The Grammar of Hidden Sanctity- Fiat Without Fanfare

Remembering Rev. Fr. George Philip, Mar Baselios Dayara Njaliakuzhy 

(d. 04 September 2022)

There is a peculiar difficulty in speaking about a truly humble man; the very virtues that make him worthy of remembrance are often those he took greatest care to conceal. Humility does not arrange its achievements for posterity or leave carefully polished accounts of its sacrifices. It passes quietly through the world, often recognised only when the life that bore it has withdrawn from sight.

The Apostle Paul, writing to a congregation altogether too enamoured of eloquence and distinction, delivered a verdict that every generation of the Church is obliged to relearn- “But God has chosen the foolish things of the world to put to shame the wise, and God has chosen the weak things of the world to put to shame the things which are mighty”-1 Corinthians 1:27.

It is a verdict our age receives uneasily, as we are accustomed to measure spiritual authority by credentials, publications, position, and visibility. Fr. George Philip possessed few of these instruments of recognition. Yet those who lived with him or were formed under his quiet discipline encountered a man whose spiritual authority seemed to arise from an altogether different source, not from accomplishment, but from surrender to the will of God.

The desert tradition of the Church produced, alongside its great theologians and teachers, an entire company of deliberately obscure men and women who cultivated a holiness partly expressed through the refusal to be noticed. At the furthest end of this tradition stand the Holy Fools, whose suspicion of spiritual reputation was so severe that they sometimes embraced misunderstanding to escape veneration. George Achen was no Holy Fool in that dramatic sense; he sought no scandal and cultivated no eccentricity for its own sake. Yet he shared something of the same theological grammar, the conviction that the self is an obstacle to be continually set aside rather than a possession to be endlessly promoted.

Early Life and Call to Priesthood

Fr. George Philip was born on 20 November 1952 into the Mannalumbhagom family of Puthuppally as the son of Adv. P. J. George and Mariamma George. Known affectionately to his family as Siby, he received the baptismal name Philip and was officially named P. George Philip. He grew up with his siblings, P. George Joseph, George P. Abraham, and Andamma George, in a household rooted in the agricultural life of the land.

 After completing his schooling and graduating from S. B. College, Changanassery, he travelled to Goa to study law, intending to follow his father’s profession. Before long, however, he realised that the legal profession was not the path appointed for him. Leaving his studies unfinished, young Philip made the decisive choice to offer his life to the service of God. He informed the then Metropolitan of the Kottayam Diocese, His Grace Paret Mathews Mar Ivanios, of his desire and subsequently joined the Orthodox Theological Seminary, Kottayam.

It was only after entering the Seminary that Philip began serving within the Holy Altar. Following his seminary studies, he obtained master’s degrees in Malayalam, Sanskrit, and English. Yet scholarship never became for him a means of distinction. Learning was placed within the larger discipline of the spiritual life and subjected to the question that would govern nearly every aspect of his existence- What is the will of God?

Fr. George Philip served as associate vicar and vicar in several parishes of the Kottayam Diocese, including some that later became part of the Nilakkal Diocese. During this period, he also lived at Pampady Dayara, embracing a manner of life increasingly shaped by solitude, restraint, prayer, and the disciplines of monasticism.

He served as Vice Principal of B.M.M. School and as Head of its Malayalam Department. After many years of teaching, he took voluntary retirement and joined Mar Baselios Dayara, Njaliakuzhy. With the permission of his bishop, His Grace Geevarghese Mar Ivanios Metropolitan, he eventually withdrew from parish responsibilities to serve as chaplain of the Dayara and devote himself more fully to prayer, silence, and meditation.

A Pathway Around Idle Speech

During his years at the Dayara, students noticed a peculiar habit. If George Achen saw two or three of them gathered in conversation, he would sometimes turn aside and reach his room by another route. It was not aloofness, nor was it intended as a rebuke. When asked about the practice, he offered a simple and unsparing answer that when people stand together, the tongue speaks more than it should, and eventually this may lead to sin and disturb the spiritual life.

To modern ears, such reasoning may appear excessively austere. We inhabit a culture in which continuous expression is treated almost as an unquestionable good to remain relevant in society. Silence is easily mistaken for absence, weakness, or disapproval. George Achen understood that many of the soul’s gravest injuries begin in unguarded words. The tongue can wound another, feed vanity, spread suspicion, and cloud the mind that seeks God. He therefore guarded speech not because he despised company, but because he understood his own frailty.

A few extra steps to avoid idle conversation became a miniature expression of monastic anthropology. The body changed its course so that the heart might remain attentive.

The Will of God Before Every Other Good

The phrase most closely associated with George Achen’s spiritual teaching was the “will of God.” For Achen, this was the criterion by which every action, including apparently virtuous actions, had to be judged.

On one occasion, he advised an inmate not to run about attempting to do everything that came before him. The inmate explained that whenever he began one task, someone else would call him to another. He believed that responding to every request was an act of obedience. Did not the Lord command His disciples to go the second mile and to surrender even their cloak when it was demanded of them?

George Achen listened and gently corrected that one must look for the will of God in everything. Otherwise, even obedience, when separated from discernment, can lead to wrongdoing.

George Achen did not permit even obedience to take the place of discernment. For him, obedience was neither mechanical compliance with every demand nor an anxious attempt to satisfy every expectation. Even a seemingly good action could become spiritually disordered if it arose from pride, fear, distraction, or the desire to appear useful. The question was therefore not merely- “Is this action generous? Is it difficult? Does someone expect it of me?” The deeper question was- “Does this belong to God, or merely to my own restlessness?”

Prayer as Repentance and Intercession

When asked how one might pray continually, George Achen’s answer was simple, practical, and grounded in an honest knowledge of the human heart.

He taught that one should begin by praying for oneself. After some time, the mind becomes aware that it has been occupied chiefly with its own needs, and this awareness produces repentance. Repentance then moves the person to pray for others. Later, while interceding for others, one becomes conscious again of one’s own weakness and returns to prayer for oneself. Thus, prayer continues in a rhythm, moving between personal repentance and intercession for the world.

The apparent simplicity of this counsel conceals considerable spiritual wisdom. George Achen did not imagine that unceasing prayer required the elimination of human weakness. Weakness itself could become the point from which prayer can begin again; self-concern led to repentance, repentance opens the heart towards others, and intercession returned the soul to an awareness of its own dependence upon mercy. Prayer thus moved in a circle, but not a fruitless one. Each return went deeper.

“We should always pray for the will of God and for God’s mercy,” he taught. These two petitions belonged together. To seek the will of God without His mercy could become harsh striving. To seek mercy without surrender to His will could become spiritual self-indulgence.

A Bible Worn by Use

Near the place where George Achen stood to pray was a simple cane stool. Upon it he kept his prayer books and his Bible. The Bible was heavily worn, its pages bearing visible evidence of a long companionship with Scripture. There is an old saying that a good Christian’s Bible is often worn.

On Saturdays, after evening prayer, he would gather the students and ask them to read the relevant portions from the Old and New Testaments according to the lectionary. At times he questioned them about what had been read, taking particular interest in how the Old Testament and New Testament readings illuminated one another.

Communion Before Charity

George Achen taught that the Christian life flows from Holy Communion to good deeds, not the other way around. Through Holy Communion, the faithful receive the Holy Body and Blood of the Lord and are drawn into His life. From that union, we are called to serve others and act with the mind and character of Christ.

The movement is from altar to the world, from sacrament to service, and from communion to charity. Christian action proceeds from union with Christ. For this to happen, we must remain continually connected to Christ through the Eucharistic life of the Church.

It is this conviction which protects the service from becoming self-glorification. When good works are severed from communion with Christ, they can easily become an exercise in moral pride. The person may seek to appear godlike through the greatness of his deeds while remaining inwardly untouched by the humility of God.

Authority Without Ambition

Achen usually observed others in silence and rarely invoked authority merely because he possessed it. Yet his restraint was neither timidity nor indecision. When something needed to be said, he said it without hesitation, and his words carried weight precisely because they had not been multiplied carelessly.

The same freedom appeared during discussions concerning episcopal nominations. When one of the monks suggested that all suitable persons should be permitted to submit their names, George Achen agreed. Achen reasoned that if the Church has asked for deserving candidates, then all who are considered suitable should be offered to the Church with prayer, leaving the result to the will of God.

While discussions and speculation continued outside the Dayara, Achen remained calm and gentle, refusing to be drawn into the surrounding negotiations.

When a fellow monk asked whether he should submit his own nomination, George Achen advised him to do so and said that if it were God’s will, he might be chosen; if not, the disappointment itself might become a blessing by exposing and correcting any pride within his spiritual life. When the monk later considered withdrawing, George Achen discouraged him and asked him to leave the result to God. This monk and two others were subsequently raised to the episcopate.

We are accustomed to judging success and failure as opposites, one desirable and the other regrettable. George Achen saw them differently. Neither was ultimate, and neither possessed an independent meaning. Success could become spiritually perilous if it fostered pride, while failure could become a blessing if it humbled and purified the heart. Both, when surrendered to God, could serve as instruments of grace.

The Theology That Became a Life

While theological concepts are usually expressed in propositions, George Achen’s was expressed almost entirely in verbs; through yielding, in withholding speech, in tending soil and cattle, in reading the Scriptures with unwavering constancy, in asking, before every act, whether the act in question belonged to God or merely to himself. He returned to the same truths until they entered the movements of his body and the instincts of his mind.

The Church has always known that this is the more difficult theology to develop; not the theology that is written, but the theology that is lived, day after day, until the distinction between the person and his prayer can no longer easily be drawn.

For George Achen, monastics were “living martyrs.” They were called to die to the world each day so that they might live more completely with God. This martyrdom was not ordinarily enacted in a single heroic moment. It took place through inconspicuous renunciations, a word left unspoken or a preference surrendered. His life was shaped by precisely this hidden martyrdom.

George Achen fell asleep in the quiet of his own cell, on 04^th September 2022, days before the Church’s commemoration of the Nativity of the Theotokos. The Theotokos is venerated by the Church for the totality of her yielding; a will so thoroughly surrendered that it became the very ground upon which the Incarnation could occur. “Let it be to me according to your word” (St. Luke 1:38). The surrender expressed by the Theotokos in that single sentence, a fiat without fanfare, had been the long labour of George Achen’s life.

Achen’s mortal remains were taken to his mother parish, St. George Orthodox Church, Puthuppally, and to his family home, where the appointed services were conducted and then brought back to Mar Baselios Dayara. On Monday, 05^th September 2022, the funeral was conducted near the chapel under the leadership of His Holiness Baselios Marthoma Mathews III Catholicos and Malankara Metropolitan, together with the assembled metropolitans and priests. He was laid to rest near the resting place of His Grace Geevarghese Mar Ivanios Metropolitan (of blessed memory).

In an age fascinated by visibility, George Achen’s witness recalls the Christian conviction that the holiest lives are often hidden from the world and known fully only to God. This was the grammar of his hidden sanctity. Grammar does not ordinarily draw attention to itself; it stands beneath speech, quietly giving order and intelligibility to every sentence. In much the same way, the hidden disciplines of Achen’s life stood beneath his words and actions. Silence, repentance, Scripture, Eucharist, obedience, and discernment were not isolated virtues, but parts of an underlying spiritual order by which his whole life became intelligible.

Only after his departure did those who had lived around him begin to understand the place he had quietly occupied among them. Many remembered that he had not spoken to them often. Yet they also remembered that he had been present, someone among them whose silence was not emptiness but prayer.

May his memory be eternal and may the humility he practised so unassumingly continue to instruct those of us who remain, still labouring, as he once did, to discern in each small matter what is truly and simply the will of God.

By the prayers and intercessions of our father among the saints, Fr. George Philip, may the Lord have mercy upon us and help us.

In Christ,
Rincy

(Ref: Mounamudridam, edited by Fr. Yohannan A., Mashikkoottu, 2023)

 

Remembering Very Rev. Cyril Rambachan (d. 02 Sep 2008)

 

On September 2, the Malankara Orthodox Church commemorates the memory of Very Rev. Cyril Rambachan (1919-2008), a monk and a teacher. A member of Bethelehem Monastery, Chengamanad, which was established as an extension of St. George Orthodox Monastery, Othera, Rambachan lived during a period when many faithful were increasingly exposed to modern movements that promoted a "Bible-only" understanding of Christianity. In response, he would often remind people- "It is the Church that teaches; the Holy Bible validates the instructions of the Church."

This conviction shaped his entire ministry. To those considering leaving the Orthodox Church, he would gently pose two thought-provoking questions: 

(1)"Do you think being in the Orthodox Church will prove to be a barrier to the salvation of your soul?" 

(2)"If you have a difference of opinion within your family, do you bid farewell to your home forever and move into a neighbouring house?"

Early Life

Cyril Rambachan was born on November 10, 1919, to Shri Abraham Panickar and Smt. Aleyamma Panickar of the Mukalel family in Kundara, Kerala. Before embracing monastic life, he was known as M. A. Varghese Panickar.

Rambachan once recounted an interesting tradition concerning the title "Panickar." According to local history, when the Raja of Kottarakkara visited the king of Kayamkulam, he was impressed by a dramatic performance staged in his honor. Upon learning that the performers were also skilled martial artists and loyal subjects, he requested that some of them be settled in his kingdom. The request was granted, and these martial warriors were established in Kundara with the title "Panickar." A church was later built for the community, which is today known as St. Thomas Orthodox Church, Kundara.

After completing the ninth standard, Varghese Panickar worked briefly as a teacher at St. Kuriakose L.P. School before completing his S.S.L.C. education at M.G.D. School. During the years of the Second World War, he moved to Madras and served the British Indian Army as a civilian Quartermaster Clerk, overseeing supplies and the management of twenty-five military trucks.

Following the war, he returned to Kerala and served as a teacher at Kundara M.G.D. High School from 1947 to 1950. He later worked as a Library Inspector for the taluks of Kollam, Karunagappally, and Karthikappally. Yet despite having a stable career, he felt a deeper calling.

A Life Offered to God

In 1953, Varghese Panickar resigned from government service and joined St. George Orthodox Monastery, Othera. The monastery was then under the leadership of Rev. Fr. E. Mathews, who would later become His Holiness Baselios Mar Thoma Mathews II Catholicos. The monastery was home to eighteen inmates, and in this community the future Rambachan began his formal spiritual formation.

From 1953 to 1958, he studied at the Old Seminary in Kottayam. Among his classmates was the future Mathews Mar Epiphanios Metropolitan. On March 25, 1958, Dn. Varghese was ordained to the priesthood.

Over the next five decades, Fr. Geevarghese Panickar faithfully served numerous parishes in India and abroad, including Kudassanad, Kozhikode Cathedral, Mavelikara Puthiyacavu, Kollam Cathedral, Vellore, Singapore, and Malaysia. Wherever he served, he became known for his commitment to prayer, discipline, and Orthodox teaching.

In 1987, His Holiness Baselios Mar Thoma Mathews I Catholicos ordained Geevarghese Achen to the rank of Rambachan, formally embracing the fullness of monastic life.

Rambachan’s prayer book was a constant companion. Whether traveling or at home, he was careful to maintain the discipline of prayer. If the appointed hour of prayer arrived while he was walking, he would quietly seek a secluded place, often beneath the shade of a tree, and continue his prayers.

Kundara Seminary, established by His Holiness Baselios Geevarghese II Catholicos to support the ministries of the southern dioceses, became closely associated with Cyril Rambachan's life and ministry.

From 1982 until his repose in 2008, he served as its Manager for twenty-six years. During this time, he worked tirelessly for the spiritual growth of the institution and was instrumental in establishing within the seminary the holy relics of St. George, Mar Kauma, St. Kuriakose, and St. Yulithi. Every Friday, he organized special prayers for the students of M.G.D. School and personally counseled them in matters of faith.

When someone once asked whether he felt lonely living at the seminary, Rambachan simply pointed to the portraits of departed holy fathers hanging in its hall and replied that he enjoyed their company. With saints as companions, he saw no reason to fear solitude.

One concern that weighed heavily upon his heart was the declining number of young people embracing monastic life. He viewed this not merely as an organizational challenge but as a spiritual loss for the Church. Indeed, his own love for the monastic vocation was so profound that when he learned his name had been proposed for episcopal consideration, he personally approached His Holiness Baselios Mar Thoma Mathews I Catholicos and requested that his name be withdrawn, preferring the quiet path of monastic service.

Inspired by the call of his spiritual father, His Holiness Baselios Mar Thoma Mathews II Catholicos, to live as a pilgrim journeying toward heaven, Rambachan undertook many pilgrimages beginning in 1978. These journeys took him to lands intimately connected with biblical history, including Holy Land, Jordan, Greece, and Egypt. His travels were not undertaken merely for personal devotion. He studied ancient Christian sites deeply, particularly the monasteries of Egypt, and shared his findings through books and writings.

After a lifetime of service, prayer, teaching, and sacrifice, Very Rev. Cyril Rambachan departed this earthly life on September 2, 2008. He was laid to rest at Chengamanad Bethlehem Monastery, the community he loved and served.

His life stands as a quiet reminder that the most enduring service to the Church is often offered not through prominence, but through steadfast faithfulness.

In one of his interviews, he left a simple message to the faithful-"Participate without fail in the liturgical life and rituals of the Malankara Orthodox Church. Love your Church. Respect the holy fathers. See to it that you always maintain simplicity and purity in your life."

May those words remain engraved upon our hearts.

May the memory of Very Rev. Cyril Rambachan be eternal.

In Christ,

Rincy

Reference: (Translated from Malayalam) Bethlehemile Theerthadakan, ed. Fr. K. Geevarghese, Chengamanad: B.A. Publications, 2009.

THE TAXMAN’S GOSPEL- THE STRANGER AT THE THRESHOLD

 

Reflection on the holy Gospel reading (St. Matthew 17:22-27) for the third Sunday after the Feast of Dormition of the Theotokos

Of the four Evangelists, only Matthew preserves this quiet and modest scene; the tax collectors, the question about kings and tribute, and the coin from the fish (v.24-27). Coins had long been the language of Matthew's identity. His hands processed daily the tribute of a subject people, marking his neighbours as debtors even as his occupation rendered him, in their eyes, a sinner. The words “tax collector” and “sinner” were paired so frequently that they had become almost synonymous (St. Matthew 9:9-11).

The taxation imagery itself is not unique to Matthew. The question concerning the coin bearing Caesar’s image appears in all three Synoptic Gospels. St. Luke gives us Zacchaeus and the parable of Publican, narratives that reveal the repentance and conversion of tax collectors. Matthew’s account at Capernaum concerns something different. It takes the distinctions familiar to every collector of tribute, between those who belong and those who are liable, and transforms them into a revelation of divine sonship.

Christ asks whether kings “take customs or taxes, from their sons or from strangers?” to which Peter answers, "from strangers" (v.25,26). For the rest of the Twelve the exchange may initially have appeared no more than a question of legal obligation. For Matthew, however, this was the language of a life he had once lived. His former occupation revolved around precisely these distinctions of tribute, liability, and exemption. He had spent years on the far side of that division, not as one of the exempted, but as one employed to collect from others and treated as something of a stranger himself for doing it.

This distinction, between the child of the house and the stranger at its threshold, is one that the New Testament repeatedly re-examines in the light of God's mercy.

The stranger is not merely to be tolerated. Sacramentally, he is Christ Himself- “I was a stranger and you took Me in” (St Matthew 25:35). St. Paul speaks of Gentiles as those who were once "strangers to the covenants of promise," but now are "fellow citizens with the saints and members of the household of God" (Ephesians 2:12,19). Stephen applies the language of the resident alien to Israel’s own sojourn in Egypt, describing the people of the covenant as “resident aliens in a country belonging to others” (Acts 7:6). St. Peter turns this imagery upon the Church itself, addressing believers as “aliens and exiles” in the present world (1 Peter 2:11). Before the Christian presumes to adjudicate the stranger’s belonging or worth, the apostolic exhortation asks him to remember that he too lives before God as a pilgrim sustained by mercy.

The single leper who returns to give thanks is a Samaritan, whom Christ calls “this foreigner” (St. Luke 17:18), not to exclude him but to expose the ingratitude of the nine presumed insiders. The Canaanite woman, though apparently outside the household of Israel, displays a faith that perseveres until even the imagery of household bread becomes an occasion of grace.

The Apostle who, at Capernaum, distinguished naturally between sons and outsiders is eventually taught that God is gathering outsiders into His household. Standing in the house of Cornelius, he confesses -“You yourselves know that it is improper for a Jew to associate with or to visit an outsider, but God has shown me that I should not call anyone profane or unclean.” (Acts 10:28). Any manner of speaking about outsiders that breeds suspicion, contempt, or the withholding of ordinary mercy must therefore be weighed against the language of the Gospel.

The witness of Scripture therefore challenges every tendency of fallen humanity to divide the world into those who belong and those who do not. We draw boundaries of kinship, class, nation, culture, community, and then imagine that God regards these boundaries as we do. Yet the boundary Christ addresses at Capernaum is filial rather than territorial, and the wider movement of the Gospel is to bring those once regarded as strangers into the household of God. 

Human distinctions may order our common life, but no border, association, community, or human institution is granted the authority to decide who bears the image of God or who is worthy of compassion, dignity, and welcome.

To meet the debt, Christ sends Peter to the sea. The coin is not drawn from a treasury or counted out from the abundance of a household. It is found in the mouth of an ordinary fish. The Creator summons His creation to provide what human obligation demands. Yet even here Christ does not pay only for Himself. He tells Peter, "and give it to them for you and Me" (v.27). The Son's provision embraces His disciple. Christ does not abolish the tax or dispute its legitimacy. Rather, He bears a burden from which He is entitled to be free. In doing so, He establishes a pattern for the life of His Church. 

The ecclesial calling is not merely to welcome the stranger, but, when love requires it, to share in the cost that welcome entails. The household of God is enlarged not by words alone, but by bearing one another's burdens in imitation of the Son who freely assumed an obligation that was not His own.

A coin may seem an unlikely vessel for revelation, yet few men would have understood its language better than Matthew. A Rabbi had once passed his booth and said only, "Follow me." Matthew rose, left the ledger and the income of a lifetime lying on the counter, and went. It was not a change of employment but a change of allegiance, a decision made in a single afternoon as to whose coin he would spend the rest of his life serving.

That same evening, he threw open his house to tax collectors and sinners (St. Matthew 9:10), the only society that had ever fully received him, so that they too might sit at table with the Man who had called him. The former collector did not leave his old companions behind as evidence of a life he wished to forget. He brought them within hearing of mercy.  The Kingdom proclaimed by Christ does not merely pardon sinners while leaving them at the threshold. It brings strangers into the household and seats them among the children.

Indeed, Matthew’s entire Gospel bears the marks of this redeemed vision. It begins with Gentile women  gathered into the genealogy of the Messiah. It records foreign Magi kneeling before the infant King while Jerusalem remains troubled. It honours the faith of a Roman centurion and a Canaanite mother. Finally, it ends with the risen Christ sending His Apostles beyond the boundaries of Israel to make disciples of all nations.

The hand that had once tallied the tribute of strangers recorded for all generations, that day at Capernaum when, beneath the clink of a temple due and the improbable gleam of a coin drawn from the mouth of a fish, the Lord quietly disclosed the mystery of His Kingdom. The Son bore the debt of those counted as strangers, that strangers might enter His Father's house and be received as sons.

In Christ,

Rincy

DESIRE TRANSFIGURED INTO DOXOLOGY

 

Reflection on the holy Gospel reading (St. Luke 11:9-20) for the second Sunday after the Feast of Dormition of the Theotokos

Few passages of Holy Scripture are more often distorted by modern assumptions than Christ’s invitation: “Ask, and it will be given to you; seek, and you will find; knock, and it will be opened to you.” Too often, we read these words through a transactional lens, treating prayer as a celestial mechanism through which requests are submitted and answers are dispensed. Yet such an understanding is perilously shallow as it subtly places our desires at the centre and God at the periphery. What often masquerades as devotion is merely the intensity of our attachment to a particular outcome.

Christ's words are not an invitation to spiritual consumerism but to communion. The movement of prayer in the Gospel portion begins with human requests, with bread, fish, and the ordinary needs that occupy our hearts, yet Jesus Christ concludes not with material gifts but with the promise that the heavenly Father gives the Holy Spirit to those who ask Him. The trajectory of prayer is from longing for something from God to longing for God Himself.

Remarkably, Leah's story traces the very same spiritual pilgrimage. St. Luke's Gospel portion provides the theology of that movement and Leah provides its lived, wounded, and ultimately transfigured embodiment.

Leah stands one among the tragic and relatable figures in the Holy Scripture. She knows what it means to be overlooked, unwanted, and perpetually compared to another. Married to Jacob through circumstances beyond her control, she lives in the painful awareness that his heart belongs elsewhere. Her story is not merely the story of an unloved wife; it is the story of fallen humanity's relentless struggle to ground its identity in human affirmation. It is the story of every human heart that has allowed its worth to become entangled with the expectations, affections, and assessments of others, rather than resting securely in the unwavering love of God.

The names of Leah's first three sons reveal the hidden liturgy of her wounded heart. When Reuben is born, she cries, "Now my husband will love me." (Genesis 29:32). When Simeon is born, she declares that God has heard she is unloved (v.33). When Levi arrives, she hopes that her husband will become attached to her as she bore him three sons (v.34). With each child, Leah rightly acknowledges that God has seen her affliction and heard her cry. Yet the gravitational centre of her longing remains Jacob.

Then comes the turning point. With the birth of her fourth son, Leah's naming formula changes entirely. No longer does she say, "Now my husband will love me," or "Now my husband will be attached to me." Instead, she declares with striking simplicity, "This time I will praise the Lord," and she called his name Judah (Gen. 29:35).

For the first time, Leah ceases interpreting God's goodness through the lens of her disappointment. She stops measuring divine faithfulness by Jacob's response and no longer evaluates God's blessings according to whether they succeed in winning the affection she longs for. Instead, her gaze shifts from the gift to the Giver. Her prayer is no longer instrumental, a means of securing a man's love, but doxological. She praises Him not for what He might yet provide, but simply because He is worthy of praise.  In the language of Luke 11, Leah has moved beyond seeking the fish to desiring the Spirit. She ceases to use God as a pathway to Jacob and begins to rejoice in God for His own sake.

There is a beautiful irony hidden in salvation history. The Messiah does not come through Reuben, Simeon, or Levi, those sons who symbolized Leah's desperate attempts to secure Jacob's affection. Christ comes through Judah, the son born at the precise moment praise displaced grasping.

This challenges many of our own prayers. How many of us are still praying the prayers of Reuben, Simeon, and Levi? How many prayers are really attempts to persuade God that our happiness depends upon a certain outcome?  

Jesus cautions His disciples not to confuse the good gift with the ultimate Gift. Leah’s story reveals both the cost and the grace of that discovery. When her desire is purified from seeking Jacob’s affection to praising God Himself, her prayer bears fruit beyond anything she could have imagined. Through Judah, the son born of praise rather than yearning, would come the royal line of David and, in the fullness of time, the Incarnate Word-Christ Himself, Immanuel, God with us.

Perhaps this is the mystery Christ seeks to teach. God does not merely grant petitions; He uses the discipline of prayer to transform those who pray. As we continue to bring before Him our wounds, desires, disappointments, and hopes, He gradually teaches us that beneath every lesser longing lies the soul's deepest hunger; not for success, recognition, security, or even human affection, but for God Himself.

Keep asking, because He is the Father. Keeping seeking, because He alone can satisfy the heart. Keep knocking, not because a treasure lies behind the door, but because the One who waits behind the door is Himself the treasure. And if we remain at that door long enough, persisting through disappointments and unanswered expectations, perhaps we too will arrive where Leah finally arrived.

Like Leah, we are called to bring our deepest ache before God, honestly and repeatedly if necessary, trusting that in the mystery of persistence our asking may gradually be purified into praise. Then our prayers will no longer sound like, "Now my husband will love me." They will become - "This time I will praise the Lord."

In Christ,

Rincy

The Unlived "Yes" and the Living Fiat

Reflection on the holy Gospel reading (St. Matthew 21:28-2) for the first Sunday after the Feast of Transfiguration

Having beheld the glory of Christ upon Tabor, the Church is now invited to turn her gaze inward. Christ confronts us with a deeply uncomfortable question concerning the human heart itself. For there is often a painful difference between what we appear to be and what we truly are before God.

The first son begins badly. His answer is harsh, yet honest. He does not conceal his resistance beneath pious language. Precisely because he does not hide, grace can find him. Something changes within him and he reorients his life. The response of the second son is courteous, respectful, and immediate. Yet his life remains untouched. He represents those who speak eloquently of faith yet never permit God to alter the direction of their lives.

Through the Parable of the Two Sons, Christ exposes the contrast between religious performativity and genuine transformation, revealing how spiritual self-sufficiency can become a greater impediment to grace than the humble admission of one's shortcomings. The greatest obstacle to communion with God is not always open rebellion, often it is the illusion that we are already faithful.

 Isaiah 5 describes Israel as the Lord's carefully tended vineyard. More than a physical place, it signifies God's covenantal work in history; His labour to cultivate a people who bear the fruits of righteousness, justice, and holiness. The father's command is therefore not merely a request for work, but an invitation to participate in the divine mission. The first son, though initially resistant, ultimately enters the vineyard and becomes a co-worker in what the father is accomplishing.

When Jesus declares that tax collectors and prostitutes enter the Kingdom ahead of the religious elite, He is not praising their former lives but highlighting their capacity for transformative repentance. Upon hearing St. John the Baptist's call, the outcasts recognized their spiritual bankruptcy and responded. The religious leaders, blinded by their own moral prestige, felt no need for redemption.

His Grace Geevarghese Mar Ivanios Metropolitan of blessed memory taught: "Sinners do repent. They will indulge in evil deeds for a long period but then a moment of great repentance will arrive. Pharisees will not repent. They are religious puritans but lack spiritual calling. They are boastful of their self-righteousness and are quick to advise others. We resemble the Pharisees in many aspects."  Ivanios Thirumeni’s words uncover the uncomfortable truth at the heart of this Gospel that acknowledged weakness may become the beginning of salvation, while unexamined righteousness can become its greatest obstacle.

The assent of the second son is purely nominal. He never enters the vineyard. Christ warns us against the danger of the "pious yes" ; the illusion that verbal allegiance and institutional belonging are equivalent to participation in the divine will. It is impossible not to turn our attention to the Blessed Virgin Mary. Throughout Scripture, Israel pledged obedience yet wandered. Then, in the fullness of time, a young woman from Nazareth uttered a different kind of yes.  Her consent is so complete and unreserved that her "yes" literally becomes flesh. She proves that a genuine human response to God is not a grand statement of intent, but an embodied willingness to bear the Divine, even when that path leads through exile, poverty, and the sword that pierces her own soul (St. Luke 2:35).

As the Church journeys towards the Feast of the Dormition, she does not merely commemorate the close of the earthly life of the Theotokos but beholds the consummation of a lifelong response to grace. The Dormition is the flowering of the Annunciation, the harvest of that fiat spoken in Nazareth. It reveals what becomes of a life wholly surrendered to God. The glory glimpsed upon Tabor finds its fullest human response in the life of the Theotokos, where divine grace transfigures an entire human existence.

Yet the Gospel reminds us that it is possible to admire Tabor and never enter the vineyard. The Lord is not asking whether we were moved by the vision, but whether we will do His will. The true measure of faith is not the splendour of the vision, but the faithfulness with which we enter the Father's vineyard and allow His grace to transfigure our lives.

In Christ,

Rincy

We Beheld His Glory (Reflection on the feast of Transfiguration of our Lord)

 

A profound awareness runs throughout Scripture that fallen humanity struggles even with the penumbra of holiness; how much less could it endure the radiance of divine holiness and live. When the Lord descended upon Sinai in fire and cloud, Israelites stood in awe, marvelling, "We have seen this day that God speaks with man; yet he still lives" (Deuteronomy 5:24). Yet the story of salvation is the story of God overcoming that distance. Humanity was never created to remain far from Him.

It is against this backdrop that Christ leads Peter, James, and John up the mountain (St. Matthew 17:1-8; St. Mark 9:2-8; St. Luke 9:28-36). The disciples heard His teaching, walked beside Him, and witnessed His miracles. Yet on the mountain they perceived what had always been true but hidden from their sight. The miracle of the Transfiguration is not that Christ suddenly becomes glorious; the glory was always His. It is the story of human eyes learning to see. On the mountain, the disciples begin to glimpse not only who Christ is, but what humanity is called to become-fully alive in the light of God.

St. Irenaeus writes- “For the glory of God is a living man; and the life of man consists in beholding God” (Against Heresies, Book IV, chapter 20). Human beings become truly alive not through power, achievement, or recognition, but through communion with the living God. Every restless pursuit of the human heart is ultimately a search for the glory for which it was created. Yet we often settle for lesser things. Perhaps the greatest tragedy of humanity is not that we are too small, but that we forget how great our calling truly is.

Salvation is restoration and flourishing of the whole human person. From this perspective, the Feast of Transfiguration challenges every way of thinking that diminishes human dignity. If divine glory can shine through human nature, then every person bears a sacred worth that transcends gender, class, race, status, or achievement. The disciples suddenly saw what had always been present in Christ. The feast invites us to look beyond appearances and recognise hidden grace where the world sees little value. Whose voices have we not heard? Whose gifts have we overlooked? Whose hidden glory have we failed to see? The splendour witnessed on the mountain not only reveals Christ to us, but it also teaches us how to see one another.

Metropolitan Anthony Bloom observes- "we live in a world of things which command our attention and assert themselves... Things invisible do not assert themselves; we have to seek them out and discover them. The outside world demands our attention; God entreats us diffidently." We live in a world crowded with things that demand our attention, attractions that appeal to our senses, ambitions that consume our energy, and worries that occupy our thoughts. The visible world constantly presses itself upon us, while the things of God remain quiet, waiting to be sought.

Perhaps this is why Jesus led Peter, James, and John away from the crowds and up a high mountain (St. Matthew 17:1; St. Mark 9:2; St. Luke 9:28). Throughout Scripture, mountains are places of encounter, where earthly distractions fall away and heaven draws near. Moses ascended Sinai to meet God (Exodus 19:20), and Elijah journeyed to Horeb to hear the still small voice (1 Kings 19:11-13). The ascent to the mountain is not merely a change of location; it is a call to a different way of seeing. Before the disciples can behold Christ's glory, they must first be led away from everything that competes for their attention.

All three Synoptic Gospels recount the event in vivid detail (St. Matthew 17:1-8, St. Mark 9:2-8, and St. Luke 9:28-36). St. Peter later recalls it in his second epistle, insisting that the apostles did not follow "cleverly devised fables" but were eyewitnesses of Christ's majesty when they heard the Father's voice on the holy mountain (2 Peter 1:16-18).

The fourth Gospel, however, never records the Transfiguration itself. Instead, apostle St. John, who was also present on the mountain, opens his Gospel with the profound declaration: "And the Word became flesh and dwelt among us, and we beheld His glory.." (St. John 1:14). For St. John, the revelation of Christ's glory was not confined to a single day on Mount Tabor. The whole life of Christ was a manifestation of divine glory. The glory that shone on the holy mountain was present at Cana, in the raising of Lazarus, in His teaching and compassion, and ultimately in the mystery of the Cross and Resurrection. The Transfiguration was not an isolated revelation, rather it was a window into the reality of who Christ had always been.

If the mountain witnessed the glory of Christ, it also reveals the reach of that glory. It shines not only upon the disciples standing on the mountain but across the whole story of salvation. Moses and Elijah appear as witnesses that the glory revealed in Christ is the very glory they had sought throughout their lives. Both ascended the holy mountain, fasted forty days, entered the divine presence, and heard His voice (Exodus 19:20, 24:15-18, 33:11, 34:5,28 and 1 Kings 19:8,11-13). Yet, both longed for more. Moses was permitted only a glimpse of God's passing splendour (Exodus 33:22-23) while Elijah encountered God in the still small voice (1 Kings 19:11-13).  What was only partially glimpsed on Sinai and Horeb now stands unveiled in the incarnate Son.

The Old Testament records that Moses died, though no one knew the place of his burial (Deuteronomy 34:5-6). Elijah did not die but was taken up into heaven in a fiery chariot (2 Kings 2:11). One entered the mystery of death while the other entered the mystery of translation. Yet on Tabor, Moses and Elijah stand not as memories or symbols, but as living persons conversing with Christ. Our existence unfolds within a web of divisions- life and death, past and present, visible and invisible, heavenly and earthly. Yet on Tabor these boundaries collapse around the person of Jesus Christ, and the disciples glimpse the truth that all generations are alive before Him.

"Lord, it is good for us to be here" (St. Matthew 17:4). Peter wants to remain on the mountain, build tabernacles and prolong the moment. However, the descent is as important as the revelation itself. Immediately after the Transfiguration, Christ leads His disciples back into the valley of human suffering where He encounters a distressed father and his demon-possessed son (St. Matthew 17:14-18). The light of Tabor was not an escape from the Cross but a preparation for it. Divine glory is revealed not to avoid the world's brokenness, but to transform it.

Holy Qurbana is, in a sense, our own ascent to the holy mountain. St. Matthew tells us that Jesus took Peter, James, and John up the mountain "after six days" (St. Matthew 17:1), echoing Moses' ascent of Sinai, where the cloud covered the mountain for six days before the Lord called him into His presence on the seventh day (Exodus 24:15-16). Having spent six days amidst the noise, labour, struggles, and distractions of the world, we too are summoned to ascend, fixing our gaze upon Christ. In the Holy Qurbana we gather in God's presence, hear His voice in the Scriptures, and behold His glory in the Holy Mysteries. Yet the mountain is never the destination. Worship does not remove us from the world; it transfigures us for the sake of the world. Having beheld His glory, we descend bearing His light, until the day when faith gives way to sight and we behold Him face to face in His eternal Kingdom (1 Corinthians 13:12).

In Christ,

Rincy

The Liturgy of Comfortable Distance

Reflection-Holy Gospel readings for the sixth Sunday after Pentecost- St. Luke 13:22-35

The Gospel reading of St. Luke 13:22–35 is often preached as an admonition about the narrow gate. Throughout Scripture, God repeatedly places humanity at decisive crossroads. Moses declares, “I have set before you life and death” (Deuteronomy 30:15). Jeremiah echoes the same divine announcement to a recalcitrant nation: “Behold, I set before you the way of life and the way of death” (Jeremiah 21:8).

The Christian faith was first called “The Way.” The question therefore is not merely whether we can pass through a narrow gate at the end of life, but whether we are walking the right road today. Yet the perennial tragedy is that we often choose death while imagining we have chosen life.

 Israel had just crossed the Red Sea. Pharaoh's armies lay defeated behind them. Songs of victory filled the air. Then they arrived at Marah. “And when they came to Marah, they could not drink the waters of Marah, for they were bitter.”- Exodus 15:23. The true scandal of Marah is not the bitterness of the water, but its timing. Israel had scarcely finished celebrating deliverance when disappointment confronted them. So too we often assume that God's blessings should shield us from hardship, confusion, or spiritual dryness. Yet many of the deepest crises of life arise not from the absence of success, but from the discovery that success itself cannot satisfy.

The bitter waters of Marah are everywhere around us. A society connected by technology but fractured by loneliness. Families living under one roof yet unable to speak honestly to one another. Professionals attaining remarkable success while inwardly bearing a deep spiritual desolation. At Marah, God showed Moses a tree, and when it was cast into the waters, they became sweet (Exodus 15:25). The Fathers naturally saw the Cross hidden in this tree. The narrow gate is the Cross standing in the middle of bitter waters. The world seeks to sweeten life's bitterness through consumption, entertainment, wealth, influence, ideology, or endless distractions. Christ offers something startlingly different; not escape from suffering but transformation through the Cross.

In St. Luke 13, the people protesting outside the closed door are not strangers. “We ate and drank in Your presence, and You taught in our streets.” (St. Luke 13:26). They know Him. Their tragedy is not ignorance but familiarity without transformation. The defining temptation of modern Christianity is that we have unprecedented access to sermons, podcasts, books, liturgical resources, online discussions, and theological debates. We can consume more religious content in a week than previous generations encountered in a lifetime.

Yet knowing about Christ is not the same as knowing Christ. Our age suffers not from a shortage of information but from a shortage of conversion. Meanwhile the narrow gate remains narrow. One cannot carry pride through it. One cannot carry carefully curated public personas through it. The gate is narrow because truth is narrow. Every false version of us must remain outside.

 After Israel passed through Marah's bitter waters, God led them to Elim: "And they came to Elim, where there were twelve wells of water and seventy palm trees; so they camped there by the waters." (Exodus 15:27). The twelve wells remind us of the Twelve Apostles from whom the life-giving waters of the Gospel flowed into the world. The seventy palm trees call to mind the Seventy Evangelists whom Christ sent ahead of Him into every town and village. They were living signs that the Kingdom of God was drawing near.

We often reduce salvation to a private affair; a personal relationship with God detached from the suffering of our neighbour, the wounds of society, and the brokenness of creation. We wish to pass through the narrow gate and remain comfortably inside. But Christ never called disciples merely to enter. He sent them.

The Seventy first walked through the narrow gate of surrender, leaving behind security, possessions, reputation, and certainty. Only then could they become like palm trees in the wilderness, offering shade to the weary, standing as signs of hope in the desert, and pointing travellers toward living water. The world abounds with many critics, commentators, polemicists, and influencers. It has too few evangelists.

The true tragedy of the people standing outside the closed door was not that they had never encountered Christ. It was that they had kept Him at a comfortable distance. They had eaten in His presence, listened to His teaching, and watched His works, yet never allowed the narrow gate to transform them into wells of living water for others.

The Divine Liturgy was meant to continue as the liturgy after the liturgy, spilling into homes, workplaces, streets, and places of suffering. If our faith ends at the dismissal, we risk exchanging the narrow way for the liturgy of comfortable distance.

As we commemorate the Seventy-Two Evangelists on the sixth Sunday after Pentecost, we are reminded that the journey through the narrow gate leads us not only into communion with God, but into participation in His redemptive work for creation. Beyond Marah lies Elim. Christ calls us not merely to find life, but to become bearers of life in a thirsty world.

In Christ,

Rincy