He did not heal in secret. He waited until their eyes were fixed on him — hostile, watching — and then he opened himself, wounded himself, for love. The Lord of the Sabbath entered the lion’s den not with vengeance, but with vulnerability, because even his accusers were beloved.

This is not a tale of moral instruction. It is the revelation of Christ — meek, majestic, descending to the lowest place. The Psalms speak with his voice. The parables are shaped by his descent. Even our own lives only take on meaning in the light of his — our grief, our birth, our prayers: they are his first.

We fast, we pray, we serve — not for reward, not even for virtue — but because we want to be like Jesus. Because we love Him. And that is enough.

The Cross we exalt today is not a symbol alone — it is a relic of time and earth. Discovered by Helena, lifted by Constantine, lost to the Persians, and recovered again, it moves through history as it moves through us: hidden, revealed, wounded, victorious.

Eusebius saw its triumph in crumbling temples and rising churches. We see it in our own flesh — when we suffer, forgive, endure, obey. The Cross is everywhere present: on our walls, on our bodies, in our prayers, in our pain. And it is beautiful.

The world calls it shame. We call it sweet. Because through it, God's love is poured out for us — turning darkness into light, death into joy. Every sorrow, however small, becomes a path. Every burden, however bitter, becomes a blessing. The Cross does not merely save us. It teaches us how to live. And so — we should be happy.

Ten cried out. Ten were healed. But only one came back — fell down, gave thanks, was made whole. This is not just a healing; it is the pattern of all redemption. We have all received, all been touched by mercy, all walked away with skin made new. But have we returned?

There is a difference between being cleansed and being saved. Gratitude is not sentiment — it is the shape of faith itself. Worship is the only fitting response to a God who hangs for us, who rises for us, who lives now within us. To see clearly is to thank Him. To thank Him is to live.

He was a man without guile — transparent, true, already half-turned toward glory. And yet even he bore the skin of death, like Adam after the fall. In the icon, he stands holding it: his own flesh, flayed and offered, not in defeat but in exchange — the garment of mortality for the robe of divine light.

We are all clothed thus, for now. But through daily dying, we too may become what he became: a witness, a martyr, a friend of God. This skin will not last. It is not our shame but our passage. What if death, for us as for him, is not an end but a bright and terrifying door?

God, whose power hung the stars and split the sea, declares His might not by force, but by mercy. He comes not in thunder, but in the quiet cry of a sinner bowed low in the temple. We recall the Pharisee and the publican: one proud in righteousness, the other poor in spirit — and it is the poor who walk away justified.

To be healed, we must not only know our need but speak it aloud. Faith begins in recognition, but it lives in the act of turning — to pray, to cry out, to come near. This is the narrow way: not self-assurance, but surrender. Not complication, but the clear voice of devotion. And always, it begins today.

When the world demanded treasure, St. Lawrence pointed to the poor. When they burned his body, he offered laughter. His martyrdom was not somber resignation but cheerful defiance — not because he felt no pain, but because he saw Christ beyond it. He faced the fire as if it were a feast.

This is not irreverence. It is resurrection-shaped courage. We mourn and rejoice in the same breath. We see Christ in each other — on couches of pain, in voices of comfort, in saints who teach us how to die, and how to live. There is no contradiction in joy amid sorrow. God has entered our suffering, yet remains eternal gladness.

Despair is the lie. The martyr’s laughter is truth.

The steward was unjust — and yet he was praised, not for his virtue, but his vision. He saw the end coming and acted shrewdly. Christ does not tell us to admire his dishonesty, but his clarity: the world is passing away, and what we do with what we’ve been given matters eternally. What if even our wealth — so often a trap — could become a doorway?

We are stewards, not owners. What we hold is not ours to keep, but to offer. If we give freely, even of the unrighteous mammon, we make friends who will welcome us into the everlasting home. Our alms are not lost. They are kept in heaven — moneybags that do not grow old, freight trains of mercy.

Where your treasure is, there your heart will be also.

Holiness is not the same as goodness. It is not moralism, nor merely clean hands. It is union — with the One who alone is holy. And this holiness has a shape: not spin, not pretense, but fruit. The fruit of confession, of quick repentance, of humble honesty. The false prophet — and the false thought — both wear wool, but devour. The wolf is not always a person. Sometimes it is the voice in our head that tells us to hide.

But Christ will not be deceived. He looks not at appearances, but at what grows beneath them. Talk is cheap, He says — it is the will of the Father that bears weight. So we watch for our own fruit. We bring our thoughts into the light. We confess, not to be punished, but to be made real again. This is the path to union. And joy begins wherever pride breaks.

He speaks not to frighten, but to awaken — not with condemnation, but with clarity. The law is not discarded but fulfilled; not lessened, but transfigured. What is asked of us is not more precision, but deeper union: a righteousness not measured by rule, but made possible by mercy — the righteousness of repentance, of love that returns, of faith that trusts.

We do not possess this holiness. We receive it. And when we fail — as we will — we are not cast away, but called again to rise, to confess, to walk the narrow way. This is not a system. It is a life. A life tethered to His, shaped by His words: Go, and sin no more.

He is not loitering by the lake. He is looking. The crowd presses near, but His eyes are on those who are not — men still clinging to the safety of nets and night-long toil. They know Him, but they have not yet obeyed. And now the moment arrives: a borrowed boat, a quiet command, and the weight of holiness breaking their nets with more than they can hold.

We are not spectators to this story. We, too, are asked to leave the shore — to stop patching the familiar and to trust the voice that says, Put out into the deep. What we fear to lose may be what is keeping us from the Kingdom.

And if the bucket is empty, if the nets return void, it may be mercy.