Reflection on the holy Gospel reading for the fifth Sunday after the Feast of Dormition of the Theotokos
Holy Gospel reading: St. Luke 11:33-41
In Dostoevsky's novel The Brothers Karamazov, Ivan Karamazov, an atheist, recites a self-penned poem to his younger brother Alyosha, a young novice steeped in prayer. The poem traces an old cardinal in sixteenth century Seville who, after burning a hundred heretics, has Christ Himself arrested for daring to return and comfort the people. The Grand Inquisitor accuses Him of burdening humanity with a freedom it neither desires nor can bear. In the wilderness, Christ refused to turn stones into bread, refused to cast Himself from the temple, and refused dominion over the kingdoms of the world. By rejecting these temptations, He refused to compel belief through necessity, spectacle, or power. Instead, He entrusted humanity with something far more demanding; the freedom to choose Him, even in uncertainty and darkness.
Yet herein lies the splendour of the Gospel.
Christ does not force the human person into the light. He reveals Himself as
the Light and grants each person the freedom either to receive Him or to turn
away. An ordinary light bulb or tube-light fixed to a wall is, by itself, only
glass and metal. It cannot dispel even the slightest darkness. It shines only
when a living current passes through it. The lamp is designed to bear light,
yet it cannot generate that light from within itself.
So it is with the human conscience. Freedom of
conscience is a precious gift from God; a lamp placed within every human
person. Through it we discern, judge, and choose. We often speak of “following our conscience,”
but conscience is not automatically infallible. A conscience detached from God can mistake preference for truth, emotion
for righteousness, and self-interest for freedom. It may even come to call
darkness light simply because darkness has become familiar. For the lamp of
conscience to fulfil its purpose, it must be indwelt and kindled by Christ, the
true Light.
This understanding sheds light upon the Old
Testament reading from Leviticus 18:1-5: "You shall not do as they do
in the land of Egypt, where you lived, and you shall not do as they do in the
land of Canaan, to which I am bringing you. You shall not follow their
statutes. My ordinances you shall observe, and my statutes you shall keep,
following them: I am the Lord your God." Israel, newly free, is not
commanded merely to obey, she is commanded to choose, deliberately and
against the current of every surrounding culture, to walk in the light of the
Lord's statutes rather than drift into whatever darkness Egypt behind her or
Canaan before her might offer.
This is the tragedy that the poem in
Dostoevsky’s novel explores. Humanity often finds freedom frightening because
genuine freedom carries responsibility. We may prefer someone else to make our
moral choices, silence our questions, or relieve us of the burden of
discernment. But Christ refuses to reduce the human person to a passive
subject.
Our freedom becomes a blessing to the world
only when it is illuminated by Christ. When the inward lamp is severed from His
flame, it does not remain neutral. It either remains dark or becomes a fire
that consumes rather than illumines. Yet when the lamp is kindled by Christ,
the whole person begins to see differently. Thoughts, desires, ambitions, and wounds
are brought beneath His radiance. We begin to perceive not merely what is
advantageous, but what is true, good, and life-giving. Conscience becomes a
sacred place of encounter where human freedom responds to divine truth.
Christ warns of darkness masquerading as light,
"Therefore, consider whether the light in you is not darkness."
(v.35) Such darkness can rename abuse as tradition, silence as peace, and self-interest as service. It may even cloak itself in
religious language in order to avoid repentance.
The Pharisee who invited Jesus to dine believed
himself to be walking in the light. He was careful about outward purification
and astonished that Jesus did not observe the customary washing before the
meal. The problem was not that the Pharisee lacked religion. The problem was
that his religion had ceased to illuminate his heart. His outward observance
had not led to inward transformation. He could recognise an unwashed hand, yet
he could not recognise the Lord who sat at his table.
Religious authority becomes spiritually
perilous when the visible signs of piety are allowed to conceal an unexamined
heart. It is this danger that lies behind the Lord's rebuke in the Old
Testament reading from Ezekiel 34:1-6: "Woe to the shepherds of Israel
who have been feeding themselves!" These sobering words are directed
not merely against personal failure but against a betrayal of vocation. Those
entrusted with the care of the flock by bearing God’s light have turned inward
upon themselves and allowed darkness to spread among those placed in their
care.
Darkness, by its very nature, seeks
concealment. This is why abuses of authority, including clergy abuse and
spiritual manipulation, often flourish in secrecy. Darkness survives by
persuading people that what is hidden must remain hidden and that bringing
matters into the light is somehow more dangerous than the darkness itself.
Yet the light of Christ does far more than
expose. It reveals the condition of the human heart not in order to humiliate,
but in order to restore and heal. A wound concealed beneath a bandage and never
examined cannot be treated. Likewise, a soul that refuses illumination cannot
be restored.
At the same time, we must not confuse Christ's
illumination with mere moral scrutiny. The Gospel is not the demand that human
beings present themselves as flawless. Rather, it is the invitation to bring
even our brokenness into the light. The tragedy of many spiritual failures is
not that weakness existed, for every human person is weak, but that weakness
was hidden behind an increasingly polished exterior. The outer life was
carefully maintained while the inner life remained captive to wounds, passions,
and unhealed afflictions.
For those who have suffered because of clergy
abuse or spiritual betrayal, Scripture neither dismisses nor minimizes that
pain. The Lord Himself condemns the shepherds who wound the flock. Yet our
faith was never meant to rest upon the vessel. It was always meant to rest upon
the One whom the vessel was called to carry. The shepherds may fail, neglect
the wounded, and scatter the flock, but the Lord declares-"I myself
will search for my sheep, and will seek them out" (Ezekiel 34:11).
That promise remains unchanged. When our gaze
moves beyond the failing vessel to the Light it was meant to bear, we discover
that Christ Himself still stands among His people. Even in the pain of
disappointment and betrayal, He calls the wounded not to abandon the flock, but
to remain close to the Good Shepherd. As such, He was always the true
reason we came to the table in the first place.
As Christ illumines the conscience, purifies
the heart, and heals the wounds hidden within, the human person is gradually
transfigured. Yet the radiance we manifest is not self-generated; it flows from
our participation in the life of Christ. The lamp within us was never meant to
burn by its own strength, rather it is called to bear the life-giving Light of
Christ, before whom every darkness must ultimately yield. As the Evangelist declares, "In Him
was life, and the life was the light of all people. The light shines in the
darkness, and the darkness did not overtake it”- (St. John 1:4,5)
In Christ,
Rincy
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