curse for humanity. The unleashed forces of matter will collapse upon their unleasher and crush them. In these moments, the angels will be reaping the fruits of repentance and prayer. In the realm of science and philosophy, the same thing is occurring as in every sphere of the old life:

“Two will be in the field: one will be taken [into the Kingdom], and the other left;
Two women will be grinding at the mill: one will be taken, and the other left.” (Mt. 24:40–41)

Teaching

«I came that they may have life, and have it more abundantly.»
(John 10:10)

If it is difficult to teach, it is even more difficult to teach the teachers. For teaching is both a great sin and the greatest good.

Teaching is a sin, because:

“And do not be called teachers, for One is your Teacher—the Christ.”
(Mt. 23:10)

“My brethren, let not many of you become teachers, knowing that we shall receive a stricter judgment.”
(James 3:1)

But teaching is a good, because:

“Whoever does and teaches them, he shall be called great in the Kingdom of Heaven.”
(Mt. 5:19)

“How beautiful are the feet of those who preach the gospel of peace,
Who bring glad tidings of good things!”
(Romans 10:15)

To do and to teach is hard. The beatitude of teaching is difficult, and so is the escape from its sin.
The teacher becomes like God. The one who teaches wrongly—improperly, unworthily, without the right spirit—becomes like an idol, or even like the devil. In this lies the cross of true teaching—and its glory.

The Gospel is the Word addressed not only to disciples, but to teachers as well, for the disciple of God becomes a teacher of mankind. To live in Christ is to constantly teach all—and to learn from all and through everything. To live in Christ is to continually teach oneself. Teaching others in truth is only the outgrowth of teaching oneself.

Whoever teaches himself in the Gospel way (shows God’s love to himself) may then teach others.
He who teaches himself rightly, pours forth the rightness of his heart and teaching onto others.
For he sees them as parts of himself. To them he pours out his knowledge of love, radiates his understanding of truth—through words, deeds, silence, and prayer.

In the one who loves, everything teaches. Nothing remains still—everything pours forth, shines, joins with everything, and brings everything into union with its love. The teaching of Christ is the salting of the world—through people. People teaching one another. False teaching is the sowing of tares (Mt. 13:25)—the bitter weeds of evil and ignorance.

Sowing true teaching is like sowing bread. The heavenly Word is sown through the human word.
The human word is like the husk of the seed; the divine Word is the life-force within that seed. The form must rot—the human word must pass away. It is the divine power that fertilized the human word that gives fruit. Judgment upon the word is silence, in which all that is true ripens and grows
(Metropolitan Philaret).

The word about the Spirit must itself be a word of the spirit. Otherwise, it is false. The word of truth is like a thin wire, through which the Spirit of God flows into the human heart and changes it:

“You are already clean because of the word which I have spoken to you.”
(John 15:3)

“I am He who searches the hearts.”
(Rev. 2:23)

“Faith comes by hearing.”
(Romans 10:17)

Faith is a change of nature—not persuasion, but transformation; not agreement, but transfiguration.
And hearing and word are the conduits of faith into the heart—from another heart.

The world is filled with waves and vibrations. The positive and negative motions of the spirit happen beyond the thresholds of our awareness, and are only partially grasped in life’s experience
(like the grass in the parable, growing unseen but noticeably – Mark 4:26–29).

Teaching is the radiance of truth—whether hidden or revealed: “For nothing is secret that will not be revealed.” (Mark 4:22)

True teaching ripens in the hidden person of the heart (1 Peter 3:4) and is not concealed—from people only sometimes, but never from angels. And therefore it is always a power for the world, and its salvation. Blessed is the struggle of preachers of the Word, who “preach on the rooftops” (Mt. 10:27), and blessed also is the silent wandering of desert-dwelling saints
(cf. Hebrews 11:38). Their light teaches and warms millions.

“Out of the abundance of the heart, the mouth speaks.”
(Mt. 12:34)

But what is this “abundance of the heart”? Poisonous moisture emits poisonous vapor. Fragrant moisture emits fragrance. The spiritual content of the heart cannot be hidden. It shines through the person—flows from the eyes, the tongue, every movement and feature.

In the hidden inner life of a person, energies accumulate—either good or evil. The good cannot dwell with the evil, just as water cannot dwell with fire. Either fire consumes the water, or water extinguishes the fire. Their struggle is the torment of the human heart. Torment ends only when one overcomes—evil or good. Then the person finds either a false peace in evil and self-will, becoming (like Nietzsche) “beyond good and evil,” or he finds the peace of the Lord—His Sabbath—freedom from passions and lusts. The first “peace” is spiritual death.
The second is life in Christ.

Every person has a certain content of the heart. One must constantly labor to purify this content—
that they may see the Lord, may touch the Lord with their hands. This blessedness is promised to the pure in heart (Mt. 5:8).

The fire of the Spirit must evaporate all the waters, drops, and froth of the passions from the heart.
The water of Baptism must extinguish the “fiery darts of the evil one” (Ephesians 6:16)—the fire of lust and sin. That the single higher nature may reign in the heart— giving it life with the fire of holiness, and refreshing it with the waters of Higher Life. The water of life in the evil heart is replaced by dead water. The fire of heavenly glory is replaced by the fire of Gehenna. But the water of sin and death is burned up by the fire of evangelical love, and the fire of hell is extinguished by the waters of grace.

But until this resurrection of the person is completed (even here in this life), there is a battle for eternal life—the joy and suffering of the human being. The “abundance of the heart” is the radiation of what is present in the heart at that moment. This abundance must be guarded, not revealed.
This is the law of primary spirituality. One must govern their “abundance,” and know how to hold it back.

Evil must be held back—and burned away. Good must also be held back—preserved like something precious, secret, nectared, easily dissipated by careless or irreverent handling. The water of grace will be given to the one who knows how to preserve. The fire of the heavenly Spirit is entrusted to the one who not only reveals it wisely to the world, but also shields it with their hands from the sick eyes of the world.

One’s gracious “abundance” must be guarded like the pupil of the heart’s eye, which is a thousand times more delicate than the physical eye that looks upon the temporary.

People often reveal their evil involuntarily. They want to hide it—but cannot. Let the revelation of good also happen in this same way. Then true abundance will be made known.

If we begin to reveal our good “abundance” ourselves, we will expose our unestablished hearts, and be wounded (Mt. 7:6). But if we hide the heart, then our abundance will be revealed—in the measure that the heart is hidden. For then the Lord Himself will reveal His abundance of love through our hearts, dead to their own righteousness. This law is wondrous and subtle; blessed is its application. You can see it in the humble, in the conscientious, in those who do not know their own righteousness, yet shine with it. Only the one who knows how to teach in secret, can teach openly.
To enlighten oneself in secret, to reflect God’s light into the world in secret.

“Do not let your left hand know what your right hand is doing.” (Mt. 6:3)

“Pray to your Father… in secret.” (Mt. 6:6)

“Take care not to do your charitable deeds before men, to be seen by them.” (Mt. 6:1)

“The Kingdom of Heaven is like a mustard seed, the smallest of all seeds…” (Mt. 13:31–32)

A hidden relationship with the surrounding world. A concealment in God. The entrusting of yourself and your deeds to the Most High. The elders of Optina most often rebuked indirectly—through some story or personal anecdote. Mystical correction is the sharpest—“piercing” the person. Only that Word of God pierces us which enters our soul most directly—not by force. We seek persuasion that does not violate our freedom. Every human word tends to drag us; only the Word of God (even when in human words) calls us—manifesting its love.

Human words try to convince, they compel. But the Living God is the greatest freedom and mercy. We must be filled with this mercy, and then our words will teach and set free. Open teaching is witnessing. Or rather—it is martyrdom. For in Greek, martyr means witness. And a witness of God’s truth in the world is always a martyr.

For he must overcome the thorns of his own heart the spikes of the devil, and the whole world. Witnessing is open teaching in the world. The Truth must penetrate to the farthest reaches of the world to its final waves—embracing hearing, speech, breath, air, and language.

When we bear witness—speak God’s truth in the world and about the world—we speak not only to the person before us in that moment, but to the entire world: to angels and men, to the sun, the air, the Earth and the heavens…

For the truth, spoken through the voice of a human being, passes through all the heavens (Romans 10:18), and, delighting the angels, lies at the Throne of God like a seed that will rise on the Last Day. Immeasurably precious is this confession of the Word, this witness to Truth, through a sinful person in a sinful world! Truly—whoever is not ashamed of Christ, the Son of God— His righteousness, His purity— He will not be ashamed of him, when He comes in His glory— “With His holy angels.” (Luke 9:26)

For the angels are the witnesses of our words. The truth can only be spoken “out of the abundance of the heart.” And no one can hear of the Truth “without a preacher.” (Romans 10:14) But—“how shall they preach unless they are sent?” (Romans 10:15)

The world must hear God’s truth from itself— from its own mouths,
from the mouths of sinful people. “By your own mouth I will judge you, you wicked servant.” (Luke 19:22)

This is why the angels are silent on earth, and men are sent. To their hearts is given an abundance,
and this abundance gives them the power to witness. But one can witness only to what the eyes have seen, what the hands have touched (1 John 1:1)— concerning the Word of Life. The heart must touch, the heart must see Christ. Only such a witness is accepted in the judgments of God—and of men.

On Laughter

There are two kinds of laughter: light and dark. They can be immediately distinguished—by the smile, by the eyes of the one who laughs. You can recognize them within yourself by the accompanying spirit: If there is no light joy, no gentle breeze softening the heart, then the laughter is not light. If the chest feels hard and dry, and the smile twists, then the laughter is unclean.

This kind of laughter always comes after a joke, after some mockery of the harmony of the world.
The distortion of the world’s harmony distorts the soul of a person — and this is revealed in the twisting of the facial features. “Woe to you who laugh now, for you shall mourn and weep.” (Luke 6:25)

You shall weep—because you will realize you applied joy not where it belongs, but to something worthy of torment. A gentle smile is a reflection of discovered harmony. The saints smile without laughing. Laughter, as the fullness of pure joy, belongs to the age to come. “Blessed are those who weep now, for you shall laugh.” Ascetic experience—the way of enlightening and transforming the person— even advises to smile without showing the teeth. (Better to have a little less joy than even the briefest impurity within it!) The “joke-laughter” heard in cinemas, theaters, banquets, parties—
that mocks others easily, laughs at weaknesses, at human dignity, at conscience and at sin, for the sake of entertainment, for forgetting sorrow, pointlessly, vainly making others laugh—this is a sickness of the spirit.

More precisely, it is a symptom of spiritual illness. In the world of spirits, there exist unclean spirits.
They are seen in the faces of those “rolling with laughter”… Angelic joy shines on the face as a smile. A kind, wholesome laughter can silently disperse clouds of malicious arguments, hatred—even murder. Good laughter restores friendship, the hearth of the home. “Biting” laughter is not from God. A sarcastic smile, a sharp-tongued remark—this is a parody of the Gospel’s salt of wisdom. A parody that twists itself into a smile.

The “sharpness” of a word always cuts into the soul. But sharpness—even when the same, like two blades: one a surgeon’s scalpel, the other a bandit’s knife—brings entirely different results. One, while cutting, lets in the heavenly light, the warmth of the Spirit; or removes infection, cuts away deadness. The other—a graceless sharpness—wounds and tears the soul, and often kills.

Only the holy are truly sharp, and only the holy sharpness is true. But unclean spirits parody sharpness, and many people in the world refine themselves in “expressing” through such sharpness. The extreme of spiritual impurity in laughter is the “homeric howl”—the cackling… Such laughter often comes near lavish banquets.

One who watches over himself, who reverences the mystery of his life, will guard both his whole life and his laughter. He will even guard his smile before God. All will be pure and clear within him, with the help of his invisible guardians. The saints shone to the world with their tears and with their smiles—like children. For only children—and truly believing Christians—have a purity of life visible even in the features of the face.

Everything is simple and pure in children—those not yet touched by the spirit of decay. Death has not yet appeared in the smirk of their mortal nature. They are given the springtime of life as a foretaste and a remembrance of paradise. They look purely, laugh purely, speak without guile, cry easily, and forget their tears just as easily… “Unless you are converted and become like little children, you will by no means enter the Kingdom of Heaven.” (Mt. 18:3) It is clear—why. The highest praise for a person is to say: “He has a child’s laughter.” Innocent laughter, close to the harmony of paradise.

On Abduction

«I came to send fire on the earth…»
(Luke 12:49)

The mystery of Prometheus’ lawlessness is not that he steals fire, but that he steals. The desire to seize and enrich oneself with what is seized—this reveals both the primordial harmony of the world (the possibility of possessing all), and its broken love.

One must not take anything by force, for the one who steals has no unity with the one from whom he steals. But the one who has attained love possesses all things—without stealing. This is the Kingdom of God: “Having nothing, and yet possessing all things.” (2 Cor.6:10)

Every thief is lawless precisely because he cannot make what is another’s his own. Only through love do things submit themselves to man. That’s why, in this world, we must ask: “Ask, and it will be given to you.” (Mt. 7:7) That’s why we must give: “Give, and it will be given to you.” (Luke 6:38)

Only what is not yours can be stolen, for you cannot steal what already belongs to you. Your own can only be given or received. This is the law of the New World. “You shall not steal” (Exodus 20:15) is a continuation of “You shall not murder.” (Luke 18:20) It is the law of Recreation, the law of Love. He who steals kills life—both his own and the life of the one he steals from. “Such are the ways of everyone who is greedy for unjust gain; it takes away the life of its possessors.” (Proverbs 1:19)

If there is no unifying love, what is foreign always remains foreign, and indeed, it “takes away life”—and will testify (and burn!) at the Last Judgment. A world given by God to man, and passed from man to man, is illumination and great warmth of life. A world seized by man and taken from man is the fire of Gehenna. To steal—whether something small or great, material or spiritual, whether by action or by desire—is sin unto death, for it is against Love, against Life. Only love, without stealing, makes everything one’s own. And what is truly your own cannot be stolen. Every thief is one who steals fire from heaven…

But everyone who loves already has this fire. For it is this fire that the Lord came to cast upon the earth.

Love and Trust

Can one love a person and yet not trust them? Yes.

True love for a person does not mean the deification of all their qualities or submission before all their actions. True love may perceive a person’s faults just as keenly as malice—perhaps even more keenly. But love relates to these faults not like malice does, but in its own way, in a loving manner. Love protects and saves the human soul for eternity; malice, by contrast, drowns and kills. Love loves the person themselves—not their sins, their folly, or their blindness. And it sees the imperfection of the world even more clearly than hatred does. The labor of spiritual discernment is to see all the sins of people and to judge all evil—and yet not to condemn anyone. Only a person illumined from above is capable of such love.

So yes, one can love and still not trust. But is not trust a sign of an open soul? And is not openness a property of love? No. Love is broader than openness. Love can exist even without soul-baring openness in this world. Elder Ambrose of Optina or St. Seraphim of Sarov loved people with burning love and served them in the Spirit. Yet they did not open themselves to everyone—and what they did share, they shared sparingly. They guarded their souls from the gaze of others, while their own gaze penetrated into others’ souls. A confessor at confession does not open his soul to the one confessing. But the soul of a true spiritual father is open not by exposure, but by love—and through love, it is revealed to the world. A spiritual elder does not always reveal everything he knows from God. He approaches each person according to their condition.

A mother who does not speak every thought aloud to her child is not hiding out of lovelessness,
but out of love she restrains her trust—and precisely by hiding from the child all that is harmful or too heavy for their undeveloped soul and body, she shows her love. Lack of openness, of spontaneity, of simplicity, even “distrustfulness”—can sometimes be good. A doctor does not tell the patient everything. A commander does not tell all to his soldiers. A teacher does not explain everything at once to the student. A person’s condition and maturity, capacity and readiness, determine what truth is revealed to them. The human soul is like a ship. A ship has a submerged part—and so should the soul have a consciousness hidden from the world. Not a subconscious, but a concealed awareness—hidden for the sake of truth. Evil should be hidden to keep from defiling others. Good should be hidden so it is not spilled or profaned. We hide for the benefit of all.

To hide one’s evil is sometimes a spiritual necessity. To hide one’s good is almost always wisdom and righteousness. Not every lack of straightforwardness is falsehood, and not every «distrust» is betrayal of final trust. Final trust belongs only to the Triune God, and to all His laws and words. Distrust of oneself is always wisdom—and any true, loving distrust of others is simply an extension of this holy distrust toward oneself. For a person is not always in control of his deeds and words;
he stirs in evil, and often doesn’t even realize it. “Do not fully trust yourself…”—this holds a deep and saving meaning.

My experience, my reason, my heart, my thoughts, my moods—all are shaky, poor, and uncertain. None of them is a worthy object of complete trust. And from distrust toward everything shaky arises a perfect, boundless trust in the Triune God. We should trust others only as much as we trust ourselves—and we should trust ourselves only to the extent that we are aligned with God’s Rev. and the will of Christ revealed to the world and within the soul. Only to true and tested spiritual fathers in Christ may we entrust ourselves more fully than to ourselves—committing our soul and our ears to them in the name of God.

My neighbor, my friend, is but a part of myself, since he is part of all humanity, of which I am also a part. The consequences of original sin—passions—are in both of us. Yes, in varying degrees and shades, but both he and I share the same reason to mistrust our as-yet dual and untransformed will.
We act, almost always, “with passion”, with a mixture of sin—not dispassionately or freely in Christ. I am truly unstable, inconsistent. The thoughts of the evil one constantly stir within me, and the purity of my soul is clouded again and again by the silt rising from its depths. My neighbor is just as unstable, just as capable of good and evil. I must constantly examine myself—and so must my neighbor. I must always ask: “Are my actions according to God?”

Even what seems good must be tested. For evil is often obvious, but “good” is often only apparently good, and in truth may be evil. Even evil must be tested: we cannot “trust” its evilness at first glance. To darkened people like us, even what is truly good may seem evil—if it wounds our pride or brings suffering. This is not about a suspicious, paranoid mistrust, but about a wise and creative mistrust—of oneself, and of all things in the world.

Sin almost always appears as something “sweet”. We must not trust that sweetness—for it is bitter pain and sorrow in reality. Suffering—say, in the fight for purity of body and soul—may seem unbearable or revolting; we must not trust that perception either. Behind blessed suffering lies peace—a peace higher than all joy. People speak much and often for long hours, as if their ideas are meant for good. But how much error, temptation, and vanity flows from their lips. We should not trust every word. People often suffer from their own words, and later repent of them. Not everything that proceeds from a person, even with the noblest intentions, is good. Much is useless, sinful—not only to the one who says it, but to the one who unthinkingly receives it.

As we deepen our love for others, we must never forget that all are sick, and we must live among them in constant vigilance—not only toward ourselves, but toward all around us. Only when we are sober with ourselves can we be fruitful in our vigilance toward others. This is not mistrust toward the person themselves, but mistrust toward their current state. The degree of trust must always shift with a person’s state of illumination in God. If someone we love, and have always trusted, suddenly appears to us drunk and starts giving advice—will our love vanish?

No—if we truly love them, our love will remain, perhaps grow stronger. But our trust—in their words and even in their feelings—will disappear while they are in such a state. Drunkenness by wine is rare compared to drunkenness by passions: anger, resentment, lust, greed, ambition… Passions act like wine on the mind and will, perverting the whole soul. Someone drunk on passion ceases to be themselves—they become a plaything of demons—even if they are, in moments free of passion, filled with genuine depth and the purity of Christ, as far as that is possible within our sinful nature. A person’s brighter state deserves a greater measure of trust. For example, I wish to speak a holy word, or to partake of the Holy Mysteries. But I feel my soul is filled with turmoil and passion.
Then I must act according to the Gospel: leave my gift at the altar and be reconciled—to my soul, to my “brother”. In other words, enter into peace, into the heavenly life. This is an example of righteous and blessed mistrust of myself, in the name of Christ’s love for myself. My egoistic love would want to overlook my faults, declare my soul “worthy,” and allow my sinful state to spill into the world or approach God unrepentantly. It would do so not by God’s commandments—
which say, “Take off your sandals” (Exodus 3:5) (i.e., your sinful state)—but out of self-will. And I would be scorched by the unyielding laws of God’s purity. But shouldn’t I refrain from all such judgments—wouldn’t discernment mean I’m “judging,” against the command: “Judge not, that you be not judged” (Mt. 7:1)?

Not at all. Discernment is a sign of the soul’s emergence from its unhealthy infancy. This discernment is “wisdom,” of which it is said: “be wise as serpents” (Matt. 10:16). Discernment is the crown of love, and the holy teachers of the Church—even, O mystery!—consider it to be higher than “love,” higher, of course, than “human” love, which is often irrational and even destructive. Discernment is heavenly wisdom in life, the spiritual reason of love, which does not take away its power but gives it salt.

“Do not cast your pearls” (Matt. 7:6)—this is not the absence of love (for the Word of God teaches only love!), but the wisdom of love, the knowledge of the higher laws of heaven, which pour themselves out upon the sinful world yet do not mingle with anything sinful. “Do not cast your pearls”—this is a commandment of mistrust within love, a commandment that leads to love, that guards love. “Thy Kingdom come, Thy will be done” (Matt. 6:10). I constantly want to realize in myself, and in everything, this love—to abolish “my own kingdom” and to open God’s. To trust nothing, to accept nothing of “my own,” nothing “human,” sinful or half-sinful… To open my hearing and my heart (its whole depth!) only to what is God’s, pure, and radiant… “Thy Kingdom come!” Until my death I do not want to rest from my hunger for it—in all things. I pray, and the word does not fall coldly from my lips; it bursts forth from my whole being and makes me languish, as in a desert.

Sweet is the judgment of God, carried out in my heart, upon my heart… Sweet to me is the coming of Christ. I meet the Lord everywhere. Not everywhere does the Lord manifest Himself to me, but I meet Him in every word and every breath… In human conversations, intentions, and actions.

I want only Him. And I want to have hatred for every truth that is not His. I want everything only in Him; without Him I want nothing. Everything is endlessly heavy and painful to me without Him. He is the light of my heart. I would not do anything good if I knew that this good was not pleasing to Him. I always know—day and night—that He is near me; but I do not always feel His warm breath, for I am not always turned toward Him, nor do I always desire Him above everything else. In this experience I feel such weakness, such frailty and poverty, that I cannot find rest in anything earthly; nothing can support me—except Him, who said: “My peace I give to you” (John 14:27).

On Mercy Toward the World

There was a man who, like many, sought to justify himself. He asked Jesus Christ, “Who is my neighbor?” (Luke 10:29). And the Savior responded with a parable (Luke 10:30–37). A traveler journeyed from Jerusalem to Jericho, when he was set upon by robbers. They stripped him of his clothes—likely his sole possession—and, after beating him, left him bloodied and broken on the roadside.

But what followed this brutal deed was perhaps an even greater cruelty: passersby on the same road looked on with cold indifference. A priest passed by without pause. The Levite came near, glanced at the wounded man with curiosity, but then turned away and continued on his path. In these two figures, the merciless face of humanity is laid bare: one half of mankind wounds and abandons, the other half walks by unmoved.

John Chrysostom rightly declared, “The rich and well-fed who gaze indifferently upon the hungry and poor, yet do nothing to aid them, are as guilty as murderers.” Indeed, those who have the means to relieve even one victim of the world’s sins but choose to ignore their suffering are no less culpable.

In simple words, Christ, the knower of human hearts, reveals the profound darkness that shrouds humanity and exposes the chief sin of all ages: the absence of mercy. And when we grasp this truth and recoil from the profound moral darkness within us, a quiet heavenly dawn rises—the dawn of mercy. Behind it shines the Sun of Divine Love itself—Christ.

Along the same road near Jericho, a certain Samaritan rode by and, upon seeing the bloodied man, was moved with compassion. That was all that happened: he was moved with compassion. All else flowed from this single act—one human heart stirred by another. Here is the miracle within reach of all, by which even the weakest and most sinful may partake of Divine power, truth, and glory.

Compassion moves mountains more than the mightiest forces—it softens stone hearts. “Truly, I say to you, whoever says to this mountain, ‘Be lifted up and cast into the sea,’ and does not doubt in their heart but believes that what they say will happen, it will be done for them” (Mark 11:23). These are Christ’s words. Compassion itself is a miracle. No one need move literal mountains; the true miracle is compassion.

God desires this miracle—one soul’s compassion for another. Here lies the power of the highest life. True mercy is simple and active. It is a will prepared for every labor, a heart willing to endure every sorrow for love’s sake. True mercy is practical. It bridges heaven and earth and acts not only in feeling or intent, but here and now—on this dry, dusty road between Jerusalem and Jericho. Such was the mercy of the Samaritan of Christ’s parable. His deliberate care reveals the depth of his compassion. Approaching the wounded man, he immediately “bandaged his wounds,” soothing them with oil and washing them with wine; then he “placed him on his own beast, brought him to an inn, and cared for him.” So the Gospel recounts.

Having done this, the merciful Samaritan might have departed in peace. But no—“the next day, as he left, he took out two denarii, gave them to the innkeeper, and said, ‘Take care of him.’” One would think his task was complete. Yet this man’s conscience remained restless: he told the innkeeper, “If you spend anything more, I will repay you upon my return.” Such is the radiance of true humanity. For all might act in this manner… Even now, many lie wounded by sin, scarred by the world’s evil, suffering on the many roads around us. And we can help them. I see that small stone inn of the merciful Samaritan on the road between Jerusalem and Jericho. A humble house, unoccupied, yet known to every pilgrim of the Holy Land… The desert road winds through the mountains, descending toward Jericho. Around rise dead mountains—these are hearts. Whose hearts? Of the ancient? The modern? These are our own stony human hearts, O Lord. They thirst for the waters of Your Mercy and are ready to bloom at Your touch.

The little house stands close to the road. People of all nations and tongues come here and behold this parable, which they hear from Christ. And the word of the desert road, the dead stone mountains, and this humble house that speaks to the peoples of the world about mercy—all remains a Divine summons amid the world, calling humanity to love, compassion, and true fellowship.

Seek Goodness…

“Brothers, admonish the disorderly, comfort the fainthearted, uphold the weak, be patient with all. See that no one repays evil for evil, but always seek what is good, both for one another and for all” (1 Thessalonians 5:14–15). So says the Apostle Paul in the last chapter of his letter to the Thessalonians. These words are clear, simple, and not complicated—but how much light, how much good and truth they contain!

Life is hard for us, people—because of our own human evil and its consequences. A person suffers primarily from the evil within himself, and then from the evil in others. Evil grows like a snowball if it is not opposed by good, if it is not melted by the rays of goodness and mercy. Both in others and in ourselves, we overcome the cold, dark evil only with the shining, warming good of Christ. This Christ’s good can sometimes be angry, holy indignation exposing evil—it must sometimes be fiery—but it will never bring evil disguised as good. Such is the nature of the spiritual state about which the Apostle speaks.

We must first guard our own soul and keep it in a peaceful spirit; and if we have achieved this, then we shall help the soul of another person to be in goodness. To heal another human soul, we must know by our own soul the effect of the medicinal remedy we offer. The medicine of Christ’s truth, Christ’s goodness, has been tested through the centuries, over two thousand years, tried on every character and in all peoples of the world. This wondrous medicine has extraordinary power if taken “inside,” placed in one’s heart and mind… Here is one of the precious drops of this medicine: “Brothers, admonish the disorderly, comfort the fainthearted, uphold the weak, be patient with all. See that no one repays evil for evil, but always seek what is good, both for one another and for all.”

Some, wanting to justify the evil hidden within themselves, appeal to their “character.” But character is formed and shaped by a person’s free responses to the surrounding world. The one who does good to others acquires a beautiful character; and this is already his best reward in this world. In the world to come, he will be of one spirit with God Himself and with the myriad beings of creation saved in God. But the one who does evil and encourages the evil of others acquires a terrible character and becomes a scourge and a misfortune for those around him, for his family, for his people. “A bad beginning is half the trouble,” says a Russian proverb. Once one begins to justify evil actions and outbursts within oneself, the corruption of the soul will proceed on its own, leading to its ruin.

The moral character of an adult person is what he has made and makes of himself. The soul is the earth. Man is the tiller of his soul. If the word of God, the word of Christ’s truth and love, is sown in the soil of the soul, the fruit will be sweet and joyful for the person himself and for those around him. But if a person sows weeds of evil in his soul, then poisonous, wild plants of the spirit will grow, which will torment both the person and others. The soul can also be likened to clay, and man to a sculptor. The sculptor molds from clay the human form. Likewise, a man fashions from his soul’s qualities and abilities either a human image or a beastly one.

By doing any evil, a person not only injects deadly poison into his own heart but also sprays this poison onto others, sometimes even the closest to him… But in the presence of strangers, a person is usually reluctant to show his bad side; caring for others’ opinion of him, he wants all to think well of him. Yet in the familiar home setting, he reveals his true face and torments his loved ones… Hidden evil or open evil—both remain evil, and a person must rid himself of it as soon as possible.

How? Above all, by realizing the higher meaning of his earthly life, its great immortality in God, and its brevity on earth; through knowledge of the Gospel and Jesus Christ; through turning to His truth. Christ reveals to people true and eternal Salvation… And by His grace, He leads them into this salvation.

“I am the light of the world,” He says. “Whoever follows Me will not walk in darkness, but will have the light of life” (John 8:12). If we walk in this light, we shall become sons of light; the dark evil will lose its power over us, and we shall pass from the dominion of darkness into the “kingdom of the beloved Son of God” (Colossians 1:13) Jesus Christ. And we shall be lamps that illuminate the night of sorrow in the lives of others. We shall be in Christ, a comfort to the grieving and a healing for those wounded by the evil of the world.

The Weakness and Strength of Man

The Apostle James addressed people who were overly confident in their human plans:
“Listen now, you who say, ‘Today or tomorrow we will go to such and such a city, and spend a year there, doing business and making a profit,’ yet you do not know what tomorrow will bring. For what is your life? It is even a vapor that appears for a little time and then vanishes. Instead of saying… ‘If the Lord wills, we shall live and do this or that,’ you boast arrogantly. All such boasting is evil” (James 4:14–16).

This seems to be an indisputable truth, confirmed by the experience of every person every day: life on earth is “a vapor that appears briefly.” Can one build life too calculatingly on this “vapor”? Vapor does not last long, just as earthly life does not. Yet human plans are usually made exactly this way. Firmly convinced of their stability and unshakability, people build their lives, struggle, plan — without seeing how fragile they are in this world, dependent on unforeseen circumstances, and ultimately always and in everything, dependent on God. God is the master of visible and invisible existence, of the present and the future (which for us is already the invisible world).

We, humans, so often “boast” in our plans and intentions! And instead of saying, as the Apostle advises, “If the Lord wills, and we live, we will do this or that,” we immediately and confidently say that we will certainly do this, build that, conquer and overcome those… “All such boasting is evil,” for by it we exclude the Lord God from the world. And since the Lord God is the true Master of all, we deprive ourselves of His help and blessing.

Yes, too often people express this unfounded thought that their life, success, and luck depend only on themselves; many even boast about this in the world. But such views are constantly shattered before the eyes of the world: “unexpected” illnesses strike people; natural disasters, earthquakes, physical and mental wars from which everyone suffers; rapid destruction of seemingly well-established families and whole societies, proud ruling parties, and mighty states; “premature” (as people say) deaths find humanity regardless of age, and the stream of human life overflows this world into eternity.

Generation after generation disappears, and the history of past centuries remains like a dream, sometimes like a nightmare of humanity; old and young depart into the unknown, leaving unexpectedly among their plans and unfinished affairs… The logic of human calculations is constantly collapsing. There are no calculations by which one can foresee the future hour and day of any person. The life of all is preserved only in the Providence of the Creator, and the limits of each are determined only by Him.

Yet man carelessly repeats his old mistake, which was noticed and so well expressed nearly 20 centuries ago: “Today or tomorrow we will go to such and such a city, and live there for a year”… and so on. The constancy of worldly logic! The constancy of physical phenomena — the change of day and night, tides and ebbs, the eternal heat of fire and coldness of ice — captivates superficial human thought to conclude that his “tomorrow” and “the day after tomorrow” inevitably and logically follow from his “today.”

This unfounded thought and false belief in the permanence and stability of earthly values and phenomena must be replaced by the true faith that people always and in everything depend primarily on the decisions of the holy and great will of the Lord. “If the Lord wills, and we live, we will do this or that” — here is the infallible formula relating to our future, not only personal but of all humanity. If we displace even a little from our consciousness this unnatural attitude towards life arising only from our pride and self-confidence — we will immediately see the impossibility and folly of building our future only on such sand, or better said, vapor, which is our human will and our physical life — “For what is your life? It is a vapor that appears for a little time and then vanishes.”

But here is what is astonishing: despite all its weakness and mortality, man is simultaneously a remarkable power. Not physical or material, but spiritual; a great, spiritually creative, or great spiritually destructive power. Man conquers mountains and oceans, rules in the depths of the earth, asserts his power over the air, builds quickly and just as quickly destroys much. Being physically weaker, shorter-lived, and inferior in many ways to animals and even plants, he dominates them…

Where does man get such power over the world amid his insignificance? Where does he get such strength over the elements, amid the fragility of his life? There is only one answer — from the spirit — from the invisible, to the eyes, spiritual essence, the precious seal of the Higher Reason within him. Some try to deny this essence and seal of otherworldly power or derive its existence from matter; however, the very energy and force of this denial in materialists does not come from their matter, but from their spirit — albeit blind and sick, but spirit nonetheless, bearing within itself the seal of the higher world.

The Apocalypse of the Minor Sin

“But I have this against you, that you have left your first love.” (Rev. 2:4)

The small sin, like tobacco, has so deeply ingrained itself into the habits of human society that society provides all kinds of conveniences for it. Where can you not find cigarettes? Ashtrays are everywhere; there are special rooms, train cars, compartments—“for smokers.” It would not be an exaggeration to say that the whole world is one huge room, or rather one huge train car in interstellar space: “for smokers.” Everyone “smokes” — sins quietly in small ways: old and young, sick and healthy, scholars and ordinary people… Even a criminal before execution is allowed to smoke a cigarette. As if the air in the earth’s atmosphere is not enough, or is too bland—one must create some kind of smoky, poisonous air and breathe it, breathe in the poison, revel in the smoke. And so everyone revels. So much so that a “non-smoker” is almost as rare as a “person who never lies” or “never looks down on anyone”… The tobacco market is one of the largest in global trade, and every year millions of people labor to provide other millions and millions the opportunity to inhale acrid smoke, to narcotize their heads and whole bodies with it.

Is it natural for a person to sin in small, narcotic ways—to “smoke”? The question itself seems strange. Is it natural for a person to go against nature? Is it natural to narcotize oneself? Governments forbid cocaine pleasure but encourage tobacco. Small sins are allowed by human law, they do not lead to prison. Everyone is guilty of them, and no one wants to cast a stone. Tobacco, like “little cocaine,” is permitted, like a little lie, like an unnoticed untruth, like killing a person in the heart or womb. But this is not what Divine Rev. says—the will of the Living God. The Lord tolerates neither a small lie, nor a single murderous word, nor one adulterous glance. A tiny blade of lawlessness is as cursed before the Lord as a great tree of crime. Many small sins are undoubtedly heavier for the human soul than a few great ones, which always remain in memory but can always be lifted through repentance. And a saint, certainly, is not one who does great deeds, but one who refrains even from the smallest offenses.

It is easier to begin the fight against a great sin, easier to hate its approach. There is a well-known case with the righteous Anthony of Murom. Two women came to him: one was sorrowful over one great sin, the other proudly testified to her freedom from any great sins[1]. Meeting the women on the road, the elder ordered the first to go and bring him a large stone, and the other to gather many small pebbles. After a few minutes the women returned. Then the elder said to them: “Now take these stones back and place them exactly where you took them from.” The woman with the large stone easily found the place it came from; the other woman vainly wandered searching for the nests of her small pebbles and returned with all the stones. The insightful Anthony explained that these stones represented… For the second woman, they represented numerous sins she was accustomed to, considered nothing, and never repented of. She did not remember her small sins and bursts of passion, and they expressed the hopeless condition of her soul, incapable even of repentance. The first woman, who remembered her sin, was burdened by it and removed it from her soul.

Many small, unworthy habits are the mire for the human soul if a person establishes them in themselves or recognizes them as an “inevitable” evil against which “it’s not worth” or “impossible” to fight. Here the soul falls into the trap of the enemy of God. “I am not a saint,” “I live in the world,” “I must live like everyone else” — soothes the aching conscience of a believing person. Man, man, of course, you are not a saint, of course, you “live in the world,” and “must live like everyone,” and therefore — be born like everyone; die like they do; watch, listen, speak like they do — but why break God’s Law by living “like them”? Why should you not morally be fragrant “like them”? Think about this, man.

How hard it is for the soul to shift from a false but habitual thought. The psychology of this atheistic world is so deeply ingrained into the psyche of modern man that regarding sin and crime against God’s Laws almost everyone acts alike — “by the stamp.” The saddest thing is that evil has instilled in people the “demands of nature” as the demands of sin. The demands of nature are to breathe, eat in moderation, keep warm, devote part of the day to sleep—but not to narcotize the body, senselessly cling to mirages and smoke.

If one honestly considers this question, evil itself rises to the surface of conscience. But the problem is that modern man has no time to think about the only important question, concerning not this little 60–70 year life, but the eternity of its immortal existence in new, great conditions. Absorbed in a completely misunderstood “practice,” modern man, immersed in his practical-earthly life, thinks he is truly “practical.” Bitter delusion! At the moment of his inevitable (always very close) so-called death, he will see clearly how impractical he was, having reduced the question of practice to the needs of his stomach and completely forgotten his spirit.

And so far, a man really has “no time” to think about the elementary moral laws of his life. And the unfortunate man suffers indescribably because of this. Like a child constantly touching fire and crying, humanity constantly touches the fire of sin and lust, cries and suffers, but again and again touches it… not understanding its spiritual childishness, which in the Gospel is called “blindness,” the actual blindness of the heart despite having physical eyes.

Humanity kills itself through sin, and every person likewise. By being overcome and troubled by evil, by unleashing the lower instincts, humanity prepares a terrible fate for itself, as does every person who follows this path. Those who sow the wind will reap the storm. And here, at this one and only important thing, there is “no time” to think… “Live in the moment,” “Whatever will be, will be” — the soul brushes off the very truth speaking within it that it must enter itself, focus, examine the attachments of its heart, and think about its eternal fate. The Creator of the world commanded man to care only about the day; the world commands him to care only about “the moment,” drowning man in a sea of worries about the whole life!

The topic of the morally small is by no means small. Here is the reflection of God’s apocalyptic rebuke to the Christian world that it has “forgotten its first love.” How purer and morally higher is man now even than that shaken nature from which his body is made. How pure is the stone ready to cry out against people who do not give glory to God, how pure are the flowers and trees in their wonderful cycle of life, how magnificently submissive to the Creator’s Law are the animals in their purity. God’s nature does not smoke, narcotize, debauch, or destroy the fruit given by God. The speechless nature teaches man how to bear the Cross of obedience to God amidst all the storms and sufferings of this life. Man must think about this.

Some think that all that happens here on earth will have no consequences. It is certainly more pleasant for a person with an impure conscience to think so. But why deceive oneself? Sooner or later one will have to see the dazzling mystery of the purity of creation. We feel ourselves as “life.” Could we really evaluate ourselves so petty and understand so shallowly the One Who created worlds to think of this earthly life’s fuss as human existence? We are much more and higher than what we are used to here on earth considering not only our life but even our ideals. But we are the seed sown in the earth. And therefore we do not yet see the surface of the universe, that true picture of nature that will be revealed to our eyes at the moment of so-called death, i.e., very soon for all.

What is death? Death is not a coffin, not a canopy, not a black band on the arm, not a grave of clay. Death is when the sprout of our life emerges on the earth’s surface and stands under the direct rays of God’s sun. To die and sprout the seed of life must happen here in the earth. This is what the Gospel calls “being born of the Spirit,” “the second birth” of man. The death of the body is the seed leaving the earth, coming out of the earth. Every person who has received at least the smallest spiritual leaven, at least the most insignificant Gospel pearl “within themselves,” expects not death, and even far from death. For those dead in spirit, of course, coffins, graves, black bands are all realities. And their spirit will not be able to come to the surface of true life because they did not die to themselves and their sins on earth.

Like an egg, we are enclosed from another world by the thin shell of the body. And our shells break one after another… Blessed is the person who will turn out to be a living organism formed for future life. Wretched is the state of the one who will turn out to be a shapeless liquid… and may even be repulsive by their moral odor! Here on earth, we truly live in the darkness of the spirit, in its “womb.” And is it not sinful, being in such a state, not to prepare for one’s true birth, but to consider one’s darkness either an ideal, extremely joyful place of life (as optimistic atheism thinks) or an incomprehensible place of meaningless sufferings (as pessimistic atheism thinks)?

The meaning is not visible to physical eyes, of course, but it is very easy, more than easy, to believe in it if one thinks about oneself and the Gospel. The whole of nature shouts about this meaning; every awakened human soul begins to cry out about it. How carefully must all of us, “not yet sprouted” people, treat one another… How we must protect in each other this sprouting, this emergence into free air, under God’s sun! A person is terribly responsible for everything, and it is theoretically difficult to imagine the misfortune of that person who, having lived atheistically on earth «as if nothing exists,» suddenly finds himself face to face with reality—not only brighter than this our earth but even surpassing all our concepts of reality… Was it not for such souls that the Lord suffered in the Garden of Gethsemane? In any case, He took on the suffering on the Cross for them as well.

If the visible sky did not separate us from the invisible heaven, we would shudder at the contradictions of the spirit that exist between the angelic triumphant church and our earthly church, composed almost of non-militant, flabby human souls. We would be horrified and would clearly understand the truth that is now unclear to us: what the Lord Jesus Christ did for us and what He does for each of us. We conceive of His salvation almost theoretically, abstractly. But if we were to see on one side, the snow-white hosts of lightning-bright pure spirits, fiery, flaming, burning with unimaginable love for God and striving for the salvation of all creation, and on the other side, the earth with its hundreds of millions of half-people, half-insects, with hearts turned only to the earth, people devouring each other, self-loving, pleasure-loving, money-loving, unyielding, possessed by dark forces clinging to them, we would be horrified and tremble. And a clear picture would emerge for us of the unconditional impossibility of salvation «by natural» means. The occultists’ arguments about the evolutionary movement of reincarnating humanity upwards would appear to us, at best, mad. We would see that the darkness over humanity is not thinning but thickening… And we would understand what the Incarnate Creator on their earth did for people. We would see how even ears of grain with a single grain are taken by the heavenly reapers to heaven, how the slightest spark of Christ in a person—as a single grain in the ear—already saves that person. All darkness is crossed out, cut off; only the spark is taken, and it becomes the eternal life of the person. Glory to Christ’s salvation! Truly, we have nothing in ourselves except our human dignity lying in the dust. And from this dust, we arise by Christ’s grace, and with the spark, we are carried to heaven. But we are carried only if this spark of love for God has been kindled in us, if we are able to push our soul away from everything mortal in the world, able to notice this mortal thing in the smallest detail and to push it away from ourselves as well. Sensitivity to the smallest thing in ourselves will be an indicator of the health of our soul. If atoms really contain precise solar systems within them, then this is a wonderful example of the organic homogeneity of every sin: small and large.

The talk about the necessity of rejecting even the smallest sin leads us to the most important question of human life: the question about life after death. The revelation of the Church asserts that a soul not freed from a particular passion will carry that passion into the otherworld, where, due to the absence of a body (until the resurrection), it will be impossible to satisfy that passion, and thus the soul will remain in constant torment of self-burning, in perpetual thirst for sin and lust without the possibility of satisfaction. A gourmand, who in his earthly life thought only of food, will undoubtedly suffer after death, deprived of physical food but not deprived of the spiritual thirst for it. A drunkard will be tormented terribly, having no body to satisfy and temporarily calm his suffering soul with alcohol. The fornicator will feel the same. The money-lover too… The smoker—also.

It’s easy to experiment. Let a smoker go without smoking for two or three days. What will he feel? A known torment, softened by all the relationships and entertainments of life. But remove life with its entertainments… The suffering will intensify. It is not the body that suffers, but the soul living in the body, accustomed to satisfying its lust and passion through the body. Deprived of satisfaction, the soul suffers. Thus, the soul of a rich sinner suddenly deprived of wealth suffers, the peace-lover deprived of peace, the self-loving person who suffers a blow to his pride… How many suicides have there been on this ground! All this is experience, bare experience of our earthly life. Even here on earth, we can experiment with our soul. Every person should be farsighted. One must guard one’s house from being undermined (Mt. 24:43).

Feeling this, is it possible to calmly indulge in passions or even divide them into serious and «innocent»? After all, fire is still fire—whether a blast furnace or a burning match. Both torment a person who touches them and can be deadly. We must understand this indisputable truth: every passion, every anger, every lust is fire. God’s Law confines the instincts of the human body within limits and gives true direction to the volitional and irritable energies of the soul so that a person may easily and comfortably move towards spiritualization. What shall we call the person who, understanding all this, calmly and frivolously relates to his passions, excuses them, putting to sleep all signs of saving sensitivity in his soul?

First of all, one must stop justifying one’s lust—even the smallest one—and condemn it before God and oneself. One must pray for deliverance, for salvation. The Savior Lord is called Savior not abstractly but really. The Savior saves from all weaknesses and passions. He delivers. He heals. Clearly and tangibly. Healing, He forgives. Forgiveness is the healing of what must be forgiven. It is given only to those who hunger and thirst for this truth. Those who simply want it, smoldering in their desire, do not receive healing. But those who burn, blaze, implore, strive with their heart—these receive it. For only such are capable of appreciating the gift of God’s healing, not trampling on it but thanking Him for it, and sensitively guarding it by the Name of the Savior from new temptations of evil.

Of course, smoking is a very small lust, like a match is a small fire. But this lust too is contrary to the spirit, and it is impossible to even imagine any of the Lord’s closest disciples smoking cigarettes. «Destroy the small lust,» say the saints. There is no acorn that does not contain an oak. So with sins. A small plant is easy to weed out. A large one requires special tools for its eradication. The spiritual meaning of smoking and all small “justified” lawlessness of the spirit is licentiousness. Not only of the body but also of the soul. It is a false calming of oneself (one’s “nerves,” as some say without fully realizing that nerves are the bodily mirror of the soul). This “calming” leads to ever greater removal from true peace, from the true consolation of the Spirit. This calming is a mirage. Now—while the body exists—it must be renewed constantly. Afterward, this narcotic calm will be a source of tormenting captivity of the soul.

One must understand that one who «releases» his anger, for example, also «calms» himself. But, of course, only until the next attack of anger. One cannot calm oneself by satisfying passion. One can calm oneself only by opposing passion, resisting it. One can calm oneself only by bearing the Cross of the struggle against every passion, even the smallest, by taking its rejection into one’s heart. This is the path to true, firm, faithful, and—most importantly—eternal happiness. One who has risen above the fog sees the sun and the eternally blue sky. One who has risen above passions enters the sphere of Christ’s peace, indescribable bliss beginning already here on earth and accessible to every person.

Mirage happiness—the cigarette. The same as getting angry at someone, being proud before someone, painting one’s cheeks or lips for people, stealing a small piece of sweetness—a tiny penny from the church dish of God’s nature. There is no need to seek such happiness. Its direct, logical continuation: cocaine, a blow to a person’s face or a shot, forging value. Blessed is the person who, finding such happiness, pushes it away with righteous and holy anger. This demonic happiness reigning in the world is the harlot who has intruded into the marriage of the human soul with Christ, God of Truth and pure blessed joy.

Every consolation outside the Holy Spirit the Comforter is that mad temptation on which the organizers of human paradise build their dreams. The Comforter is only the Creative Spirit of the Truth of Christ. It is impossible to pray in the spirit while smoking a cigarette. It is impossible to preach while smoking a cigarette. Before entering the temple of God, one throws away the cigarette… but the temple of God is us. Whoever wants to be the temple of God every minute will throw away the cigarette, like any false thought, any unclean feeling. The attitude toward the smallest movement of the soul within oneself is a thermometer of the fervor of a person’s faith and love for God.

One can imagine such a life example: tobacco as a plant contains no evil (like golden sand, like cotton from which money is made). The apricot is God’s plant. Alcohol can be very useful for the human body at certain moments and in certain doses, not at all contrary to the spirit, like moderate tea or coffee. Wood, the material from which furniture is made, all is God’s… But now let us take these components in the following combination: a person sprawled in a soft armchair, smoking a Cuban cigar, constantly sipping from a nearby glass of apricot brandy… Can this person in such a state conduct a conversation about the Living God—create prayer to the Living God? Physically—yes; spiritually—no. Why? Because this person is now licentious, his soul has drowned both in the armchair, in the Cuban cigar, and in the glass of apricot brandy. At this moment he almost has no soul. He is like the prodigal son of the Gospel, wandering «in far countries.» This is how a person can lose his soul. A person loses it all the time. And it is good if he finds it again all the time, struggles not to lose it, trembles over his soul like over his beloved infant. The soul is an infant of immortality, defenseless and pitiable under the conditions of the surrounding world. How necessary it is to press one’s soul to one’s breast, to one’s heart, how necessary it is to love it, destined for eternal life. Oh, how necessary it is to wipe even the smallest stain from it!

Now an example was given of the impossibility of keeping one’s soul, lustfully scattering it over surrounding objects: armchair, cigar, liqueur. The example is particularly vivid, although there are even more vivid ones in life. But if we take not a vivid but a gray example of the same licentious spirit—the atmosphere remains the same, where the lesser sin is to be silent about Christ than to speak about Him. Here lies the explanation for why the world is silent about Christ, why neither in the streets, nor in salons, nor in friendly conversations do people speak about the Savior of the Universe, the Only Father of the world, despite the many people who believe in Him.

It is not always shameful before people to speak about God; sometimes it is shameful before God to speak about Him to people. The world instinctively understands that in the environment in which it exists all the time—the lesser sin is to be silent about Christ than to speak about Him. And so people are silent about God. A terrible symptom. The world is flooded with legions of words; the tongue of man is possessed by these empty legions—and not a word, almost not a word about God, about the Beginning, the End, and the Center of all.

For to speak about God is at once to convict oneself and the whole world. And if a word about God is spoken, it is difficult to finish it—to oneself and to the world.

If a person has no disgust for his small sins, he is spiritually unhealthy. If there is disgust but «no strength» to overcome weakness, it means it is left until the time when the person shows his faith in a struggle against something more dangerous for him than this weakness, and it is left for humility. For many people who appear impeccable, who do not drink or smoke, are like «rotten apples,» according to the Ladder’s words, that is, full of obvious or hidden pride. And there is no way to humble their pride except by some fall. But he who, for one reason or another, «permits» himself small sins will remain outside the Kingdom of God and its laws. Such a person, «lulling» his conscience, becomes incapable of crossing the threshold of true spiritual life. He always remains like the youth who approached Christ and immediately left Him with sadness, or sometimes even without sadness, but just to… «smoke!»

Rigorousness and puritanism are alien to the evangelical spirit. Pharisaic righteousness without love is darker in the eyes of God than any sin. But lukewarmness of Christians in fulfilling the commandments is just as dark. Both the Pharisees and those who trade and smoke in God’s temple are equally driven out of the temple. «For this is the will of God, your sanctification» (1 Thessalonians 4:3). A sensitive conscience sharpens vision to detect that alien dust lying on the wounds of the soul. The Son of God and the Son of Man gave us one commandment for thirst: «Be perfect, therefore, as your heavenly Father is perfect» (Mt. 5:48). In it the Lord seems to say: «People, I do not give you a measure—determine it yourselves. Determine for yourselves the measure of your love for My purity and your obedience to this love.»

The Agony of Loneliness (Pneumatology of Fear)

I

Fear – the agony of humanity… It is hard to fully understand and impossible to completely cure. It can only be healed by the sky or drowned by the earth, distracted by fuss, covered by cares; one can only divert oneself from this torment through various pursuits, plans, hopes, brief earthly joys, or by other pains. Fear, like the wind, meets a person on all paths of life. What are people not afraid of in this world! Having moved away from their trust in the Creator, they build their earthly life surrounded by anxiety, apprehension, fear, and horror.

Having ceased to dwell in the paradise of sweet divine trust and their own trust in God, people have become painfully afraid of everything and frighten the entire world with themselves. They have filled the earth with instability and misery, living constantly called to another, higher life, but almost not responding to it. A man drowned in the earth now sees only the darkness of the earth. And all of nature feels this alienation of man from higher life and freedom, torments him, and fears him… Thorns have surrounded human life, and thistles have grown on its paths. Evil and fear have begun to sting man. They can sting him only «in the heel» (Gen. 3:15), but in the heel, i.e., in external, peripheral feelings and thoughts, the entire earthly life has now concentrated, having fallen from the height of clear Reason. And, wounded in his miserable heel, man began to weaken with all the depth of his being – such is his weakness, deprived of Grace. Like a beast, he trembles and fears everything, «fear and trembling came upon me, and darkness covered me» (Ps. 55:5).

Having lost his «first love» (Rev. 2:4) and not yet learned his last love—in Christ—man looked around in his vast and cold den of the world and—was afraid. Thus began his history, which humanity has not overcome to this day. He began to grow pale with fear, from danger, from the unfaithfulness of his life and that of another person. Evil forces began to torment him, draw him to themselves, grant him their phantom pleasures, and then beat him, enjoying his defenselessness and gloom. And man got used to the power of dark forces over himself. And a new feeling began to visit him: the joy of being evil and terrible to those around him. And the more he lives in his malicious delight of hatred for another person, power, and pride, the more he fears and distrusts others.

The birth of man in the world is mysterious and terrifying. The transition from the dark womb of the world into mysterious eternity is terrifying for man. Every minute of this life is terrifying in its novelty and responsibility. But man has learned to deceive his fear, to hide it, even to laugh at it; to deceive it even while obeying it and making sacrifices to it in order to gain greater ease of existence under its power. Such is the essence of ancient and modern idolatry, the cultivation of an artificial garden of life and thought outside God… Man deceives himself by living soullessly and fearlessly.

The modern race of humanity, its interests, imagination, and civilization, the ever-accelerating whirl of people in space and time grows not only from social and cultural connections but also from the terrible loneliness of man in the world, from loneliness which man wants to hide from himself and others. Ancient worship of idols and fetishes was already a manifestation of this loneliness. Trying to hide from himself and others his insignificance and his metaphysical nakedness without God, man built and builds the world. But even in this dark striving of man—to hide from himself his weakness and smallness—lies the spark of his freedom to choose his path.

Not appreciating or valuing his high dignity and freedom to be a son of God, man must now learn this freedom of faith in God, love for God, and obedience to Him through all the pain of his unlovedness, disbelief, and disobedience. Remaining God’s, down to the last speck of dust and blade of grass, the earth has become a harsh school for man. Fragrant with closeness to the heavenly world, the earth has become a stern school of God’s truth for man. The inner evil of human unlovedness for God has become and continues to become the external, physical, and historical environment of man. Evil, arising in the abyss of the soul and not washed away by repentance, goes through the body of the earth with wounds, ulcers, and diseases. The «thorns and thistles» of the Bible (Gen. 3:18), which surround our life, are our illnesses, our fears, our turmoil and horrors; they crept, rushed, and flew into the external world through the inner world of the human soul, which shuddered and trembled from its betrayal of God.

Historians of the ancient world (such as Fustel de Coulanges – «La Cité antique») testify to that inhuman, «totalitarian,» dark fear that moved and directed the history of the ancient world. In all areas of life, people were slaves to their dark fear until a new fear was given to them—a high fear of the holy law. The Creator heals people from earthly fears by the fear of His Law. All humanity, darkened and constantly afraid of something at every step, can be healed from dark fear only by a new fear, a higher, bright fear; no longer a senseless trembling before the horror of life and fate, but a fear of reverence before the law of the Creator and His Spirit, a fear of moral responsibility for the given talents of truth and love. «Take off your sandals, for the place where you stand is holy» (Acts 7:33).

After the Incarnation of the Logos and the coming of the fire of the Spirit into the world, the whole earth (for the higher human consciousness) became holy, and human sinfulness on earth acquired even greater repulsiveness, becoming an even greater madness than in the times of a single Law. The bright fear before the burning bush of great God’s perfection is the beginning of the last wisdom of man: «The fear of the Lord is the beginning of wisdom» (Ps. 110:10). With the Word of His Truth, the Creator tore out the deadly arrow from the life of humanity and struck evil with that same arrow. Having freed fear from its demonic poison, the Spirit of God began to strengthen and elevate the hearts of men with this fear. And people, accustomed to fear as their life, began to feed on the new, higher fear and return to God, to the meaning of their life, freeing themselves from their old fears. Fear was disarmed, transformed, and lifted to heaven…

This fear of God is capable of infinite elevation and refinement, and it goes beyond all timidity. Therefore, it was not abolished by the coming of the God-Man to earth, who brought the world a New Covenant, not of fear, but of the fearlessness of love. Fear remained in the world as a bright halo over the fiery human striving for God’s Purity. Humanity began to live between two fears: pure, holy and dark, sinful, burning sometimes with one, sometimes with the other fear. Man is still capable, alongside exalted feelings of angelic reverence before the Name of the Lord of Hosts, of harboring and revealing dark demonic fear—superstitions, self-love, and egoism. The deep soul split, experienced and realized by many people, can only be healed by purification and sanctification of fear. It is impossible to destroy in one’s experiences any sign of any kind of fear. But one can elevate one’s fear. This is where the religious blossoming of the human personality occurs. The first dark fear of man is the fear of seeing God. This is the universal, constant hiding of Adam-humanity from the closeness of God. «I was naked and hid myself» (Gen. 3:10). So to this day, humanity hides from God in its deeds, feelings, and desires. The second dark fear of man is the fear of seeing another man. The depth of anthropological truth is revealed already on the first pages of the Bible:

«Behold… I shall be a fugitive and a wanderer on the earth, and whoever finds me will kill me» (Gen. 4:14). These are the words of Cain after killing his brother. Just as man fears not finding God, so he fears finding God, seeing his Savior within himself and within another person. Sometimes a man fears finding higher humanity in himself and in his brother. «Where are you, man?» (Gen. 3:10) calls the Spirit of God to the same ancient biblical Adam, humanity. And every man, with conscious or unconscious movement of his soul, answers God: «I heard Your voice in the garden, and I was afraid because I was naked, and I hid myself» (Gen. 3:10). Running away from man is only the second stage of fleeing from God. Those who have left God but have not yet left man are close to returning to God. Metaphysically, the departure of the unbeliever in God from another person is the last form of moral solipsism, a malignant tumor of humanity developing not toward Divine truth but toward its own selfish being.

The fears of the evil serve evil. Man fears to recognize himself as a poor and naked spirit. And realizing himself naked, he fears to turn his face and his eternity (humanity) to God. And, fearing this, he fears to find God anywhere—in the world or in his life. Thus man drives himself away from the face of God into «outer darkness,» where there is «weeping and gnashing of teeth» (Matt. 8:12), the hopeless suffering of humanity unwilling to die and rise again in God.

The horror of his inconsistency with God, sometimes very deeply living within, explains human disbelief, this dark human fear to find God in himself or anywhere in the world. «There is no God!»… «There cannot be a God in a world with so much evil and suffering!» Yet this is already knowledge of God and trembling before one’s and the world’s inconsistency with Him. In disbelief, there is the horror of the possibility of meeting God. Fear is pushed aside, the soul calms itself with unbelief… Only the ostrich running on the desert hides its head in the sand to escape pursuit. And so man hides in the void from the Creator.

But in the fear of the fallen man, we see the paradise response of the first modest chastity of the creature: «Lord, depart from me, for I am a sinful man!» Thus exclaims, overwhelmed by shame and horror at his weakness and impurity, the apostle Peter after the miraculous mercy shown to him on the Sea of Tiberias. Here is already revealed not the dark desire to flee from the Holy of Holies but the angelic hiding of oneself from Him, out of love for Him, from shame for oneself, for one’s weakness and unreadiness for this meeting. And man, in this bright horror, already bears within himself the reflection of Paradise, the joy of cherubim and seraphim covering their faces from the Sun of love.

Every true repentance is accompanied by a feeling of holy concealment from God, which shows the paradisal nature of human repentance as the finding of one’s spiritual correspondence to God. The bright trembling of the prodigal son before the love of the Father, realizing that he «has no right to be called a son,» is the same fear as the fear of the apostle Peter after the miraculous catch of fish on the Sea of Galilee.

If only such fear touched our human hearts! But we, people, can be either insensitively bold toward everything—life and death, good and evil—or extremely fearful and timid, distrustful of life, the elements, beasts, and people. And even our fearlessness often is not a sign of Eternal Life begun in us, but only one of the expressions of our insensitivity to the mysteries of life and its sanctities.

The self-confident man, who fears no difficulties of life and death, can suddenly be frightened by the mere possibility of a reprimand from his boss, ridicule from society, or, on the contrary, not receiving any distinction, satisfaction of self-love. Brave warriors pale at the word or glance of a weak woman. Dark fear is always provoked by passion. This fear is always a consequence of incorrect love either for the world, another person, or oneself. But there is also fear from soul emptiness, from the loss of oneself by man. This last fear terrified the apostle Peter in the courtyard of Caiaphas, in the presence of Christ the Savior Himself. Life ready to give for Christ, he (such is the consequence of self-confidence) suddenly got lost and was afraid.

Amid his dark fear, the modern man resembles the most primitive. What are people not afraid of! The life of modern man, like that of the ancient, is woven from fears that rush through his soul like birds, not always reflected on the screen of his consciousness. Modern man does not realize all his fears. But if there is no complete peace in his heart, one can say that fears, these children of his human passions, live in his soul’s house.

Fears enter the doors and windows of man, whistle in his keyholes, fill all the pores of life, paralyze the activity of active people, and excite the inactive to activity. Who is not insensitive fears something, sometimes a lot. Rulers and subjects, bosses and subordinates, rich and poor, healthy and sick. Everyone fears in his own way… Undoubtedly, surrounded on all sides by all sorts of personal, social, and worldly ghosts, the modern man is even a greater slave to demonic fears than the ancient pagan or the naive African of our days.

Until recently, many people, frightened by the authority of «science,» hurried to renounce the highest values of their life and culture—God, eternal salvation, the Gospel, their soul… Wasn’t this fear of ghosts? Now these childish scientific conclusions of the past century have disappeared in the light of new human knowledge, of the new word of science, no longer opposing itself to God but modestly recognizing its limits.

Man is tormented by his own body. The human body has its own understanding of happiness and sorrow, joy and grief. Bodily emotions can be a new source of suffering and fears for man—fears of the body and fears of yielding to the body. The body is inert, persistent, and crude regarding the spirit; it has its own psychology and will. It tramples on the human spirit like a lion; bound by the spirit, it turns into a miserable dog. It is «of this world,» and does not recognize the higher demands of the human spirit; it must be forced to good deeds, prayer, and self-sacrifice.

The «spiritual» body (1 Cor.15:44) fears many things. It often trembles, while the human spirit remains peaceful and entrusted into God’s hands (as experienced by many believers during air raids).

A person fears meeting themselves because by finding themselves, they may find God. But a person does not want to meet God. Therefore, a person fears their own great depth and runs all their life from the slightest deepening into themselves. The entire rush of their life, the whole hustle and bustle of the world, the entire dynamic of their civilization—with its leveling and standardization of life, its entertainments and passions, worries, plans, and enthusiasm—seem to drive a person out of the Face of God and deprive them of their human face. But — «Where shall I go from Your Spirit, Lord? And from Your presence where shall I flee?» (Psalm 138:7) — humanity, whether unbelieving or weak in faith, is directed to flee from its own depth, from its silence, where the paradise bliss is hidden, where God meets man. Man flees from the spiritual world—where to? Into a vicious circle of external creativity, external tasks, external relationships with people, fleeting successes, momentarily arising but never satisfying joys. And man increasingly fears being alone with himself. He no longer looks at the stars, no longer reflects in silence on life. The depth of his soul, capable of containing the great love of the Creator Himself, is not a joyful but a terrifying vision for him.

Man fears the depth of his immortal «I,» his absoluteness, his «capacity for everything»: the possible abyss of his crime and his ultimate self-giving to God. And in everything, man fears his pain and the unknown, like unexpected pain. He even fears his own fear, because fear is pain; and sometimes he even fears joy, because joy is unfaithful and, leaving, brings pain; a person can fear even their joyful hopes. As deep as a person is, so mysteriously boundless is the world of their spirit; it can truly be said: such a spirit as the human one could only be given to an immortal person. Scientific psychopathology and psychotherapy study the realm of the unconscious too abstractly (and therefore incorrectly—outside the criteria of good and evil); therefore, even in their most subtle analyses, they cannot touch the real mysteries of human life.

II

Bright fears are born from the fear of God. Reverence, the trembling of faith and hope enter the human heart with sharp pain and the bliss of a bright fear. One who loves God’s will more than their own life fears to do anything in the world “from oneself” rather than “according to God”; to do something in this way means causing oneself torment. And so a person walks carefully and fills the world only with the fragrant honey of life. A person fears sin, but not as an external, fatal force, rather as something resonant with their own weakness… “Lead us not (our weakness!) into temptation” (into trial), “do not subject it to examination,” prays the humbled person to God… “Tread upon the asp and basilisk, trample the lion and the serpent” (Psalm 90:13) — God answers the person. The faithful soul knows this truth of the 90th Psalm and fears neither the darkness of the surrounding world nor its own. It fears only one thing: to grievously upset the Beloved! This is the fear of Christ’s disciples. Then a person no longer fears the torment of their unfaithfulness to God but the loss of that torment; they fear peaceful and painless breaches of Divine will. This is the highest circle of fear, leading into the heavenly harmony of the spirit and guarding this harmony within a person. The bright fear inspires and nourishes a person with its suffering.

Inspired and uplifted by this fear of divine love, a person gains freedom from sin and is freed from the lower torments of fear. The experience of “discernment of spirits” (1 John 4:1) is also the experience of discerning fears. Fear is always inspired by some spirit. Dark fears oppress, weaken, kill. Bright fears gather the soul, cleanse it, and lead it into the peace of the Holy Spirit. Dark fear is a lack of love for God and neighbor. The one who loves ceases to fear. “Love casts out fear” (1 John 4:18). Just as freedom of movement overcomes restraint, so love overcomes fear. Pure, filial devotion of a person to God, or brotherly devotion of the heart to another person, overcomes the fear of self-love that chills and freezes the heart. But this applies only to true love. False love, driven by passion or lust, knows no fearlessness; it does not overcome fear but intensifies it, because it intensifies the self of the person. Even maternal love, one of the high and sacrificial loves of this world, only in spiritual uplifting and elevation of oneself and loved ones to God overcomes natural fear.

Complete liberation from natural and unnatural fears is achieved only through the “liberation of the son” — when the son, i.e., the Godly person, is freed in their very soul, and this liberation is accomplished by the Son of God. “Liberation of the son” happens through the expulsion from the human soul of some passion and the fear connected with it. Sometimes all passions and all fears. Then all shadows leave the soul; even the shadows of shadows depart. St. John Chrysostom said that for him, more terrible than eternal torments would be to see the gentle face of the Lord Jesus Christ turning away from him with sadness… Here is the psychology of true faith: fear of grieving the beloved Lord, not receiving His boundless love with the immensity of one’s spirit.

Neither John Chrysostom nor other righteous ones were, of course, free on earth from human fears, “living in the world and bearing flesh.” Paul’s companion, Luke, says that the angel who appeared to Apostle Paul on the ship during a terrible storm said: “Do not be afraid, Paul; you must stand before Caesar” (Acts 27:24). Undoubtedly, the angel from his spiritual world saw that the apostle then also had some fleshly fear. We see further how, going as a prisoner along the Appian Way to Rome, the elderly apostle “was encouraged” seeing the brethren there. So humane is the description of this weakness of the apostle. And he experienced anxiety more than once: “When we came to Macedonia, our flesh had no rest, but we were troubled on every side; without were fightings, within were fears” (2 Cor.7:5).

The wind of the world ruffled even the surface of this soul, wholly dedicated to God. But it did not hinder his apostolic work. Here is revealed the power of God, working in the human weakness dedicated to God. The beauty of man lies in the fact that nothing can prevent him from the work of God in the world. The world seeks “strong” ones and scatters them like dust. The Creator draws “weak” ones (in their own consciousness) near, because only a person who truly realizes their weakness and need for God’s strength can accept God’s strength.

A person fears dying in God, fully dedicating themselves and everything to God. But they need not fear either the seeming greatness of their efforts and sacrifices on the paths to God, nor their weaknesses, nor fears on these paths. Through all these abysses, a person is carried by God’s power when it is necessary for God’s and human work in the world. When it is not necessary, the person again stands at the edge of their abyss, powerless and blissful in their fearless nothingness.

The soul faithful and desiring to remain faithful always stays in bright vigilance; it fears not to know God’s will or, knowing it, to change it in any way. “Lead us not into temptation” (Mt. 6:13) — the prayer of all who truly recognize their own inattentiveness, distraction, fascination with the secondary, and fall. But a Christian’s sense of weakness never turns into an inferiority complex. On the contrary, this feeling is the wing of faith, courage, and affirmation in God. Considering their weakness, the weakness of all people generally, and the fragility of the whole world, a person relies on neither themselves nor anything “from the world”; in nothing earthly do they place their ultimate hope, and in this, they are never deceived.

The power of the “fear of God” gives birth in the soul to a rejection of evil and an attraction to truth. One who lives in the light of the fear of God sees all shadows in their heart. And the more they contain the light of Christ, the clearer they see their slightest unfaithfulness to God and the more passionately hate every approach of sin to their heart, justly seeing even in the slightest sin a separation between God and themselves. This constant self-attention, and the bright hatred of oneself born from knowledge of the movements of one’s own will, is quite unlike the self-hatred of a person who loves only themselves. There is evangelical hatred of self, and there is demonic hatred. A person living in evil can sometimes sincerely hate themselves, despise and fear themselves for their insufficient perfection in evil. A murderer, terrified in conscience of killing witnesses to their crime, can despise themselves for such “cowardice” and even “repent” of it. A criminal, unable to hide traces of their crime, can hate themselves for this slip. Such morally inverted people, walking morally “head down,” are bitten by the serpent of evil not just “in the heel” but in the very head. We see in the world people who consciously accustom and even force themselves to be unfriendly, rude, stone-hearted, and proud with others (sometimes especially with their own family); such a person fears having or even showing any compassion toward another person. The development of this feeling and its technical organization: the modern concentration camp.

The moral condition of a person becomes especially difficult when their soul, as if infected with the apocalyptic “trichina,” is involved in some collective evil of the world. Then people begin to hate and exterminate each other because of external signs of blood, race, class, origin, or due to various changing ideas in the world. In collective evil, moral perversion has more reasons for self-justification, though psychological self-justification usually requires no reasons at all. A person who does not believe in the world of eternal values and spiritual realities fears being honest (“you’ll become poor”), sincere (“they’ll laugh”), truthful (“you’ll be deceived”), kind (“they’ll exploit you”)… etc. Life hides under the crust of hypocrisy and convention. Everything becomes ambiguous and half-true. Infernal light, not from the Sun—Christ, but from the phosphorus of human brains and bones, spreads over souls.

One recalls the great night air bombings of cities. A huge phosphoric desert of dead light, inhuman fires of hellish sounds, and at the same time some silence, lunar emptiness… Anyone who has seen anything like this once will never forget that lifeless light from “trees of death,” shining over the doomed place on earth, the flash of artillery lightning in the glare of explosions and fires. Such is the light of the world, opposing Christ’s light; it is at once the judgment on the world, the exteriorization of its false thoughts, desires—all the half-truths of its life. From many souls in the world rise dark streams of smoke from the passions—pride, greed, anger, envy, lust. This soot of daily existence merges over the earth into a huge black cloud. It spreads over human life and history. From it goes the shadow of fear. This shadow is seen only by the insensible, intoxicated with themselves, or by those enveloped in divine love…

III

The chief suffering of a person who has turned away from God is pride. Ungrateful suffering is born within the circle of God-unilluminated love, pre-love.

1. Love for false and worthless worldly glory,
2. love for false and fleeting values,
3. love for bodily pleasures and external peace;
   these three pre-loves of humanity, merging into one circle, cast a Luciferian shadow of fear upon the world.

“The proud soul is a slave to fear; being self-confident, it fears every rustle and even shadows” (The Ladder, Step 21, ch. 4). “Fearfulness is the avoidance of faith in expectation of the unexpected” (ch. 2). – “Although all the fearful are vain,” says St. John Climacus, “yet not all the fearless are humble-witted,” “robbers and gravediggers are not afraid” (ch. 6).

The first pre-love is surrounded by fear of disgrace, dishonor, or not receiving the desired honor from people. It is the fear of being ignored, of having one’s abilities, talents, and perfections overlooked. In this state, like drunkards on wine, people seek approval and recognition from others—even from those to whom they are utterly indifferent. An artist or political figure, looking down on the “crowd” (distinguishing themselves from it), at the same time greedily seeks recognition and worship from that crowd, fearing not to find it. Often, a person’s life depends on the opinions of others. Here lies one of the heavy chains of general slavery. Like idols, some people constantly seek recognition, honor, attention, and respect from others. Not caring for the glory of God, they are sharply concerned with their own glory and honor. There are various degrees and types of this universal, or rather inhuman, craving and the fears associated with it. Among rulers and politicians it manifests one way, among artists another. While true artists, writers, and musicians fear only to lie in their art, failing to express its ultimate truth (so too fear true scholars), superficial artists fear only unfavorable evaluation of their works, lack of praise, and buyers. They fear not superficial criticism but all criticism, perceiving it as deliberate humiliation of their personality. Intoxicated by the passion of pride and love of glory, they become enemies of the most valuable and wise critic. Only a lofty, selfless (“ascetic”) attitude toward art, turning it into service to God and His truth in the world, preserves and saves the artist’s personality from decay. The most subtle offshoots of love of glory reach deep into the subconscious of a person, especially one whose work depends heavily on the opinions of others.

Man is always dependent, to one degree or another, on the lives of others; but the task and purpose of man in the world is precisely to rise from a lower plane of dependence on people to a higher one. Man is called to be dependent not on random human opinions, moods, and prejudices, but on the true destiny of each person, on the depth of his life path, which only begins on earth. On his journey to eternity, every person can be supported and strengthened by another. Here lies our true mutual responsibility, the chain of our bright dependence on one another. Service to man (not to his random thoughts, desires, and weaknesses) is the noblest and highest form of dependence on that person. We are never independent in the world. Even the highest form of contempt for others—the Nietzschean tale of the “superman”—would never have appeared in the world if it were not for those “others” who surround the author and listen…

To depend on people by serving them in all forms and on all paths of life is the way of true human glory, glory in God and eternity. “Not unto us, not unto us, but to Thy Name give glory, O Lord!” (Ps. 113:9) — this is the path of true human glory. What then should a person fear? Any disrespect toward himself from others—even dishonor—he will accept with a pure and meek conscience on the path of his sincere and possible service to all. Living in the world, this person is free from the first and chief temptation—love of insignificant, false glory.

The search for this glory writhes on many human lips and in many eyes. People inspire themselves, for a brief time of earthly life, with the narcotic of this glory. “A dog licking its own blood enjoys the taste, not understanding all the harm it does to itself,” defines St. John Climacus the harm people bring upon themselves by craving false glory in this world, forgetting their true glory, which comes only from God. Even in the spiritual and religious realm, man is not freed from the temptation of this glory and the fears connected to it. Here, in the sphere of the highest values, the spirit of love of glory may acquire an especially subtle and unexpectedly dangerous expression. The constant warning from the lips of the Lord Jesus Christ to the scribes and Pharisees to “sit lower” shows that in the spiritual realm, no less than in any other, man can easily find food for his vain “I,” and fear that the insatiable nature of this “I” will remain hungry and poor. “To blow a trumpet before oneself,” to rejoice in a glory invented by oneself or granted by the world, is characteristic not only of emperors, marshals, politicians, and artists. The most subtle and “rotten” glory awaits servants of the Church, God’s servants, on their paths… Salome, mother of the apostles James and John, feared that her sons would not receive sufficiently high (in her earthly understanding) glory in the Kingdom of God. Bowing before the Savior, she asked Him to grant her sons the places “on His right” and “on His left” when His Kingdom would come. “You do not know what you ask” (Matt. 20:22) was the Savior’s answer, not only to her and His disciples but to all people fearing to gain glory before other people of this world.

Another pre-love, giving rise to demonic fear, is the passion for wealth, money, possessions, things… “The love of money is the root of all evils,” or in other words, insatiable desire for material things. Here arises one of the sharpest fears tormenting humanity: the fear of losing or not acquiring. They are born from the soul-killing feelings of greed and avarice. The miser fears losing what he has; therefore, he fears sharing his fleeting possessions; the greedy fear missing the opportunity, occasion, and time to become rich. “Time is money” — the motto of the greedy, written on their faces and on the walls of their offices. They do not understand that it is not time that is money, but money is condensed, crystallized time multiplied in the hands of a person for better dedication to God and neighbor. Through almsgiving, the rich multiply the time of their prayers, their good deeds, their faithfulness to God. Through love, material value becomes spiritual value. Time is infinitely more precious than money, and money has value only for one who understands the spiritual mystery of time. Good would want to turn all money into love, to multiply time of love through it. But evil wants to turn all earthly time given to people for growth in Christ’s love into money. Therefore, Providence so arranges the world that when there is too much money not exchanged by people for good and love, it loses its value, and so-called “devaluation” occurs, a contraction of money, and time is freed for love. But people again rush to exchange time for money, fearing “to lose time” again and again. Humanity spins, runs, and flails in pursuit of money, these “phantoms of being,” fearing not to catch the greatest number of phantoms… Wars in the world are fought for profit, for fear of losing it or not acquiring it. Wars are the offspring of this fear. War is far more a matter of fear than of fearlessness and courage. The causes of wars are rooted in the metaphysical fear of nations, from which they try to shield themselves with the courage of war. Fear of real or imagined danger leads to the shedding of blood just as fear of despair before the hopelessness of history deprived of the light of Eternity. The ancient “golden calf,” taking increasingly “liquid,” even invisible today “atomic” form, terrifies countries and continents with its disfavor and throws them against one another. Technology accelerates the production of material values, also accelerating their destruction. The serpent of materiality devours its own tail. Chronos of ungracious time, turned only to material values, destroys its children. Civilization, unbalanced and not bound by the higher meaning of life, leads humanity to destruction, increasingly complicating, hindering, and impoverishing its own world. Humanity, refusing to partake of the Body and Blood of Christ, devours its own flesh and drinks its own blood. People fear true prophets who wish to tear them away from this auto-cannibalism and call to themselves false prophets and leaders, giving them all power over themselves.

The rich fear becoming poor. The poor fear missing the convenient time to seize the possessions of the rich. If treasures are amassed, a person fears not knowing where to hide them—house might burn, land be taken away, stocks devalue, bank go bankrupt, safe be broken into. Nowhere and in nothing is there certainty. Moreover, everywhere there is complete uncertainty or sure ruin… Like a wounded beast, humanity flails beneath the roar of its bombings, in the glow of its fires… Everything collapses and perishes. The material house and the house of the soul, built on the sand of unbelief in Divine Life, turn into rubbish…

“Mine is only that which I have given away” (St. Maximus the Confessor) — this wisdom, which reveals immortality, is alien to the spirit of the world. Through the mouths of its “prophets” and “wise men,” the world says again and again: “Mine is only that which I have not given away,” or “what I have taken from another.” And in every generation, people believe anew this “truth,” which is constantly refuted by every human death. Man desperately hides his clutter, his rubbish, but this clutter and rubbish slip from his hands and are destroyed. Life escapes in ashes, moths, rust, decay, decomposition, explosions, and decrees of harsh authorities.

Having received full confirmation of the vitality and truth of the Gospel, many people still do not want to see it. Having grown accustomed to the continual loss of everything, they replace their former possessions with hope for the future and live, afraid to part with this hope, a ghost of a ghost. The money-lover continues to fear the “black day” in the world but is not afraid of the black eternity.

“But the fearful and unbelieving… their portion shall be in the lake which burns with fire and brimstone” (Rev. 21:8). This prophecy, uttered by the beloved disciple of Heavenly Love, is a revelation about the modern world and man. This world, with its destroyed values, wars, and fires, is essentially a “lake burning with fire and brimstone.” And the fate of the fearful and unbelieving (fearful due to their unbelief in God, and unbelieving due to their fear) is to have no escape from this lake. For the only way out of its “fire and brimstone” is given by the One who said: “I am the Door” (John 10:7).

Love for the flesh of another person and for one’s own flesh, placing its blind, natural, and even subnatural urges at the center of one’s interests, is a new ocean of human meaninglessness, from which flow new rivers of human fears. Love for oneself and for one’s body, in true spirit and reason, does not contradict love for God and for another person. The measure of love for one’s neighbor is the love a person has for themselves. But man has lost the spirit of proper self-love. Few people truly love themselves as the temple of the Holy Spirit. The instinct to fight for one’s existence and highest good belongs not only to the entire human body but also to each of its senses. The organs of smell, touch, sight, hearing, and taste—all the body’s senses—seek pleasant carnal stimuli and fear unpleasant irritations. These processes occur both in the conscious and subconscious mind of man.

If the “hidden man of the heart” (1 Pet. 3:4) has not yet received Life within himself, has not been kindled or warmed by its fire, he is always under the constant influence of the urges and fears of his flesh and is imbued with the specific “carnal” wisdom of “this age,” which has no spirit of truth. A person who does not agree to live by Christ’s faith, according to the laws of the Gospel, becomes a being lower and less pure than any of the animals. The means given to man for the high purposes of multiplying the earthly (and heavenly) kind, the “sons of God,” in the unfaithful person turns into an insatiable hearth of falsely sharp, but actually dull, and never satisfying experiences, leaving in the depths of the human heart sediment, painful soreness, fear, and suffering. Refining his sensual carnal joy in life and art, a person thinks that he “refines his life.” But a wave of new fears and sufferings destroys and weakens his illusory happiness built on the flesh. The sensual person fears for his happiness, anticipating its fleetingness, and his heart painfully grasps carnal happiness like a fish thrown onto sand grasps at air. Countless diseases, weaknesses, imperfections, a long period of infancy, maturation, old age, and dying—comparatively longer than in animals—keep man all the time in the channel of carnal fears, shortcomings, and sufferings. These fears, like beacons, are meant to lead man to the truth that he is not only an inhabitant of the earth. In the understanding of this lies all the sad science of humanity.

“As it is impossible to fill the belly once and for all, so it is impossible to overcome fear. As tears increase, it departs; as tears diminish, we become fearful,” says St. John of the Ladder, meaning, of course, not tears from fear but the gracious tears of love for God and the prayerful tears for one’s own unbelief toward Him. “He who has become a servant of the Lord will fear only his Master; but he who does not yet fear Him often is terrified even by his own shadow.” One of the arguments of militant unbelief, created to refute religious experiences, is the theory that religion is a product of primitive savage fears. According to this theory, the primitive man, frightened by mysterious natural phenomena, out of self-preservation began to deify and worship these phenomena as gods; from such savage fears religion supposedly arose, later developing into a class of priests who began to exploit the religious feelings of humanity for their material gain… This argument not only fails to explain religion but also fails to explain fear. It only explains one of the primitive experiences of man connected to fear. This phenomenon of the metaphysical enslavement of primitive man by fear testifies not to what atheist theory tries to prove but to a much deeper phenomenon of the primitive human life; this was discussed at the beginning of our study. In man there exists a whole series, a whole keyboard, of pneumatalogically different and mutually dissimilar fears. Beginning in the low, crude, disharmonious sphere, the soul’s experience connected with fear dissolves into the highest and finest harmony of the heavenly world.

What kind of fear, supposedly giving rise to religion, does godlessness speak of? It speaks of the lowest and most primitive fear. It is certainly not from this miserable, dull, and dark fear that the highest experiences of humanity, its pure, bright religious contemplations, insights, and deeds have arisen. Only false religion, like godlessness itself, comes from dark fear, just as much as from gloomy, dull fearlessness. True religion, religio—the connection of man with the Creator—is born from the high, pure fear of God and leads man into the highest, bright fearlessness.

The anxiety of anti-religious people at the mere thought of God is exactly the manifestation of that demonic fear by which all false religions were created and animated, binding the feelings of true humanity. Yes, idolatry moved by such fear. But it was not only dark fear that created even pagan religion. In some forms of pagan religiosity one can undoubtedly find the initial elements of truly religious fear.

The fear of a mother afraid to wake her child, the fear of a husband to disturb his sick wife, the fear of a person to betray a friend, to break their word, marriage, to reveal another’s secret, to be unfaithful to their own convictions—all these fears, although not religious, are already ethical fears that flow into religious consciousness. True religious life in man has always been and remains the subconscious and conscious disclosure in man of the truth of his great insufficiency and incompleteness before the Divine Being. And religion, above all, is the truthful, fervent acknowledgment of the need to replenish one’s life with the highest and absolute Good.

The essence and partial truth of all ancient pagan religions, even the very primitive and pneumatalogically dark ones, lies not in their erroneous philosophy, not in their naive, partly childish and false, anthropocentric and demonocentric ideas of the highest being, and not in the cultic experiences connected with these ideas, but in the discovery and affirmation in man of the feeling of his religious metaphysical dependence on a higher, better, and mightier Being.

The development of religious consciousness in humanity can be likened to the gradual development of a child’s relationship to the alphabet: at first, the child sees nothing but merging dark spots; then begins to distinguish individual letters, grasping their sound meaning; after that learns to read whole phrases, understanding them; and finally, in one act of cognition, comprehends the content of an entire book, many books. In all religious experiences, there is one truth without which there is neither religion nor even pseudo-religion. This truth is the recognition of the higher world and one’s dependence on it. In this primary humility of the human soul lies the beginning of all religions. The perfection of religion depends only on whom and what people honor above themselves, before whom and what they bow, and before which truths they reverently humble their hearts. Worshiping a crocodile, a cow, a bull, a snake, or planets does not elevate a person to the Kingdom of God. And thus, there are religions that do not elevate, but metaphysically degrade, degrade, and spiritually kill man… Therefore, the apostles and preachers of the Gospel fight not only with unbelief but also with false faith. And equating all faiths and truths is a sign of the clouded human consciousness.

In religions, as in people, there are different degrees of spiritual purity and height. The Absolute Religion, the apotheosis of the truth of the spirit, is the faith in God Incarnate Jesus Christ, which sets no limits to perfection. “Be perfect, therefore, as your heavenly Father is perfect” (Matt. 5:48). Тhe higher the religion, the higher the kind of fear it is associated with. Therefore, the claim that religion was born from the “fear of savages” is itself a savage understanding — both of religion and of fear.

IV

A spiritually refined soul is capable of trembling deeply when approaching the higher world. The demonic world has become foreign to it, while the angelic is not yet familiar—and so a soul near heaven may even fear angels, although the very distinction between the approach of angels and that of demons lies in the absence of fear and the presence of peace, humility, and love toward the person.

“From the presence of an unseen spirit, the body is afraid; from the presence of an Angel, the soul of the humble rejoices,” says St. John of the Ladder (St. John Climacus). Angels evoke a lofty trembling, fundamentally different in nature and effect from the fear caused by demons. This type of fear may rightly be called the fear of unworthiness. “Do not be afraid, Zechariah, for your prayer has been heard,” said the Angel of the Lord to the father of the Forerunner (John the Baptist), when Zechariah, seeing him standing at the right side of the altar of incense, “was troubled, and fear fell upon him” (Luke 1:11–13). “Do not be afraid, Mary,” said the Angel to the Most Pure Virgin as He appeared before her (Luke 1:30). The humble and pure-hearted shepherds “were sore afraid” upon seeing the Angel, but heard from him: “Do not be afraid, for behold, I bring you good tidings of great joy which will be for all people” (Luke 2:10).

The human spirit trembles in one way before the supernatural world and in another before the unnatural. “Do not be afraid, it is I,” says the Risen Lord to His closest disciples, to calm them as they fear the overwhelming truth of the Resurrection.

As we draw near to the final mystery—the suffering and anguish of the God-Man—we must fall silent. Our minds are too small and too clouded by lowly notions born of ignorance, and our hearts too narrow in love. We are not capable, even abstractly, of touching that abyss of terror into which the Lord Jesus Christ immersed Himself in the final hours of His earthly life, for the world’s redemption. The Gospel says that in the Garden of Gethsemane, “He began to be sorrowful and deeply distressed…” (cf. Mark 14:33–34). His anguish was the anguish of our separation from the Heavenly Father—and the horror of taking upon Himself that very severance. United in everything with the will of the Father, the Lord came to bear and to heal all human suffering, which flowed from man’s separation from God. He bore all the suffering of humanity—past and future. All the torment of alienation from God—whether conscious or unconscious—entered into His sinless being, perfectly united with the Father.

The Gethsemane and Cross-bearing dread was not only His—Jesus’s—fear, but the dread of identifying Himself with the horror of our fall from God, the ruin of all peoples and all ages. It was the terror of taking upon Himself the world’s godlessness, a terror that culminated in the final, redeeming, deadly moment of Golgotha’s rupture: “My God, My God, why have You forsaken Me?” (Matt. 27:46). And now, in Christ, every person partakes in the reflection of that most terrifying and most radiant moment in human history—the excruciating pain of a sin not their own…

Fear is the agony of a soul being separated—or separating itself—from God. Fear is the agony of loneliness. And the One who was ever with the Father had to experience incomprehensible estrangement from the Father—for all of us who had severed ourselves from God through sin. The sinless Jesus took upon Himself the curse of sin, which weighed upon all humanity, and He destroyed it, passing through the narrow gate of His life and death. This curse of separation from the Father—the final loneliness of all and everything—had to descend upon the One Sinless, causing the inexpressible horror of His redeeming torment. The indivisible, unsunderable God-manhood in Him was mystically torn, not in essence, but in experience, reconciling our own tornness from the Father. “By His wounds, we are healed” (Isaiah 53:5).

Therefore, every fear is linked to the soul’s loneliness, to its orphanhood, its homelessness and helplessness in the world. More than anything else, man suffers from abandonment—and fears it most painfully. Fear is the negative expression of loneliness and abandonment. The positive expression of that same condition is faith in God and prayer.

The one who does not believe in God and does not turn to Him neither feels their abandonment nor understands their terrifying aloneness in the world. Such a person trusts too much in the reality of their material connections with the world. It seems to them that they “need nothing more”; they are content with everything—or if discontent, it is superficial and insignificant. The beginning of faith in God is the awakening of a fundamental, metaphysical dissatisfaction with oneself, a holy discontent with this life. “Do not love the world, nor the things of the world” (1 John 2:15) — this is a negatively expressed commandment to love, even in this life, the “new heaven and the new earth.”

Loneliness is given to man as the highest form of spiritual communion, a safeguard from animalism and herd instinct. But human loneliness must be redeemed and sanctified just as communion must be. The fear of God is the path to the salvation of loneliness. “Deliver me from the fear by night,” prayed the fearless victor over Goliath—and even more so, the conqueror of his own sin—David; and he heard words which he passed on to all generations: “You shall not be afraid of the terror by night, nor of the arrow that flies by day, nor of the pestilence that walks in darkness…” (Psalm 91:5–6). This “night fear” visits not only sleeping infants, but also ascetics keeping vigil in the desert, who fear nothing but unfaithfulness to God. “Take courage,” said the Savior, comforting His disciples. “Take courage, for I have overcome the world” (John 16:33). Be courageous, driving away your fear, not allowing it into your heart. Be courageous even within your fear, growing in endurance, bearing the suffering of fear like a metaphysical burning of the soul. This suffering, too, can be a suffering for Christ.

Even the Apostles experienced fear—they all fled after the Lord was betrayed. “Then all the disciples forsook Him and fled” (Matt. 26:56). At the Cross, only John stood beside the Lord’s Mother. Human imagination, governed by senses trained only in earthly reality, often serves human fear. The Apostle Peter had already taken several steps across the raging sea toward his Teacher, but was overcome by imagination shaped by old sensory experience—and began to sink. Yet he was restored by a new experience of the senses, aligned with the almighty power of the One who had called him.

The “burn” of fear in the hearts of believers is a sign that they are not yet fully attuned to the sounds of the heavenly world—a symptom of the still-existing discord between the “old man” and the “new,” a conflict that sometimes resolves only at the threshold of the new world.

“A thorn in the flesh was given to me… lest I be exalted above measure” (2 Cor. 12:7). In the lives of spiritually gifted people, this “thorn” may be fear. A Christian may feel painfully ashamed to realize they still fear anything on earth other than being unfaithful to the Lord. Yet through this humbling, medicinal fear, they better understand that all good in them is not from themselves.

Fear is also the projection of man’s accountability. The Judgment of God—joyful to every soul faithful to Him—is at the same time the Dread Judgment. The bottomless, inexpressible frailty of man trembles before the nearness of the final, unspeakable Truth of God. This Truth both rejoices and terrifies: it brings joy through the saving power of its love, and dread through the burden of its Cross-bearing in this world—and through its perfection.

“Even so, come, Lord Jesus!” (Rev. 22:20), cry the disciples of the Word. The thirst for the triumph of final Truth is stronger in them than fear of their own weakness or the possibility of being consumed by that encounter. Yet other tones enter into the harmony of final surrender to God: “Lord, I am not ready… sanctify, cleanse, strengthen me.” This is also the apostolic word: “Depart from me, Lord, for I am a sinful man…” There are lepers who stretch out their hands to Christ to be healed forever; and there are lepers who also yearn for Him, but withdraw from His path, and weep with joy that He is in the world. They are afraid to defile the sand beneath His feet with their sores. And this too is love! Through tears of joy, they watch the Lord heal others and receive into His Blessed Church those just as broken by life as they are. And yet they sweetly tremble to approach the Lord, to breathe their foul breath upon Him.

There are many melodies in the music of fear. At the moment of departing this world, a person often feels fear; it is hard to cast off everything “of here”—the bodily, the seemingly inward, the “psychological,” all the earthly garments of the soul. It is terrifying to be metaphysically stripped—completely. The spirit trembles, too accustomed to its wandering tent—this body—to its carnal thoughts, feelings, and desires. Death is the lightning-flash collapse of the world and radical impoverishment. Was one prepared for this?

Here bursts forth the wild terror of those who lived thoughtlessly and fearlessly—who stood like stone in this world before the eternity and its Sun, “which never sets, neither by day nor by night.”

If, even on earth, during the fall of political regimes, people suffer so greatly from their association with a “fallen” power and tremble in anticipation of judgment—how much more will this occur when the entire “regime” of this world collapses in the life of a person… For this collapse is not only foretold by God—it is confirmed by the lived experience of all generations.

We now live on earth, in all countries, under the old regime. The “new regime” is coming—it will not delay—the new order, the new power, the power of God’s absolute laws. Blessed is the one who believes in this truth. The change may occur at any moment—at night, in sleep, or by day on the street. But the best death for a person is one after preparation, with full awareness of the death of all values of this temporary existence, and the birth of the human being into the world of spirit.

Each person must make peace ahead of time with those wise and good powers that are to replace the sinful, selfish rulers of this world—the passions of this temporal life. One too deeply attached to the “old regime” of this age finds themselves an enemy in the war against God. What happened before our eyes with the defeated powers after the world war—and with their rulers—is only a parable of what will happen when this entire world of rebellion against God loses its war with Him.

The depths of our personhood must, at the moment of death, be revealed completely. All that is dark and impure must be stripped from us like unworthy clothing. Metaphysically naked, impoverished to the point of terror, emptied to the very limit, capable of bliss only in God, we must stand before the Truth of the other world. “Of Thy Mystical Supper, O Son of God, accept me today as a partaker…”

Fears exist only in Gethsemane, in the Praetorium, in the palace of Caiaphas. Their final moment is on Golgotha. After that comes Holy Saturday. The rest from all fear. And then—Resurrection. The Light that never sets. There is no greater bliss than the freedom from fear, which the faithful person receives on their deathbed. The prayers of the Church reveal great realities. In the rite “At the Departure of the Soul,” the Church, on behalf of the departing one, asks God for comfort. There are different degrees of peace and spiritual rest among the dying. The one who receives real confirmation from the other world of God’s mercy toward them, the one prepared by repentance and partaking of the Holy Mysteries, who sometimes already hears the angels, enters into the terrible and inexpressibly beautiful eternity with great silence and exalted joy in the Lord.

It is impossible to express how sublime is the departure from this world of a soul that has been cleansed, justified, and has passed through all fear. The soul that has stepped upon the threshold of the other world, prepared for its final journey, no longer fears the loss of itself—or of everything—in God. With solemn resolve and already angelic fearlessness, it pushes aside the bodily sorrow of relatives—sorrow that is unworthy in this holy moment, a sign of insufficient love for God and for the one departing. The soul desires only prayer, silence, and reverence from those present at its passing. Standing on the edge of the great new world, it knows that nothing human must now distract or delay it. The visible universe itself undergoes what each person must: death and resurrection into eternity.

The Lord said: “Men’s hearts will fail them from fear” (Luke 21:26). As faith, hope in God, and love for God wane, people, societies, and nations will increasingly fear one another—and thus increasingly cease to love one another. “Because lawlessness will abound, the love of many will grow cold” (Matt. 24:12). Yet with new strength the harvest of the Apostles of the “last times” will be revealed in the world. Free, adopted—“all who are led by the Spirit… these are sons of God” (Rom. 8:14)—they will be fearless in Christ, ready for the end, and will speak—and already are speaking—the final truth to the world. Looking at the earth and its works through the eyes of their Teacher, they conquer the fear of the world. “Perfect love casts out fear” (1 John 4:18). Fearless in their love, strong with God’s love, the disciples of the Word will shine upon the world even in that hour when “the sun will be darkened, and the moon will not give its light” (Matt. 24:29).

Seven Words about the Country of the Gadarenes (Luke 8:26–39)

(Luke 8:26–39)

I see that country of the Gadarenes, where the Lord arrived with His disciples after the storm on the Sea of Galilee… It is a sparsely inhabited land—mountains, stones, and sand. Seen from the side of Tiberias and Magdala, it appears veiled in a light mist—a mysterious and austere land, even under blue skies on a bright sunny morning. The Lord stepped ashore. He was met by the Gadarene demoniac, well-known to the locals—one who wore no clothing and lived among the tombs, in small caves carved into the rocks. Tormented by some inner force, he had been drawn close to the shore, likely lured by the sudden calm after the storm. The moment the radiant figure of the Lord touched his vision, he cried out. A powerless instrument of the force that possessed him, he could not live among people—and people could not compel him to live by human laws. He suffered endlessly under a suicidal spirit and was powerless to be free of it. Such inner torment, seen throughout the world, is more terrifying than any physical pain.

Seeing the image of the Lord, the demoniac cries out—but he does not run. He does not flee because a bright power irresistibly draws him closer. He screams because the evil force torments him and urges him to flee—but can no longer make him do so. It is already bound by the mere visible presence of Jesus. And the demoniac cries out: «What have You to do with me, Jesus, Son of the Most High God? I beg You, do not torment me» (Mark 5:7). The demon hides himself and speaks in the voice of the man—as if it is the man himself who does not want to see Jesus. The demon seeks to portray Jesus as the tormentor, to sever the suffering soul from the only One who can save it. He tries to save himself by finally destroying the man—separating him from his salvation.

To the shallow, the inexperienced, or the unbelieving, it may seem that the only voice on that shore is the man’s. But even for them it must be strange that a possessed man—unconscious, never having seen the Lord, untaught by anyone—suddenly, at a glance, recognizes the power of the Most High God in a Man. No human had yet understood this. But the demons already knew. To their dark but spiritual world, it was clear: this was no mere man. But this is not a blessed enlightenment by truth—it is the burning perception of divine fire that scorches dark nature. Through the voice of the miserable man, the demon cries out—sensing his defeat and already suffering the torment of Christ’s nearness. Yes, this is how evil spirits must cry out in the presence of the Sun of Righteousness, the Lord Jesus Christ, who scorches them… But is this not also how people cry out—those who cast the Lord out of their homes, their governments, their hearts?

The mere presence of the Lord torments the unrepentant. Darkness is destroyed by Light.
The thief does not love the Sun. Here lies the deepest psychology of all unbelief, all anti-religion.
The highest Divine Light binds, limits self-will, burns impurity with an unquenchable fire—a fire that does not consume. And if the heart is full of impurity, pride, and lawlessness, if the will is set on darkness, then the soul is afraid to come close to the Gospel Truth—it hides from Christ. And if it must suddenly face Him, then tormented by the Light that pierces its sick eyes, and scorched by its own sinfulness, it cries: “What have You to do with me, Jesus?… Do not torment me!…” “I’m not a monk!” “I live in the world and must follow its rules…” “I wear flesh and must obey its laws…”
“Leave me be with Your commandments of total truth, of perfect purity, of true love…” “Depart from me, Jesus… Do not torment me with Your Light!” Is this not the cry of the world? Yes, we humans cry this way. Or express it in silent feeling. Evil is one and the same—in demons and in people. In demons, it is sometimes more direct—even in all their deceit. But the law of the spirit is unshakable: The Divine light of the Gospel does not illuminate every path in life; it does not bring comfort to every soul in a cold world. For the righteous and humble, the fire of God’s love is blessed joy. For the unrepentant, it is torment. In allowing demoniacs to exist and in revealing the hidden workings of dark forces, the Lord warns us and teaches us. He teaches us to know our enemy—and to know our Savior. Often we do not recognize our Savior because we do not recognize our enemy. We do not believe that there is a deadly evil in the world from which only One Savior can deliver us—an evil from which we all must flee.

The Gospel is not given only for heavenly comfort! It is also given to awaken terror in us at the sight of our human sinfulness. Sunk in sloth and spiritual apathy, we humans must be startled—must be wounded by evil. Only after feeling real pain from evil, only when we feel its harm to ourselves, can we truly desire good—reaching for it as the anchor of our salvation. Only then can we come to know the Savior as the Source and Sun of Goodness. The Church on earth is not given merely to console grieving souls with beautiful harmonies of image and sound leading to heaven.
Churches stand on this earth to be places where a person can be shaken to their core by the reality of eternity, can tremble for their soul. To shudder before God—seeing, even for a moment, the fearful eternity to which every person is so unimaginably close. We live, and we come into our church so that, seeing the Light of Christ, we might reach for it with our whole soul and cry out to the Lord—not with the words of demons: “What have You to do with me, Jesus?”—but with the words of a human being: “You came for me, Jesus!” Not with demonic pleas: “I beg You, do not torment me,”
but with the blessed prayer: “Lord, cleanse me. No matter how painful it may be for me, no matter how much my pleasure-loving, sin-loving soul suffers—cleanse me. Burn me with Your saving and purifying fire!”

The Wealth Within Us

All people are given talents, abilities, and opportunities… «To each according to his ability.» The Gospel tells us what people do with their talents:

“The one who had received five talents went and traded with them and made five more. In the same way, the one with two gained two more. But the one who had received one talent went and dug a hole in the ground and hid his master’s money.” (Mt. 25:16–18)

A “talent” was a large monetary unit in the ancient world, the highest weight measure in the Greek system. What does the Gospel message show us? That some people take a creative and responsible approach to life, multiplying the gifts and abilities they have received from God; others are less diligent; and still others are lazy and careless, practically unbelieving in the One who is the Source of all value—and who desires that these values grow and multiply in our lives. Each person has their own talents—physical, emotional, and spiritual. They are given. But what we do with them depends on us—whether we bury our abilities in the ground, meaning in our own selfishness, or bring forth good fruit in our lives and in the lives of others. A person is called to respond to God’s gift of life with their own life. Each must cultivate their own “field”—their ability to seek truth, their sense of goodness, peace, justice, purity, love, and compassion. The result of each of our lives will be revealed only after its end.

And that result will be revealed at the Judgment of God. Some people lightly assume that they will simply vanish without a trace after their physical death, remaining in the world only in a non-personal way—perhaps in the water as chemical elements, or in the shaky memory of others.
But to “remain” only as drops of water or specks of sulfur—or other particles of matter—means not to remain at all. And earthly memory of a person is just as fleeting as all earthly life. Thick layers of oblivion already cover the words and deeds of countless people and entire civilizations from past epochs. The true value of a person lies on a higher level. And however insignificant someone may seem on earth, they carry within them the wondrous seed of eternity.

And it depends on them alone whether they will multiply the good in the world through faith and moral action—or not. We are all called to be good, truthful, pure, and faithful to the Radiant Source of our life—the Living God. We are all called to active goodness. Each one of us is the “blacksmith of our own happiness”—if by happiness we mean the inner state of goodness and peace. The highest good is offered to every person. It is planted within each of us, like a seed of leaven…
The gates of Eternal Life are opened for all. But only the one who believes in their own goodness, who believes in the possibility of their highest happiness, will enter through them.

The «material» for happiness is already given to us—through the tasks and purposes of life.
But to “grow” true life within ourselves, we must first become spiritually awake, recognize the higher meaning of our life and the reality of Divine Being.

Often, people have no idea how close they already are to their highest good…

There is a short poem by the Russian poet Margarita Aliger, titled “Two.”
It captures this truth about human beings:

«Again they quarreled in the tram,
No longer holding back, ashamed of nothing…
But I, not hiding my envy,
Watched them in deep emotion.
They do not know how happy they are,
And there’s no one to tell them that.
Just think: they are together, both alive,
And everything can still be understood and made right.»

People who argue (especially over trifles) are in a sense blind: near them and within them lies the wondrous mystery of life, and they do not see it.

The mystery of the human being is this: that they are a moral being, a spiritual existence, called to ever higher self-awareness…

And, of course, petty life circumstances—their outer husk—should not define our attitude toward life, or toward other people.

The poet glimpsed the mystery of two people quarreling in a tram.
We must learn to see in ourselves and others the soul, the vast moral possibilities, and the wondrous goal of life.
This is what true religion teaches.

It does not teach the smallness of human beings (as some mistakenly think), but opens before us the highest calling: to be «children of God.»
This is incomparably more important than belonging to the “aristocracy” or the “proletariat” (pitiful and relative terms!).

«Children of God»—that means living souls, born for perfection and immortality.

“See what love the Father has given us, that we should be called—and truly be—children of God… Beloved, we are now children of God.” (1 John 3:1–2)

There are many sages and poets in the world—like this Russian poet—who wish they could “whisper” to all the people constantly bickering in their trams and apartments:
You are brothers.
You are children of God.
Before you lies a path of great perfection and the glory of immortality.

What We Must Remember

1. S. Lewis built one of his books around imaginary “letters from an old devil to his nephew.” In these «letters,» an experienced devil teaches his young and inexperienced nephew how to analyze the problems of modern humanity and uncover the subconscious world of people, playing on their weaknesses, vices, and flaws. Lewis’s book subtly reveals the psychological process of human corruption through evil. The old devil teaches his «nephew» to distance people from God by any means and methods. To succeed in this, he believes it is crucial to constantly show people phantoms of the future—never giving it to them; to lure people with mirages, convincing them to commit crimes today for the sake of «happiness» tomorrow.

Bliss of the soul, outside the realm of morality, is of course unattainable. Yet in pursuit of magical happiness—achieved only by external means—a person is capable of renouncing holiness hundreds of times and committing all sorts of evil—rejecting the Creator and betraying his brother… In this direction, the devil seeks to “help” people.

The Creator gave man life to attain a radiant eternity. God wants people to live that radiant eternity in every moment of their earthly time, which is their only true “present.” Only the present moment is the point of contact between a person and the reality of the Eternal. Only the present truly belongs to a person and to their free will. And God has revealed to us that through faith, we can receive from Him the power and grace needed for each present moment. That is why the devil’s work largely comes down to diverting people from God’s grace in the present moment. The evil spirit pushes people to live always in the «future.» That the future is hidden from humans and cannot be fully planned—this people fail to realize. And by working only for the sake of a materialistically understood «future,» people, in essence, live outside of real existence. This unreality—for a soul fixated on a materialistic “future”—is the true “opium” of the soul.

The concept of the “future,” Lewis says, is the least like the “eternal.” The «future» is the most «temporal,» the most unreal part of human time. God wants people to think about the future—but only insofar as it prepares present acts of goodness and justice. Preparation for eternity is a duty of the present moment. God wants that in serving Him and other people, a person should not give their whole heart to the “future,” but instead live the eternal in the present. But this is exactly what evil spirits do not want. They need humanity to always be “chasing a rainbow and never reaching it”; they want people, in this chase, to forget the meaning and purpose of life, and the preciousness of every moment—for doing good and seeking justice.

The devil calls silence a “terrible power”; he urges that life be filled with noise. “Every moment of human life must be filled with great dynamism, noise, fanfares, ‘proclaiming solemnity and ruthlessness.’” Noise is the only self-defense evil has against the voice of the quiet human conscience, against the quiet Word of God… “We will turn the whole world into Noise!” says the devil. “And we have already achieved a lot in this direction, but (the evil spirit is forced to admit) evil forces are still not noisy enough in the world.” With great insight, Lewis shows the characteristics of social doctrines and utopias that cultivate godlessness, deceiving people with the phantom of the future.

In Leonid Leonov’s The Russian Forest, in Chapter Eight of Part Two, there is a characteristic conversation between a young idealistic Russian girl, Polya, and a Komsomol activist named Sapozhkov. With lofty, alluring words about the future prosperity of the people resulting from recent construction projects, Sapozhkov dazzles Polya… “Well, and what comes next?” Polya asks Sapozhkov. “What do you mean… next?” “I wanted to ask,” says the girl, “what happens later, a hundred years from now… when everything necessary has been built, the enemies defeated, and the old world left behind?” This simple question stumps Sapozhkov, and he quickly ends the conversation with Polya. “Sorry, Vikhrova, I can’t reveal this secret of history to you just yet: it’s still a great mystery! Come back in about a hundred years… then, at our leisure, we’ll discuss plans for the future…” Thus the materialist dodges the profound question of the Russian girl with a joke. But what could he really say? Free development of thought is not recommended to him.

The phantom that once lured nations toward a happy future—with fanfare—was national socialism, which then vanished. How many mirages have disappeared throughout history! But the march into a world of myths—based on disbelief in the immortal soul of man—continues, still accompanied by the same fanfare of idolizing the future. The fanfares roar on, drowning out the human conscience and a person’s faith in the higher world. Human labor is not affirmed through calm and steady building, but in accomplishing some exceptional deeds—magical leaps into a future of quantity and, supposedly, a mechanically following quality. Loud slogans weave the legend of the “future”… Only one thing has man forgotten—his own death. And he has forgotten his own evil. Evil and death cannot be destroyed by any material means, by any construction, or by any cosmonauts. Nor can one drown out evil and death with noise. There is only one salvation: Christ is Risen.

On Gospel and Non-Gospel Sinners

When we look at the sinners in the Gospels, listen to their words, and observe their actions, we can’t help but think how, in essence, such sinners are good people—especially compared to us, the people of our own time. Here is a crowd, enraged by the breaking of God’s commandment, approaching the Savior. They are dragging along a woman “caught in adultery” (John 8:3), ready to stone her to death. How reverently this crowd listens to the wise and gentle reply of the Savior to their question—and how powerfully, how vividly, the human conscience speaks within each of them at that moment… Could something like that even happen today? Silently, condemned by the inner judgment of their conscience, these sinners disperse. Could this happen in our time?

It is hard, first of all, to imagine that modern people would sincerely and religiously be outraged by adultery; this sin today is adorned and wrapped in all the paper ribbons of literature, theater, and cinema. It has become an object of countless imitations, a form of vanity, even a kind of personal heroism. Could such a religious attitude toward sin be found today as we see in that Jewish and pagan crowd in Jerusalem? It’s hard to imagine that people in any modern social group could burn with such zeal for the fulfillment of God’s law—and then feel such deep, divine shame at the rebuke of the quiet and gentle voice of a spiritual teacher… Look how each of them begins to leave, one by one, “convicted by their own conscience”! How many modern accusers of others could show such moral sensitivity?

And the sinful, Gospel figure of the prodigal son… How deeply he strikes our consciousness with the subtlety and depth of his repentance. What a wondrous soul—so humble in his feelings: “Father, I am no longer worthy to be called your son; make me like one of your hired servants” (Luke 15:18–19). Then we are presented with even the great Gospel criminals—Ananias and Sapphira, who lied to the Holy Spirit. They die suddenly for their sin—having withheld part of what they had voluntarily pledged to God. In comparison to the spiritual hypocrites of our time, aren’t even they like children? How many Christians and clergy today promise God their whole lives, and yet give only a pitiful portion—keeping the rest back for selfish purposes?

And the tax collectors, contemporaries of the Lord Jesus Christ—those dishonest officials of the first century, despised by the people of Palestine—aren’t they also like children compared to many officials in today’s world, across all nations and countries? Even Barabbas—the classic figure, forever remembered by humanity, the robber released by Pilate instead of Christ, who had undoubtedly killed someone on the road—how can we even define his crime, when compared to the systematic and cold-blooded extermination, “for the good of the state,” of millions of innocent victims in our time—together with their wives and children? Look at Zacchaeus the tax collector—how passionately he runs to climb a tree just to see the Savior! How badly he wants to see the Savior! How joyful he is to see the Savior… The Gospel teaches us not only through its righteous characters—it also leads us to repentance and to God through the images of its sinners, through their humanity, through their sensitivity to goodness.

They bring a precious alabaster jar of ointment and break it to anoint the body of Jesus. They weep bitterly after their denial. They stop in their tracks like Saul, struck by a heavenly vision… They all change their lives—or, condemning themselves on their own cross, they ask the Lord: “Remember me.” Where is our ointment? Where are our tears? Where is the sensitivity of our conscience to convict us? None of it is visible. We surrender to our plans, our ambitions, our feelings, our passions—and we forget the meek and loving truth of Christ. We have drifted far, not only from the Gospel, but even from the sinners of the Gospel.

The Lord has placed great power in His Word. The ancient sinners astonish us with their humanity and humility that shines through their sin. Through the examples of these sinners—free from the traits of our endless self-satisfaction and self-admiration—the Lord meant to instruct and console us. For we too can become such human sinners, if a greater love for God is beyond our reach.

Perhaps the Lord wanted not just tears, but floods of tears to be stirred in us when comparing our emotions with the experiences of these Gospel sinners. We see clearly who the sinners of the Gospel were—and what we have become, with all our civilization. The ancient Pharisee who praised himself in the temple of Jerusalem is, of course, like a child when compared to the open and hidden self-promotion of many public, political, and even religious figures of our time.

Gospel sinfulness is like the gentle tune of a shepherd’s flute, compared to the intrusive, deafening, shameless music of sin in our days. People today rise up against the Spirit of God not only individually, but collectively. White is stubbornly called black in this world, and black—white. “Mountains, fall on us! Hills, cover us!” (Luke 23:30) Who today has the strength to whisper the humble prayer of the tax collector? We all consider ourselves the «righteous» tax collectors, and our neighbors—Pharisees.

We do not repent like Peter, nor give away half of our possessions to the poor, like Zacchaeus, just from the Lord’s glance… If only we were merely forgetful of the oil, like the foolish virgins of the Gospel! Or if we only buried our talent in the earth, gaining nothing sinful from it. If only, turning away from the very Truth, we were merely preoccupied with our family affairs—or simply testing our oxen… But no—we actively participate in the crimes entering the world, under the pretense of special care for humanity and nations. Even the greatest sinner of the Gospel—Judas—amid his despair, recognized his sin. And even if he did not truly repent before God, he still cast down his blood-money—the thirty pieces of silver, the price of his betrayal—and, tormented by his conscience, declared: “I have betrayed innocent blood” (Mt. 27:4).

And yet today, isn’t the supposed well-being of people and nations still being built on the innocent suffering of many? Looking into the sinfulness revealed in the Gospel and observing the life of mankind, it is impossible not to see that the Final Judgment upon the world is already “at the door.”
The Gospel shines upon us with the righteousness of its saints—but it also teaches us through the images of its sinners. So that we, seeing no righteousness in ourselves, may place all our hope in the righteousness of Christ—and, by the mercy of the Lord, may enter into it.

Thou Shalt Not Steal

What should be the true, religious attitude toward property and possessions? Following the word of their Teacher and Lord, the disciples of Christ regarded everything in the world as God’s, not their own. Indeed, aside from our own evil—which truly does belong to us humans—everything in this world is God’s property. The One who created the world is, in the highest sense, the Owner of all. A believer cannot think otherwise. All things in the world belong to God, all things are Christ’s. And man himself does not belong to himself, but to God—created for eternal life in God. Yet man was not created a robot, but a son. And he is called to freely, like a son, embrace the will of God, finding in it the highest life and joy. Love creates community and unity. All that the Father has, the Son also has. Love dissolves the line between “mine” and “yours”; love joins people and their possessions, while malice, selfishness, and especially violent theft continually destroy love and blur the boundaries between a person’s property and his very personhood. To encroach on a person’s property is to encroach on their person.

Selfishness drives a person to take what is another’s and to withhold what is his own. But love moves a person to safeguard what belongs to others and to give of what is his. This is why the idea of materialism—alien as it is to the moral understanding of the world and humanity—cannot create genuine community among people. Materialism is fundamentally opposed to the essence of spiritual human unity, and it deepens human division. True unity can arise only through the spiritual realm—through love, trust, faith, the spirit of love, and living faith in the reality of God and of one’s higher being. Community is unachievable through materialist ideology. On Mount Sinai, God gave His Law to mankind, and with it the commandment: “Thou shalt not steal.” This commandment is as clear and straightforward as: “Thou shalt not kill,” “Thou shalt not commit adultery,” and “Honor thy father and mother” (Exodus 20:12–15). The tenth commandment of God’s Law even forbids desiring what belongs to another or envying a neighbor’s possessions. Any violation of love for God and for one’s neighbor is sin.

Thus, God’s commandment lays the foundation for true human culture and opens the way to higher social life and humanity. Philosophically speaking, all “property” holds value not in and of itself, but only as a projection—an expression and reflection—of a person’s identity. Therefore, no one has the right to take the life or property of another. A person has the right only to give his life and his possessions to others. The only property one may rightly take is one’s own. Christ gave us a vision of this high humanity in the parable of the Good Samaritan. With compassion and sacrifice, the Good Samaritan saves the life of a stranger lying wounded by robbers. If the defining trait of robbers is to steal freedom, property, and life from others, then the defining trait of the true human being is to help others and share his goods and his best inner feelings, strengthening and comforting the lives of those around him. This is the path of true humanity.

And the best social conditions for expressing the highest human values are found in a society where each person is free to develop his talents for the benefit of others, of his people, and of the world—without harming, humiliating, or violating anyone. Only on such principles can the highest unity of people be built—as children of the one Heavenly Father, God. Only thus are formed true personhood, healthy families, peaceful communities of free people, and peaceful relations among nations. Selfishness—in all its forms—is destructive. But the worst form of selfishness is organized selfishness, when people unite to express selfishness collectively. If a single selfish person is bad, then millions of united selfish people are a million times worse and more dangerous.

This is why a just society must have laws to restrain not only individual persons, but also entire organized groups. Injustice against even one person harms everyone—because humanity is a single organism. Slaveholding society was not only destructive for slaves, but even more so for the slaveholders themselves. Anti-religious thought wrongly claims that Christianity somehow justified slavery or the dominance of the wealthy. But the entire Scripture is filled with condemnation of unjust and merciless wealth, of selfishness, and of human greed. Material wealth can be a blessing only when accompanied by mercy and justice.

The prophets and apostles call humanity to a higher brotherhood, a higher community. All people are brothers in God, for they were created by one Heavenly Father; and in Christ, in the Gospel spirit, this brotherhood is fulfilled. Christ’s love and mercy are the only real force for true—not fictional—human unity. In his First Epistle, the Apostle Peter writes to believers:

“If you are insulted for the name of Christ, you are blessed, because the Spirit of glory and of God rests on you… But let none of you suffer as a murderer or a thief or an evildoer or as one who meddles in others’ affairs.”
(1 Peter 4:14–15)

Of course, there have been people in history who called themselves “believers,” even “pastors,” yet were unfaithful to Christ. They flattered the rich, catered to the powerful, failed to help the poor, and did nothing to liberate the oppressed. In this, they clearly went against the Church’s teaching and Christ’s faith. True representatives of Christ’s Church and faith have always existed throughout history—and have served as witnesses of the Gospel’s truth. The Russian preacher of the 13th century, Bishop Serapion, denounced the morals of the powerful of his time, saying that they were “like wild beasts… enslaved by insatiable greed, unmerciful to orphans, ignorant of the nature of man.” In a 15th-century manuscript known as “Izmaragd,” a church preacher addresses the merciless rich, saying:

“Rich man! You have lit your candles on the Church’s lamps. But here come the slaves, orphans, and widows whom you have wronged, sighing over you. Their tears will extinguish your candle.”

The Archbishop of Great Novgorod, Ephraim, forbade priests from accepting offerings to the church from heartless people who “burden their workers beyond strength, starve them, and leave them naked…” Historical records testify to the true pastors of every era: “He released debtors from bondage and forgave debts; he was a defender of the oppressed against violent and unjust judges.” The prophets, apostles, pastors, and disciples of Christ in all nations, following the Word of their Teacher and Lord, proclaim the spiritual revolution—the deepest revolution of mankind. For no matter what social reforms take place, no matter what revolutions are carried out in the world—they will never lead humanity to happiness if man remains selfish and if the inner spiritual struggle for good, truth, and love does not take place within him. This is the true revolution of the world: The revolution of truth and love, of righteousness and goodness, which was brought into the world by the Light of the World—Christ—and which, through faith, is accomplished in each person.

The Seal of Truth

One day, in the house where He had been invited, Christ saw how “those who were invited chose the best places for themselves.” Noticing this everyday detail—because in the moral world nothing is secondary for the Lord—Jesus spoke words that still echo throughout the world:

“When you are invited by someone to a wedding feast, do not sit down in the place of honor, lest someone more distinguished than you be invited by him, and he who invited you both will come and say to you, ‘Give your place to this man,’ and then you will begin with shame to take the lowest place. But when you are invited, go and sit in the lowest place, so that when your host comes he may say to you, ‘Friend, move up higher.’ Then you will be honored in the presence of all who sit at the table with you.
For everyone who exalts himself will be humbled, and he who humbles himself will be exalted.”
(Luke 14:8–11)

Human vanity most often reveals itself in daily life—at dinner parties, in living rooms, at the table.
Just like in ancient times, today’s guest also wants to sit in the more honorable seat. This sort of status-seeking was especially common among the boyars of Muscovite Russia, who—far from showing an Orthodox spirit—would strive to “outseat” one another at the Tsar’s table. But aside from the tables of the very poor, a quiet rivalry in ambition can be found in nearly every society in the world. Modesty is a difficult form of goodness. A person obsessed with making sure he is never seen as “less than” someone else, and always as “more than” someone else, is incapable of creative work—let alone of higher, spiritual work. This applies most of all to us, the pastors. Vanity is a sign not only of moral weakness, but of mental stagnation. In wise and peaceful words, Christ revealed this truth to humanity. But before sharply reproving people, He revealed His divine mercy by healing the sick. This happened in the house of “one of the leaders of the Pharisees” on the Sabbath day, when any work was forbidden. Just as in our own times, many back then did not understand what a true religious holiday meant. They did not see that it was not in the dead letter of outward rule-keeping, but in true obedience to God in spirit and truth—and above all, in the practice of mercy. So, those who misunderstood the religious meaning of the Sabbath saw Christ’s healing as a violation of the commandment to rest on the seventh day. Such is the blindness of man. But the Lord came to save the blind… That day, while He was in the house of the Pharisee,

“There before Him was a man suffering from dropsy…Jesus asked the experts in the law and the Pharisees, ‘Is it lawful to heal on the Sabbath or not?’But they remained silent. So taking hold of the man, He healed him and sent him on his way. Then He asked them, ‘If one of you has a donkey or an ox that falls into a well on the Sabbath day, will you not immediately pull it out?’ And they had nothing to say.” (Luke 14:2–6)

The work of man is to do good and to help his brothers—always, and especially on holy days.
Every day is a day of the Lord, every day is God’s gift, and every day is made for good. A day of faith is a day of God’s mercy—and ours. And as He taught this truth, the Savior pointed out that vanity and pride are the greatest hindrances to mercy. Wanting to heal all people, He said: “Everyone who exalts himself will be humbled, and he who humbles himself will be exalted.”

Many people in the world do not know the laws of the spiritual life. But these laws exist—and they expose the lie of unbelief in the spiritual world. Even irreligious people are repulsed by someone who praises himself. The more a person boasts of himself, the more pitiful he appears in the eyes of others. This is the action of a spiritual law. The more modest a person is, the more pleasant he is to everyone. Everyone loves the modest; the vain repel others. We clearly see that this unbreakable law operates even in those who do not believe. Even if unbelievers don’t value modesty in themselves, they always admire it in others. We are not wrong to say that modesty is one of the most comforting traits in a human being. Modesty is, without question, equal to mercy, because through modesty alone, a person already shows mercy to others:
– by not burdening them with his demands,
– not troubling them with his desire for importance.

Whether consciously or unconsciously, the modest person always gives honor first to God, and then to others—who receive their gifts from God. A modest person never loses in life. His talents and virtues are not diminished by modesty—on the contrary, they grow even more. And modesty is by no means weakness, as some fear. No—only modesty is the true strength and nobility of the soul. In the life of societies and nations, “pride goes before destruction.” The level of culture is directly proportional to the level of modesty—both social and international. And this is why the Word that created the worlds took on the life of a humble Man and walked the path of suffering—showing us the spirit of humility as the light that leads to the eternal glory of the Heavenly Kingdom. The humility of Jesus Christ became the seal of truth in mankind.

Praise of Justice

We, as human beings, are quick to notice any injustice toward ourselves. Some even take offense at those around them—or at God Himself—when things in life don’t go the way they had hoped. But the injustice we ourselves commit in the world is far less clear to us. We struggle even to admit it. Justice—what a beautiful word! There is something divine in it. It inspires, challenges, and sometimes torments us. It torments us nobly when we fight for justice on behalf of others, but often plunges us into bitter resentment when we seek perfect justice for ourselves, even in the smallest things. Yet justice itself urges us not only to uphold it, but to rise above it—and never to fall beneath it. We feel peace and joy in our soul when we act justly—especially when we go beyond justice in our feelings. To rise above justice means to enter into the Kingdom of Christ’s love.

There are feelings in us that may be called rich and generous—such as love, magnanimity, selflessness, and self-sacrifice. But there are also simpler, quieter feelings, which may be even more essential for our everyday life. Without them, life in the world becomes simply impossible.

Among these quieter virtues is justice. It forms the foundation of all human life—personal, social, and even political. Justice includes such basic things as honesty, truthfulness, respect for others—their life, their word, and above all, their freedom. Freedom is the most essential part of another person’s life, and must be protected by justice. Justice is expressed in the commandments that God gave to humanity on Mount Sinai. They all speak of the just Law of God, given to man. And the tenth, the final commandment, even forbids desiring what belongs to someone else. That is, injustice must not be allowed to exist—even in our secret thoughts.

Earlier I called love a generous, «rich» feeling. But of course, I meant only the kind of love that is selfless and just. For example: if adoptive parents treat their adopted child worse than their biological one, they are being unjust. Thus, even love must be measured by justice. What does the Bible say about justice? The Book of Job speaks of him with praise:

«That man was blameless and upright.» (Job 1:1)

Psalm 119 says of God:

«Righteous are You, O Lord, and just are Your judgments.» (Psalm 119:137)

This means that if we do not feel the justice of God in our lives, then it is likely that our conscience is lagging behind—behind time and behind the truth of God. Recently, a young man told me about an unpleasant incident in his life. Because he happened to be near the scene of a gas station robbery, he was arrested and spent some time in detention while things were sorted out. I was struck by his reaction to what had clearly been an injustice against him. He said:

“Going through that experience, I began to reflect—and I came to the conclusion that, morally speaking, this was not meaningless. Some time ago, I had committed a wrong, and it went unpunished. So now I had to endure a little suffering. That’s fair.”

I was amazed at the moral clarity and spiritual depth of this young man. And I thought to myself: “This is what true faith in God looks like.”

Conscience, as a sense of global justice, is something innate to humanity—for man is made in the image of God. And sometimes children and young people have a more sensitive conscience than adults, who may have become numbed by long exposure to the world’s injustice. As we walk through life making moral compromises, the soul gradually becomes emptied, and a person stops noticing when they themselves act unjustly—though they still feel every injustice committed against them. Psalm 82 speaks of mercy to the poor not as «mercy,» but as justice—and this is indeed true: “Give justice to the weak and the orphan,” (Psalm 82:3) says the Bible.

If you have two loaves of bread or two shirts, and the person next to you has no bread and not even one shirt—it is not love or charity if you give one away. It is justice. When speaking to the Ephesians about children honoring their parents, the Apostle Paul does not call this a heroic act—but simply justice. The commandment of God says: “Honor your father and your mother, that it may be well with you, and you may live long upon the earth.” (Exodus 20:12) This is the only commandment with a promise, and it points to the path of justice. To disregard or dishonor those who gave us life—those who were chosen by God to be our parents—is a deep and crying injustice.
Not everyone realizes this. But when they experience the same injustice from their own children, they begin to understand their own guilt.

The wise thief crucified next to the Savior at Golgotha showed a deep understanding of justice.
Stopping his fellow criminal—who was cursing Christ—he said: “We are punished justly, for we are getting what our deeds deserve. But this man has done nothing wrong.” (Luke 23:41) Here we see two aspects of justice:

• Acknowledging one’s own guilt
• Recognizing the innocence of another

This is a striking example of honest, unselfish awareness—one that can arise even in a person with a very sinful life. It illustrates what Dostoevsky once wrote in Notes from the House of the Dead—that even in the most hardened criminal lies a spark of humanity, of the divine image within.
This spark is the source of all justice in the world. The light comes from God, through a person who has cleansed the mirror of their soul, wiped the dust off their conscience, and now reflects God’s light. What great comfort we find in the world whenever justice appears, even if it doesn’t directly concern us. Justice is light in itself. When we encounter it, we feel a deep joy and fullness of life.
God is with us then. This was the understanding the thief gained on the cross—and for that reason, he entered Paradise with Christ. The greatest triumph of justice will be fulfilled at the Final Judgment, when God “will wipe away every tear from their eyes.” (Rev. 21:4)

Then all things will be called by their true names, all false glory will fall, and truth will take its rightful place. This will be the apotheosis of universal justice and divine love. To see justice in those around us, and to practice justice in our own relationships—this is a great joy. For above justice there is something higher still—and its name is love.

The Problem of the Person

There is an expression: «to cry out not in one’s own voice.» This cry marks a fall of a person into a subhuman, impersonal state. Despite all the technological progress of our age (or in part because of it), many people today are crying out «not in their own voice»—from fear, suffering, confusion, or outrage at the cruelty of others. But perhaps an even more defining feature of our time is this:
Many people are speaking—not in their own voice. The personality of the human being is being standardized, generalized, erased. It is astonishing that each of the world’s billions of people possesses a voice that is utterly unique and unrepeatable. An immortal personality is imprinted in every human being—reflected in their facial features and expressions, in the gaze of their eyes, in the tone of their voice, even in the delicate lines of their fingerprints…

We recognize birds by their general calls. But a human being—we know by their individual voice, by their unique gaze, their handwriting. Is this not a clear testimony to the immortality of the human person? Indeed, it is. When people distance themselves from their Creator—especially when they begin to fight against Him—they also withdraw from their own true selves. And in turning back to God, in coming to faith, a person returns to their own soul. This is what the Gospel parable of the Prodigal Son reveals: the one who departed from his father, and then returned to him.

Such is the law of the spirit: In forgetting God, a person forgets his own face, depersonalizes himself. In losing the truth, he loses life with it. And all human difficulties and failures—especially in marriage and family life—are deeply connected to this. The Russian author K. I. Chukovsky rightly spoke of a style of language that depersonalizes the human being—and called this style “officialese”. But officialese is not limited to bureaucracies—it is everywhere in public life.
It is one of the many manifestations of the not-own-voice in a person.

Technology contributes to this—unless it is conquered by the light of the human spirit, unless it is balanced by culture. Man proudly and vainly conquers the Earth and even planets—but so rarely and so insufficiently does he rule over his own soul, his own words, the sincerity of his speech and heart… That is why so many people today cry out—or speak—not in their own voice. Not just individuals, but entire collectives speak in template phrases, shout with stamped thoughts—correct perhaps for a kopeck, but false for a ruble.

He who departs from God, departs from himself. Thus develops a mental and emotional mimicry, an echo-chamber of speech and feelings. And yet personalities are meant to be unique—to complement one another, to serve one another through their unique gifts and talents. But how many words in this world are filled with nothing—or almost nothing—except empty mimicry? With foreign voices, not their own, people enter into disputes, even dialogue, only to dissolve one another into abstractions—covering each other with dead slogans, standard labels. Here lies the central tragedy of humanity. Only the personal voice of a human being reflects the truth embedded in the depths of creation, in the very essence of man.

Marxism contains a widely repeated idea: that one must not simply philosophize about the world, but must change it. Yet, two thousand years before Marx, this thought was expressed in Scripture, but in far deeper form: “Faith without works is dead.” That is, human faith is justified by works. And even long before those apostolic words, man had already been called by God to cultivate the earth by creative labor, to change it, “by the sweat of his brow.” But if a person attempts to “change the world” without understanding the essential meaning of this world and of his own life—guided only by some abstract ideal of «titanic transformation»—then nothing will come of it except suffering and chaos. By the 1970s, we already knew this well. And so, the famous Marxist formula—about the need to change the world rather than interpret it—means nothing on its own. The goal, the quality, and the methods of such “change” must prove themselves to be grace-filled.

Folk wisdom reminds the superficial activist: “Measure seven times, cut once.” Even when sounding the alarm, one must first consult the saints. Even the most energetic efforts to “change” something, if not guided by clear reason and spirit, are senseless and inhumane.

As Isaac the Syrian wrote:

Even love—the highest good of the world—is imperfect without wisdom.

And the idea of “changing the world” without a deep understanding of the world and the human being is a force that unleashes evil. Reflecting on history—with all its darkness and light—grasping the immortal depth and the high calling of human life, we are led to the conclusion that man must first become a true person, in order to begin changing the world for the better. But when those who are morally blind try to change the world, they only change it for the worse. They wish to transform the world without knowing it, without believing in the moral nature of either the world or man.
But how can one improve the world without first improving the human heart?

An ocean of blood has already been spilled—and continues to be spilled—for the sake of abstract projects of the future. And so Scripture, revealing the face of God, does not call us to action for action’s sake, or to change for change’s sake. Rather, it calls us to listen to the Truth, to obey it in the power of the Spirit, and to fulfill the will of Him who created all things and gave all things their path. He has shown mankind the true ways to transform the world: the ways of purification, forgiveness, elevation, sanctification, and transfiguration of the human being. And only when we meet our Father, when we hear His voice, do we begin to understand ourselves and the world. Then we see—what within ourselves must be changed, and what in the world must be transformed.

The Psychology of Offense

We all know what it means to be offended—because we have both offended and been offended.
Unconsciously, every offender and every person who takes offense wounds themselves, because they deprive themselves of the sunlight of love. The one who offends wounds not only their soul, but even their body: hostile emotions create painful bodily tension, disturb physical processes, and harm one’s health. An offender first and foremost harms themselves.

But the one who takes offense also acts unwisely—they too wound themselves. We must learn to protect ourselves with a shield of light from offense—not to dwell on it. And greater still is this: to respond to offense with love, meekness, and magnanimity. “Learn from Me,” said Christ the Savior, “for I am gentle and lowly in heart, and you will find rest for your souls.” (Matt. 11:29) Here is the simple path to happiness, which people so often seek without knowing how to find it. Offense can even be unconscious. To cause offense arises from pride, which desires to humiliate another person; from vengefulness, anger. People offend others out of greed, envy, vanity, selfishness, or simply out of emotional insensitivity and moral negligence.

An entrepreneur—whether individual or collective, like a state or political party—offends people most shamelessly, exploiting them not only economically, but also morally. Exploitation is a multifaceted form of injustice. Human history is full of this sin, even up to the present day. But now, it is not feudal lords or capitalists alone who exploit the poor—former poor themselves, having become administrators, party members, or proletarian leaders, now cruelly exploit the poor—peasants, workers—hiding this exploitation behind flattering, but empty words.

Exploitation of others is not always driven by personal hostility—it often stems from a moral numbness, a pursuit of personal, partisan, or state gain. Today, high-sounding motives are used to justify both material and spiritual exploitation. Great wrongs are done to people under the banner of “revolution for the good of all.” Inhuman planners hide behind humane slogans, unable to see the living person. Profoundly offensive to both the individual and humanity is the utilitarian, materialistic view of the immortal human soul. And yet—even within a materialist, a sense of justice and compassion can arise, despite their theoretical views. As a person, a materialist can be morally sensitive. And sometimes, the heart of a believer (contrary to the spirit of their faith) is filled with greed and heartlessness.

Just as an atheist’s unbelief may exist only on the tip of their tongue, so a believer’s faith in God may likewise exist only on their lips. (Faith in God is not a theoretical declaration.) In our time, even faith in God is offended—people are forced to write the great holy Name of God with a lowercase letter. But a human being can no more truly offend God than they can offend the constellation Orion or Cygnus. The unbeliever does not wound God—they wound their own life.

A person is offended by another person’s will—when that will is evil, or simply not good enough.
And all these countless molecular offenses in the world—all our personal and collective evils—create the black storm clouds of conflict, war, and destruction that make humanity tremble. And may lead to its annihilation. In earlier history, in the name of belief in God, kings and rulers offended unbelievers (or those who believed differently than they did). Now, in many countries, unbelievers offend believers. Scripture tells us:

“You know the commandments: Do not commit adultery; do not murder; do not steal; do not bear false witness; do not defraud (do not offend).” (Mark 10:19)

But if offense has already happened, it must not be met with touchiness. Overcoming evil includes overcoming oversensitivity. We, human beings, so easily offend each other—and even more easily, we are offended. Even when no one is actually offending us—we still manage to take offense!Sometimes we even want to feel offended, and in this, we show a childish immaturity.

A child may suddenly want to cry—not because their mother actually hurt them, but because they simply desire to feel offended, and more importantly, to show it. This is the immaturity of the soul. An active egoist offends others. A passive egoist takes offense. The offenses of the active, and the offendedness of the passive egoist, both greatly hinder life. And there is only one true way out of these conditions—into spiritual freedom: do not offend anyone and do not take offense at anyone.

Value and Personhood

There are certain values in relation to which it is difficult for a person to admit poverty. We humans are all rich in air—there is plenty of it, and it belongs to everyone. But a patient in the final stage of tuberculosis may be poor even in air. No one is destitute when it comes to a glass of water—yet a traveler lost in a waterless desert would give all the treasures of the world for that single glass. We see that in relation to one thing, we are very poor, and in relation to another—we are immeasurably rich. If not actually, then potentially, all of us are rich in sincerity and good feelings—but not everyone knows this, and even fewer make use of such wealth. That is why there is so much unhappiness in the world. One could say that in many areas, we are intelligent, sensitive, perceptive, yet in others, we are strangely blind, irrational, and dependent on others. Surrounded by such deep dependence on other people, we rarely recognize it, and even less often make it a reason for our humility. But in everything we do, in what we eat, what we wear, and even in what we carry within ourselves—people of many generations have participated. One wise man made a habit of bowing in all four directions every evening, giving thanks to both God and people, saying: “Everything I have, I have from God—and from others.” Yes, in some things we demonstrate knowledge, skill, and reason—and in others, we reveal our complete foolishness… This Earth, on which we live, and from which we lift off by mere inches, is rushing through cosmic space within its solar system.
And this system is hurtling among others, far more vast. And they in turn move among even greater systems—quasars, unimaginable to us.

That’s why our little moon-jumps should not be a source of pride. In cosmic terms, these are literally mosquito-leaps. And the Earth, which so patiently and meekly carries us on her back, is a fiery apple, upon the thinnest of skins of which we boldly dwell, and even arrogantly proclaim that we can live without God, boasting tastelessly of our so-called “achievements.” And within our own human body—fragile as a spider’s web, yet incredibly complex and wondrous in its harmony—live billions of creatures, invisible to the human eye. They do not always harm us—only when they are allowed to, by the Master. There is a Master of Life. His greatness is revealed in nature and in spirit, in the moral values that are planted within us and proper to us. A person’s life depends on the tiniest, most mysterious circumstances. Science, as it uncovers the secrets of the universe, increasingly shows us how weak and fragile our flesh is, how tenuous our earthly life is, and how little we truly know.

The spiritual world flows into us, and surrounds us. It speaks to us in mysterious signs and knocks at the door of our heart: “Behold, I stand at the door and knock” (Rev. 3:20) —and if anyone opens to Me (listens in the depths of their conscience), I will come to them. The response of the Holy Spirit to human prayer is swift. “I stand and knock”—this is the first action of grace in the soul.
And «whoever opens» their heart—this is the condition for the next action of grace in that person.The miraculous freedom of the human being lies, first of all, in the freedom to have a proper and moral attitude toward everything we encounter, both externally and within ourselves.

We are not always free to avoid what is given to us beyond our will. But we are always free to transform any life experience or word into light, to make it meaningful—for ourselves and for others. This is the true work of our freedom. Through all events, through all sorrows and joys, a person has both the power and the blessed opportunity to move toward God’s truth, which has no end. We are surrounded by a great and loving Providence. There is no “fate,” no “blind destiny.” There is the Sleepless Eye of God’s love, and our freedom to abide in it.

A Sign of Love

One of the signs of love is “not being easily angered.” Who can truly imagine a mother becoming irritated with her nursing infant? To a mother is given a special sense of love when her child is helpless. And yet, how many mothers there are who, even when their children are grown, still do not get irritated with them. In such kindness that covers human weakness, the image of God in a person is most clearly revealed. Of course, anger against evil (and not against the person) can be holy; but this is something entirely different from selfish irritation, which people direct at each other, and which so heavily burdens the lives of both those who are irritated and those who are the objects of irritation. Scripture gives this counsel: “Be angry, and do not sin.” In other words: Be angry at evil, not at the person suffering from that evil. “You who love the Lord, hate evil!” (Psalm 97:10)

Anger at evil (especially one’s own evil) can heal a person—if that anger comes from love. But the tragedy is that dark irritability, like a spiderweb, hangs over nations, families, and hearts. This human irritability, often triggered by a trifle, poisons life.

One man once said truthfully:

“Quarrelsomeness, constant complaints about fate and acquaintances—these might be even worse than simple outbursts of anger, because they are continuous… It’s better to be hot-tempered: you flare up, say things, and then cool down. But how difficult are the touchy people—they hold grudges. The touchy person is irritated by everything.
Even if they receive what they wanted, their conscience bothers them deep down, and so they look for a new reason—to lash out again. Saddest of all, those who suffer most from our irritability and temper are the very ones who love us most and do the most for us. What unjust, cruel remarks our closest ones often have to hear from us! And we allow ourselves this, knowing they won’t be offended; and even if they are, they’ll forgive and won’t break off the relationship—because they love us…”

At the root of hot-temperedness and irritability lie malice, hatred, pride, cruelty, and injustice. A swamp can quickly turn into a raging ocean. One match can burn down a city. From one seemingly “innocent” little passion, the soul can ignite—and burn in torment. What self-control, what sobriety and caution people need! No vice—not even greed, or the passion for pleasure, not even wine, the destroyer of many—does so much harm to the good spirit of the family as an irritable and uncontrolled person. He disrupts teamwork, poisons the life of children and the home.

In public, out of vanity, we still restrain ourselves from displaying our inner baseness. We seek the approval of society. But at home, among “our own,” we let ourselves go—we unleash the evil within… “An angry man stirs up conflict, and a hot-tempered one commits many sins,”
says Solomon in the book of Proverbs (Prov. 29:22). A person can be so petty and low that he is offended even at the Lord God Himself, his Great Creator! He complains about the life given to him…

Have you never grumbled about the weather—why it isn’t the way you’d like it to be?
Have you never complained about your position in life, about your circumstances?
Have you never grown weary of the path by which the Provident Hand of the Lord has led you—and still leads you? There is in the human soul a great power for overcoming pride, hot temper, and irritability. It is reverent faith in the nearness of God. “The Lord is near.” Above each person is spread Love. One need only learn to see it with inner eyes. This is faith.

We do not always understand the healing paths of Love. But when we believe in that Love—above ourselves and the world—we begin to see, with spiritual eyes, life in the light of its higher purpose.
What once seemed incomprehensible now appears to faith-filled hearts as something necessary and meaningful. Thus, wisdom ripens in the soul, and eternity is revealed. Our freedom is not only the freedom to say everything we think or to do everything we want. The deepest freedom is freedom from the evil with which we torment ourselves and others. It is to this state of freedom in goodness that the path of faith leads us. Faith is an entry into a higher reality.

Memory and Forgetfulness

The imperfection of the human soul is revealed in this: it forgets what is important and remembers what is vain. It forgets what must not be forgotten, and remembers what should be let go. Applying a well-known expression to this, one could ask every person: “Tell me what you forget and what you remember, and I will tell you who you are.” Let us begin by asking ourselves: what do we—especially we, believers—remember, and what do we forget? Do we always remember the One who gave us life? Does our soul forget God? Is our memory of this truth—the reality of the Highest—strong, deep, life-giving? Do we remember that our Creator is always with us, even though we are not always with Him? Do we remember that the Holy Spirit penetrates all our thoughts, reads our minds, and judges our intentions? Do we remember that the Living Christ, present in the world, is the greatest Sanctity, Purity, Truth, and Love? Has our memory preserved His commandments and the laws God gave us for our life and for its salvation in eternity?

Do the words of Christ remain in our soul—words so full of love and trust toward us, that He calls us His children and brothers, not hirelings, and even less—His enemies, though when we do evil, we resemble His enemies more than His friends? Do we remember that the Word of God became flesh, stood beside us, spoke in our language, and taught us to see in ourselves and in others the inner, spiritual person, a friend of God? And do we remember how Christ was rejected, how few defended Him, how He had no place on earth—neither at His birth, nor at His death?

But like lightning, “flashing from east to west” (Mt. 24:27), Christ rose again—marvelously, mysteriously, undeniably. He rose from His grave and appeared to His closest disciples—to the Twelve, to the Seventy, to five hundred—and He was recognized as the Risen One, and He gave boundless hope to humanity. Then He ascended into heaven, disappearing into the invisible world—
only to become even closer to every soul on earth, to stand even more perfectly at the threshold of every human home. Do we remember that angels and the spirits of the saints surround us,
especially those who call upon them? Wherever we are, does our memory preserve the truth
that our short earthly life stands only a hair’s breadth away from the great invisible world—and that at any moment, we may be called into that other world, to the final judgment of Heavenly Truth?

Do we remember this always—especially in those moments when a heavy darkness presses on the soul, when some inner voice whispers flattering, shadowy words, and our soul begins to waver and incline toward evil? Do we then remember God? Do we cry out to Him? Do we remember—after we have sinned—that the Lord is merciful, and that He has given us the path to spiritual restoration through repentance? Do we remember—during moments of despair—that the Lord is long-suffering? And in times of temptation toward evil—that the Lord is just?

And when we look at the people around us—do we remember that our Lord is also their Lord,
that our Heavenly Father is their Father, that He is their Judge just as He is ours? Do we remember that a person is justified or condemned only by their own deeds, but that “without faith it is impossible to please God”? (Hebrews 11:6) Such spiritual treasures of truth and immortality can be preserved by our memory—by our life. But does it preserve this radiance?

Blessed is the one who knows the truth of Divine love toward us. Not hoping in anything else, he places his hope in the love of God, and lives by the love of his Lord. Not of everything, but only of the most important, have I asked the human conscience and memory. And now, I want to question forgetfulness. Forgetfulness, have you swallowed up all the offenses of my life, all the sorrows and all the pains, all the fears of life? Have you, forgetfulness, consumed the vanity of days gone by—
all their trivial emotions, misunderstandings, empty words, pointless arguments, and restless worries? Only on a field cleared by forgetfulness of vanity can wisdom grow. Bold forgetfulness, you are like the water of a pure spring— carrying away the dust of the earth and drowning it in yourself, without losing your own shimmering clarity. And only he is truly human who wisely forgets himself, while remembering God and His righteousness. By our holy forgetfulness and radiant memory, we enter into true life.

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[1] “At confession, people often unwisely testify about the same thing, not understanding that they have come not for self-justification, but for self-condemnation.”