Podcasts about book three

Good morning dear friend, today here Steven from Los Angeles area and I talk to the people by chat, and talk on holy Scripture, this is over 7 hours of wisdom and experience in Christ. Amen.

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Praise the Lord Jesus Christ! Amen. Today is a good day, I'm joined with Steven from Los Angeles

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Good morning my dear friend, God bless you! This here is with Steven in Los Angeles and me

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God bless you dear friend, good morning! In this class, I'm a bit hot on some topics, hope you aren't offended.

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Good morning dear friend, This here is our talk with our brother from Los Angeles area, he joins us a little later in the talk.

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There is something almost relentless about the teaching of the Fathers on watchfulness. They will not allow us to imagine that there comes a point in the spiritual life when vigilance is no longer necessary. Age does not free us from it. Knowledge does not free us from it. Years of prayer do not free us from it. Even great spiritual gifts do not free us from it. “As long as you are in the body, do not leave your heart unguarded.” Until the last breath. At first this can sound severe. The image given by Abba Isaiah is striking: he is like a sparrow tied by the foot. It may fly upward and imagine itself free, but the cord remains. A single tug can bring it back to the earth. Likewise, the Fathers tell us that the enemy waits at the crossroads, lays traps along the path, makes use of small thoughts and seemingly insignificant compromises, and patiently seeks an opening into the heart. Yet if we read these sayings merely as a catalogue of demonic strategies, we have misunderstood their purpose. The Evergetinos is not trying to make us fascinated with evil. Nor are the Fathers trying to produce souls that are perpetually looking over their shoulders, anxiously examining every movement of the heart. They are teaching us watchfulness because they desire something infinitely greater for us. They want us to discover how precious the heart is to God. Indeed, hidden within these rather frightening descriptions is one of the most beautiful statements in the entire passage. The enemy himself is forced to confess concerning the monks: “You and your fellow-servants have a good Master, Who speaks to you gently and watches over you as His own children.” A good Master. One who speaks gently. One who watches over us as His own children. This is the heart of the teaching. We guard the heart because God guards the heart. Our vigilance is meant to become a participation in His vigilance over us. The commandments, prayer, repentance, the remembrance of God, the cutting off of thoughts—all of these are expressions of a divine solicitude that surrounds the human person. God desires to protect within us that which He has created for Himself. He desires that nothing should enter the heart that diminishes its freedom, darkens its vision, wounds its capacity for love, or turns its desire away from Him. The Fathers therefore teach us to recognize temptations, but recognition is not the end. We do not study the passions in order to become experts in the passions. We learn their movements so that we might become free to love. This distinction is everything. One can become extraordinarily knowledgeable about the spiritual life and still remain outside of its mystery. Abba Isaiah goes so far as to say that a man might possess knowledge, perform miracles, endure hardships, and yet still find himself vulnerable. None of these things constitutes the final security of the soul. Only love does. And so the passage unexpectedly opens into the words of the Apostle: “Love never faileth… but beareth all things, believeth all things, hopeth all things, endureth all things.” Here the teaching reaches its true center. The Fathers are not leading us toward an ever more sophisticated fear of temptation. They are leading us toward perfect love. Watchfulness exists for love. Asceticism exists for love. The guarding of the heart exists for love. Repentance exists for love. Even the fear of God, rightly understood, is gradually drawing the soul toward that love in which fear itself is transformed. This is why the smallest thoughts matter. Not because God is fastidious or because the Christian life consists in anxiously avoiding infractions. The smallest things matter because love notices what interferes with communion. When one loves another deeply, one becomes sensitive to anything that introduces distance. So too with God. The vigilant heart begins to recognize thoughts of resentment, vainglory, judgment, self-pity, lust, anger, curiosity, or self-will not simply as violations of a rule but as movements that draw the heart away from the One whom it loves. The Fathers repeatedly tell us that great falls ordinarily begin very quietly. A thought is entertained. Then revisited. Then befriended. What first appeared insignificant gradually acquires familiarity, and familiarity acquires power. “The Devil disdains small sins; yet without them, he cannot lead man into greater sins.” But precisely the opposite is also true. Small acts of fidelity gather strength. A thought rejected for Christ. A moment of irritation surrendered. A judgment withheld. A temptation met immediately with the Jesus Prayer. A movement of vainglory quietly ignored. A moment of fear answered by trust. A suffering borne without abandoning God. These things too form habits of the heart. Grace upon grace. Fidelity upon fidelity. Love answering Love. This is why the teaching about vigilance should never leave us preoccupied with the enemy. Abba Makarios does not continue his journey thinking about the devil. He gives thanks to God and goes on his way rejoicing. That detail is extraordinarily important. The fruit of true watchfulness is not anxiety. It is thanksgiving. It is the growing realization that we are being kept. The Elder who asked to see the demons surrounding men discovered something similar. He saw them “like bees,” gnashing their teeth. Yet among them stood the Angel of the Lord rebuking them. The revelation was not given so that the Elder might become terrified by the number of demons. It revealed something far greater: the mercy of God was already there. Before we perceive the danger, God sees it. Before we understand the temptation, God knows it. Before we cry out, He has already drawn near. This is why the proper response to our weakness is not self-reliance but the prayer Abba Isaiah places continually upon our lips: Help me. Have mercy upon me. Perhaps this is one of the deepest lessons the desert has to teach us. Watchfulness eventually reveals not how strong we are but how utterly dependent we are upon God. The vigilant man discovers more and more clearly that he cannot preserve himself. And strangely, this discovery becomes peace. St. Isaac the Syrian understood this profoundly. The knowledge of one's weakness is itself a doorway into the knowledge of divine mercy. When a man begins to understand how fragile he is, he ceases trusting in himself and casts himself upon God. Then prayer becomes less an accomplishment and more a cry of the heart. Lord Jesus Christ, have mercy on me. Not because God is reluctant to give mercy. Because mercy is already rushing toward us. This also changes the meaning of constancy. We remain vigilant until death not because God stands waiting for us to make one final mistake. We remain vigilant because love desires to remain with the Beloved until the end. The question becomes less, How do I avoid falling? And more: How do I remain with Him? This is the deeper meaning of guarding the heart. To remain. To abide. To keep the inner door turned toward Christ. To allow nothing to become more compelling than His presence. There will always be thoughts. There will always be temptations. There will always be some cord around the foot of the sparrow as long as we remain in this present life. The Fathers are remarkably sober about this. There is no moment when we may say, “Now I am beyond danger.” But neither is there a moment when we are beyond mercy. And perhaps that is what gives watchfulness its tenderness. We do not stand guard alone. The One who tells us to watch is Himself watching over us. The One who tells us to guard the heart has already claimed that heart as His dwelling. The One who warns us against the snares of the enemy does so because He desires our freedom infinitely more than we do. He does not expose the traps in order to frighten His children. He exposes them because He loves His children. And gradually the spiritual life becomes less and less a struggle to defend ourselves and more an abandonment to this love. We discover that the safest place for the heart is not in its own vigilance, strength, knowledge, or experience. It is in Him. So until the last breath we watch. Until the last breath we repent. Until the last breath we cry out. Until the last breath we refuse the thought that would carry us away. But beneath all of this there is something deeper and quieter: we allow ourselves to be drawn. Drawn by mercy. Drawn by beauty. Drawn by the gentleness of the good Master. Drawn by the One who has watched over us as His children from the beginning. And perhaps, in the end, perfect watchfulness is simply this: to love Him so deeply that the heart no longer wishes to go anywhere else. --- Text of chat during the group: 00:24:33 Bob Čihák, AZ: P 59, first paragraph on page, above #9 00:27:52 Bob Čihák, AZ: P 59, #10 00:31:33 James Hickman: The tug doesn't seem to be with the most tremendous force either, for the feeling or illusion of freedom or thinking in pride that we have overcome our vices, we get a tiny jerk on the rope and get caught off guard, falling hard. I see in my own life, I think a certain sin is behind me and then seemingly out of nowhere a tiny tug sends me hurling down, crashing and burning. 00:32:26 Forrest: Reacted to "The tug doesn't seem to be with the most tremendous force either, for the feeling or illusion of freedom or thinking in pride that we have overcome our vices, we get a tiny jerk on the rope and get caught off guard, falling hard. I see in my own life, I think a certain sin is behind me and then seemingly out of nowhere a tiny tug sends me hurling down, crashing and burning." with

There is something almost frightening about the stories preserved for us in the Evergetinos. They are frightening not because they portray extraordinary wickedness, but because they reveal how quietly the heart can change. The monk described by Palladios is not a beginner. He is a man of profound silence and prayer, one who has surrendered himself so completely to God that even the necessities of his bodily life have been entrusted to Providence. His life has become contemplation. Prayer is his delight. God provides for him in a miraculous manner. He has tasted something of the life of the age to come. And yet the beginning of his fall is almost imperceptible. He sleeps a little longer. His prayer becomes somewhat shorter. His attention wanders. Earthly concerns begin to occupy a little more space within him. Thoughts once immediately rejected are permitted to remain for a moment. Nothing, at first, seems catastrophic. That is precisely the warning. The Fathers understood that the great falls of the spiritual life rarely begin as great falls. They begin with small permissions. Something formerly guarded carefully is treated casually. Something that once troubled the conscience is dismissed as insignificant. A thought is entertained rather than rejected. Prayer is postponed. Vigilance relaxes. A little comfort is allowed to become necessary. The heart whispers that such things hardly matter. But they matter because the heart matters. There is something extraordinarily precious hidden within the human person: the place of communion with God. The Fathers speak of guarding the heart so insistently because they know what has been entrusted to us. Grace has entered there. The Name has been received there. Desire for God has been awakened there. A fire has been kindled that does not originate in ourselves. The spiritual life, therefore, is not primarily the anxious avoidance of infractions. It is the guarding of a treasure. This changes how we understand vigilance. We do not guard ourselves because God is waiting to punish the smallest mistake. We guard ourselves because love is delicate. Communion can be obscured. Desire can cool. The eye of the heart can become clouded. What has become luminous through prayer can gradually become opaque again. The evil one understands this very well. He does not always attempt to tear a person immediately away from God. With someone who has given himself deeply to prayer, such an assault might be too obvious. Instead, he waits. He works through what appears negligible. A little negligence. A little self-confidence. A little relaxation of watchfulness. A thought that seems harmless enough to entertain. The enemy is patient because he knows that a heart need not renounce God explicitly in order gradually to lose sight of Him. Palladios gives us an extraordinary image of this darkening in the bread. At first the monk receives heavenly bread, pure and provided by God. As his interior life becomes disordered, the bread appears grimy and gnawed. Later it is almost entirely spoiled. What is happening visibly to the bread corresponds to what is happening invisibly within the monk. The gift has not ceased to be gift, but his capacity to receive it has become corrupted. The tragedy is not simply that temptation has appeared. Temptation comes to everyone. The decisive moment comes earlier: he notices the diminishment and does not respond to it. He regards the first symptoms as trivial. This is one of the most penetrating insights in the story. The monk does not suddenly decide to abandon his vocation. He fails to take seriously the cooling of his love. The Fathers would have us become sensitive to precisely this. When prayer becomes burdensome, notice. When mercy toward another begins to disappear, notice. When resentment becomes pleasurable, notice. When the imagination begins feeding upon something we would once have rejected, notice. When silence becomes uncomfortable and distraction increasingly necessary, notice. When we begin excusing in ourselves what once brought us immediately to repentance, notice. Not because every movement of weakness is a catastrophe, but because small movements reveal the direction in which the heart is turning. The story attributed to St. Maximos makes the warning still more sobering. The young monk possesses astonishing spiritual authority. Even wild animals obey him. Those around him naturally interpret such gifts as evidence of sanctity. St. Anthony is less impressed. He sees a ship filled with precious cargo and says, in effect: Yes—but will it reach the harbor? Everything is contained in that image. Grace received is not yet grace preserved. Virtue acquired is not yet virtue safely possessed. Spiritual gifts are not guarantees. Years of asceticism are not guarantees. Miracles are not guarantees. The harbor is reached only through perseverance. This is why Maximos interprets the command to “turn away from evil, and do good” as something more than the avoidance of sin. We must fight to diminish the passions; we must labor to acquire the virtues; and then—we must remain awake in order to preserve what has been given. He connects this with Adam's vocation in Eden: to cultivate and to keep. The heart is a garden. Grace cultivates it with us. Prayer waters it. Tears soften its soil. The remembrance of God makes it fruitful. Virtue slowly becomes something beautiful and living within us. But the garden must also be kept. Perhaps this is why the Fathers can appear severe about things modern people consider insignificant. Their severity is not necessarily born from fear. At its deepest, it arises from wonder. They know what the heart can become. They have seen human beings filled with God. They have seen the mind made luminous through prayer, the passions transfigured, the hardened heart made merciful, and ordinary human beings become bearers of the Holy Spirit. Having seen such things, they cannot regard anything that gradually extinguishes that life as trivial. The treasure is too precious. And yet neither story finally teaches despair. Palladios' monk awakens. Remarkably, his awakening comes while he is teaching others. He hears himself speaking truths that he has ceased to live, and suddenly sees himself. The contradiction becomes unbearable. He runs back into the desert, casts himself upon the ground, and repents. God receives him. The angel's words are filled with mercy: “God has accepted your repentance and has had mercy on you.” Something has nevertheless changed. The miraculous bread does not return. His remaining years are marked by mourning. This is not because God refuses forgiveness. Rather, the story preserves the terrible seriousness of freedom. Forgiveness is complete, yet our choices are real. Grace is not magic, and repentance does not make our history unreal. The Fathers hold together what we so often separate: immense mercy and immense seriousness. Never despair. But never presume. Never imagine that a fall places you beyond the mercy of God. But never imagine that what darkens the heart is therefore insignificant. The Christian life is lived between these truths. Perhaps the most important question, then, is not simply, Have I committed some great sin? It may be much quieter: What is happening to my desire for God? Is the flame growing brighter or dimmer? Is prayer becoming more truthful or merely habitual? Is my heart becoming softer or harder? Am I becoming freer to love, or increasingly absorbed in myself? Have I begun calling “small” those things that slowly make me forget the One whom I love? The evil one is willing to wait. He knows that great falls can grow from tiny seeds of forgetfulness. We too must learn to wait—but differently. We remain before God. We keep the heart. We cultivate the garden. We guard the treasure. And when we discover even the smallest cooling of love, we do not panic and we do not despair. We turn again toward Christ. Immediately. Simply. Humbly. For vigilance, rightly understood, is not living in terror that we might lose God. It is living with the knowledge that nothing is more precious than having found Him. --- Text of chat during the group: 00:08:19 Fr. Charbel Abernethy: Page 61 Section C 00:14:06 Jacqulyn Dudasko: I received my books today! Even had a bit of time to start reading!

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There is a great mercy hidden within these unsettling sayings from the Evergetinos. The Desert Fathers do not speak to us about spiritual warfare in order to make us preoccupied with the devil. They speak about it so that we might become sober, humble, and utterly dependent upon Christ. This is one of the great blessings the Desert Fathers continue to offer the Church. They expose what ordinarily remains hidden. Modern man tends to imagine temptation almost exclusively in terms of dramatic moral choices. We think of sin as something obvious placed before the will: Will I do this or will I not? But the Fathers understood the human heart far more subtly. Long before the temptation becomes an obvious choice, something has often already begun moving within us: a thought entertained, an irritation indulged, a desire awakened, an image cherished, a conversation replayed, praise secretly enjoyed, an injury remembered, a judgment formed, prayer postponed. The enemy rarely begins by asking us to renounce God. He asks only that we become slightly inattentive. And so Abba Simon gives us one of the most important sentences in tonight's reading: “Keep watch inside your cell, and keep watch outside it.” The brother cannot understand why he leaves his cell, becomes caught up in the distraction of others, laughs when they laugh, talks when they talk, and then discovers upon returning that the peace he formerly possessed has disappeared. He wants to move between recollection and distraction without consequence. Abba Simon tells him gently but firmly: That is impossible. The heart carries within itself what it consents to. This is why nepsis—watchfulness—is so central to the spirituality of the desert. The Fathers discovered that the cell is not merely a physical room. Ultimately, the cell is the heart. We must learn to inhabit it wherever we are. Solitude without vigilance will not save us, nor will activity necessarily destroy us. What matters is whether the heart remains awake before God. The modern elders say the same. St. Porphyrios continually warned against becoming fascinated with darkness. We do not overcome darkness by staring at it. We turn toward Christ. St. Paisios likewise spoke with great realism about the suggestions of the enemy, yet his emphasis was always upon humility and trust in God. St. Silouan and St. Sophrony understood perhaps most deeply that spiritual warfare is finally a battle over where the heart will abide: in itself or in Christ. This is precisely why these passages must never be read merely intellectually. We can study the taxonomy of temptation and still remain utterly blind to ourselves. Indeed, that may itself become another temptation. The moment I read these sayings and begin identifying the passions of other people, I have already missed their purpose. The proper response is much simpler: There but for the grace of God go I. “Satan Is Not Dead” Perhaps the most sobering saying tonight is the Elder's response to the man who declares, “I am dead to the world.” “You may say that you are dead, but Satan is not dead.” What extraordinary spiritual realism. The Fathers distrust premature declarations about ourselves. I have conquered this passion. I am beyond that temptation. This no longer affects me. I have reached dispassion. I understand myself now. No. The desert teaches us never to presume upon yesterday's victory. This is not because the Fathers are pessimistic about grace. Quite the opposite. They are so convinced of the power of grace that they refuse to confuse grace with human self-confidence. A man who knows his weakness can be extraordinarily strong because he clings to Christ. A man convinced of his strength is already standing dangerously alone. This is why the account of the dying monk is so striking. Satan says, “You have eluded me,” and even then the Elder replies: “I do not yet know whether I have eluded you.” There is no spiritual swagger here. No confidence in accomplishments. No inventory of virtues. Only vigilance until the final breath. The Trembling of Agathon Then comes Abba Agathon. He has spent his life seeking God. Yet as death approaches and the brothers ask whether he is confident that his deeds have been pleasing to God, he answers: “God's judgment is one thing, man's another.” This is not neurotic scrupulosity. It is humility purified of illusion. Agathon knows something we continually forget: we cannot finally stand outside ourselves and judge our own souls. Even our virtues may contain admixtures we cannot perceive. Generosity may conceal a hunger to be needed. Zeal may conceal anger. Orthodoxy may conceal pride. Asceticism may conceal self-reliance. Service may conceal the desire for recognition. Even repentance itself can become subtly self-absorbed. Therefore Agathon places himself entirely before God. And notice how the story ends. He dies in joy. This is crucial. The humility of the Desert Fathers does not lead to despair. It leads to freedom. Agathon has nothing left to defend. Nothing to prove. Nothing to claim for himself. He places everything into the hands of God and ascends “as one who greets his friends and loved ones.” True humility ends in joy because it has surrendered the impossible burden of saving itself. The Vessels of the Enemy The extraordinary vision of Abba Makarios brings all of this together. The devil appears covered with vessels containing different means of temptation. One attacks prayer with drowsiness. Another Scripture with physical discomfort. Another obedience. Another chastity. Another speech. Another appetite. Another humility through pride. Another virtue through vainglory. Another remembrance of eternity through forgetfulness. The image may seem strange to us, but its psychological and spiritual insight is profound. The enemy studies where we are vulnerable. He does not tempt everyone identically. And more importantly, he frequently attacks us precisely where we are seeking God. When we pray, suddenly we become tired. When we seek silence, a hundred apparently urgent thoughts arise. When we begin fasting, food occupies our imagination. When we perform some good work, we begin wondering whether anyone noticed. When God gives us spiritual insight, we subtly begin thinking ourselves spiritually insightful. When we experience grace, we may begin secretly believing that the grace belongs to us. Even virtue can become the material of temptation. This is why Makarios sees vessels around the devil's neck filled with pride and human glory. The enemy does not care whether he captures us through obvious vice or apparent virtue. He cares only that the gaze of the heart moves away from Christ and returns to itself. And perhaps the most frightening vessel is the one containing forgetfulness. The enemy makes “the memory of these things disappear.” Forgetfulness is not simply poor memory. In the language of the Fathers, it is an existential forgetfulness of God. We forget who we are. We forget whose we are. We forget death. We forget judgment. We forget mercy. We forget the Kingdom. We forget the presence of Christ. And once remembrance disappears, almost anything can enter. This is why the Jesus Prayer is so powerful. “Lord Jesus Christ, Son of God, have mercy on me.” It is remembrance restored. The Name gathers the scattered heart. The Name interrupts the conversation with the logismoi. The Name returns us to Presence. Sitting With the Fathers This is why we need to journey with the Desert Fathers rather than merely read them. Their sayings are not curiosities from an exotic period of Christian history. They are maps of the human heart. We should read them slowly enough that they begin reading us. Where am I inattentive? Where have I become confident in myself? What thought do I repeatedly entertain? Where do I seek human approval? What happens to my heart after certain conversations? What destroys my recollection? What makes prayer difficult? Where has forgetfulness entered? And above all: Where am I relying upon myself rather than Christ? These questions should not produce anxiety. They should produce humility. The Desert Fathers were not obsessed with demons. They were captivated by God. Precisely because they desired God so intensely, they learned to recognize everything that sought to draw the heart away from Him. And they knew they did not fight alone. We live within the communion of the Church. The angels surround us. The saints intercede for us. The Mother of God shelters us. The prayers of the Church carry us. Our guardian angel accompanies us. And the Name of Jesus is placed upon our lips. The evil one may indeed be relentless. But he is not sovereign. Christ is. Makarios can interrogate the devil precisely because Christ has already conquered him. The powers of darkness are exposed because the Light has come into the world. And so vigilance is not fearfully watching for Satan behind every movement of life. Vigilance is keeping the heart turned toward Christ. The safest person spiritually is therefore not the one who thinks, I would never fall into that. It is the one who whispers: Lord, without You I could fall into anything. Keep me. Guard my heart. Give me remembrance of You. Send Your holy angels to protect me. Through the prayers of Your saints, preserve me from deception. And then we understand why we must keep returning to the desert. The Fathers know the terrain. They have watched thoughts arise and disappear. They have suffered temptation. They have fallen and risen. They have learned the terrible danger of self-confidence and the astonishing strength hidden in humility. They take us by the hand and teach us to watch. Inside the cell. Outside the cell. Until our final breath. Not because we are terrified of the darkness, but because we have discovered something infinitely more beautiful that we do not wish to lose sight of: the face of Christ. --- Text of chat during the group: 00:08:04 Fr. Charbel Abernethy: Volume 3 page 54 number 3 00:56:55 James Hickman: In the past year or so, certain Catholic exorcists have come under attack for describing a bit of their healing ministry. For instance, some attack the priests for revealing that the devil has told them x, y, or z. The attackers, who only seem to attack the priests behind their backs, say that the priests are either lying or that they've been misled by the devil, for the demons can't be trusted. I trust these priests, and here Abba Macarius is just one more witness to the power of the Church to compel the demons, if it be God's holy will, to share what otherwise we wouldn't know. I suppose I'm sharing this hoping more of us will pray for these exorcists and for priests in general. Abba Macarius, pray for us! 01:04:00 Forrest: The appearance of the Devil in this story reminds me of an earlier hypothesis where a great saint laughed at a group of demons struggling to lift a single feather.  How hard it was for them! Here the Prince of Demons wears many vessels with feathers attached. 01:04:25 Adam Paige: The 35 Doctors of the Church: Revised Edition by Rev. Christopher Rengers, O.F.M. Cap 01:18:27 Rebecca Thérèse: Uriah the Hittite 01:20:25 Julie: Thank you

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The Fathers never speak of the spiritual life as though it were merely the acquisition of virtues or the mastery of disciplines. At its heart, it is the slow awakening of a human being who learns once again to see. The battlefield is not first the world around us but the hidden kingdom within us. It is there, in the silence of the heart, that every thought seeks entrance, every desire asks for consent, and every movement of the soul quietly bends either toward God or away from Him. It is therefore no accident that this section of the Evergetinos begins with the conscience. The Fathers do not present conscience as a private opinion, nor as a passing feeling of guilt or innocence. They speak of it as “nature's book,” a living text written by the Creator Himself within the human heart. Before there were libraries, before there were theological treatises, before there were even spiritual fathers to guide us, God had already inscribed His law upon the depths of our being. The conscience remains that quiet witness which never ceases to speak, even when every other voice has fallen silent. St. Maximos therefore urges us not to despise it. Every time we ignore that gentle movement toward truth, every time we silence its warnings because they are inconvenient or uncomfortable, we do not simply reject an inner feeling. We reject a gift through which God Himself seeks to lead us. Yet the Fathers also understand that conscience is not formed automatically. Like every faculty of the soul, it can become clouded through neglect, distorted through the passions, or nearly inaudible beneath the constant noise of our own thoughts. Thus prayer and conscience belong together. A purified conscience gives birth to pure prayer, while genuine prayer steadily purifies the conscience. Each heals and strengthens the other until the heart gradually becomes transparent before God. This is why the Fathers place such extraordinary emphasis upon vigilance. The ascetic life is not one of anxious self-analysis but of loving attentiveness. One learns to ask, “From where has this thought arisen? Toward whom does it lead me? Does it draw me toward Christ, toward humility, toward peace, toward love, or does it leave me agitated, suspicious, self-absorbed, fearful, or filled with hidden resentment?” Such questions are not psychological exercises. They are acts of spiritual discernment. How beautiful that the Evergetinos allows us here to hear the voice of St. Synkletike. Her presence reminds us that the wisdom of the desert is not confined to the fathers alone. The mothers stand beside them as equal witnesses to the Gospel lived with radical seriousness. Their lives reveal dimensions of spiritual perception that enrich the whole Church. To hear Synkletike is to hear a mother whose authority has been forged in prayer, suffering, and long experience of the hidden warfare of the heart. Her image of the ship is unforgettable. Storms from without may batter the vessel, yet the greater danger often lies beneath the surface, where unnoticed water slowly fills the hold while everyone sleeps. So too the Christian is often preoccupied with visible temptations, external conflicts, and the sins of the world, while paying little attention to the quiet accumulation of interior movements that slowly weigh down the soul. A single grievance carefully preserved, a subtle spirit of self-importance, an unnoticed judgment against another, a conversation endlessly replayed within the imagination—these may appear insignificant, yet left unattended they become the hidden water that eventually sinks the ship. The modern elders speak with precisely the same realism. St. Sophrony taught that every thought should first be brought before Christ before it is welcomed into the heart. Elder Aimilianos describes the spiritual life as learning to stand watch over the entrance of the heart with peaceful sobriety. Elder Thaddeus reminds us that “our thoughts determine our lives,” not because thoughts possess magical power, but because every thought eventually shapes the disposition of the heart from which all our actions flow. The enemy rarely begins by demanding great sins. He is content to suggest one small thought that is entertained rather than examined, one interior conversation that slowly becomes an identity, one fear that quietly replaces trust in God. The Desert Fathers therefore become extraordinary physicians of attention. They teach us that the first victory is often not found in dramatic acts of asceticism but in recognizing a thought before it becomes a passion. The battle is won while the spark is still small, before it has become a consuming fire. Yet all of this vigilance must be understood correctly. It is never a turning inward born of fear. The goal is not endless introspection. The Fathers are not asking us to become preoccupied with ourselves but to become increasingly available to Christ. We guard the heart because it has become His dwelling place. We examine our thoughts because we desire that His voice, rather than every competing voice, might become the one we recognize most readily. Perhaps this is why Abba Bessarion's final words were that the monk should become “all eyes.” He was not describing suspicion but wakefulness. He envisioned a heart so illumined by grace that nothing enters unnoticed and nothing is judged apart from the light of Christ. In our own age, this teaching may be more urgent than ever. Never has the human heart been so relentlessly surrounded by competing voices, endless images, constant information, and unceasing commentary. Discernment has become one of the greatest ascetical tasks of our generation. We must learn once again to distinguish between the voice of conscience and the voice of shame, between the prompting of the Holy Spirit and the agitation of fear, between divine conviction and the endless accusations of the evil one. Only a heart that has grown quiet through prayer can make such distinctions. And perhaps that is where the Evergetinos gently leaves us. Not with fear of the battle, but with hope. God has not abandoned us to navigate these waters alone. He has placed within us the witness of conscience. He has given us the wisdom of the Fathers and Mothers. He has surrounded us with the prayers of the saints. Above all, He has given us His own Spirit, who patiently teaches us to recognize His voice amid every other voice. The vigilant heart is not merely watchful. It is a heart that has learned whom it is listening for. --- Text of chat during the group: 00:01:11 Fr. Charbel Abernethy: Page 52 saying 5 00:07:28 Fr. Charbel Abernethy: https://www.philokaliaministries.org/post/coming-soon-the-name-above-every-name 00:08:08 Fr. Charbel Abernethy: Page 52 saying 5 00:12:59 Fr. Charbel Abernethy: https://www.philokaliaministries.org/post/coming-soon-the-name-above-every-name 00:15:22 Fr. Charbel Abernethy: Page 52 saying 5 00:16:17 Fr. Charbel Abernethy: https://www.philokaliaministries.org/post/coming-soon-the-name-above-every-name 00:28:30 Una: Can you give an example? 00:28:44 Una: Of acting with conscience in a difficult situation. 00:32:01 Janine:

Good morning my friend, God bless you! Thank you for giving your precious time to be listening here. This is

Good morning my friend, it's a great day in the Lord Jesus Christ, the Saviour of the world. Amen. This here is

Good Morning! I'm back from a week off from preaching. Amen! This here is

Send us Fan Mail“Finish the bucket, or get the box!” At this point most of you are fully aware of what you're getting into with this series, so let us officially induct you into our den of Howlers. Just remember two things: “Omnis Vir Lupus

The Fathers are extraordinarily subtle here because they know that the human heart is subtle. They refuse the comforting simplicity by which we divide the world into good people and bad people, good deeds and evil deeds, the righteous and the guilty. Not because such distinctions are meaningless, but because they do not yet reach deeply enough. Beneath the visible act lies the intention. Beneath the intention lies desire. And beneath desire there may be movements of the heart so quiet, so mixed, and so carefully concealed that we ourselves scarcely recognize them. A man praises his neighbor, yet his praise conceals envy. Another remains silent under reproach, and his silence appears humble, yet rancor is gathering within him. One speaks the truth, but uses truth as a weapon. Another defends his neighbor, yet secretly delights in appearing more merciful than those around him. The external act may be correct while the heart remains divided. This is why the Fathers speak so severely about guile. Guile is not simply telling a lie. It is the creation of a distance between what appears and what is. The lips move in one direction while the heart moves in another. We learn to present ourselves even to ourselves in ways that protect us from the truth. The terrifying possibility raised in these passages is that a person may fulfill a commandment and yet fail to acquire the virtue toward which the commandment was leading him. “Fulfilling a commandment is one thing and practicing a virtue is another.” This distinction is essential. I may refrain from speaking and still possess no meekness. I may give alms and still possess no mercy. I may defend the truth and yet have no love for the person whom I correct. I may rejoice publicly at another's success while inwardly grieving that the good was given to him rather than to me. The commandment has been observed outwardly. The heart has not yet become true. Yet the Fathers do not expose this complexity in order to drive us into endless introspection or suspicion of every motive. They are forming the conscience in relation to Christ. The Christian conscience is not meant to become a tribunal before which we endlessly prosecute ourselves. It is an organ of perception. Purified by grace, it learns to recognize what is consonant with Christ and what is alien to Him. It asks not merely, “Was this permitted?” or even, “Did I fulfill the commandment?” It begins to ask a more searching question: Was I living in conformity with the truth? And for the Christian, the Truth is not an abstraction. The Truth has a face. Christ becomes the measure of the heart. This is why intention matters so profoundly. God sees the deed from within. He sees the hidden resentment beneath the silence and the hidden mercy beneath the awkward word. He sees the desire to love when weakness prevents us from acting. He also sees the secret consent to evil before the body has carried it out. “The law of freedom exists in the mind prior to any action.” We live before the gaze of One from whom nothing is hidden. This could terrify us if God's gaze were merely forensic. But the Fathers understand His gaze as the gaze of the Physician. The heart is uncovered so that it may become whole. Christ brings into the light the envy concealed beneath praise, the vainglory concealed beneath humility, and the vengeance concealed beneath zeal for truth—not to humiliate us, but to free us from the exhausting necessity of pretending. Even the troubling account of St. Gregory the Wonderworker must be read within this severe spiritual world. The story is meant to awaken us to the gravity of making falsehood our habitation. The men who attempt to deceive the Saint are not simply performing a clever trick. They enact a lie with their bodies. One feigns death. The other feigns grief. Compassion itself is manipulated for gain. The entire scene is an inversion of reality. And suddenly the falsehood becomes terribly real. The story shocks us because the Fathers want to disturb our casual relationship with duplicity. We often imagine that what is hidden is therefore insignificant. They insist upon the opposite. What is hidden may be precisely where our deepest formation is taking place. The question, then, is not whether our hearts are perfectly pure. If that were the requirement, none of us could stand. The question is whether we are willing to live in the light. Can I acknowledge envy when I see it? Can I recognize that my righteous indignation contains wounded pride? Can I admit that my silence is not peace but resentment? Can I allow Christ to show me that even my virtues remain mixed with passions? This requires profound humility. But it also produces profound freedom. The Fathers give us a remarkably concrete remedy for envy: rejoice with the one whom you envy. Grieve with him when he grieves. Do not wait until your heart spontaneously becomes pure. Place yourself deliberately within the truth of communion. The one I envy is not my rival. His joy does not diminish me. His gifts are not accusations against my poverty. To rejoice with him is to begin teaching the heart the truth. This is how conscience is formed. Not by obsessively watching ourselves, but by repeatedly bringing the movements of the heart into the presence of Christ and allowing His life to become our measure. Slowly, painfully, the distance between appearance and reality begins to close. We become less interested in appearing humble and begin to desire humility. Less interested in appearing merciful and begin to desire mercy. Less interested in being seen as truthful and begin to desire the Truth. Perhaps this is what the Fathers mean by virtue. The commandment is no longer merely something I do. By grace, it begins to reveal what I am becoming. --- Text of chat during the group: 00:00:59 Fr. Charbel Abernethy: Page 43 paragraph 3 00:03:28 Bob Čihák, AZ: P. 43, first #3 00:13:19 Bob Čihák, AZ: P. 43, first #3 00:18:27 Larry  Ruggiero: Christina Nun Part 5 Chapter 2 paragraph 3 ( page 401 in the 4 volume set). 00:19:58 Larry  Ruggiero: correction page 411 00:25:22 James Hickman: A question for Abba Mark paragraph 1: is the line “he is / will be punished more severely?” understood during, after, or a combination perhaps during and after life? 00:27:35 James Hickman: Thank you! 00:28:34 Maureen Cunningham: Page 44 it ends 00:33:45 Danny Moulton: Don't mess with St. Gregory! 00:34:26 Bob Čihák, AZ: P. 47, # 4 00:37:14 Forrest: This story of St. Peter is in Acts of the Apostles chapter 5. 00:38:18 Bob Čihák, AZ: P. 47, B 00:41:26 Forrest: And in this hypothesis, it is also shown that companionship with the wicked can be deadly. 00:44:25 Catherine Opie: I often have become very angry when people have taken advantage of my generous nature in the past and this made me hard hearted and reluctant to continue to be generous. Now, thanks to the grace of God and these sessions, I understand that I should continue to be generous, even more than before, pity anyone who takes advantage of that and pray for them begging the Lord to have mercy on them and me. I am slow to learn... 00:53:44 Bob Čihák, AZ: P. 48, A 00:58:26 Rebecca Thérèse: I think Scripture can be understood at different levels. Using it symbolically to illustrate a spiritual point doesn't negate a more literalistic interpretation. St John of the Cross uses Scripture like this. 00:59:23 Catherine Opie: My footnote says this is not from St Gregory but an anonymous author 00:59:45 Forrest: The Greek says anonymous elder. 01:00:03 Kate: The footnote is on p 50 01:04:20 Forrest: ψυχικῶς - "at heart" 01:04:45 James Hickman: Gregory of Nyssa in The Life of Moses seems to interpret Moses's striking down the Egyptian as a struggle in prayer to guard his soul against the enemies of contemplation. The Egyptian here is not merely the guy who walked near Moses in Egypt…it's the war within. Paragraphs 310-312 in that book  www.newhumanityinstitute.org/pdf-articles/Gregory-of-Nyssa-The-Life-of-Moses.pdf 01:12:22 Forrest: I think this paragraph echoes paragraph 5 benefitting at heart ψυχικῶς without actually performing the good dead. 01:15:03 Maureen Cunningham: Thank You, always a Blessing 01:16:18 Rebecca Thérèse: Thank you☺️ 01:16:24 Danny Moulton: THank You! 01:16:30 Catherine Opie: God bless, its freezing here 01:16:33 John ‘Jack':

One of the striking features of the desert tradition is the extraordinary seriousness with which the Fathers speak about the conscience. Modern readers can easily mistake conscience for little more than an inner feeling, a private moral opinion, or an emotional sense of guilt. The Fathers know nothing of this reduction. For them, the conscience is something infinitely more profound. It is the hidden sanctuary where God quietly addresses the human heart. It is the place where divine love first encounters human freedom. This explains why they are far less interested in outward accomplishment than in the movements of the heart. God does not merely examine what we do. He examines why we do it. The Evergetinos reminds us that fasting, vigils, prayer, psalmody, almsgiving, and hospitality are all good by their very nature. Yet these same holy works can become empty when they spring from vanity, fear, ambition, or the longing to be admired. The act itself may appear beautiful before men while the heart quietly seeks itself rather than God. The Fathers understand something that remains deeply relevant in every age: the human heart possesses an astonishing ability to hide its motives even from itself. For this reason the spiritual life demands something more than discipline. It demands truthfulness. St. Isaac the Syrian brings the matter to its deepest point when he writes that virtue is not primarily found in many bodily labors but in “a heart rendered most wise by its hope in God.” Everything begins here. The body may perform countless good works, but unless the heart is slowly purified, those works cannot bear their full fruit. This is not because God is difficult to please. It is because God desires not our performance but our communion. Throughout these passages one senses that the conscience is not presented as an accuser waiting to condemn us but as a faithful companion seeking to preserve our freedom. St. Isaiah calls it our guardian. St. Mark tells us that whoever wishes to heal the soul must first learn to obey it. Abba Agathon goes so far as to say that the monk should never allow his conscience to accuse him in anything. Such words can easily be misunderstood. The Fathers are not asking us to become scrupulous or anxious. Nor are they inviting us into endless self-analysis. Rather, they are describing the gradual restoration of an inner harmony in which thought, desire, intention, and action become one. This harmony is one of the great signs of healing. The image preserved in the Gerontikon is especially beautiful. The conscience is compared to a spring. If one continually digs deeper, the water becomes clearer. If one fills it with earth, the spring is slowly destroyed. How often this happens almost unnoticed. The first compromise rarely appears serious. One ignores a small prompting toward kindness. One excuses an act of impatience. One refuses an invitation to forgiveness. One silences an uncomfortable truth because it interferes with a cherished attachment. None of these seems decisive. Yet every refusal places another handful of earth into the spring. Eventually the water grows cloudy. Not because God has withdrawn. But because we have gradually lost the ability to hear Him. The opposite is equally true. Every small act of obedience clears the water a little more. Every hidden act of honesty enlarges the heart. Every quiet surrender to truth makes the conscience more luminous and more peaceful. Here we begin to see why the Fathers connect conscience so closely with spiritual knowledge. Knowledge of God is not merely the accumulation of theological ideas. It is born from a heart that has become transparent enough to recognize His presence. This is where desire and conscience meet. Much of our suffering arises because our desires have become divided. We seek God while simultaneously clinging to lesser loves that promise security, recognition, or control. The conscience gently exposes this division. It does not shame us for having desires. Rather, it patiently teaches us which desires lead toward life and which quietly imprison us. The conscience is therefore one of God's greatest gifts to the wounded heart. It protects wonder. For wonder can only flourish where there is truth. A heart that continually ignores its deepest convictions gradually becomes cynical. It begins to distrust goodness because it has learned to distrust itself. But when a person begins again to live honestly before God—even imperfectly—a different kind of vision slowly emerges. Gratitude becomes possible. Simplicity returns. One discovers that obedience does not diminish freedom but restores it. The Fathers never separate conscience from hope. Even when it reproves us, its purpose is always restoration. Its voice is not that of an executioner but of a physician. It wounds only in order to heal. Perhaps this is why the saints possessed such extraordinary peace. They did not become holy because they never struggled. They became holy because they refused to make peace with falsehood. They listened to the quiet voice within before it became drowned out by louder voices. Little by little the conscience became not merely a judge of their actions but a window through which they learned to behold the face of Christ Himself. In an age filled with noise, distraction, and endless external judgments, the Fathers quietly invite us back to this hidden sanctuary. There, beneath all our fears and ambitions, God still speaks. And every time we answer that gentle voice with sincerity, the spring becomes clear again. --- Text of chat during the group: 00:01:19 Fr. Charbel Abernethy: Page 49 paragraph 9 00:01:58 Fr. Charbel Abernethy: https://www.philokaliaministries.org/post/philokalia-ministries-summer-retreat 00:02:37 Fr. Charbel Abernethy: https://www.philokaliaministries.org/post/a-new-book-from-city-a-desert-press 00:07:50 Bob Čihák, AZ: P 49, # 9 00:13:18 Fr. Charbel Abernethy: Page 49 paragraph 9 00:16:01 Nancy Pagan: Hello  everyone. New here 00:16:25 Jacqulyn Dudasko: Reacted to "Hello  everyone. New here" with

Howdy my friend! God bless you and keep you all the days of your life. Amen. This is

Good morning my friend, God bless you, richly! Amen. This here is

Good morning dear friend, thank you for sharing your life with people in your life. This here is

Good morning dear friend! God bless you. Today starts a brand new Book Three! Amen.

The Fathers insist that the spiritual life is decided long before words are spoken or actions are taken. It is decided in the hidden conversation of the heart. Every thought arrives carrying a question: Where have I come from, and where will I lead you? Most of us are far more careful about what enters our homes than what enters our minds. Yet a single unexamined thought can become a passion, a passion can become a habit, and a habit can slowly become our character. This is why the desert fathers watched their thoughts with such sobriety. They knew that not every thought deserved hospitality. Some thoughts came from grace and awakened gratitude. Others came from pride, fear, resentment, or the enemy himself. The tragedy is not that these thoughts appear. The tragedy is that we welcome them without interrogation, allowing them to settle into the heart until we can no longer distinguish their voice from our own. The holy elders possessed a remarkable gift: they could transform every circumstance into a call to God. A successful businessman became a lesson in zeal. A builder became a reminder to build the dwelling place of God within the soul. Even the sight of an actress moved Abba Pambo not to judgment but to tears for his own lack of love. The purified heart instinctively translates earthly events into heavenly instruction. The impure heart does exactly the opposite. It converts every blessing into comparison, every success into competition, every disappointment into accusation. Few passions reveal this distortion more clearly than guile. Guile is not merely deception. It is the division of the heart. It is smiling while secretly resenting, praising while inwardly competing, speaking peace while quietly nourishing suspicion. Such a soul gradually loses the capacity for prayer because prayer demands truth. We cannot stand honestly before God while wearing masks before one another. The Fathers therefore speak with startling severity: every spiritual labor is endangered when the heart becomes divided. Not because God withdraws His mercy, but because we ourselves have become strangers to simplicity. Then comes envy, perhaps the most hidden of all passions. Envy is sorrow at another's good. It cannot rejoice because someone else has received a gift. It quietly interprets another's blessing as a personal loss. Left unchecked, it poisons relationships, communities, and even prayer itself. The envious person eventually sees enemies where there are none and offenses where none were intended. Yet the astonishing wisdom of St. Maximos the Confessor goes even further. He does not merely tell us to endure the envious person. He tells us to protect him. This is extraordinarily difficult because envy is often irrational. It does not respond to logic because it was not born of logic. At times love requires us to conceal what would unnecessarily inflame another's weakness, not because the passion is justified, but because the person is precious. We do not accommodate sin; we make every reasonable effort to prevent a brother from being consumed by it. This requires profound humility. It means surrendering the need always to be understood, always to defend ourselves, always to insist upon our rights. There are moments when charity quietly accepts misunderstanding if doing so protects a weaker soul from falling deeper into darkness. Such restraint is not weakness. It is cruciform love. Of course, there are limits. The Fathers never ask us to cooperate with falsehood or deprive many for the sake of one person's passion. Truth remains truth. The common good must still be served. But within those boundaries, love willingly bears burdens that reason alone would reject. Perhaps this is one of the hardest lessons in the Christian life. Our responsibility is not merely to conquer our own passions but also to walk carefully enough that we do not become occasions for another's destruction. We cannot heal another's envy, but we can refuse to feed it. We cannot remove another's guile, but we can answer it without becoming guileful ourselves. We cannot prevent every misunderstanding, but we can choose humility over self-vindication whenever love allows. The spiritual life is therefore not simply about becoming holy. It is about becoming safe. A heart purified by Christ becomes a place where others are not provoked toward darkness but quietly invited toward light. Such a soul examines every thought before believing it, every word before speaking it, every action before defending it. It asks not only, “Is this true?” but also, “What will this produce in me and in my brother?” For every thought has a destination. Every hidden movement of the heart is already becoming tomorrow's life. The wise Christian learns to discern the path while it is still only a whisper. --- Text of chat during the group: 00:28:19 James Hickman: No disagreement here, but sometimes I wonder why the elders don't go and repent on her behalf or go preach to her or something named in the story. He's just sad, it seems, that her soul is lost. But I think there must be more. 00:28:21 Forrest: The Greek has "lecherous men", not "dregs of humanity" 00:29:57 James Hickman: Yes, that makes sense. 00:31:41 Danny Moulton: St. Jghn Chrysostom had a lot to say about the theater.  Apparently there were also alot of theater goers back then. 00:37:27 Julie: It's like as if death we regard as far off or spend our time planning for this life and not as much or more for our souls destiny 00:40:44 Danny Moulton: Does God sometimes use big egos to create things of great beauty that serves generations of the faithful? I'm think of some of the great classical artists/ sculptors, but it might be other things like certain lasting institutions. I hope they all had loe of God, but ego seemed to play a large role for some of them. 00:43:06 James Hickman: The artist's art seems to reveal the interior life that might be hidden on the surface by a man's rough edges 00:43:28 Kathryn Rose: Reacted to "The artist's art ..." with ❤️ 00:44:08 Julie: Like Caravaggio 00:44:36 James Hickman: Chiesa Nuova 00:45:14 Julie: I can't turn camera around 00:46:16 John ‘Jack': St Hildegard was known as quite an artist 00:47:48 Bob Čihák, AZ: P. 42, A. 00:56:02 James Hickman: Re: secret contempt for your brother: My friends said they put all their kids in the same bedroom to force them to deal with their emotions. They can't just storm back to their own bedroom when frustrated. The kids learn to process and forgive/ask forgiveness. It made me think of the Rule of St. Benedict having all the monks sleep in the same dormitory. 00:57:19 Danny Moulton: Sons of THunder 01:03:53 Danny Moulton: actually referring to the snoring 01:04:12 James Hickman: Reacted to "actually referring to the snoring" with

The Fathers understood something that we have almost entirely forgotten: very few souls fall suddenly. Almost every great collapse begins with something so small that it escapes notice—a hidden expectation, a wounded pride, an unspoken resentment, an interior complaint, a passing judgment, or a thought left unchallenged. What appears insignificant is often the first movement of the heart away from God. This is why the Evergetinos spends so much time speaking about ordinary conversations, simple requests, disappointments, misunderstandings, and the countless interactions that make up our days. We imagine that holiness is determined by extraordinary moments. The Fathers insist that it is determined by the invisible disposition we carry into ordinary ones. How revealing it is that they tell us to prepare ourselves before asking another person for something. Not merely to think about what we will say, but to prepare ourselves interiorly for the possibility of hearing “no.” They know that disappointment is often less dangerous than the thoughts that follow it. “He doesn't care about me.” “I would have helped him.” “Why am I always treated this way?” Within moments the imagination begins weaving a story that has little to do with reality and everything to do with our passions. We assign motives. We judge hearts. We nurture resentment. We quietly withdraw from love. Yet the Elder teaches something almost scandalously simple: perhaps the person cannot help you. Perhaps he truly needs what you requested. Perhaps God did not permit it because it would not benefit you. How rarely we allow such thoughts to enter our minds. Instead, we become advocates for ourselves and prosecutors of everyone else. The Fathers would say that this is how hell begins—not with hatred, but with interpretation. The same honesty is demanded when we ourselves possess what another seeks. If we truly need it, we should simply say so. If we deny our need out of pride, wanting to appear detached, generous, or spiritually advanced, then we are to return and confess our deception immediately. How foreign this is to us. We carefully manage impressions. We curate virtue. We protect the image of ourselves we hope others will admire. The Elder is interested in none of this. Better an embarrassing confession than a hidden lie. Better humility than reputation. One heals the heart. The other slowly poisons it. Even more searching is the teaching on scandal. We often imagine scandal to consist only in dramatic moral failures. The Fathers understand something much subtler. We become occasions of stumbling every time our pride, impatience, sarcasm, coldness, gossip, or self-importance weakens another's courage or burdens another's heart. How many souls leave communities not because doctrine failed them, but because charity did. How many people stop praying because Christians made God appear severe rather than merciful. How many children quietly abandon faith after years of watching resentment flourish beneath religious language. We rarely recognize how much weight our ordinary demeanor carries. Then comes one of the most astonishing scenes in all of the Evergetinos. A courtesan passes before a gathering of bishops. Most lower their eyes in horror at her immodesty. Bishop Nonnos does not deny her sin, but he sees beyond it. Instead of condemning her, he condemns himself. He sees a woman who labors tirelessly to beautify what will perish. He sees himself neglecting what will live forever. The others saw an object of judgment. He saw a mirror. That is the difference between a proud heart and a purified one. The proud heart encounters every person asking, “What is wrong with them?” The humble heart asks, “Lord, what are You showing me about myself?” This single movement changes everything. The proud leave every conversation confirmed in their righteousness. The humble leave every encounter more repentant, more grateful, and more compassionate. Perhaps this is why the saints become incapable of condemning others. They are simply too occupied by the work God is accomplishing within their own hearts. The tragedy of our age is not merely that we sin openly. It is that we have become almost completely unaware of these hidden movements within us. We speak carelessly. We assume motives. We interpret silence. We cultivate grievances. We justify irritation. We rehearse conversations that never happened. We allow passing thoughts to become settled convictions. And then we wonder why peace disappears. The Fathers would tell us to return to the beginning—to the very first thought. Guard that. Question that. Humble that. For the first movement of the heart is often the only place where the battle can still be won. Once the thought is welcomed, entertained, defended, and repeated, it gradually becomes our character. The Kingdom of God and the kingdom of darkness both begin there—in the hidden places where no one but God can see. --- 00:05:30 Janine: Hello Father! 00:05:47 Fr. Charbel Abernethy: https://www.philokaliaministries.org/post/philokalia-ministries-summer-retreat 00:05:57 Janine: I'm fine! Isn't your birthday soon! 00:06:43 Janine: Yes…the older the faster! Me too Mrs A! 00:07:28 Janine: Yes…the retreats are so essential now! 00:08:20 Janine: No….not at all! We all look forward to it and I'm sorry when it ends 00:08:35 Janine: So it was great you announced the next! 00:09:52 Janine: That is perfect for me…I started the Jesus prayer NOV 2022 00:10:00 Janine: I wrote it down 00:10:23 Janine: No….i wrote when I started it 00:10:57 Janine: It was after I reread The Way of the Pilgrim 00:11:25 Janine: It was the third time and it suddenly spoke it me 00:13:41 Fr. Charbel Abernethy: https://www.philokaliaministries.org/post/philokalia-ministries-summer-retreat 00:14:11 Janine: There is a young man in our church in Watervliet NY who has spent time at your monastery…apparently he is going to visit again soon… 00:15:24 Janine: basil Gutch 00:16:01 Janine: I just found this out…his dad is our Deacon…. 00:16:11 Janine: Ukrainian Catholic Church 00:16:44 James Hickman: This might be old news, but Audible now has several recordings of Fr. Zacharias Zacharou's books available. 00:17:21 una: You can also listen on YouTube, "Athonite Audio" 00:18:08 una: It 00:18:11 Janine: Athonite has so so many good talks 00:18:12 una: It is great! 00:18:18 Janine: I listen all the time 00:18:27 una: Me too! 00:18:49 una: The latest for me is The Angelic Life by Fr. Ephraim of Arizona 00:20:44 Anna: Glory forever! 00:22:33 Joseph Muir: Is the volume level all over the place yet consistently low for anyone else, or just me?

The Fathers place before us a vision of the human person that is almost unbearable in its simplicity and demands. We do not live with others because we have learned techniques of communication or conflict resolution. We can live with others only to the degree that we fear God and have begun to see all men as one. This is why the Elder says that if we remembered how Lot was saved because he condemned no one, we could live even among wild beasts. The greatest beasts are often not around us but within us: our judgments, our suspicions, our secret comparisons, our readiness to define another by his weaknesses. We imagine that our difficulties with others arise from their faults. The Fathers suggest something far more painful—that we cannot live with others because we have not yet learned to love them. Judgment begins in the mind long before it reaches the lips. St. Ephraim is remarkably precise: “Do not disparage a layman in your mind.” We may preserve an outward courtesy while inwardly diminishing another. We may smile while secretly placing ourselves above them. Yet the Lord alone knows the secrets of the heart. Every judgment is, in some measure, an attempt to occupy God's place. The Elder who struggled for twenty years to see all men as one reveals something essential about holiness. The spiritual life is not an effort to become extraordinary. It is the gradual dismantling of every illusion of separateness. The one before me is not an interruption of my life, nor an obstacle to my peace, nor an object for my evaluation. He is bone of my bone and flesh of my flesh. His wound is my wound. His weakness is my weakness. His salvation and mine are mysteriously intertwined. From such a vision arises great care regarding scandal. The Fathers are astonishingly sensitive about harming another's heart. They ask not merely, “Is this permissible?” but, “Will this burden my brother? Will this put troubling thoughts in his mind? Will this diminish his peace?” Love willingly limits itself for the sake of another's weakness. At the same time, the Fathers teach us not to become scandalized ourselves. The Egyptian monks judged the brethren of Sketis because they saw them eating hungrily. They knew nothing of their ascetic labors. How often we do the same. We glimpse one action and construct an entire narrative around it. We see a person's fatigue and call it laziness. We witness their weakness and imagine mediocrity. We know almost nothing, yet judge as though we know everything. Discernment requires humility. We do not excuse sin, but neither do we presume to know the secrets of another's struggle. Love leaves room for mystery. It says quietly, “Perhaps there is a story here that I do not know.” The Fathers also insist that when we have harmed another, even unintentionally, we should hasten to bring peace to their heart. If our words or actions have troubled our brother, our concern is not our reputation, nor our fear of humiliation, but the healing of communion. We make a prostration because the wound of another cannot be regarded as someone else's problem. We are one body. To see all men as one is to become incapable of contempt. It is to walk through life gently. It is to guard the minds of others from unnecessary burdens and to guard our own minds from suspicion and judgment. It is to honor every person for the Lord's sake and to remember that each human being stands before God bearing hidden wounds, secret battles, and unspoken grief. Perhaps the struggle of twenty years described by the Elder is the work of an entire lifetime. Yet this is the path of the Kingdom: to become so united to Christ that we begin to look upon every human face and say, “This one, too, is my own.” --- Text of chat during the group: 00:02:42 Fr. Charbel Abernethy: Page 31 paragraph 37 End of Hypothesis II 00:44:23 James Hickman: “Wanted to put them at ease…” Nun Christina translates this line “Learning this, the presbyter sought to heal them.” The healing of discipline puts us at ease — the grace of humility will, it seems, remove us of the ailment of (or passion) of judgment, judging others. 00:47:32 James Hickman: The healing seems to have worked…”The Egyptians repented and left with joy, having been helped by the experience.” 00:53:56 Danny Moulton: I find it can also feel manipulative 00:54:44 Danny Moulton: right 01:05:31 James Hickman: The elder spoke boldly words of rebuke to the visiting monks from Scetis and those monks were healed by his stern correction. It was medicinal. 01:08:56 Forrest: Can I ask James Hickman how Nun Christina has translated these?  The Greek word in the text is not παρρησία(FRANKNESS), but Ἐλευθερία (FREEDOM). And I think that shifts the meaning of this last one in particular.  There was a previous hypothesis about Parrhesia. 01:09:33 James Hickman: Yes, boldness of speech has been translated by her as freedom the last few paragraphs 01:09:58 Forrest: Freedom seems more appropriate, to me. 01:12:49 John ‘Jack': It would seem that if we TRULY spoke in love we should be free and bold in speech. 01:15:50 Julie: For me an example, I made scones at 9 pm for my husband, with cream and berry jam all layer out nicely, He ate said nothing walked away and I waited for his thanks 01:16:15 James Hickman: Reacted to "For me an example, I made scones at 9 pm for my husband, with cream and berry jam all layer out nicely, He ate said nothing walked away and I waited for his thanks" with ❤️ 01:16:19 John ‘Jack': Reacted to "For me an example, I made scones at 9 pm for my husband, with cream and berry jam all layer out nicely, He ate said nothing walked away and I waited for his thanks" with

In this warm and engaging episode of Reading With Your Kids, Jed sits down with two returning guests whose very different books both invite powerful family conversations. First up is Anthony Peckham, author of The Law of Solitude, Book Three in the Children of Glass trilogy. Anthony explains how a family road trip to an obsidian mountain and a single arrowhead led to a sprawling high-fantasy world—Earth as we don't quite know it, filled with black glass, sorcerers, and a bustling trade city inspired by medieval Timbuktu and Venice. He introduces listeners to his tough, resourceful sibling heroes who break village rules to save their injured father. Drawing on his background as a Hollywood screenwriter, Anthony talks about writing the trilogy as "one long novel," crafting page-turning cliffhangers, and then learning, with the help of a patient editor, to slow down and explore his characters' inner lives. Beneath the thrills, the books explore honor, courage, resilience, adaptability, and facing uncertainty—ideal themes for parents, kids, and teachers to unpack together. Later, Jed welcomes back Tracy C. Gold, author of the heartfelt picture book Call Your Father from Familius. Tracy shares how the book spotlights dads and grandfathers as fully capable, loving caregivers—handling nighttime wake-ups, school issues, big emotions, and tender moments often stereotyped as "mom jobs." She pulls back the curtain on how long traditional publishing takes, why books sometimes get stuck on ships, and how her own family inspired both Call Your Mother and Call Your Father. Tracy also talks about working from home, reading her work aloud during revisions, and watching her daughter dream up her own spin-off, "Call Your Pet."

The Fathers speak about judgment with a severity that can seem almost excessive to us. They speak of grace withdrawing, of years of tears and repentance, of visions of Christ refusing worship to one who condemned his brother. We recoil at this language because we do not see condemnation as they saw it. We think of it as a minor fault of speech, a passing irritation, a reasonable assessment of another's behavior. The Fathers saw it as an assault upon love itself. A brother is eating early on a Friday. One sentence escapes the lips: “You are eating at such an hour, and on a Friday?” Nothing more. No insult. No anger. Merely an observation with an edge of disapproval. And the grace of God departs. Why? Because in that instant the monk ceased to stand beside his brother and placed himself above him. The movement happened with the speed of lightning. One moment he was in humility; the next he had assumed the place of judge. This is the terrifying thing. Pride does not always arrive with fanfare. It can appear in a sigh. An eye-roll. A sarcastic remark. A sentence that begins, “I just don't understand how someone could…” A comment on social media. A conversation after church. A single word: “Ugh.” The Elder says, “Ugh,” upon hearing of another's bad reputation. A single exclamation. Then Golgotha appears before him. Christ does not rebuke him for fornication, theft, or apostasy. He says something infinitely more frightening: “Before I could pass judgment, he himself has condemned his brother.” In other words: You rushed ahead of Me. You seized what belongs to Me alone. How quickly we do this. We hear of someone's failure, and before our hearts have even softened, we have formed an opinion. We hear of a priest's collapse, a marriage's breakdown, a young person's confusion, a friend's inconsistency, and instantly the mind produces a verdict. We scarcely pause to remember our own darkness. The holy man says, with tears, “He sinned today, but I will surely sin tomorrow.” This is not pessimism. It is truth. The one who knows himself knows that every sin lies hidden within his own heart like sparks in dry grass. Circumstances differ. Opportunities differ. Temptations differ. But the same human nature exists in all. The same weakness. The same instability. If God withdrew His hand for an instant, who among us could stand? The Fathers do not tell us to deny evil. They do not call sin virtue. They simply insist that whenever we see another fall, our first thought should be: There, but for the mercy of God, am I. And then something remarkable happens. The sinner ceases to be an object of analysis and becomes a brother who is wounded. The question is no longer, “How could he do that?” It becomes, “Lord, have mercy upon him—and upon me.” This is why the Elder says that if you see someone sinning with your own eyes, you should first cry out, “Anathema to you, Satan!” The enemy is not your brother. The enemy is the one who delights in dividing us from one another, who tempts one man into sin and another into condemnation. He wins both ways. One falls into the pit. The other stands above the pit congratulating himself. Both are wounded. The Fathers say that nothing harms Christians and monastics more than mutual condemnation. Nothing. Not persecution. Not poverty. Not weakness. But condemnation. Because condemnation makes love impossible. One cannot bear another's burdens while sitting upon the tribunal. One cannot weep for a brother while despising him. One cannot pray from the depths of the heart for someone whom one secretly regards as inferior. The judging heart is incapable of communion. And perhaps this is why the Fathers tremble so greatly before this passion. To condemn another is not merely to commit a fault of speech. It is to act contrary to the entire ethos of the Gospel. We ourselves live only by mercy. Every breath, every confession, every Eucharist, every hope of salvation rests entirely upon mercy. How strange, then, that beggars of mercy become so quickly its gatekeepers. How terrifying that those who stand daily in need of forgiveness can pronounce sentences against others with such speed. The Fathers ask something harder. When another sins, descend. Accuse yourself. Weep. Pray. Remember your own fragility. And if a harsh judgment escapes your lips—as it so often does—repent immediately. Do not excuse it as honesty, discernment, or concern for standards. Call it what it is: a moment in which pride outran love and sought to sit where only Christ may sit. Then return to your place. Not upon the judgment seat. But at the foot of Golgotha. Beside the thieves. Beside all sinners. Beside your brother. Beside yourself. --- Text of chat during the group: 00:15:39 Fr. Charbel Abernethy: Page 29 paragraph 28 00:35:42 forrest: Do I understand the story correctly, there are 4 monks involved? The two sharing a cell, and two elders. 00:36:43 Fr Martin, Arizona: It seem to me that these stories of community members or (even spouses) that become discontented is part of the temptation of acedia, in that we are in the vocation we love and with the person we love but this distaste attacks one to the point that he or she just goes through the motions of vocation or community rather than with devotion or cheerfulness to the vocation or other. What do you think? 00:37:20 Kevin Burke: Reacted to "It seem to me that these stories of community members or (even spouses) that become discontented is part of the temptation of acedia, in that we are in the vocation we love and with the person we love but this distaste attacks one to the point that he or she just goes through the motions of vocation or community rather than with devotion or cheerfulness to the vocation or other. What do you think?" with

Psalms Book Three gives language for seasons when life feels like crisis and collapse, and when the promises of God seem far away. In this overview message, we look at how Israel wrestled with exile, loss, disappointment, and the question of whether God was still faithful. Book Three teaches us that God does not silence honest questions, He welcomes honest faith and Jesus is the fulfillment of every promise God has made.

The Fathers tell us again and again not to judge. We nod our heads. We agree. We repeat the commandment. And then we continue judging. The reason is simple. --- Text of chat during the group: 00:19:25 Fr. Charbel Abernethy: Volume III page 27 paragraph 23 00:29:20 Julie: Sometimes I feel we have to do something in actions not turn first to prayer 00:29:29 Holly Hecker: Judgement is one of the 12 forms of Holy Silence 00:33:58 Holly Hecker: in the book written by fr Basil Nortz, it's the hardest one to detach our dearest possessions - our prescious opinions 00:36:19 Catherine Opie: Apologies I came into the meeting slightly late, can I please request the reference to where we are in the text? 00:36:55 Kate: Page 28, #25 00:37:25 Catherine Opie: Reacted to "Page 28, #25" with

The Desert Fathers knew something that many of us have forgotten. The greatest danger to the spiritual life is not always the obvious sins we can name. Often it is the secret satisfaction we feel when we discover the weakness of another. There is something in the fallen heart that delights in comparison. The moment another stumbles, we instinctively move ourselves a little higher. We become observers, commentators, judges, analysts. We speak about “discernment” while quietly nourishing condemnation. We discuss another's failures while remaining remarkably blind to our own. Abba Poimen cuts through all of this with terrifying simplicity: “Who am I? And judge no one.” That is the beginning of monasticism. It is also the beginning of Christianity. Notice how often the Fathers return to the same theme. A brother falls. Another brother is tempted. Someone has a concubine. Someone frequents the baths. Someone neglects his duties. Yet the holy elders are almost never interested in discussing the sin itself. They are interested in the response of those who witness it. The real question is not, “What did he do?” The real question is, “What happened in your heart when you saw it?” The Presbyter of Pelousion stripped eleven brothers of the schema because of their failures. Later his conscience tormented him. Why? Because he discovered something humiliating: the same old man lived in him. The same fallen nature. The same capacity for sin. The Fathers never deny the existence of sin. They deny our right to stand above sinners. That is an entirely different thing. Again and again the Fathers teach that when we expose another's wound, we expose our own. When we delight in uncovering another's failure, God permits us to see the sickness hidden within ourselves. Timothy advised that a tempted brother be expelled, and shortly afterward the very temptation he condemned descended upon him. Why? Because God wanted to punish him? No. Because God wanted to heal him. Nothing teaches compassion like discovering that the line between saint and sinner runs directly through one's own heart. The most moving story in this collection may be the one about the brother abandoned in the ravine. The anchorite's solution was simple: “Expel him.” Abba Poimen's solution was different. He sought him. He called him. He embraced him. He fed him. He restored hope to him. The brother had already condemned himself. He did not need another judge. He needed a father. The Church has never lacked judges. What she continually lacks are fathers. A father sees the wound beneath the sin. A father sees the despair beneath the failure. A father sees the battle that nobody else sees. And because he sees it, he goes after the lost sheep. The Fathers teach us something even more demanding than refusing to judge. They teach us to actively support the struggling brother. One brother tells Abba Poimen that he enjoys the company of virtuous men but avoids those with bad reputations. The Elder's answer is astonishing: “If you do a little good to the good one, you ought to do twice as much good to the one about whose sin you have heard.” Twice as much. Not less. Not avoidance. Not suspicion. Not gossip disguised as concern. Twice as much. Because he is sick. When someone is physically ill, we do not withdraw our care until they recover. We increase it. We visit them. We pray for them. We encourage them. We sit beside them. Why then do we often do the opposite when a brother becomes spiritually ill? The Fathers understood that perseverance is often sustained by hidden acts of mercy. A word of encouragement. A meal. A visit. A refusal to repeat a rumor. A willingness to believe that grace is still at work. A determination to remember the brother's dignity even while he struggles. Many vocations have been saved by such acts. Many have also been lost through their absence. St. Ephraim says elsewhere that we must never become the occasion for another's withdrawal from the brotherhood. Those words should terrify every monastery, every parish, every Christian community. Whenever someone leaves wounded, discouraged, or broken, the question should not merely be what happened to them. The question should also be what happened to us. Did we strengthen them? Did we encourage them? Did we bear their burden? Did we pray for them? Did we conceal their weakness and protect their dignity? Did we seek them when they wandered? Or did we stand at a safe distance discussing their failures? The saints are not those who never see sin. They are those who see it and respond with tears rather than judgment. They see a fallen brother and remember their own weakness. They see a wound and cover it. They see a sinner and move closer rather than farther away. In the end, this is exactly how Christ has treated us. Every one of us has been the brother in the ravine. Every one of us has been the sinner whose shame was visible to Heaven. And Christ did not expose us. He sought us. He embraced us. He fed us. He covered us. The closer a man comes to God, the less interested he becomes in revealing the wounds of others and the more eager he becomes to bind them up. That is the way of the Desert Fathers. It is also the way of Christ. --- Text of chat during the group: 00:14:24 Anna: My daughter is asking for an understanding on judging based on Desert Fathers 00:36:42 Maureen Cunningham: What if the person is abusive to you ? 00:37:01 Maureen Cunningham: Like an alcholic 00:39:41 Julie: Like instead of assuming the sleeping monk is lazy or spiritually weak, but really is he exhausted from spiritual struggles, fasts, etc… 00:42:40 forrest: Sorry for a late comment for #15: the Greek word for "cover up" is the same used in the Septuagint Exodus 12:13 for the Angel of God "passing by" the houses marked with blood. 01:04:05 Julie: The wanting to be loved and needed by others. Our passions are hard to cut 01:10:57 una: Wait, what about the baby? 01:17:03 Rebecca Thérèse: Thank you☺️ 01:17:19 Janine: Thank you

There is a fierce honesty in the Desert Fathers that can unsettle us if we read them too quickly. They never soften the reality of sin. They do not sentimentalize weakness. They do not pretend evil is harmless, nor do they collapse into the modern confusion that mercy means blindness or moral indifference. They knew too much of the violence of the passions, too much of self-deception, too much of how quickly the heart can justify itself while remaining far from God. And yet, what is striking in these sayings from the Evergetinos is this: the deeper they saw sin, the less willing they were to condemn sinners. This is not softness. It is revelation. The Fathers understood something we often miss: to truly see sin is to begin by seeing it in oneself. We are accustomed to thinking judgment arises from moral seriousness. The Fathers often show the opposite. Judgment frequently arises not from holiness, but from forgetfulness. We forget what we are. We forget how much of our life is sustained not by virtue, but by mercy. We forget that beneath our outward discipline, our religious language, our ordered routines, and even our ascetic efforts, there remains within us a heart capable of pride, lust, cruelty, envy, bitterness, and quiet violence. This is why Abba Agathon, when tempted to condemn another, said to himself: “Beware, lest you do the same thing.” That is not psychological pessimism. That is truth. The saint does not trust himself. Not because he despises himself, but because he has looked deeply enough into his own heart to know how fragile he is apart from grace. The negligent brother dying joyfully may be one of the most unsettling stories in this section. He had not distinguished himself by great ascetic effort. He had not become known for extraordinary fasting or visible zeal. Yet he died in peace because he could say something profound: I have not judged. I have not held a grudge. If I quarreled, I reconciled. And the Elder says something almost shocking: “You have been saved without effort, by not condemning others.” Not because asceticism is unimportant. But because the purpose of asceticism is love. What good is fasting if the heart remains hard? What good is prayer if we stand before God while inwardly prosecuting our neighbor? What good is discipline if mercy has not entered us? The Fathers knew that a man may be severe with himself and still cruel to others. Such severity is not holiness. It is often pride wearing religious clothing. Again and again, these stories reveal the same pattern. Abba Ammonas, seeing the woman accused of immorality, does not rush to impose punishment. He sees first her frailty, her danger, her humanity. He provides what may be needed for burial before speaking of penance. When another sinful brother hides a woman in a cask, Ammonas knowingly sits upon it, covering his shame rather than exposing him publicly. Then he simply grasps his hand and says: “Be attentive to yourself, Brother.” This is astonishing. The Fathers did not always correct by exposure. Sometimes they corrected by mercy. Sometimes the deepest rebuke was protection. Why? Because they understood something terrifying and beautiful: divine love does not deny truth, but neither does it delight in humiliation. How often we do the opposite. We call it “clarity,” but sometimes it is disguised satisfaction. We expose, denounce, criticize, analyze, and condemn because another's fall secretly strengthens our own illusion of righteousness. The Fathers tear this illusion apart. Abba Moses enters the council carrying a basket filled with sand, the grains pouring out behind him. His words remain among the most piercing in all ascetical literature: “My sins are flowing out behind me, and I do not see them; and yet, I have come today to judge someone else's sins.” This is the beginning of humility. To realize that we are often blind not to the sins of others, but to our own. And then there is Abba Isaac the Theban. He condemns a brother. Later, an Angel blocks the entrance to his cell and asks: “Where do you want me to cast the erring brother whom you condemned?” This is not merely a dramatic moral lesson. It is theological revelation. To judge another is, in a hidden way, to step into a place that belongs to God. The Fathers knew that judgment is not simply speech. It is a movement of the heart that places the self above another. Mercy, then, is not emotional softness. It is participation in divine life. This is perhaps why Abba Macarius is described almost unbearably: he covered the faults which he saw as though he did not see them, and those which he heard as though he did not hear them. Not because he denied evil. But because he had become like God. God sees all and yet bears with all. God knows what we are and still does not withdraw His mercy. God alone sees with absolute clarity and still gives time for repentance. The Fathers wanted this same heart. And so should we. These stories do not simply teach us to “be nice” or “avoid criticizing people.” They embody revealed truth. They reveal what divine love looks like once it begins to enter fallen human beings. They show what man becomes when he ceases to live by accusation and begins to live by mercy. This is the deepest challenge. Not whether we can identify sin. Most of us can do that quickly. The question is whether, while seeing clearly, we have become merciful. Whether our truth has been transfigured by love. Whether our asceticism has softened the heart rather than hardened it. Whether we can stand before another's failure and remember our own need for forgiveness. The Desert Fathers were fierce because they were honest. They were merciful because they had met God. And the closer they came to Him, the less eager they were to condemn. Perhaps that is one of the surest signs that divine love has begun to remake the heart. Not blindness. Not permissiveness. But clarity without cruelty. Truth without accusation. Mercy without illusion. And a heart that increasingly belongs to God. --- Text of chat during the group: 00:14:52 Fr. Charbel Abernethy: Page 20 Volume 3 Section H 00:15:25 Charmaine's iPad: Hello dear family. Good to see all of you 00:15:34 Fr. Charbel Abernethy: Reacted to "Hello dear family. G..." with ❤️ 00:16:18 Charmaine's iPad: Reacted to "Hello dear family. Good to see all of you" with ❤️ 00:17:00 Fr. Charbel Abernethy: Coming Soon! [Full message cannot be displayed on this version] 00:19:08 Bob Čihák, AZ: P. 20  H 00:20:55 Julie: I'm so glad Father 00:32:40 Julie: Reminds me of the alcoholic monk that died 00:35:12 Bob Čihák, AZ: P. 21, #2 00:36:07 Julie: Today in Australia 00:36:25 Catherine Opie: In NZ too 00:36:30 Rebecca Thérèse: Today in Britain as well! 00:45:35 forrest: I'll look, but they often use euphemisms 00:51:19 Danny Moulton: In the Kindle version, he says, "May God forgive us all," thereby including himself.  This seems an even more powerful expression of humility, 00:51:21 forrest: The Greek has διαφϑαρῆ, indicating a passive verb form, implying she was victimized. 00:56:14 Julie: Reminds me of Fulton Sheen, he said on a visit to a jail to prisoners.” The difference between you and me are you were caught and I wasn't 01:03:34 una: I am highly disturbed by a culture that would exact punishment from a victimized woman 01:14:25 Fr Martin, Arizona: what do you think of this? It seems we don't calcify anyone's behavior as if it condemns them, because don't each of us hope God will heal us? St. Isaac the Syrian said, "God is not One who requites evil, but who sets evil right." 01:18:38 Danny Moulton: Thank you! 01:18:41 Andrew Adams: Thanks be to God! Thank you, Father! 01:18:44 Janine: Great class! Thanks Father 01:18:50 Rebecca Thérèse: Thank you☺️ 01:18:50 Maureen Cunningham: Thank you