OrthoAnalytika

Fr. Anthony Perkins
  • 4.7 (23)
  • SPIRITUALITY
  • UPDATED BIWEEKLY

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. 1D AGO

    Homily - The Paralytic and Moving from Explanation to Obedience

    On the Sunday of the Paralytic, this homily explores Christ's piercing question: "Do you want to be made well?" It examines our tendency to respond not with repentance, but with explanation—justifying our condition rather than opening ourselves to healing. Grounded in the Church's therapeutic vision of salvation, it calls us to move beyond self-justification and into obedience, where Christ's command becomes the source of our transformation.  Enjoy the show!  --- Homily for the Sunday of the Paralytic John 5:1–15; Acts 9 Christ is risen! What effect do you have on others? Is it like St. Peter's? Do you walk in the midst of broken people, bringing them healing? Do others, recognizing the peace within you, go out of their way just to be near you? Have you attained even a small measure of the purity and goodness—the peaceful spirit—that, as St. Seraphim of Sarov teaches, becomes the salvation of thousands? These are important indicators—ways to examine how we are doing in this walk of salvation. Some of them are internal and relatively easy to observe: How do I react to praise? How do I respond to criticism? How quick am I to anger, to despondency, to lust? But here is another indicator—an external one: How do people react to us? Do they find peace when we enter the room, or when we leave it? We need to be honest about this. When it comes to the things that truly matter—in our lives, in our families, in this parish, and in the great story of our salvation—we are always moving in one of two directions: either we are cooperating with grace, with healing, or we are cooperating with corruption. St. Peter, glory to God, became a man who cooperated fully with healing. But that was not always the case. There was a time when he was driven by pride, fear, and the expectations of others. By the time we meet him in Acts, however, he is no longer just occasionally doing what is right. He has been transformed. He has become the kind of person through whom Christ works. In today's Gospel, we see the beginning of such a transformation. The paralytic had been suffering for thirty-eight years—thirty-eight years of waiting, hoping, and being unable to heal himself. We can hardly imagine the weight of that suffering. And what does Christ ask him? "Do you want to be made well?" It is a strange question. In some ways, it is obvious—he is lying by the pool, waiting for healing. And yet we must name the desire. Not everyone who is sick truly wants to be healed. Notice how the paralytic responds. He does not answer the question directly. Instead, he explains his situation. He explains why he has not been healed. "I have no man… When the water is stirred, someone else steps down before me…" We recognize this, don't we? This is how we often respond to God—not with repentance, not with surrender, but with explanation. We explain why we are the way we are. We explain why change is so difficult. We explain why our situation is unique. Much of what we say is not wrong. But it is not healing. It does not open us to grace. St. John Chrysostom, reflecting on this passage, notes that Christ does not wait for a perfect answer, nor does He require a full confession before acting. But neither does He accept the man's explanations as sufficient. Instead, He goes directly to what is needed—not explanation, but transformation. Christ commands the man to do what he cannot do, and in the command itself, He gives the power to obey. This is where we must be careful. When the soul is disordered, it does not remain neutral. It becomes a source of distortion—not only for ourselves, but for others. The problem is not simply "out there." The problem begins within. And the great difficulty of living in this world is that it teaches us to normalize this condition. It calls distortion authenticity. It calls self-justification wisdom. But the Church is not here to affirm our condition. The Church is here to heal it. The Church is a hospital. But what good is a hospital if those within it refuse to be healed? What kind of peace can we offer if we are at war within ourselves—and with one another? It is very easy to remain in this disordered state. Our instincts are not neutral; they are wounded. And our minds—brilliant as they are—often serve those instincts rather than correcting them. We use our intelligence to justify our condition instead of correcting it. The mind becomes a kind of spokesman, explaining why we are the way we are and why it is acceptable. We justify our anger. We excuse our selfishness. We baptize our pride. Scripture gives us clear examples. Ananias and Sapphira likely thought themselves generous. Simon Magus likely convinced himself that he wanted spiritual power for good reasons. But their self-justifications did not save them. The truth exposed them. The same danger exists for us. We are always moving—toward healing or toward corruption. And over time, we will become more of one than the other. I know you. I love you. You want to be part of the solution. That is why you are here. But wanting to be healed is not the same as being healed. Wanting to be good is not enough. The paralytic had desire—but he still could not heal himself. You were created good, and you are called to become more fully what you were created to be. But you are not there yet. Neither am I. So how are we healed? There is only One who heals. Christ does not argue with the man. He does not analyze his situation. He does not accept or refute his explanations. He commands: "Rise, take up your bed, and walk." And in that command, there is power. This is the heart of the matter: Healing does not come from explanation. Healing comes from obedience. So how do we learn from the living Christ? The answer is not new. We give our lives—our bodies, our minds, our souls—to Him and to His Church. We pray. We enter into the Liturgy. We love our neighbors sacrificially. We learn from the Fathers. We seek wise counsel. We quiet ourselves so that we can hear. Not because Orthodoxy is simply a system, but because this is where Christ is—healing, teaching, restoring. The paralytic could not heal himself. Neither can we. But Christ can. And He does. If we stop explaining, stop justifying, and begin obeying, then—and only then—will we become not part of the problem, but part of the healing. Christ is risen!

    14 min

  2. APR 26

    Homily - The Myrrhbearers, the Living Christ, and the Living Church

    On the Sunday of the Myrrhbearers, this homily examines the temptation to treat Christ as a figure of the past rather than the Living Lord. It explores how even faithful Christians can reduce Him to something studied at a distance—especially in an age of endless religious content. Grounded in the Church's sacramental and communal life, the message calls us to encounter Christ where He truly speaks: in His Body. The result is both comforting and demanding, as the living Christ not only teaches, but calls us to repentance and transformation.  Enjoy the show! --- Homily for the Myrrhbearers St. Mark 15:43–16:8; Acts 6:1–7 Today we celebrate the holy Myrrhbearers: Joseph of Arimathea and Nicodemus, the most holy Theotokos, Mary Magdalene, Mary the wife of Clopas, Joanna, Salome, Mary and Martha, and Susanna—those who loved Christ enough to come to Him even in death. Their love is beautiful. It is courageous. It is faithful. But it is also, in one very important way, mistaken. They came to anoint a corpse. They came expecting silence, stillness, finality. They came to do one last act of love for someone who was no longer present to receive it. And that is where we must be careful—because we can do the same thing. We sing again and again, "Christ is Risen!" But how often do we live as if He were not? Think about how we relate to the dead. We remember them. We honor them. We reflect on their words. We study what they said, and we try to apply it to our lives. But we do not expect them to speak to us now. We do not expect them to guide us in real time. And this is exactly how many Christians treat Christ. We treat Him as a figure from the past—a great teacher, whose words are preserved in a fixed collection of texts. If we want to know what He thinks, we go back and study what He said, like we would with Plato or any other historical figure. Please—do not misunderstand me. We need the Scriptures. We must study them. But if that is all we are doing—if Christ is only someone we study—then we are treating Him as if He were dead. Because if He were truly risen—if He were truly alive—then we would expect Him to still be teaching. And He is. Christ is alive—not only in heaven—but here and now. He lives in the hearts of the faithful. He lives in His sacraments. He lives most fully as the Head of His Body—the Church. And that means something very concrete: the Church is not a memory. She is not a museum. She is not an archive. She is alive. And here is where the danger comes in—because just as we can treat Christ as if He were dead, we can also treat the Church as if she were dead. We do this when we reduce her to an institution, when we treat her traditions as relics instead of life, when we experience the Liturgy as repetition instead of encounter, and when we assume that nothing truly happens here—nothing new, nothing real—only the preservation of the past. We do this when we think, "I already know what the Church says," "I'll decide how to apply it," or "I'll take what is helpful." But a living body does not work that way. If Christ is alive, then His Body is alive. And if His Body is alive, then it speaks—not just in the past, but now. In the hymns, in the prayers, in the canons, in the counsel of those who are faithful and wise, in the real, sometimes difficult life of the parish—where we are taught through living out our salvation with one another, in patience, repentance, and love—and in the quiet voice that speaks when we have learned to be still. And this leads to the second reaction—the more difficult one. It is one thing to doubt that Christ is speaking. It is another thing to realize that He is. Because "it is a fearful thing to fall into the hands of the living God" (Hebrews 10:31). A dead teacher can be interpreted. A living Lord must be obeyed. A dead teacher can be studied at a distance. A living Lord sees you, knows you, and calls you to change. And here is one of the ways we avoid this. We listen to the Church—but at a distance. We listen through podcasts, through videos, through discussions online. We hear sermons, teachings, arguments, explanations. And again, these things can be good. But notice what happens when this becomes our primary way of listening. We receive the words, but not the life. We hear, but we are not known. We learn, but we are not accountable. We can pause it, skip it, choose one voice over another, agree or disagree without consequence. In other words, we remain in control. But that is not how the living Christ teaches. The living Christ teaches through His Body—a Body that we must enter, a Body that sees us, a Body that corrects us, a Body that calls us to repentance, a Body that we cannot curate or control. You can learn about Christ anywhere, but you can only be taught by Him within His Body. To receive Christ only as content—even Orthodox content—is still, in a subtle way, to treat Him as if He were not fully alive. Because the Risen Christ does not simply inform us; He forms us. It is much easier to interpret what Christ said two thousand years ago—indeed, much easier to interpret what the Councils and Fathers said hundreds of years ago—than it is to hear what He is saying to you today. Because interpretation can be shaped by our pride, by our ego. Obedience cannot. So how do we learn from the living Christ? The answer is not new. We give our lives—our bodies, our minds, our souls—to Him and to His Church. We pray. We enter into the Liturgy. We love our neighbor. We learn from the Fathers. We seek counsel. We quiet ourselves so that we can hear—not because this is a system, but because this is where He is: ministering to us, teaching us, healing us, enlightening us. The Myrrhbearers came looking for the dead. Instead, they encountered the Living One. And that is the same invitation given to us. Do not come here to remember Christ. Do not come here to study Him from a distance. Do not come here as if nothing real is happening. Come here to meet Him. Because He is not in the tomb. He is not confined to history. Christ is risen. Indeed He is risen—and He is with us, here, now, and always.

    12 min

  3. APR 19

    Homily - From Doubt to Communion: What It Means to Believe in Christ

    This homily reflects on belief as trust that creates communion and makes true life possible in Christ. Drawing on the encounter with Thomas, it shows how Christ patiently leads honest doubt into faith while calling us away from prideful questioning that blocks love. --- St. Thomas Sunday St. John 20:19–31 Does God hate doubt? Does He shame those who struggle to believe? No. He does something very different. Christ does not simply want us to know facts about Him. He wants us to know Him. Because He does not say, "I teach the truth." He says: "I am the Truth" (cf. Gospel of John 14:6). This changes everything. Belief is not first about ideas—it is about relationship. And yet, God does not want us to remain in doubt. He does not want us to be uncertain about His love, His power, or His promise to save us. Because, as He says elsewhere, "Whoever believes in Me shall never die" (cf. John 11:26). Belief is not optional. It is the doorway into life. But notice how He brings people to belief. He does not force it. He does not shame it into existence. He draws it out—patiently, personally, just as He did with Thomas. So what does it mean to believe in someone? It means you trust them. You trust their intentions, their character, and their power to do what they say. We understand this instinctively. In a healthy marriage, a husband believes in his wife, and a wife in her husband. In a healthy home, children believe in their parents—not because they have proven every detail, but because they have learned to trust who they are. And when that kind of belief is present, something happens. There is freedom. A husband does not second-guess every word his wife says. A wife does not interpret every silence as betrayal. They are free to give themselves to one another without fear. There is peace. The home is not filled with suspicion or quiet anxiety, but with a steady confidence that they are for one another. There is growth. Because when you are not constantly defending yourself, you can repent, forgive, and become better. And there is joy—not because everything or anyone is perfect, but because love can actually be received and returned. This is what belief does. It creates the conditions where life—real life—can exist. And when that belief is gone, the relationship begins to collapse. If a spouse becomes convinced the other is unfaithful, the mind will begin to manufacture evidence to support that fear. Everything changes: suspicion replaces trust, distance replaces unity, and anxiety replaces peace. Without belief, there is no communion—no harmony, no shared life. And where communion is lost, what remains begins to resemble hell: isolation, suspicion, and the slow unraveling of love. Christ has come to trample down that isolation and to bestow life. Trust and belief are how we share in that victory. This is what makes today's Gospel so important. Christ is worthy of our trust. His intentions toward us are not hidden: He loves us and desires that we share eternal life with Him. His power is not uncertain: He has risen from the dead. And He has not left us empty-handed. He gives us Himself—His Body and His Blood—so that this trust is not abstract, but lived, received, and renewed. You have already begun this. You have united yourself to Christ. You believe in His love, and you have accepted it as your own. You believe in His power, and you are learning to live in it. But the fallen mind will still produce doubts. That is what the fallen mind—especially the intellect—does. It generates possibilities, questions, fears. And that is not, by itself, a problem. Do not be afraid of your doubts. In any real relationship, questions must be brought into the light—not during the Liturgy, but within the life of the Church, within this community, where truth can be sought in humility and trust. You are not the first to ask hard questions. Some of the greatest minds and the greatest saints have wrestled with them. If your questions come from love—from a genuine desire to know God—then working through them becomes a holy act. Because honest dialogue leads to deeper communion. Not every thought needs to be followed—only the ones that lead us toward Christ. And this leads us to another kind of questioning—a kind that works against the asker's salvation. Questions that come from pride, from mockery, from a desire not to know but to dismiss. "I'm only asking questions." But pride blocks the way to truth. Because the problem of our salvation is not lack of information—it is a prideful and poisoned heart. And no amount of facts can heal that. Only repentance can. And Christ shows us one more thing. He is patient with doubters like Thomas, but He is not patient with those who "believe" in the wrong way—those who cling so tightly to false beliefs that they harm others in the name of God. The Pharisees were not condemned because they questioned, but because they refused to be corrected. And even more, because they refused communion. Their questions were designed to show their own righteousness and served as a barrier to communion—a barrier to love. So what are we to do? Believe. Not harshly. Not defensively. Not with fear. But gently, patiently, and with love. Trust Christ—His love for you, His power to save you, and His promise to give you life. And bring your questions to Him honestly. Because He is not afraid of them. He will meet you in them. And He will lead you—from doubt, into trust, and from trust, into life.

    13 min

  4. APR 5

    Homily - The Dangerous Joy of Palm Sunday

    Philippians 4:4-9; John 12:1-18 Palm Sunday reveals both our love for Christ and our temptation to abandon Him when He does not meet our expectations. This homily invites us to see ourselves in the Gospel, to embrace the deeper work of transformation, and to follow the King who leads us not to comfort, but to life through the Cross. --- Palm Sunday Homily 2026 For the Jews two thousand years ago, today was the culmination of their long waiting: the Messiah had come to save them. "Hosanna in the Highest! Blessed is He who comes in the name of the Lord—the King of Israel!" It is a great day for us as well—the end of Great Lent, the celebration of Christ's triumphal entry into Jerusalem. We take up the first fruits of spring—palm leaves and p***y willows—not just as decoration, but as a sign of renewal. The winter of waiting is over. Christ has come among His people. As the Church sings in the Triodion: "Today the grace of the Holy Spirit has gathered us together, and we all take up Thy Cross and say: Blessed is He that comes in the name of the Lord." And more than that: He has come into our lives. This feast is not only about what happened in Jerusalem long ago. It is about the moment when Christ entered into our own story—when we first recognized Him as Lord, when we opened our hearts to Him, when we felt the relief of His presence. For many of us, that moment was marked by healing: the easing of despair, the forgiveness of sins, the restoration of hope. And so we cried out: "Hosanna in the Highest—the King has come to save!" Not just Israel. Me. But here is where the Gospel becomes dangerous for us. Because the people who cried "Hosanna" were not wrong to rejoice. They were wrong about what that joy meant. They loved Christ because He met their expectations. He healed the sick. He raised the dead. He gave them hope that their visible, worldly problems would be solved. Of course they loved Him. And we do the same. We love Christ when He meets our expectations:   when He brings peace   when He answers prayers the way we want   when He restores what we think should be restored We love the Church for the same reason:   when it comforts us   when it feels like home   when it confirms what we already believe We cry "Hosanna" when Christ—and His Body, the Church—fit into the life we already want. But then something happens. Christ moves beyond our expectations. He refuses to remain what we first loved Him for. And here the Church gives us words that both celebrate and correct us. In the hymns of this feast, we sing: "Seated in heaven upon Thy throne and on earth upon a colt, O Christ God, Thou hast accepted the praise of the angels and the song of the children who cried unto Thee: Blessed art Thou who hast come to call back Adam." He comes as King—but not the kind of king we expect. He comes not to confirm our plans—but to restore Adam. And this is why Lent has prepared us. All through the season, in the Great Canon of St. Andrew of Crete, we have been taught how to read Scripture: "I alone have sinned against Thee." "I am the one who has fallen." We are not spectators in the Gospel. We are participants. So when the crowd turns from "Hosanna" to rejection— we do not say, "they did this." We say: "I am capable of this." We are the ones who welcome Christ when He fits our expectations —and are tempted to abandon Him when He does not. And this is not just about Christ in abstraction.   It is about Christ in His Body—the Church. We love the Church when it gives us what we expect:      beauty      stability      meaning But when the Church calls us to something harder—      to repentance      to forgiveness      to self-denial —we can become disappointed. Even resistant. Even tempted to step back. But that later moment—the moment of disappointment— is often more important than the moment of joy. Because that is the moment when Christ is no longer fitting into our life— He is transforming it. And this transformation is not accidental. As Maximus the Confessor teaches, the spiritual life is the purification and reordering of our desires. We begin by loving God for what He gives us—but we are called to love Him for Himself. What begins as expectation must be healed into communion. We see this even in the Liturgy. In the Great Entrance, Christ comes among us. He is received with honor and reverence. But then a turn is made; the stairs up the amvon to the altar     are the mountain of Golgotha. And His throne is revealed—not as a seat of earthly glory— but as an altar of sacrifice. And the hymns of this Great Feast prepare us even for this. We sing: "Today the Master of creation and the Lord of glory enters Jerusalem seated on a colt. He hastens to His Passion, to fulfill the Law and the Prophets." The One we welcomed in joy— is already going to the Cross. This is the truth the crowd did not expect. And it is the truth we struggle with. Christ does not come simply to solve our problems. He comes to transform us. Not to meet our expectations— but to purify them. Not to give us the life we imagined— but to give us His life. So today we are given a choice. When Christ meets our expectations, we rejoice. But when He overturns them—when He exceeds them—when He leads us through the Cross—      what will we do then?      Will we turn away?      Or will we follow Him still? Some saw this day as the end—the fulfillment of everything they had hoped for. But it was not the end. It was the beginning. The beginning of a path that leads through suffering, through death— and into resurrection. So do not make your heart a place that welcomes Christ only on your terms. Do not turn your heart into a tomb for the King. Let it be His throne. Receive Him not only in triumph—but in sacrifice. Not only in consolation—but in transformation. Because He will not remain what we expect. And thanks be to God— He will become something far greater. "Let us also, like the children, bear the symbols of victory, and cry out to the Conqueror of death: Hosanna in the highest! Blessed is He that comes in the name of the Lord."

    11 min

  5. MAR 30

    Homily - Cross the Digital Jordan and Find Peace

    The Sunday of St. Mary of Egypt The life of St. Mary of Egypt shows that healing begins when we are willing to let go of what we think we cannot live without. Her struggle with memory and desire mirrors our own battles with distraction and constant stimulation. In these final weeks of Lent, we are invited to simplify our lives, endure the discomfort, and turn again toward the peace that comes from God. --- Today the Church gives us one of the most extreme lives in all of Christian history: St. Mary of Egypt. And if we are not careful, we will put her at a distance. We will say: "That's not me." "That's not my struggle." "That's not my life." But the Church does not give her to us as a curiosity. She gives her to us as a mirror. Mary began in complete disorder. Not gradually. Not reluctantly. She threw herself into a life of passion—seeking pleasure, attention, and control. And she is very clear: she was not even doing it for money. She was doing it because she wanted it, because she loved it, because it gave her a sense of freedom. And then comes the turning point. She tries to enter the Church in Jerusalem—to venerate the Cross. And she cannot. An invisible force prevents her. Everyone else walks in. She cannot. And suddenly, she sees—not just what she has done, but what she has become. That moment breaks her. Not into despair—but into repentance. She turns to the Mother of God, asks for mercy, and is finally allowed to enter. She venerates the Cross. And then she leaves—not just the Church, but the world. She goes into the desert. And here is where we often misunderstand her life. We imagine peace, clarity, instant transformation. But that is not what she experienced. Listen to her own words. She says that in the desert she was tormented by the memory of her old life: "The mad desire for songs and wine seized me… I longed to sing obscene songs… the memory of the things I was accustomed to filled my soul with great turmoil." She had left everything behind, but everything had not yet left her. And this is important. Because it tells us: removing ourselves from temptation does not immediately remove temptation from us. For years—years—she struggled. With memory, with desire, with imagination, with everything she had fed her soul. But she stayed. She endured. And over time, something changed. The passions lost their power. The memories lost their sweetness. And she found something greater: peace, clarity, freedom, union with God. Now here is where we need to be careful. Because it is very easy to say: "Well, that's her. She was dealing with extreme passions." But we are not so different. We also live in a world of constant stimulation—constant input, constant distraction. Not through wine and song in the same way, but through something else: social media, endless news cycles, commentary, outrage, entertainment, noise. And we do not just encounter these things. We consume them. We return to them. We depend on them. And like St. Mary, we often tell ourselves: "This is freedom." But what happens when we try to step away—even for a little while? We feel it. The pull. The habit. The restlessness. The desire to check, to scroll, to see what we are missing. And here is the question that reveals everything: what do we think we are missing? Because this is where the illusion lies. We think: "If I am not plugged in—if I am not consuming—if I am not aware of everything—then my life is being wasted." But St. Mary shows us the opposite. From the outside, her life looks wasted. No productivity, no recognition, no audience, no relevance. And yet—she becomes radiant with holiness, clear in mind, free in heart, alive in God. So now the question turns: whose life is wasted? The one who withdraws from distraction and struggles toward freedom, or the one who is constantly stimulated but never at peace? St. Mary did not lose her life in the desert. She found it—but only after enduring the pain of letting go. And this is where her life meets ours—very concretely, especially now. Because we are in Great Lent. And Lent is given to us for exactly this purpose: to simplify, to remove distractions, to reorder our lives toward God. Many people focus on food. And that is good. But it is only part of the pattern. Because for most of us, our greater excess is not meat and dairy. It is stimulation. And this is part of why the fast exists. Fasting is not just about what we give up. It is about what is revealed. When we fast from food, something happens. Our system is stressed. We feel hunger. We feel irritation. We feel weakness. And suddenly, we begin to notice our thoughts, our habits, our reactions. The fast makes visible what is usually hidden. And this is not a failure. This is its purpose. Now consider this: if fasting from food reveals this much, what might happen if we fast from stimulation? If we step away from constant input, constant scrolling, constant reaction? For most of us, this will be even more revealing—because this is where we are most attached. And so here is a simple challenge. We have two weeks left before Pascha. Two weeks. And in two weeks, we will hear that the Lord receives even the one who comes at the eleventh hour. So let us use this time well. For these next two weeks: simplify. Deliberately. Intentionally. Greatly reduce the time you spend on your devices—not a little, greatly. You will feel the pull. You will feel the temptation. You will feel the restlessness. That is not a sign that something is wrong. That is the point. It reveals what has taken hold of us. And like St. Mary, you may find that even when the external stimulus is gone, the memory remains. But stay. Endure. Redirect. Return. Because the same principle applies: what we repeatedly attend to forms us. If we fill our minds with noise, we will become restless. If we fill our hearts with distraction, we will become fragmented. But if we endure, if we simplify, if we turn toward God, then slowly, quietly, something changes. The noise loses its power. The pull weakens. And we begin to taste something better: peace, clarity, the presence of God. And so we end with this: St. Mary was not missing out. She was being healed. The world says: "Stay connected. Stay informed. Stay engaged." The Gospel says: "Be still—and know God." So again: whose life is wasted?

    14 min

  6. MAR 29

    Retreat - On the Communion and Post-Communion Prayers

    Taste and See that the Lord is Good UOL Retreat in Philadelphia PA on 3/28/2026 In this episode, we look at how the Church's pre- and post-Communion prayers prepare us not just to receive the Eucharist, but to be changed by it. They help us see our need, turn us toward God, and then teach us how to carry His presence into daily life. Communion becomes not just something we receive, but something we learn to live. --- PRE-COMMUNION PRAYERS (UOC-USA PRAYER BOOK) Through the prayers of our Holy Fathers, Lord Jesus Christ, our God, have mercy on us. Glory to You, our God, glory to You. Prayer to the Holy Spirit О Heavenly King, the Comforter, Spirit of Truth, everywhere present and filling all things. Treasury of Blessings and Giver of Life, come and dwell in us, cleanse us from every impurity and save our souls, O Good One. Thrice-Holy Hymn Holy God, Holy Mighty, Holy Immortal, have mercy on us. (3 times) Small Doxology Glory to the Father and to the Son and to the Holy Spirit, now and ever and to the ages of ages. Amen. Prayer to the Holy Trinity All-Holy Trinity, have mercy on us. Lord, cleanse us from our sins. Master, pardon our transgressions. Holy One, visit us and heal our infirmities for Your Name's sake. Lord, have mercy. (3 times) Glory to the Father and to the Son and to the Holy Spirit, now and ever and to the ages of ages. Amen. The Lord's Prayer Our Father, Who art in heaven, hallowed be Thy Name. Thy Kingdom come. Thy Will be done on earth as it is in heaven. Give us this day our Daily Bread and forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us. And lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from the Evil One. For Thine is the Kingdom, the Power and the Glory, of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit, now and ever and to the ages of ages. Amen. Lord, have mercy. (3 times) Glory to the Father and to the Son and to the Holy Spirit, now and ever and to the ages of ages. Amen. Invocation to Jesus Christ Come, let us worship God, our King. Come, let us worship and bow down before Christ our King and our God. Come, let us worship and bow down before Christ Himself, our King and our God. Psalm 22 The Lord is my Shepherd. I shall not want. He settles me in a place of green grass; beside restful water He leads me. He restores my soul; He guides me on the paths of righteousness for His Name's sake. For even if I walk in the midst of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil because You are with me. Your rod and Your staff comfort me. You prepare a table before me in the presence of my enemies. You anoint my head with oil and my cup overflows. Behold, Your mercy will follow me all the days of my life and I will live in the house of the Lord for the length of my days. Psalm 23 The earth is the Lord's and all its fullness, the world and all who live in it. For He has founded it above the seas and prepared it above the waters. Who will ascend into the mountain of the Lord and who will stand in His holy place? One whose hands are harmless and whose heart is pure, who has not received his soul in vain and has not sworn deceitfully to his neighbor. He will receive blessing from the Lord and mercy from God his Savior. This is the kind who seek the Lord, who seek the Face of the God of Jacob. Lift up your gates, you rulers and be lifted up, you eternal doors and the King of Glory will come in. Who is this King of Glory? The Lord of Hosts, He is the King of Glory. Psalm 115 I kept my Faith even when I said I am greatly afflicted. I said in my amazement: "Every person is a liar!" What shall I give to the Lord for all that He has given me? I will take the cup of salvation and call upon the Name of the Lord. I will pay my vows to the Lord, in the presence of all His people. Precious in the sight of the Lord is the death of His saints. Lord, I am Your servant – and the child of Your handmaiden. You have burst my bonds apart. I will offer to You the sacrifice of praise and I will call upon the Name of the Lord. I will pay my vows to the Lord in the presence of all His people, in the courts of the house of the Lord, in your midst, Jerusalem. Glory to the Father and to the Son and to the Holy Spirit, now and ever and to the ages of ages. Amen. Alleluia, alleluiа, alleluia, glory to You, our God. (3 times) Tropar, Tone 8 Lord, born of a Virgin, overlook my faults, purify my heart and make it a temple for Your Spotless Body and Blood. Cast me not from Your presence for You have infinitely great mercy. Glory to the Father and to the Son and to the Holy Spirit;How can I who am unworthy, dare to come to the Communion of Your Holy Things? For even if I should dare to approach You with those who are worthy, my garment betrays me, for it is not a festal robe and I shall bring about the condemnation of my sinful soul. Lord, Lover of mankind, cleanse the pollution from my soul and save me. Now and ever and to the ages of ages. Amen.Great is the multitude of my sins, Birth-Giver of God. To you, Pure One, I flee and implore salvation. Visit my sick and feeble soul and intercede with Your Son and our God, that He may grant me remission of my sins, for You alone are blessed. First Prayer – Saint Basil the Great Lord and Master, Jesus Christ our God, Wellspring of Life and Immortality, Maker of every visible and invisible thing, Co-eternal and Co-everlasting Son of the Everlasting Father: in the abundance of Your Goodness, You were incarnate in these latter times, and crucified and buried for us ungrateful and graceless people. Through Your own Blood You have renewed our nature corrupted by sin. Immortal King, though I am a sinner, accept my repentance, incline Your Ear to me and hearken to my words. I have sinned before heaven and before Your Countenance and I am not worthy to gaze upon the immensity of Your Glory. For I have provoked Your Goodness, I have transgressed Your commandments and I have not obeyed Your ordinances. But, Lord, since You do not remember evil, but are long suffering and have great mercy, You have not given me over to destruction for my lawlessness, but have continually awaited my conversion. For You, Lover of Mankind have said through Your prophet, "I desire not the death of sinners, but that they may turn from their evil ways and live." Because You do not wish, Master, that the work of Your Hands should perish, neither, do You take pleasure in the destruction of humanity. Rather, You desire that all people should be saved and come to a knowledge of the Truth. Therefore, even I, though I am unworthy of heaven, earth and of this transitory life, having given myself completely to sin becoming a slave to pleasure and defiling Your Image – yet being Your creation – I despair not of my salvation in my wretchedness. But, emboldened by Your infinite Compassion, I draw near. Therefore, Loving Christ, receive me also as You received the harlot, the thief, the publican and the prodigal. Take away the heavy burden of my sins, You Who take away the sins of the world, Who heal all human infirmity, Who call to Yourself those who are weary and heavy-laden, granting them rest. You came not to call the righteous, but sinners to repentance. Cleanse me from every stain of flesh and spirit and teach me to achieve perfect holiness in fear of You, that receiving my share of Your sacred things, I may be united to Your Holy Body and Blood and may have You dwell and abide in me with the Father and Your Holy Spirit. Yes, Lord Jesus Christ, my God, may the partaking of Your Most Pure and Life-Giving Mysteries bring me not to condemnation, nor may I partake unworthily of them. Grant that I, even to my final breath, may receive my share of Your sacred things without condemnation and thereby receive communion with the Holy Spirit as a provision for the journey to eternal life and an acceptable defense before Your Dread Judgment Seat. Lord, grant that I, together with all Your elect, may also be a partaker of immaculate good things which You have prepared for those who love You, with whom You abide and are glorified to the ages. Amen. Second Prayer — Saint John Chrysostom Lord my God, I know that I am not sufficiently worthy that You should come under the roof of the house of my soul, for it is entirely desolate and fallen in ruin and You cannot find in me a worthy place for Your head. But, as You humbled Yourself from on high for our sake, humble Yourself not to the measure of my lowliness. As You took it upon Yourself in the cave to lie in the manger for dumb animals, so take it upon Yourself now to enter into the manger of my ignorant soul and into my defiled body. Since You did not disdain to enter and eat with sinners in the house of Simon the Leper, so take it upon Yourself to likewise enter also into the house of my humble, leprous and sinful soul. As You did not cast out the harlot, a sinner much like me, who came and touched You, so have compassion on me, a sinner, coming to touch You. Since You did not detest the kiss of her sin-stained and unclean mouth, detest not my mouth, which is stained even worse and more unclean than hers as well as my sordid, unclean and shameless lips, nor my even more unclean tongue. Let the fiery coal of Your Most Pure Body and of Your Precious Blood bring me the sanctification, enlightenment and strengthening of my humble soul and body, a relief from the burden of my many transgressions, protection against every operation of the Devil, an aversion and hindrance of my base and evil habits, a mortification of my passions, an accomplishment of your Commandments, an increase in Your divine Grace and an entrance into Your Kingdom. For I do not come to You, Christ my God, in presumption, but having been given full confidence by Your Ineffable Goodness, I approach, lest I stray far from Your communion and become the prey of the wolf of souls. Therefore, I pray, Master Who alone are Holy; sanctify both my sou

    2h 31m

  7. MAR 23

    Homily - The Ladder, Our Thoughts, and the Long Slow Slog of Salvation

    The Sunday of the Ladder reminds us that the Christian life is not a sprint, but a long obedience marked by small, repeated acts of faithfulness. St. John shows that the real struggle takes place in our thoughts, where healing begins with recognizing them and learning to turn back to Christ. Step by step, through endurance and humility, the heart is purified and made capable of peace. Sunday of the Ladder Winning the Battle of Thoughts In the Name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen. Today the Church gives us St. John Climacus—St. John of the Ladder. And she gives him to us right here, in the middle of Great Lent. Not at the beginning, when everything feels fresh. Not at the end, when Pascha is in sight. But here. When we are a little tired. A little worn down. Maybe a little discouraged. And that is not accidental. Because St. John is not here to inspire us with dramatic moments. He is here to teach us how to keep going. St. John was a monk, writing for monks. And sometimes we hear that and think: "Well, that's not for me." But that's not how the Church reads him. The Church puts him in front of all of us and says: this is what the spiritual life looks like. Not because we are all called to live in monasteries—but because we are all called to be healed, to be purified, to be united to God. We are all, in that sense, spiritual athletes. And the Ladder is not a museum piece. It is a training manual. Now here is something we have to get clear right away. The Ladder is not a sprint, a quick transformation, or a series of glorious spiritual breakthroughs. It is a lifetime slog. Step by step. Fall, get up. Fall, get up again. No drama. No shortcuts. Just faithfulness. And this is where many people get discouraged. Because we want clarity, peace, and victory—and we want it quickly. But St. John shows us something different. The spiritual life is not built on big moments. It is built on small, repeated acts of faithfulness. So where does that struggle take place? Not primarily out there. Not in circumstances, other people, or events. But in here—in our thoughts. Think about your own experience. How much of your energy goes into replaying conversations, imagining arguments, worrying about what might happen, remembering what did happen, getting distracted in prayer, getting distracted in conversation—getting distracted, pulled away from what matters, from our responsibilities, from love. Most of our spiritual life is decided before we ever act—long before anyone else sees it—and often long before we notice it ourselves. At the level of thought. Now we need to say something very important. A thought is not a sin. Thoughts come. They arise. They pass through. You are not responsible for everything that appears in your mind. There are crazy people living within everyone's mind. No, you are not responsible for everything that appears in your mind—but you are responsible for what you do with it. Because the difference between peace and chaos often comes down to a very small moment: what do I do with this thought? Let me give you three very simple rules for dealing with intrusive thoughts. Not easy—but simple. Do not enter into conversation with them. When a bad thought comes, do not engage it, do not analyze it, do not argue with it, do not "just think about it for a second." Because once you start that conversation, you've already lost. Do not identify with them. Instead, you say: "This is not me. This is a thought passing through. This is normal. This happens all the time." That concept alone creates space. The resulting separation creates freedom. Redirect immediately. Don't wrestle—replace. Turn your attention to prayer, to a psalm, to something concrete, to crossing yourself, to saying "Lord, have mercy." Again and again. The teaching is clear—this is not where we need new insight. The difficulty is in doing it—this is where we need endurance. Because this is where the real work is. St. John says in Step 26 on discernment: "The beginning of salvation is the recognition of thoughts." Not controlling everything. Not fixing everything. Just recognizing—seeing thoughts clearly. Yes, that is where the healing of our minds—the salvation—begins. And most of us don't even get that far. Because we are already inside the thought, carried within it, buoyed along by the current of our emotions. We are already moving downstream, sometimes far downstream, before we even notice. In Step 4, speaking about obedience, St. John says: "Obedience is the burial of the will and the resurrection of humility." Now that sounds very monastic. But apply it here, to your life in the world. Every time you refuse a thought, every time you redirect, you are practicing obedience. You are saying: "I will not follow this. I will follow Christ." And that commitment does not happen once. It happens ten times, fifty times, a hundred times a day—quietly, unseen. Small victories that grow into a habit of victory. This is the Ladder. In Step 15, on purity, St. John says: "A pure mind sees things as they are." That's the goal. Not just avoiding bad thoughts—but becoming the kind of person whose perception has been healed. Because right now, our thoughts are not neutral. They are shaped by fear, pride, habit, passion—even something as simple as what we had for dinner last night. Please accept this: in our fallen state, we don't see reality clearly. We interpret everything through the distorted landscape of our minds—uneven, shadowed, and unstable. And the work of guarding our thoughts—slowly, patiently—allows Christ to begin to level that ground, so that what is crooked becomes straight and what is confused becomes clear. Not the clarity of desire or pride, but of Truth. Now, the fathers speak about this very strictly—especially in the monastery. And we might hear this and think: "Well, I'm not a monk." And that's true. But that does not mean the struggle is different. It means the context is different. As Metropolitan Saba has emphasized: the parish and the monastery are not competing paths. They are parallel paths. Same goal. Same healing. Same Christ. Different context. The struggle is the same. The setting is different. In the monastery, the structure supports watchfulness. In our lives, we have to build that structure ourselves—in our homes, our work, our friendships, through habits of sacrificial love, prayer, and worship. Let's be very clear about one more thing. You cannot drift up the Ladder. We don't expect strength without exercise or knowledge without study—but somehow we expect peace without discipline. Guarding your thoughts is work. Redirecting your attention is training. And this is why it feels like a slog. Because it is. It is the long, slow slog of our salvation. So what does this look like in practice? When you are replaying a conversation—stop. Do not continue. Distract yourself and focus on something else—something less destructive, something more useful. When anxiety starts spiraling—cut it early. Not later—early. Even a small, deliberate act of joy—something as simple as a change in expression—can give us enough freedom to return to the source of all joy. When you are standing in prayer and your mind wanders—don't chase it. Return. Immediately. Be comforted and instructed by their truth, and the way they connect you with the source of all truth. This is where endurance comes in—not in overpowering thoughts, but in returning again and again to what is good, what is beautiful, what is true. And now we come back to the image: the Ladder. You do not fall all at once. You do not rise all at once. You ascend—or descend—one thought at a time. Not in dramatic moments, but in quiet decisions, repeated daily over a lifetime. And this is the encouragement. If you feel like this is slow—it is. If you feel like this is repetitive—it is. If you feel like this is a slog—it is. But this is how we are healed. Not in flashes of glory, but in steady faithfulness. Because the Ladder is not climbed in monasteries alone. It is climbed in the hidden work of the heart. And when that work is done—even a little—we begin to live and to serve with clarity, with peace, and with joy. In the Name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.

    19 min

  8. MAR 15

    Homily - Through the Cross to Pascha

    Great Lent 2026; Sunday of the Cross "Whoever desires to come after Me, let him deny himself, and take up his cross, and follow Me." (Matthew 16:24) Christ is talking as if "coming after" or "following" Him is something good. What is that all about? Where is He going? Where is He leading us? Christ talks about "denying" ourselves. In the next verse He ties that to being willing to die. This sounds important. We need to get it right. There is a great lie in our world: that all religions are basically the same. But Scripture warns us that the devil himself can appear as an angel of light (2 Corinthians 11:14). So it is not enough simply to have faith in something. Why in the world are there so many warnings in the Bible about idolatry? Some people focus on sexual sin. But even Scripture often uses sexual sin as a metaphor for something even worse: worshipping false gods. One is bad—but the other is worse. Just as marriage is good, but union with God is even greater. So we need to get this cross thing right. Is it just about perseverance? Everyone has their own cross to bear? Well… kind of. But even that needs to be grounded. We are not simply stoics. If we are stoics at all, we are stoics of a very particular kind. So what is the cross? Yes, it involves pain. But not just any pain. Look to the prototype. We are Christians, and Christ is our standard. His cross was painful—but it was pain put to a purpose. It was sacrificial. He gave Himself as a sacrifice. And all sacrifice involves something valuable—something costly, something difficult. Pain can be like that. The cross was Christ's sacrifice on behalf of the people and the world that He loved. That gives us something to work with. Taking up our cross means doing things that are hard on behalf of others. At the very least, it means denying what we might prefer so that others can thrive. For Christ, that meant leaving the place where He was given the glory and honor that was His due and coming to live in a world where He would be disrespected, misunderstood, and even tortured and killed. And He did it so that we—the ones He loves—could join Him in eternal glory. When we voluntarily sacrifice our time, when we put up with people who misunderstand us, who may not value us, who may never fully appreciate what we are doing—and we do it out of a desire for their health and salvation … … then we are taking up our cross and following Christ into glory. So be patient when your ego tells you to lash out. Be courageous when your instincts tell you to hide. Figure out what love requires in each moment—and then dedicate yourself to it. In addition to patience and courage, this requires paying attention. It requires humility. It requires dedication to the needs of the moment. And it surely won't be easy. But this is the cup that our Lord accepted in the Garden of Gethsemane—the cup that led to the salvation of the world. And when we drink of that cup, we are united to Him through His passion on the Cross. But we must remember something very important. The cross is not the end of the story. Christ did not go to the cross in order to remain in the grave. He went through the cross into resurrection. And this is exactly where the Church is leading us during Great Lent. We are walking the road of the cross now so that we may stand together in the light of Pascha. Our Lord Himself told us how this works: "Unless a grain of wheat falls into the earth and dies, it remains alone; but if it dies, it bears much fruit." In Christ, the cross is never the final word. What passes through the cross is changed. We die with Him so that we may live with Him. Buried with Him in death, we rise with Him into newness of life. As St. Maximus the Confessor says, "The one who participates in Christ's sufferings also shares in His glory." Suffering offered in love becomes glory. Sacrifice becomes participation in His life. And even death becomes the doorway to life. This is the mystery the Church sings every year at Pascha: Yesterday I was buried with Thee, O Christ; today I arise with Thee in Thy resurrection. This is where Christ is leading us. Through the cross. Into resurrection. So when the moment comes—and it will come—when love requires something difficult from you, do not be afraid of the cross. Take it up. Follow Him. Because on the other side of the cross is life— life with Christ, life with all the saints, and life in the glory of the Kingdom.

    10 min
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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.

Information

  • Creator
    Fr. Anthony Perkins
  • Years Active
    2008 - 2026
  • Episodes
    100
  • Rating
    Clean
  • Copyright
    © Common courtesy.
  • Show Website
    OrthoAnalytika

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