St. Paul prays that our “spirit and soul and body” be kept rightly ordered and blameless before Christ, showing that each part has its place under God. In the same spirit, he warns that if we “live according to the flesh” we move toward death, but if by the Spirit we put to death the deeds of the body, we truly live, pointing to the danger of bodily impulses ruling over the soul. (1 Thessalonians 5:23; Romans 8:13)
Human beings were created to be a harmonious union of soul and body, functioning in the Divinely-instituted framework of the soul guiding the body. When this order is disrupted, when the body overpowers the soul, we are left with a distorted experience of both God and the world. When the body leads, people become fragmented, restless, at the whim of obsessions, compulsions, and addictions.
Instead, we are meant to lead with our spiritual sense, known as the nous. In Orthodox teaching, the nous is the highest faculty, capable of perceiving God and the spiritual realm. When the nous is darkened by passions, it leaves a person spiritually blind; when it is illumined, it allows the soul to discern God’s will and align our lives with it. This gives right shape and order to our lives: instead of becoming our masters, food, drink, work, rest, and the innocent joys of the body are received as gifts and offered back to God in praise and thanksgiving.
Immediately before beginning his messianic ministry, Jesus is lead into the wilderness by the Holy Spirit, where He fasts and faces temptation for forty days. This passage is deeply symbolic: it fulfills the Old Testament pattern of Israel journeying in the wilderness for forty years after being delivered through the Red Sea—a foreshadowing of Christian baptism, which delivers us from sin and death.
Jesus’s time in the wilderness also prefigures the spiritual journey of every Christian, showing that following Christ does not remove struggles or temptations, but instead marks the beginning of deeper spiritual warfare. (An example of what Fr. Thomas Hopko called, “The bad news of the Good News.”) This struggle is expected for those serious about their faith, as temptations often increase when we draw closer to Christ. The wilderness represents both a battleground against evil and a place where God’s peace and victory can be found. Facing these struggles is not a sign of failure, but a sign that one is authentically on the path toward God.
St. Ambrose of Milan offers further insight: just as Adam was sent into the wilderness from paradise, Christ—the Second Adam—returns from the wilderness to lead humanity back to God. Jesus deliberately enters the wilderness of the world’s brokenness to seek out the lost and guide them toward the kingdom of God, showing that His saving work involves joining us where we are and bringing us to where He is—at the right hand of the Father.
Immediately before Holy Communion, the deacon comes out of the altar with the holy Chalice, exclaiming: “With the fear of God… draw near.” When we say, “the fear of God,” what are we actually talking about?
While the world’s fear makes us hide and leads us into isolation—like Adam and Eve in the garden—the fear that God calls us to cultivate is life-giving. When we humbly become aware of our weaknesses, let that awareness inspire hope—not despair. Like the sick and demon-possessed in the days of our Lord’s earthly ministry, we run with confidence into Christ’s embrace, certain that healing and forgiveness await all who seek Him.
The true “fear of God” is not about anxiety or trembling before an indifferent despot, but about cherishing the precious relationship we have with our loving Creator. Let us remember the wisdom of the saints: those who have tasted the peace and sweetness of God’s presence fear only one thing—losing that intimacy with Him. This holy fear is not about dreading punishment, but about never wanting to be separated from God’s love.
People were deeply moved by St. John the Forerunner’s warning of the coming judgment and wanted to know how to amend their lives. St. John’s answer was grounded in mercy and justice—the same command proclaimed by the prophet Micah, that we “do justice, love kindness, and walk humbly with God.”
John was not giving a detailed code of behavior for every circumstance, but rather revealing the heart of the law. Repentance meant a shift away from “each man for himself” to becoming one’s brother’s keeper. True turning to God always includes turning toward the neighbor, because love of God and love of neighbor cannot be separated.
In practical terms, this means that part of faithfulness to God is found in serving others. Just as our sins often make life harder for those around us, repentance produces the opposite effect: making another’s life a little lighter, even through small acts of mercy. These are the fruits worthy of repentance, the visible sign that one’s heart has truly turned toward God.
Looking over the text of the Divine Liturgy, we find very few “I” statements. The Liturgy is a communal act and the content of the prayers and hymns reflect this. There are, however, two notable exceptions. One is in the Creed and the other is the prayer that we read immediately before Holy Communion. Both of these sacred texts begin with the words “I believe.”
By saying “I believe,” we are making a personal confession of faith, aligning ourselves with the collective belief of the Church, first proclaimed by the holy apostles. “I believe” is not an abstract statement—this is the language of conviction, trust, and relationship.
We don’t say “I think” or “I theorize,” but “I believe.” In the New Testament, belief is never just intellectual agreement. It is an act of entrusting ourselves to God. St. Paul says clearly, “If you confess with your mouth that Jesus is Lord and believe in your heart that God raised Him from the dead, you will be saved” (Romans 10:9). To believe with the heart is to place our whole life in God’s hands. We hear this invitation over and over again in the Divine Liturgy: “…let us commend ourselves and each other and all our life to Christ our God.”
The Lord Himself connects belief with life. In John 11:25–26, standing at the tomb of Lazarus, Jesus says, “I am the resurrection and the life. Whoever believes in Me, though he die, yet shall he live, and everyone who lives and believes in Me shall never die. Do you believe this?” The question He asks Martha is the same He asks each of us when we begin the Creed and then again as we approach the Holy Eucharist: Do you believe this?
Recently, I had the pleasure of visiting my Alma Mater, St. Andrew’s College, in Winnipeg, Canada. It’s been years since I’ve been back to the seminary. As always, the place I’m drawn to is the chapel. This is where I entered for the first time into the routine of the daily services, together with festal celebrations and the profound beauty of our seasonal liturgical life. These services, so filled with divine and life-giving rhythms and patterns, flow like a peaceful yet powerful river both through the Church year and through our own hearts.
Just as Jesus faced 40 days of temptation after His baptism, we too can expect spiritual struggles when we get serious about our faith. Being in the wilderness isn’t a sign of failure.
When we give our lives over to Christ, one of the first places He begins working is in the people we meet. It’s easy to say, “Thank you, God, for bringing this person into my life,” when someone is helpful, supportive, and inspiring. But what about those people who test our patience, who annoy us, or who we’d rather avoid? Can we still say, “Thank you, God, for bringing this person into my life”? Every person Christ sends our way is there for a reason—either so we can serve Christ through them, or so we can learn something about ourselves that’s needed for our spiritual healing and growth. “As iron sharpens iron, so one person sharpens another.” (Proverbs 27:17) Whether a person brings us joy or frustration, every encounter is a chance to break free from our egos and selfishness, and to truly live for others. The only thing we need to ask God is for the wisdom to discern why He brought us together. Even those who annoy or persecute us are there to teach us compassion, kindness, and forgiveness. They help us learn to deal with negative emotions without letting bitterness take root. And sometimes, we’re the ones God has sent into someone else’s life to help them grow in patience and love.
What do we mean in the Eastern Orthodox Church when we talk about the fear of God? The following quotes offer important insights into this question. Saint Dorotheos of Gaza wrote: “A godly man fears and keeps to God’s will, not for fear of punishment or to avoid condemnation, but because he has tasted the sweetness of being with God, and fears he may fall away from it. He fears to be turned from it.”
Saint Theodorus the Great also writes: “The greater our longing for God, the greater grows our fear. And the more we hope to attain God, the more we fear him. For as nothing is more blessed than to attain God, so nothing is more terrible than this great fear of losing him.”
The 20th-century elder, Elder Thaddeus of Vitovnica, said: “The fear of God is when you love him, when you truly love him with all your heart, and you strive never to offend or sadden him—not only with your deeds, actions, and words, but also with your thoughts. You try to please him in everything you do or say. That is the fear of God, the fear of doing anything that might sadden or offend our parents.”
And in the book The Mountain of Silence, Kyriakos Markides sums it up like this: “The fear of God of the saints refers to the fear of losing their connection with God, the divine lover, not the fear of a patriarchal despot who rules over the universe with an iron fist.”
We do not have, in the Eastern Orthodox Church, the image of God as Zeus—a powerful, mighty being waiting for people to mess up so he can lower the boom on them. For us, the fear of God arises when we realize, even if just for a moment, the beauty and fulfillment we find in communion with God. Then, we do not want to lose this Divine connection, and we do not want to conduct ourselves in a way that would result in losing it.
It is the fear of losing God, not the fear of God himself.
Whenever I post something like this, at least a couple of people respond with the quote, “The fear of the Lord is the beginning of wisdom.” These words are repeated several times in the scriptures. One place we find them is in Proverbs 9:10. And yes, the fear of God is the beginning of wisdom. It can be an effective wake-up call and a good starting point. It is the natural response of a humble heart before the Lord, his saints, and his angels.
But it is not a place that God expects us to be stuck in forever. He does not need us to fear him. And we remember that in the scriptures whenever an angel visits someone and the person is afraid, what is the first thing the angel says? “Don’t be afraid.”
St. Anthony the Great, referencing 1 John 4, said: “I no longer fear God, but I love him, for perfect love casts out fear.”
So, fear can be a starting point for us. It can be what we need to take this whole thing seriously, but it is not where we must remain. It is a beginning, but ultimately everything must be driven by love.
Because frankly, if the reason I come to church, pray, read the Bible, and do all these things is simply because I am afraid of being punished, then I am making it about me. I do not want to get punished, so that is why I am doing these things.
In truth, our motivation should be the love of God and the desire for an intimate fellowship with him unto the ages of ages.
Much has been written about the Lord’s Prayer and you can find hours and hours of podcast episodes on it. It’s worth taking the time to look these sources up (this lecture by Fr. Thomas Hopko is a great place to start).
St. John Chrysostom said:
The Lord teaches to make our prayer common, in behalf of our brethren also. Because he does not say: “My Father, in Heaven,” but, “Our Father,” offering up his supplications for the body in common, and in no way only looking out for his own good, but looking out in all things for his neighbor’s good. And by this he at once takes away hatred, and quells pride, and casts out envy, and he brings in selfless love – the mother of all good things, and exterminates the inequality of human things…
What St. John is pointing out is that we don’t say, “My Father,” we say, “Our Father.” The Lord’s Prayer is the great equalizer in Christianity. Regardless of our race or cultural heritage, of our station in life, or of any other demographic into which we can be separated, we are all united in calling God: Our Father.
An ancient Christian saying states that “One Christian is no Christian.” Christianity is relational at its core. The word for Church in the New Testament, “ecclesia,” literally means a people called together. This is how the Lord Jesus Christ defines his people: as one Body, united by his grace.
In my journey through life, I don’t walk alone. I walk together with all of my brothers and sisters, untied through Christ as a family of faith, children of Our Father in heaven.
Eastern Orthodoxy 