OrthoAnalytika

Fr. Anthony Perkins

Welcome to OrthoAnalytika, Fr. Anthony Perkins' podcast of homilies, classes, and shows on spirituality, science, and culture - all offered from a decidedly Orthodox Christian perspective. Fr. Anthony is a mission priest and seminary professor for the UOC-USA. He has a diverse background, a lot of enthusiasm, and a big smile. See www.orthoanalytika.org for show notes and additional content.

  1. 5D AGO

    Homily - Judgment, Worship, and the Throne of Glory

    Meatfare/The Last Judgment Matthew 25:31-46  On the Sunday of the Last Judgment, the Gospel reveals that judgment takes place not in a courtroom, but in the throne room of God—a reality the Church enters every Sunday in the Divine Liturgy. This homily explores how worship forms repentance, trains us in mercy, and sends us into the world with lives shaped by the pattern of Christ's self-giving love. --- The Throne Room Now: Judgment, Mercy, and the Work of the Liturgy A Homily on the Sunday of the Last Judgment Matthew 25:31–46 When we hear the Gospel of the Last Judgment, our attention is usually drawn—rightly—to the command to do good: to feed the hungry, clothe the naked, visit the sick and the imprisoned. And the danger every year is that we hear this Gospel as if Christ were saying something like this: "Be good people during the week—and then come to church on Sunday." But that is not what the Lord is saying. In fact, the Gospel appointed for today does something far more unsettling—and far more hopeful. It places the Judgment not in a courtroom, but in the throne room of God. Christ says, "When the Son of Man comes in His glory, and all the holy angels with Him, then He will sit on the throne of His glory." That is not legal language. It is liturgical language. The people who first heard this would have known exactly what that meant. They would have filled in the details instinctively from the Scriptures and from worship: the throne surrounded by cherubim and seraphim; the unceasing hymn of praise; even the River of Fire—not as punishment, but as the light and heat of God's own glory. And here is the first thing we must understand: We are not only told about that throne room. We are brought into it. Every Sunday, the Church does not merely remember something that will happen someday. We are brought into that reality now—as much as we can bear it. The Kingdom is revealed to us here and now, sacramentally, liturgically, truthfully. And that changes how we hear today's Gospel. First: There is a connection between doing good and coming to church Sunday is not an interruption of the Christian life. It is its measure. In a real sense, every Sunday is a little judgment—not a condemnation, but a revelation. We come into the light, and the truth about us is allowed to appear. And notice how this begins in the Divine Liturgy. It begins not with confidence, not with self-congratulation, but with repentance. The priest, standing before God as the leader and voice of the people, pleads at the very beginning: "O Lord, Lord, open unto me the door of Thy mercy." That is not theatrical humility. That is the truth. We are asking to be let in—not because we deserve it, but because without mercy we cannot even stand. And then, before the Trisagion, the priest names what God already knows about all of us: that He "despisest not the sinner but hast appointed repentance unto salvation." And so he begs Him directly: "Pardon us every transgression both voluntary and involuntary." This is what Sunday is. It is the people of God standing before the glory of His altar and asking to be healed. Asking to see clearly. Asking to be made capable of love. But repentance in the Liturgy does not remain on the lips of the clergy alone. Before Communion, the entire Church takes up the same posture and says together words that are almost shocking in their honesty: "I stand before the doors of Thy temple, and yet I refrain not from my terrible thoughts." We do not pretend that standing in church has magically fixed us. We confess that we are still conflicted, still distracted, still broken. And then, with no room left for comparison or self-justification, we each say: "Who didst come into the world to save sinners, of whom I am first." And finally, we make the plea that fits today's Gospel with frightening precision: "Not unto judgment nor unto condemnation be my partaking of Thy holy mysteries, O Lord, but unto the healing of soul and body." The Church is honest with us here. The same fire that heals can also burn, depending on whether we approach it with repentance or with presumption. This is not a threat meant to drive us away, but truth meant to help us approach rightly. That is why Sunday is a little judgment—not because God is eager to condemn, but because His throne room is opened to us now in mercy, so that we may be healed, corrected, and trained to recognize Christ when He comes to us in the least of His brethren. Second: Sunday worship is where we actually do the work Christ commands And once we see that, we can begin to understand what the Church is actually doing here -  and why worship cannot be separated from judgment. Before we ever offer bread and wine, the Church first intercedes for the world. We pray for peace from above and the salvation of our souls; for the peace of the whole world and the good estate of the holy Churches; for this city and every city and countryside; for travelers by sea, by land, and by air; for the sick, the suffering, and the captive; for deliverance from tribulation, wrath, danger, and necessity. We even pray for civil authorities—not to bless power for its own sake, but that peace and order might make room for mercy and justice. In other words, before we do anything else, we place the needs of others before God. And in addition to interceding for all of this, here—at the heart of the Divine Liturgy—the Church actually performs the works of mercy Christ names in today's Gospel. Not in theory.  Not symbolically.  But truly. Here: ·      Strangers are welcomed and given a home. ·      Prisoners are freed from the shackles of sin and the sentence of death. ·      The naked are clothed with baptismal garments. ·      The thirsty are given living water. ·      The hungry are given the Bread of Life. This is not allegory. This is reality at its deepest level. God Himself tells us to care even more for the soul than for the body. During the week, we sacrifice ourselves to meet bodily needs—and we must grow in that work. But on Sunday, we are commanded to do the most important work of mercy: to restore people to life in Christ. That is why worship is not optional. It is not private devotion. It is the Church doing what the Church exists to do.  And because that work is real, it carries with it genuine hope. Third: Sunday gives us a foretaste of the reward The Gospel of the Last Judgment is not only a warning. It is also a promise. Those who learn to serve Christ in the least of His brethren are not merely rewarded—they are invited to rest in God, to share in His life, to participate in His rule. Saint Paul says something astonishing: "Do you not know that the saints will judge the world? … Do you not know that we shall judge angels?" (1 Corinthians 6:2–3) This does not mean we become harsh or self-righteous. It means we are being trained—here and now—for a future of responsibility, faithfulness, and love. What we do here is forming who we are becoming. Conclusion What happens in this Divine Liturgy is the automatic response of the Church—that is, of a people devoted to sacrificial love—to God's command to care for others as we care for ourselves. This is not a dead ritual. It is a powerful tool for doing essential work. It is the throne room of God revealed to us now. But it is not meant to remain here. The expectation of the Church is that the pattern of the Liturgy becomes the pattern of our life. That the repentance we practice here becomes the repentance that shapes our weeks. That the mercy we receive here becomes the mercy we extend beyond these walls. That the intercessions we make here train us to notice, remember, and bear the burdens of others when we leave. That is why the Liturgy does not end with applause or reflection, but with a command: "Let us go forth in peace." We are sent out not having finished our work, but having been formed for it. And when the Son of Man comes in His glory, He will recognize those whose lives have taken on the shape of His worship—those who learned, here, how to repent, how to intercede, and how to love.

    16 min
  2. FEB 8

    Homily - Love That Refuses to Dominate

    The Father Who Does Not Control A Homily on the Sunday of the Prodigal Son St. Luke 15:11-31 In the parable of the Prodigal Son, our attention is often drawn to the repentance of the younger son or to the resentment of the elder. But before we look at either son, we must first look carefully at the father. What stands out immediately is not simply the father's mercy at the end, but the way he loves throughout the story. The father gives an astonishing amount of freedom to his sons—but his love is not passive, negligent, or withdrawn. It is neither controlling nor indifferent. It is something more demanding than either. When the younger son demands his inheritance, the father does not argue. He does not threaten. He does not bargain. He does not attempt to manage the future. He divides his living and lets the son go. This is not ignorance. This is not indifference. This is love that refuses to become domination. As Nikolai Velimirović reminds us, the father in this parable gives far more than justice requires. When the son demands what is "his," justice would permit the father to give him nothing at all—for apart from what his father gives, the son possesses nothing but dust. Yet the father gives him more than dust. He gives him life and breath, conscience and understanding. He leaves within him a spark that can still recognize hunger, remember the father's house, and find the road home. As St. Nikolai says, he gives this "not out of justice, but out of mercy," preserving within the son a light that may yet be rekindled—even in the far country. Freedom is permitted, but grace is not withdrawn. And this unsettles us—because we know the danger the young son will face. And so does the father. Freedom Is the Risk the Father Takes—But Not the Whole of His Love The father does not need to be warned about what lies ahead. He knows the far country and all its terrible temptations. He has watched his son grow. He knows his immaturity as well as his great potential. He knows that his son will probably fail. He knows that his son will probably be hurt. And still, he lets him go. The younger son leaves because he is free. The elder son stays because he is free. And the father loves both sons without controlling either. But this does not mean the father is hands-off. The father does not manage his son's choices—but he does shape the conditions in which those choices will be understood. He does not eliminate consequences—but he ensures that consequences can teach rather than annihilate. He does not chase his son—but he preserves the meaning of home. A human parent is often tempted to intervene constantly—to explain, threaten, restrain, or negotiate—motivated by what the parent calls "love." This father does something harder. He does not protect his son from failure. Instead, he protects the possibility of return. The Far Country and the Formation of Repentance The son's freedom leads him exactly where freedom so often leads when it is exercised without  wisdom: [it leads] to waste, hunger, and despair. He spends what he has been given. He discovers that independence cannot sustain life. He finds himself reduced to feeding swine, longing even for their food. This is not accidental. The far country is real and so are its dangers. Freedom has weight. Choices have consequences.  The younger son suffers. Yet even here, something remains alive within him; the memory of his home and of real love. The spark the father put into him through years of his strong example and sacrificial love has not gone out. He remembers the house. He remembers bread. He remembers that it would be better to be a doorman in the house of his father than live in the palaces of the far country – much less among its swine. And so, at last, he comes to himself. This is the risk the father was willing to take—not merely rebellion, but suffering—so that wisdom could be learned rather than imposed; so that the movement from willfulness to self-control would not be coerced; so that repentance would be real, and not merely compliance; so that the son's growth into authentic manhood would be genuine. Love, here, does not manage outcomes. It prepares for, cultivates, and then, Lord willing, blesses the return. The Father Runs: Love That Restores Without Controlling When the son returns, the father does something no respectable patriarch would ever do. He runs. He does not wait on the porch. He does not demand explanations. He does not require proof of sincerity. He runs, falls upon the son's neck, and kisses him. The son begins his confession, but the father will not let him finish. The father does not allow him to negotiate his way back as a servant. He never seems tempted to belittle him or his bad choices.  The repentance is already there.  And so He restores him fully—as a son. The robe is placed on him. The ring is given. The shoes are fastened. The feast is prepared. This is not manipulation. This is resurrection. The father does not restore the son cautiously, with conditions and safeguards. He restores him completely—because love that controls repentance would threaten to undo and replace repentance itself. Restoration, however, is not the end of the son's story. It is the beginning of his real formation. The father does not restore his son so that nothing will be asked of him. He restores him so that, once again, he can live as a son—within the life of the house, under the same roof, nourished at the same table, finally able to follow his father's example. From this point forward, the son's life will be shaped not by fear or regret, but by gratitude. Not by apathy or micromanagement, but by participation. Not by rules imposed from outside, but by imitation from within. He will learn patience by living with a patient father. He will learn generosity by breaking bread at a generous table. He will learn mercy by watching mercy given freely—now to him, and later, perhaps, through him. This is how ascetical formation truly works in the Kingdom: not as control imposed after repentance, but as the means to a more beautiful life shared after restoration. The father does not need to stand over his son. He only needs to remain who he has always been. And now his younger son is finally ready to benefit from his father's witness and from his love. When Righteousness Becomes Control How about the elder son?  He never left the house—but did he ever really live there?  Like his younger brother, he never entered into the beauty his father had cultivated there. He hears the music. He sees the celebration. And he refuses to go in. His obedience has quietly become a claim. "I have served." "I have obeyed." "You owe me." This is the righteousness that keeps accounts. This is the righteousness that resents mercy. This is the righteousness that expects goodness to produce predictable results. For us, and for the people in our lives. And here the parable turns toward us. Because this temptation is painfully familiar. We want to make sure the people we love turn out "right." We want holiness to guarantee outcomes. We want obedience to function as insurance. So we pray harder. We structure more tightly. We supervise more closely. And when things still fall apart, we grow angry—at our children, at others, sometimes even at God. But righteousness that must control outcomes does not build the father's house. It builds Babel. The House That Is More Than a House Only now are we ready to see what has been before us all along. This father is not merely a father. This house is not merely a house. The father in this parable is God. And his house is the Kingdom as it must be lived on earth. The Kingdom is not sustained by manipulation. But neither is it sustained by abandonment. It is sustained by trust, order, beauty, memory, mercy—and freedom. God does not save by coercion. He saves by allowing Himself to be rejected—and by transforming that rejection into something glorious.  The cross becomes the path back to our heart's true home. The father does not chase his son into the far country. He does something harder. He keeps the house intact. He keeps bread on the table. He keeps the feast ready. He keeps himself open. The Measure of Love The measure of love is not how well we control the lives of those we love. But neither is it based on how easily we detach ourselves from them. The measure of love is whether we build and sustain a culture that forms people who know how to come home. The father risks heartbreak rather than violate freedom. Christ offers salvation through the Cross rather than coercing obedience. The Spirit works quietly, patiently, without domination—yet never without presence. That is the Kingdom. That is Orthodoxy lived rightly. That is the home we are called to build. And when the son appears on the horizon—still filthy, still broken, still free—the father runs. To Him be all glory, honor, and worship.  Amen.

    15 min
  3. FEB 1

    Homily - The Publican, the Pharisee, and the Seeds of the Kingdom

    Sanctifying the Moment: The Publican, the Pharisee, and the Seeds of the Kingdom Fr. Anthony Perkins; Luke 18:9-14 All of creation is good—and yet it was never meant to remain merely good. From the beginning, God made the world not as a finished product, but as something alive, dynamic, and capable of growth. Creation was designed to become better, to move toward beauty and perfection. Humanity was placed within it not as passive observers, but as gardeners, stewards, and priests—called to tend what God has made and lead it toward and into His glory. This brings us to the heart of the matter: The question is not whether God gives us good seeds, but whether we cooperate with grace so that the good becomes better—and the moment becomes a place where Christ and His Kingdom are made manifest among us. Nothing in God's creation is neutral. Everything that exists participates, however faintly, in the goodness of God—otherwise it would not exist at all. What is not offered toward its true end will still "grow," but in distorted directions—toward thorns rather than fruit. Grace is not resisted only by doing evil; it is resisted just as often by refusing to cultivate what God has given. Creation stands ready, waiting for the attention of its stewards. When what God has placed into our hands is met with humility, love, and understanding, it grows into something beautiful, bearing fruit that nourishes others and manifests the glory of God in tangible ways. But when it is met with pride, fear, or apathy, it still grows—only into something misshapen and bitter. As God warned after the Fall, we are perfectly capable of harvesting thorns and thistles as well as wheat. This is not abstract theology; it is how life actually works. Consider a newly married couple. Their relationship carries extraordinary potential. Will they cultivate it with patience, repentance, and self-giving love, allowing it to grow into a marriage that blesses their family and their community? Or will they water it with pride and resentment, forcing it to grow into something poisonous that wounds everyone who comes near? The same gift can grow in either direction. Consider, too, the life hidden in the womb. Like time and treasure, it is a gift entrusted to us, carrying breathtaking possibility. Will it be received with love and protection, allowed to grow into a bearer of light? Or will it be met with fear and rejection—so that what should have grown into life instead grows into wounds—shaping both a person and the culture that failed to guard it. Or think of the first meeting between strangers. In that brief moment lies the possibility of friendship, love, cooperation—or of manipulation, exploitation, or cold indifference. The moment itself is a seed. Whether it bears fruit depends on how it is received. If these examples feel distant, let us turn to what Americans understand very well: money and time. Every dollar we possess is a seed. It holds the potential to heal, to feed, to comfort, to build—or to be spent in ways that reinforce our addictions and fears. And every moment of time is heavy with possibility. Will it be offered in prayer or surrendered to distraction? Will it draw us toward communion or deeper into delusion? Each moment asks to be sanctified. This applies even to moments that seem only painful or broken. St. Dionysius reminds us that nothing exists without some participation in the Good, because God alone is the source of being. Even sorrow can become a seed—not because suffering is good, but because God can transfigure what we cannot fix. Such moments should not be rushed or explained away. But when they are met with humility and trust, God can draw forth fruit that would otherwise remain hidden. Today's Gospel gives us a clear image of how moments are either redeemed or ruined. The Pharisee was praying. He had the appearance of cultivation—fasting, tithing, religious seriousness—but pride spoiled the soil. The moment was not merely wasted; it was corrupted. The Publican was praying too. Whatever he had done with the gifts of his past, in this moment he offered humility. And God entered that small, pure offering. That single moment, received rightly, grew like a mustard seed, crowding out what had grown before. One humble moment outweighed years of distorted cultivation. St. John Chrysostom says it plainly: God is not offended by fasting; He is offended by pride. Humility can lift a life full of sins, and pride can ruin a life full of virtues. Within each of us lies the possibility of perfection, ready to manifest itself through every thought, word, and action. But this possibility can be warped by willfulness and pride. Let us not do that. Instead, let us receive every moment as an opportunity to cooperate with grace—to do something good and something beautiful—so that we ourselves, and the world entrusted to us, may become better and more beautiful. The Gospel today shows us that the sanctification of the moment does not begin with mastering Scripture, fasting rigorously, or tithing precisely. The Pharisee did all of those things—and they closed his soul to grace. Sanctification begins where the Publican began: with humility. On our own, we have nothing worthy to offer the moment, our neighbor, or God. And so we offer the only fitting gift: humility. That humility becomes an opening. Through it, grace enters and transforms the garden of the moment. And here is where we end, simply and directly: Every moment God gives us is a seed. When it is met with humility, Christ enters it. And when Christ enters a moment, the Kingdom is already there. So, brothers and sisters, let us sanctify the moment. Let us tend the seed. And let us allow what God has made good to become, by His mercy, truly beautiful.

    8 min
  4. JAN 29

    Retreat - Justifiable but Not Helpful: Discernment in an Age of Manipulation

    In this pair of talks, Fr. Anthony examines why discernment so often fails in the Church—not because of bad faith or lack of intelligence, but because discernment is a matter of formation before it is a matter of decision. Drawing on insights from intelligence analysis, psychology, and Orthodox anthropology, he shows how authority, moral seriousness, and modern systems of manipulation quietly exploit predictable habits of perception, producing confidence without clarity. True discernment, he argues, is neither technical nor private, but ecclesial: formed through humility, ascetic practice, and participation in the Church's communal rhythms, where judgment matures over time through accountability, repentance, and shared life in Christ. --- Talk One: Why Discernment Fails Expertise, Authority, Manipulation, and the Formation of Perception Fr. Anthony Perkins Introduction Brothers, I want to begin today not with Scripture or a Father of the Church, but with a warning—from someone who spent his life studying failure in complex systems. Nassim Nicholas Taleb, in The Black Swan, writes this: "You cannot ignore self-delusion. The problem with experts is that they do not know what they do not know. Lack of knowledge and delusion about the quality of your knowledge come together—the same process that makes you know less also makes you satisfied with your knowledge." (pause) Taleb is talking about intelligence analysts, economists, and technical experts—people who are trained, credentialed, experienced, and entrusted with judgment under uncertainty. But if, just for a moment, you change one word in your mind—from expert to priest—the danger becomes uncomfortably familiar. We wear cassocks instead of suits, but the temptation is the same. Not arrogance. Not bad intentions. But unintentional self-delusion born of taking our calling to serve well seriously. A Necessary Pastoral Safeguard Before we go any further, I want to be very clear—because this matters. Taleb is not accusing experts of pride. He is not describing a moral failure. He is describing what happens to the human mind under complexity. And clergy live permanently in complex systems: human souls suffering families conflicted parishes incomplete information real consequences The danger is not that we don't care. The danger is that experience can quietly convince us that we are seeing clearly—especially when we are not. A Lesson from Intelligence Work When I worked in military intelligence, there was a saying—half joking, half deadly serious: The most dangerous person in the world is an intelligence analyst in a suit. At first, that sounds like gallows humor. But it isn't. The danger wasn't that analysts were malicious. The danger was that analysts don't just possess information—they interpret reality for others. And here's where psychology matters. Robert Cialdini has shown that one of the strongest and most reliable human biases is deference to authority. People are far more likely to accept judgments when they come from someone who looks like an authority—someone in a suit, a lab coat, or standing behind an official desk. Jonathan Haidt adds something crucial: people formed in conservative moral cultures—cultures that value order, continuity, and tradition—are especially inclined to defer to legitimate authority. That's not a flaw. It's one of the strengths of such cultures. It's one of the strengths of our Orthodox culture. But it carries a cost. Because when authority speaks, critical perception often relaxes. And when authority speaks with confidence, coherence, and moral seriousness, people don't just listen. They trust.  And they trust in a way that they, like us - the ones who guide them - feel connected with the truth and the Source of all truth. But in our fallenness our sense of certainty may be driven by something other than a noetic connection with the deeper ontological of truth.  Scripture about the devil appearing as angel of light (2 Cor 11:14-15) and wolves going around in sheep's clothing (Mat 7:15) are not just designed to keep us from trusting everyone who offers to speak a good work; a spiritual meaning is that our own thoughts can be deceptive, appearing as angelic and meek but lacking true virtue. All of this, combined with the seriousness of our calling, should reinforce our commitment to pastor humbly and patiently, erring on the side of gentleness … and trusting in the iterative process of repentance to bring discernment and healing to those we serve. From Suit to Cassock In intelligence work, the suit mattered. In science, it's the lab coat. In the Church, it's the cassock. When a priest speaks—especially confidently, decisively, and with moral gravity—people don't just hear an opinion. They receive guidance. And that means any blind spot—any overconfidence, any unexamined habit of thought—does not remain private. It spreads. Why This Is Dangerous (and Why It Is Not an Accusation) This is where Taleb's insight comes sharply back into focus. The most dangerous situation is not ignorance. It is: incomplete knowledge combined with confidence amplified by authority received by people disposed to trust Taleb is not accusing experts of arrogance. Cialdini is not accusing people of gullibility. Haidt is not accusing conservative cultures of naïveté. They are describing how human beings actually function. And clergy live precisely at the intersection of all three forces: complexity authority moral trust Which means discernment failures in the Church are rarely loud or obvious. They are usually calm, confident, sincere—and despite this, still wrong.  And unfortunately, still dangerous. We are susceptible to the same temptations as everyone else.  In order to serve well, we  need to cultivate a combination of humility and confidence:  confidence because we are called and trained to do this work; humility because we are not experts in everything, are still incompletely formed, and the problems in our communities and in this world are incredibly complex. Another Lesson from Intelligence: this time, counterintelligence The challenge of being right all the time is not just that we can't know everything, but that there are powers of the earth and what I call the marketers of the air that are trying to manipulate us.  And, alas, not matter how serious or smart or well-educated we are, we are still vulnerable to their wiles. During the Cold War, American intelligence analysts and operatives were taught to keep everything they could about themselves private.  This was because we knew that the spy agencies of the Soviet Union were actively collecting information – what we called dossiers - on everyone they could so that they could develop and exploit opportunities to use us. The Soviets didn't need to convert us. They didn't need to convince us. They needed: our habits our reactions our trusted assumptions our unguarded patterns Their dossiers were less about facts than they were about about leverage.  And it worked.  My first assignment in the Army was as an interrogator.  It was a similar deal there.  The work of getting information out of someone gets a lot easier when you have information about them, about their histories, about their fears, about their motivations. And here's the unavoidable turn. Today, advertisers, platforms, and political actors possess dossiers that would have made Cold War intelligence officers and interrogators weep with envy. They know: what angers us what comforts us what affirms us when we are tired when we are lonely what makes us feel righteous And clergy are NOT exempt from their data collection or their use of that data. In fact, we may be especially vulnerable, because we are tempted to mistake moral seriousness for immunity. And advertisers, platforms, and political actors with all their algorithms do not do this alone.  The fallen powers of the air have been studying us and our weakness even longer than Facebook.  More committed men than us – here I think of St. Silouon when he was young – have fallen victim to their machinations.  And now they have more allies and useful idiots working with them than ever. Porn addiction and religious polarization – even within Orthodoxy – show that these allies (BIG DATA and the DEMONS) are having their desired effect. Discernment Is Not Being Bypassed—It Is Being Used Here is the hard truth. Most modern manipulation does not bypass discernment. It uses malformed discernment. It works because: our instincts are trained elsewhere our attention is fragmented our emotional reactions are predictable our confidence exceeds our perception This is not a technology problem. It is not a political problem. It is a formation problem. Psychological Bias Is Not a Moral Failure At this point, I could list all the biases that set us up for failure: confirmation bias availability bias motivated reasoning affect heuristics But that would miss the deeper point. Biases are not bugs. They are features of an untrained mind. And the Church has never believed that the mind heals itself through information alone. Which brings us to the Orthodox diagnosis. Discernment Is Formational, Not Technical In the Orthodox tradition, discernment is not a technique for making decisions. It is the fruit of a formed person. And that formation involves the whole human being and all three parts of the human mind: the gut, the brain, and the heart. The Gut / The Passions This is the fastest part of the mind.  In our default state, it is the real decision-maker. It reacts. It protects. It simplifies. It is trained

    1h 19m
  5. JAN 21

    Class - The Architectural Beauty of Eden

    From Eden to the Church Beauty, Architecture, and the Space Where God Dwells Christian architecture is not primarily about style or preference. It is about ordering space so that human beings learn how to dwell with God. The Church building is Eden remembered and anticipated—a place where heaven and earth meet, so that God's people can be formed and then sent back into the world. Key Biblical Insights 1. Eden Was God's Dwelling Place Eden is first described not as humanity's home, but as God's planted garden—a place of divine presence, beauty, and order. Genesis 2:8–9 — God plants the garden; trees are "pleasant to the sight." 2. Eden Is a Garden and a Mountain Scripture explicitly identifies Eden as elevated sacred space. Ezekiel 28:13–14 — "Eden, the garden of God… the holy mountain of God." 3. Eden Is a Source of Life Life flows outward from God's dwelling. Genesis 2:10–14 — A river flows out of Eden and becomes four rivers. 4. Eden Is Not the Whole World Eden is placed within creation, not identical with it. Genesis 2:8 — Eden is "in the east." Genesis 1:28 — Humanity is commanded to "fill the earth." 5. Humanity's Original Vocation Human beings are called to guard sacred space and extend its order outward. Genesis 2:15 — Adam is placed in the garden "to till and keep it." 6. Gardens and Groves as Sacred Space After the fall, God's presence continues to be associated with cultivated places. Genesis 12:6–7; 13:18; 18:1 — God appears to Abraham at the oaks of Mamre. 1 Kings 6:29–32 — The Temple is carved with palm trees, flowers, and cherubim. Psalm 92:12–14 — The righteous are "planted in the house of the LORD." Isaiah 51:3; Ezekiel 36:35 — Restoration is described as becoming "like the garden of Eden." 7. Sacred Space After the Fall God re-establishes Eden's pattern through mountains and temples. Exodus 24:9–10 — God enthroned on Sinai. Psalm 48:1–2 — Zion as the mountain of the Great King. 8. The Church as Eden Continued The Church gathers the patterns of Eden—mountain, garden, throne, and life-giving water—into one place so that God may dwell with His people. 9. Eden Fulfilled, Not Abandoned Scripture ends with Eden expanded to fill the world. Revelation 21:3 — "The dwelling of God is with men." Revelation 22:1–2 — River of Life and Tree of Life healing the nations. Why Architecture Matters Architecture forms us slowly and quietly through repeated dwelling. Ordered, beautiful space trains us for patience, reverence, and stability. The Church is not an escape from the world, but a seed of the world's renewal. Takeaway Architecture is theology you inhabit. Eden is still the pattern—and the Church is where we learn to carry that pattern into the world.

    1 hr
  6. JAN 18

    Homily - The Green Hand of Hell

    Luke 17:12-19; The Grateful Leper I've included my notes, but I didn't follow them, choosing instead to offer a meditation on the "go show yourself to the priest" part of the Levitical command and noting how we do the same - and will all do the same one day at the Great Judgment. Homily: Healing, Vision, and the Mercy of God Onee of the things that sometimes gives people pause—especially when they encounter it for the first time—comes from the Book of Needs, in the prayers the priest offers for those who are sick. If you have ever been present for these prayers, you may have been surprised by what you heard. We expect prayers like: "O Lord, raise up this servant from the bed of illness and restore them to health." And those prayers are certainly there. But woven throughout are repeated petitions for the forgiveness of sins. And that can feel jarring. "Why talk about sin?" we think. "This person is sick—not sinful." But the Church is very intentional here. Imagine this: a person is lifted up from their bed of illness, restored to perfect physical health—yet still carries unrepented sin within them. Outwardly, they look alive. Inwardly, they are not. They are, in a real sense, a living corpse. On the other hand—and this is harder for us to accept—someone may remain physically ill, yet live in Christ: healed in their soul, united to Him, walking in holiness and freedom despite bodily weakness. That person is truly alive. Our Lord Himself tells us not to fear those things that can harm the body, but to attend to what shapes the soul. We often joke that it might be easier if spiritual states were visible—if holiness and sin showed up like physical symptoms. Imagine walking through the world able to see, immediately, who was struggling, who was wounded, who needed gentleness or prayer. But most sins are hidden. We become very good at concealing them. Some sins, however, are easier to spot. A habitual drunkard, for example, eventually reveals himself. And there is one sin in particular—one we often excuse—that Scripture treats with great seriousness: the sin of speaking badly about others. In the Old Testament, what we translate as leprosy was often not simply a medical condition but a visible sign—a manifestation of sin made public. Not every skin disease fell into this category, but some did. It was a way God taught His people: what you carry within eventually shows itself without. Consider Miriam, the sister of Moses. She was a holy woman, faithful, devoted—yet when Moses acted in a way she did not expect, marrying a foreign woman, she spoke against him. She gave herself over to resentment and gossip. And the consequence was immediate and unmistakable: she was struck with leprosy and sent outside the camp until she was healed. The warning is clear. How different would our lives be if sins like gossip and disparagement were marked visibly upon us? If a sign hovered over our heads that said: "This person cannot speak about their neighbor with charity." "Do not trust their words; they tear others down." We would recoil at such exposure. Yet spiritually, those signs already exist. And in our time, this sin has become not only habitual, but normalized—especially through social media. Even among Orthodox Christians, we see people eager to label one another heretics rather than first seeking understanding. The slow, patient work of charity has been replaced by accusation. To those with noetic vision—spiritual sight—these sins are as visible as white blotches on the skin. So how do we examine ourselves? One test is how we respond to criticism. Another is how we respond to praise—or its absence. But another, deeply revealing test is this: How do I speak and think about others—especially those who have wronged me? Do I love my enemies? Do my thoughts and words reflect what St. Paul describes as the natural fruit of love? Or do I secretly rejoice when others fall? Scripture gives us another powerful image in the story of Naaman the Syrian—a pagan general afflicted with leprosy. He obeys the prophet Elisha, washes in the Jordan, and is healed. More than that, he turns to the God of Israel with gratitude and humility. He even takes soil from the Holy Land so that he may always remember whom he serves. But then we see the tragic contrast: Gehazi, Elisha's servant. Greed overtakes him. He lies. He exploits grace for gain. And the leprosy that left Naaman clings to him instead. Grace rejected becomes judgment. And finally, we see the greatest transformation of all: St. Paul. Raised among God's people, zealous for the law, Paul persecutes Christ Himself. He bears the unmistakable mark of sin—not on his skin, but in his actions. Yet the Lord blinds him, then restores his sight. And what does Paul do? He does not presume upon grace. He repents. He gives thanks. He becomes like the Samaritan leper in today's Gospel—the one who returns to glorify God. This is the heart of the Gospel. We live in a world filled with sin—not only in its dramatic forms, but in the everyday ways we break trust, speak carelessly, and nurture resentment. These are our leprosies. And yet, the Lord sees us in our affliction. He does not recoil. He heals. He restores us to His image. He cleanses us. He sets us free. But healing is not the end. Gratitude must awaken into a new way of life. God is not interested in transactional thanksgiving—"thank You so You'll give me more." That is manipulation, not love. True thanksgiving becomes wonder. To see a cup of water and marvel not only that it quenches thirst, but that water exists at all—that matter itself has been sanctified by Christ. To see every person we meet—not first as a problem to be solved or a sinner to be exposed—but as an icon bearing divine potential. Yes, we notice sin. But we see through it—to the good that can be nurtured. That is how God treats us. If we think we are proclaiming the Gospel by beating people down with their sins, we are mistaken. Repentance requires a vision of the good. People must know what they are called toward, not only what they must turn away from. This is how we pastor one another. We see the best. We bring it out. We pray. We speak truth when the time is right and love is strong. And when we do this, we stand with that Samaritan leper—foreigners ourselves to the Kingdom—yet welcomed, healed, and restored. May the Lord open our eyes—our noetic vision—so that we may see the grace that permeates all things, the divine logoi present in creation, and the glory of God shining wherever we are able to bear it. And may He grant us the strength to see more, day by day. In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.

    15 min
  7. JAN 14

    Class: The Beauty of Creation and the Shape of Reality

    Beauty in Orthodoxy: Architecture I The Beauty of Creation and the Shape of Reality In this class, the first in a series on "Orthodox Beauty in Architecture," Father Anthony explores beauty not as decoration or subjective taste, but as a theological category that reveals God, shapes human perception, and defines humanity's priestly vocation within creation. Drawing extensively on Archbishop Job of Telmessos' work on creation as icon, he traces a single arc from Genesis through Christ to Eucharist and sacred space, showing how the Fall begins with distorted vision and how repentance restores the world to sacrament. The session lays the theological groundwork for Orthodox architecture by arguing that how we build, worship, and inhabit space flows directly from how we see reality itself. --- The Beauty of Creation and the Shape of Reality: Handout Core Thesis: Beauty is not decorative or subjective, but a theological category. Creation is beautiful because it reveals God, forms human perception, and calls humanity to a priestly vocation that culminates in sacrament and sacred space. 1. Creation Is Not Only Good — It Is Beautiful Beauty belongs to the very being of creation. Creation is "very good" (kalá lian), meaning beautiful, revealing God's generosity and love (Gen 1:31). Beauty precedes usefulness; the world is gift before task. 2. Creation Is an Icon That Reveals Its Creator  Creation reveals God without containing Him. The world speaks of God iconographically, inviting contemplation rather than possession (Ps 19:1–2). Right vision requires stillness and purification of attention. 3. Humanity Is the Priest and Guardian of Creation Humanity mediates between God and the world. Created in God's image, humanity is called to offer creation back to God in thanksgiving (Gen 1:26–27; Ps 8). Dominion means stewardship and priesthood, not control. 4. The Fall Is a Loss of Vision Before a Moral Failure Sin begins with distorted perception. The Fall occurs when beauty is grasped rather than received (Gen 3:6). Blindness precedes disobedience; repentance heals vision. 5. True Beauty Is Revealed in Christ Beauty saves because Christ saves. True beauty is cruciform, revealed in self-giving love (Ps 50:2; Rev 5:12). Beauty without goodness becomes destructive. 6. Creation Participates in the Logos Creation is meaningful and oriented toward God. All things exist through the Word and carry divine intention (Ps 33:6). Participation without pantheism; meaning without collapse. 7. The World Is Sacramental Creation is meant to become Eucharist. The world finds fulfillment as an offering of thanksgiving (Ps 24:1; Rev 5:13). Eucharist restores vision and vocation. 8. Beauty Takes Form: Architecture Matters Sacred space forms belief and perception. From Eden to the Church, space mediates communion with God (Gen 2:8; Ps 26:8). Architecture is theology made inhabitable. Final Horizon "Behold, the dwelling of God is with men" (Rev 21:3). How we see shapes how we live. How we worship shapes how we see. How we build is how we worship. --- Lecture note: Beauty in Orthodoxy: Architecture I The Beauty of Creation and the Shape of Reality When we speak about beauty, we often treat it as something optional—something added after the "real" work of theology is done. Beauty is frequently reduced to personal taste, emotional response, or decoration. But in the Orthodox tradition, beauty is none of those things. Beauty is not accidental. It is not subjective. And it is not peripheral. Tonight, I want to explore a much stronger claim: beauty is a theological category. It tells us something true about God, about the world, and about the human vocation within creation. Following the work of Archbishop Job of Telmessos, I want to trace a single arc—from creation, to Christ, to sacrament, and finally toward architecture. This will not yet be a talk about buildings. It is a talk about why buildings matter at all. Big Idea 1:  Creation Is Not Only Good — It Is Beautiful   (Creation Icon) The biblical story begins not with scarcity or chaos, but with abundance. In Genesis 1 we hear the repeated refrain, "And God saw that it was good." But at the end of creation, Scripture intensifies the claim: "And God saw everything that He had made, and behold, it was very good." (Genesis 1:31) In the Greek of the Septuagint, this is kalá lian—very beautiful. From the beginning, the world is not merely functional or morally acceptable. It is beautiful. Archbishop Job emphasizes this clearly: "According to the biblical account of creation, the world is not only 'good' but 'very good,' that is, beautiful. Beauty belongs to the very being of creation and is not something added later as an aesthetic supplement. The beauty of the created world reveals the generosity and love of the Creator." Pastoral expansion: This vision differs sharply from how we often speak about the world today. We describe reality in terms of efficiency, productivity, or survival. But Scripture begins with beauty because beauty invites love, not control. A beautiful world is not a problem to be solved, but a gift to be received. God creates a world that draws the human heart outward in wonder and gratitude before it ever demands labor or management. Theological lineage: This understanding of creation as beautiful rather than merely useful comes from the Cappadocian Fathers, especially St. Basil the Great and St. Gregory of Nyssa. In Basil's Hexaemeron, creation reflects divine generosity rather than human need. Gregory goes further, insisting that beauty belongs to creation's being because it flows from the goodness of God. Archbishop Job is clearly drawing from this Cappadocian cosmology, where beauty is already a form of revelation. Big Idea 2:  Creation Is an Icon That Reveals Its Creator (Landscape) If creation is beautiful, the next question is why. The Orthodox answer is iconographic. "The heavens declare the glory of God, and the firmament proclaims His handiwork. Day to day pours forth speech." (Psalm 19:1–2) Creation speaks. It reveals. It points beyond itself. Archbishop Job reminds us: "The Fathers of the Church affirm that the world is a kind of icon of God. Creation reveals the invisible God through visible forms, not by containing Him, but by pointing toward Him. As St. Anthony the Great said, 'My book is the nature of created things.'" Pastoral expansion: This iconographic vision explains why the Fathers insist that spiritual failure is often a failure of attention. Creation does not stop declaring God's glory—but we may stop listening. Beauty does not overpower us; it waits for us. It invites stillness, humility, and patience. These are spiritual disciplines long before they are aesthetic preferences. Theological lineage: This way of reading creation comes from the ascetical tradition of the desert, especially St. Anthony the Great and Evagrius Ponticus. For them, knowledge of God depended on purified vision. Creation could only be read rightly by a healed heart. When Archbishop Job calls creation an icon, he is standing squarely within this early monastic conviction that perception—not analysis—is the primary spiritual faculty. Big Idea 3:  Humanity Is the Priest and Guardian of a Beautiful World (Naming Icon) Genesis tells us: "Then God said, 'Let us make man in our image, after our likeness.'" (Genesis 1:26) And Psalm 8 adds: "You have crowned him with glory and honor. You have given him dominion over the works of Your hands." Human dominion here is priestly, not exploitative. Archbishop Job explains: "Man is created in the image of God in order to lead creation toward its fulfillment. The image is given, but the likeness must be attained through participation in God's life." Pastoral expansion: A priest does not own what he offers. He receives it, blesses it, and returns it. Humanity stands between heaven and earth not as master, but as mediator. When this priestly role is forgotten, creation loses its voice. The world becomes mute—reduced to raw material—because no one is offering it back to God in thanksgiving. Theological lineage: This vision begins with St. Irenaeus of Lyons, who distinguished image and likeness, but it reaches full maturity in St. Maximus the Confessor. Maximus presents humanity as the creature uniquely capable of uniting material and spiritual reality. Archbishop Job's anthropology is unmistakably Maximosian: humanity exists not for itself, but for the reconciliation and offering of all things. Big Idea 4:  The Fall Is a Loss of Vision Before It Is a Moral Failure (Expulsion) Genesis describes the Fall visually: "When the woman saw that the tree was good for food, a delight to the eyes, and desirable to make one wise…" (Genesis 3:6) The problem is not hunger, but distorted sight. Archbishop Job writes: "The fall of man is not simply a moral transgression but a distortion of vision. Creation is no longer perceived as a gift to be received in thanksgiving, but as an object to be possessed." Pastoral expansion: The tragedy of the Fall is not that beauty disappears, but that beauty is misread. What was meant to lead to communion now leads to isolation. Violence and exploitation do not erupt suddenly; they flow from a deeper blindness. How we see determines how we live. Theological lineage: This understanding of sin comes primarily from St. Maximus the Confessor, echoed by St. Ephrem and St. Isaac the Syrian. Sin is a darkening of the nous, a misdirection of desire. Repentance, therefore, is medicinal rather than juridical—it heals vision before correcting behavior.   Big Idea 5:  "Beauty Will Save the World" Means Christ Will Save the World (Pantocrator) The Psalms proclaim: "From Zion, the perfection of beauty, Go

    1 hr
  8. JAN 11

    Homily - Repent and Burn (in a good way)

    Homily: The Sunday after Theophany Hebrews 13:7–16; Matthew 4:12–17 This homily explores repentance as the doorway from darkness into light, and from spiritual novelty into mature faithfulness. Rooted in Hebrews and the Gospel proclamation after Theophany, it calls Christians to become not sparks of passing enthusiasm, but enduring flames shaped by grace, sacrifice, and hope in the coming Kingdom. ---- Today's Scripture readings give us three interrelated truths—three movements in the life of salvation and theosis. First: darkness and light. Second: repentance as the way from darkness into light. Third: what children of the light actually do once they have been illumined.  Point One: Darkness and Light In today's Gospel, St Matthew quotes the prophet Isaiah: "The people who sat in darkness saw a great light; and upon those who sat in the region and shadow of death, light has dawned." This is not merely a poetic description of history. It is a diagnosis of the human heart. Scripture teaches us that our calling as human beings—our calling as Christians—is to become "children of the light and children of the day." Light is not something we admire from a distance. It is something we are meant to live in, to be shaped by, and to reflect. Darkness, in Scripture, is not simply ignorance. It is disorder. It is the twisting of desire. It is the heart turned inward on itself. And Christ comes—not merely to expose darkness—but to heal us of it. That is why today's epistle begins by reminding us: "Remember your leaders, those who spoke to you the word of God; consider the outcome of their life, and imitate their faith." (Hebrews 13:7) Light becomes visible in lives that endure. The Christian life is not meant to flash briefly and disappear. God desires something steadier—not sparks, but flames. Point Two: Repentance — Leaving the Darkness Immediately after this proclamation of light, Christ begins His preaching with a single command: "Repent, for the kingdom of heaven is at hand." If we want to be part of the Light of Perfection, then the darkness in our lives and in our souls must be removed. Repentance is not optional. It is the doorway into illumination. Here we must confront a deep confusion in our culture—and often in our own hearts. We have the relationship between happiness and goodness exactly backwards. We tend to think: "It is good for me to be happy." And then we go looking for ways to become happy. But Scripture teaches the opposite: Happiness is not the path to goodness. Goodness is the path to real happiness. The epistle warns us: "Do not be led away by diverse and strange teachings; for it is well that the heart be strengthened by grace, not by foods." (Hebrews 13:9) Indulgence does not strengthen the heart. Novelty does not strengthen the heart. Only grace does.  There is a danger here for neophytes because Orthodox is novel for them; there is an experiential conflation of the happiness that comes from new fascinations and their new connection with The Good Itself.  More on this in a moment. Back to repentance.  Repentance is how the heart is strengthened. It is how the flickering light of intention becomes steady. The iterated acts of repentance that constitute the Christian life is how God turns sparks into flames. Repentance and Tears This will bring tears.  Christ does not say, "You have suffered enough—come get comfortable in the light." He says, "Repent." Repentance is rarely pleasant. We do not repent because it makes us happy, although it occasionally will in the short term; again, because of our fascination with things that are new and shiny. But regardless, we do not repent for happiness; we repent because the darkness that has accumulated in our souls cannot survive in the presence of the Light and we want to grow in that light.  And that is going to involve suffering on account of the darkness that is within us; a darkness that has often come to define us. The epistle reminds us: "So Jesus also suffered outside the gate in order to sanctify the people through his own blood. Therefore let us go forth to him outside the camp, and bear the abuse he endured." (Hebrews 13:12–13) Repentance means leaving what is familiar and comfortable. It means stepping outside the camp. It means allowing the old life to die so that a new one can endure. Point Three: What Children of the Light Do Christ does not defeat the devil in the wilderness and then rest. He immediately begins His ministry. And so must we. We do not hide the light God has given us. We let it shine. And because we have been given different gifts, we shine in different ways. But we must be clear about the direction of this life: "For here we have no lasting city, but we seek the city which is to come." (Hebrews 13:14) Children of the light do not live for momentary brightness. They live toward the Kingdom. God is not basing the establishment of His Kingdom on bright flashes of enthusiasm; He is forming it on the constancy of the saints—not sparks, but flames. Marriage, Monasticism, and Mature Joy Many people experience spiritual puppy love when they first encounter Christ and His Church. And thanks be to God for that—it is a real gift. But puppy love is not the same thing as mature love. The Church teaches this most clearly through marriage and monasticism. Marriage matures love through patience, forgiveness, sacrifice, and daily fidelity. Monastic life matures love through obedience, stability, and perseverance. Both proclaim the same truth: love becomes real when it stops being about how we feel and starts being about who we are becoming. Hebrews names this life plainly: "Through him let us continually offer up a sacrifice of praise to God… Do not neglect to do good and to share what you have, for such sacrifices are pleasing to God." (Hebrews 13:15–16) This is the rhythm of mature Christian life—ordinary faithfulness, repeated again and again, until the light no longer flickers but until we all bear and share the eternal flame that is God's energies, constantly working through us and transforming us and this world towards His perfection in an ending tide of theosific grace. This is how Christ forms His people: not sparks, but flames. The Call All of us are called to worship, and if we are new to this the spark of our participation is infinitely greater than the darkness we once new — but it is still only the beginning of life in Christ. We have been given great gifts—individually and as a parish. We must guard against using them just to make ourselves feel good, and start using them to bring light. May Christ, the Light who has dawned upon us, make us children of the day— no longer sparks, but flames. In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.

    14 min
4.8
out of 5
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About

Welcome to OrthoAnalytika, Fr. Anthony Perkins' podcast of homilies, classes, and shows on spirituality, science, and culture - all offered from a decidedly Orthodox Christian perspective. Fr. Anthony is a mission priest and seminary professor for the UOC-USA. He has a diverse background, a lot of enthusiasm, and a big smile. See www.orthoanalytika.org for show notes and additional content.