A person can spend his entire life within the Church without ever allowing the Church to enter into him.

Theoktistos the Cretan | August 10, 2026

 

 

We ask many things of Christ. We ask for health, work, protection, for our children to do well, for a sick person to be healed, for a marriage to be saved, for a financial difficulty to be resolved, for a road that has been closed to open, for a temptation to depart.

We run to the Panagia, we invoke the Saints, we hold Paraklesis services, light candles, write down names, make vows, go on pilgrimages, beseech, weep, and persist. And rightly so. We are children of God, and it is to God that we will have recourse. But amid this unceasing stream of our requests, we usually avoid one very simple and very difficult question: What are we prepared to offer Christ? What do we offer the Panagia? What do we give to the Saints whom we so readily invoke? For many times our relationship with God ends up becoming a strange spiritual transaction. We submit the request and expect God to grant it. If what we asked for happens, we say, “Glory to God.” If it does not happen, the complaints begin. “Why did God not hear me?”

Have you ever listened to God? That we do not ask. Christ told you to forgive. Did you forgive? He told you not to judge. Did you stop judging? He told you to love your enemy. Did you love him? He told you to repent. Did you repent? He told you to take up your cross. Did you take it up? He told you to cut off your own will. Did you cut it off? And then we stand before His icon and say plaintively, “My Christ, why do You not hear me?” But, my child, when did you ever listen to Him? We want a Christ who will listen to us unceasingly, while we reserve for ourselves the right almost never to listen to Him.

We want a Christ who heals, but does not rebuke us. A Panagia who protects us, but does not teach us, through her “be it unto me according to thy word,” what surrender to the will of God means. We want Saints who work miracles, but we do not want to learn how they became Saints. We go to Saint Nektarios and ask for healing, but when we are wronged or slandered, we do not remember at all how he accepted injustice. We ask Saint Paisios for help, but we leave philotimo, self-denial, simplicity, self-reproach, and sacrifice to Saint Paisios. We ask Saint Porphyrios for enlightenment, but we are not prepared to cut off even a single evil thought about our brother. We want the Saint’s icon in the house, but we do not want the Saint’s way of life in the house. We want his vigil lamp, his holy oil, the amulet, the pilgrimage, the miracle. We do not want his life. Then what exactly are we asking of the Saints? To cooperate with our passions? To intercede so that we may get our own way? To persuade God to adapt His will to our own desires?

The Saints are not intermediaries of our will. They are the people who surrendered their own will so that the will of God might live within them. But this is the part of holiness that does not move us so much. The miracle moves us. The ascetic struggle that preceded the miracle does not. The incorrupt relic moves us. The mortification of the old man that preceded it does not. The icon of the Saint moves us. The repentance that made that person an icon of Christ does not.

And here, we who wear the cassock must be the first to take heed. For it is very easy for a monk to speak about the secularization of others and not see his own. A person can leave the world and take the whole world with him into his cell. He may have no personal property and yet have a terrible attachment to his own will. He may not seek worldly honors and yet seek monastic honors. He may want to be taken into account, to be consulted, to have his spirituality recognized, to have his discernment praised. Even ascetic struggle itself can become food for the ego. I may fast more than another and despise him. I may keep vigil more and consider him negligent. I may say more prayer ropes and feel that I have become something. Well then, what have I done? I took off the worldly garment and dressed the same old man in a cassock. If the monk asks Christ for Grace but does not give Him his will, if he asks for enlightenment but does not accept correction, if he prays for the whole world but cannot tolerate the brother in the neighboring cell, something is not right. You may say a thousand times, “Lord Jesus Christ, have mercy on me,” while at the same time thinking that you are not the one who needs mercy, but that everyone else needs correction. Then the mouth says the Prayer while the mind has set up a tribunal. What benefit is the prayer rope if every knot passes through our fingers, yet not one of them loosens a knot of our egoism?

A hierarch may speak ceaselessly about Christ, while his heart is more disturbed over primacy, rank, recognition, forms of address, who honored him and who did not honor him. Then what did he offer Christ? The mitre? The engolpion? The throne? What would Christ do with these things? He was born in a manger, and upon the Cross He revealed His Kingdom. What a strange thing it is to serve a God who emptied Himself, while we worry lest our prestige be diminished. To preach Him who washed the disciples’ feet, and to be troubled over who will sit first. To exalt the Cross liturgically and yet be unable to endure even the slightest personal humiliation. And a priest may serve the Liturgy for decades, hear confessions, preach, cense, bless, and eventually become accustomed to the holy things. This is more terrible than many outward falls. To become accustomed to the Holy Chalice. To become accustomed to the Sanctuary. To become accustomed to the Gospel. To say, “Peace be unto all,” and not speak to his brother. To say, “Let us love one another,” and harbor resentment. To read the Gospel of forgiveness and not forgive. To hold the Body of Christ in his hands while at the same time holding in his heart antipathies, rivalries, ambitions, and pettiness. How terrible for Christ to be in our hands and yet not to have found a place within us. And how much more terrible for this to happen so many times that eventually it no longer frightens us.

Only after saying these things about ourselves can we also speak about the person who enters the church. Otherwise, strictness becomes hypocrisy. If I am not fighting against my own will, how can I speak to another about repentance? If I desire honors, how can I speak to him about humility? If I do not forgive my brother, how can I tell him to forgive his own? First, then, the knife upon ourselves, and afterward the word to others. But the faithful person too must at some point ask himself what exactly he is going to the church to do. We do not go to church in order to do God a favor. Someone says, “I went to church today as well.” So what? You went. What happened within you? Did you enter angry and leave angry? Did you enter judging and leave judging? Did you enter not speaking to your brother and leave still not speaking to him? Then you changed place; you did not change your life. You can light twenty candles and not forgive one person. You can hold forty Paraklesis services and torment your household every day. You can fast from oil and devour another person with your tongue. You can receive Communion frequently and harbor resentment within you. You can venerate the icons with compunction and treat living human beings, who are images of God, with unimaginable harshness. What kind of piety is this? The candle is good, but the candle cannot be burning while the heart remains frozen. Fasting is holy, but the mouth cannot fast from oil while not fasting from poison. Pilgrimage is beneficial, but what benefit is there in traveling a thousand kilometers for a Saint and not traveling two meters to ask forgiveness from our brother?

A person can spend his entire life within the Church without ever allowing the Church to enter into him. He may know all the services, all the fasts, all the monasteries, all the Saints, all the Elders, which spiritual father is strict and which is lenient; he may be able to discuss ecclesiastical matters for hours, while his heart remains unmoved. This is very dangerous. The person who is far from the Church at least knows that he is far away. But the one who has learned all the outward forms of piety is in danger of thinking that he has already arrived. And then he begins to measure others. Who dressed properly, who made the sign of the Cross properly, who fasted, who did not fast, who received Communion, who did not receive Communion. But he does not measure himself. For ourselves, we want all of God’s mercy. For the other person, we want all of His justice. We ask God not to remember our sins, while we remember with remarkable precision what the other person did to us fifteen years ago. We ask for forgiveness and do not forgive. We ask for longsuffering and tolerate no one. We ask God to raise us up when we fall, and as soon as the other person falls, we rush to trample him down. We ask God to look upon us with leniency, while we examine our brother under a microscope. And then we stand in prayer and say, “Lord, have mercy.” On whom should the Lord have mercy? On me alone? Is the other person not His child?

We often do the same thing with the Panagia. “My Panagia, do this for me and I will bring you a candle.” But what is the Panagia, my child? Is she a merchant? Is she waiting for your candle? She is waiting for your heart. You can buy the candle in five minutes. It may take you a lifetime to cut off your will. The Panagia offered her very self to God. “Behold the handmaid of the Lord; be it unto me according to thy word.” We, many times, pray in exactly the opposite way. Instead of “Thy will be done,” in practice we say, “My will be done.” This is what I want; let this happen. Let this person come. Let that person leave. Let this door open. Let this difficulty disappear. Let this plan succeed. Let everything around me change. But should I change? No. I am to remain as I am, and God is to rearrange the whole world so that my will may be satisfied. And when it does not happen, we say, “The Panagia did not hear me.” How do you know that she did not hear you? Perhaps it was precisely because she heard you that she did not give you what you were asking for. Perhaps her protection was precisely the closed door about which you are complaining.

And how skillful we become when it comes to justifying our passions. Our own anger becomes “righteous indignation.” Our own ambition becomes “zeal.” Our own harshness becomes “boldness.” Our own judgment becomes “discernment.” Our own curiosity becomes “concern.” We find a fine spiritual word, place it over the passion, and put ourselves at ease. Instead of repenting of the passion, we baptize it. The Saints, however, did not change the names of their passions. They changed themselves. We want to change the name and keep the disease. That is why we have multiplied in words and become impoverished in lived experience. We share sayings about humility and become angry if someone does not greet us. We speak about silence and comment on everyone. We admire the poverty of the Saints and count what our neighbor has. We speak about the Martyrs and cannot endure a single insult. We read about the ascetics and cannot bear for someone to disrupt our schedule. We venerate the Cross and ask Christ for a life in which nothing of our own will be crucified. We want the Crucified One, but without crucifixion. We want the Resurrection, but without Golgotha. We want holiness, but without ascetic struggle. We want Paradise, but without repentance. Well, how can all these things come to pass?

And even our time we give to God by the dropper. Hours on the phone do not tire us. Hours at a table pass quickly. Hours spent in conversations, traveling, and entertainments do not seem like much to us. But we enter the Divine Liturgy and before long we are looking at the clock. People telephone churches and monasteries and ask, “What time does Holy Communion come out?” What kind of question is that? What does “What time does Holy Communion come out?” mean? As though it were something delivered at a specific time and we wanted to stop by and pick it up. The Divine Eucharist is not the final five minutes of a service. The Divine Liturgy begins with “Blessed is the Kingdom,” and the entire assembly moves toward the Chalice. If some great person of this world invited you to a formal dinner, would you telephone and ask, “What time should I come just to eat and leave?” You would be ashamed. But before Christ we are not ashamed. We want to receive and leave. To receive Communion without having communed in the prayer of the Church. To receive the Gift without offering even our time. And then we wonder why our life is not transformed. But do we want Christ as something we receive, or as the One to whom we surrender our life?

What, then, does Christ ask of us? Our money? Everything is His. Our candles? He is the Light. Our votive offerings? What need does God have of gold? Our great churches? Heaven and earth cannot contain Him, and will our buildings impress Him? Christ asks for one thing, and it is precisely this that we find most difficult to give Him: “My son, give me thine heart.” He asks for you. Because you can offer all the other things and remain exactly as you were. You can give money and remain avaricious. You can light a hundred candles and remain in darkness. You can make countless pilgrimages and not move even one step away from your egoism. You can build a church and leave your soul in ruins. You can fill your house with icons and find no room for Christ within your heart. You can even put on the cassock and not have surrendered a single inch of your own will. But when you give your heart, then the other thrones we have set up within it must fall: my sense of being right, my will, my ambition, my malice, my vindictiveness, my self-love. There the true offering begins.

For this reason, love for Christ is not proven when we say, “My Christ, I love You.” That is easy. It is proven when the time comes to choose between Christ and something we have loved more than Him. On the one hand, self-interest; on the other, His commandment. What will I choose? On the one hand, revenge; on the other, forgiveness. What will I choose? On the one hand, ambition; on the other, humility. On the one hand, my sense of being right; on the other, peace. On the one hand, my will; on the other, “Thy will be done.” There the grand words come to an end. There, faith is revealed. For we easily offer God that which costs us nothing. The difficult thing is to offer Him precisely that which we have turned into an idol.

Could it be, then, that the greatest prayer is not, “My Christ, change what is happening around me,” but, “My Christ, change me”?

Not only, “My Panagia, protect my child,” but, “My Panagia, teach me to love my child without making him the possession of my own will.”

Not only, “My Saint, help me to succeed,” but, “Help me not to lose my soul in order to succeed.”

Not only, “Lord, take this cross away from me,” but, “If this cross is becoming a road that leads to You, grant that I may not flee from beneath it.”

These are difficult prayers. Because they may indeed be heard. And then God will not simply change the circumstances around us. He will begin to change us.

The Saints gave everything and asked for Christ alone. We, many times, ask everything from Christ and find it difficult to give Him even one passion. One grudge. One old enmity. One stubbornness. One injustice. One ambition. One hidden sin. This is the vow that we find most difficult to make. Not, “My Panagia, if this happens, I will bring you a candle,” but, “My Christ, this thing separates me from You. Take it. And because You see that even now, I find it difficult to give it to You, at least make me want to give it to You.” There repentance begins. Not when we ask God to become a partner in our plans, but when we allow Him to tear down within us whatever does not lead to Him.

For this reason, before we ask Christ for something again, before we beseech the Panagia again, before we run again to a Saint, let us for a moment ask the question in reverse. Not, “What do I want from God?” but, “What does God want from me?” And this one question may be worth more than a hundred requests. Because then we will understand that Christ was never waiting for our candles, our vows, our promises, our grand words, or our displays of piety. He was waiting for us. From the monk He awaits the monk, and not his cassock. From the hierarch, the man, and not his throne. From the priest, his heart, and not only his priestly ministry. From the faithful person, the person himself, and not only his candle. And it will be terrible if one day we come before Him having held prayer ropes, having lit thousands of candles, having made pilgrimages, attended services, made vows and prayers, having spoken countless times about Him, and then realize that throughout our entire life we offered Him almost everything except the one thing He truly asked of us: ourselves.

 

Greek source: https://aktines.blogspot.com/2026/08/blog-post_614.html