Homily - Do You Want to Be Healed? Letting God Rewrite the Story

Do You Want to Be Healed? Letting God Rewrite the Story Ephesians 8:5-19

Today, Fr. Anthony reflects on how the deepest obstacles to healing are often the stories we tell ourselves to justify, protect, and control our lives. Drawing on the Prophet Isaiah, the Gospel parables of the banquet, and the power of silence before God, he explores how true healing begins when we let go of our fallen narratives and allow Christ to reconstruct our story through humility, prayer, and repentance. The path of peace is not found in domination or self-justification, but in stillness at the feet of the Lord where grace remakes the soul. As St. Seraphim teaches, when we acquire peace, myriads around us are healed as well.

One of the great problems we encounter in life is this: we desire healing, but we do not always know how to arrive at it. One helpful way to understand this struggle is through the language of story. Very often, the problem is that we do not have our story right. Scripture tells us to redeem the time, because the days are evil. One of the ways that evil operates is by corrupting our story—our personal story, the way we understand ourselves, the way we frame our relationships, and even the way we understand the great arc of history, what Christians call the economy of salvation.

When we live in evil times, that evil does not remain outside us. It enters in, and our story becomes crooked. If all we do as Christians is add religious language to that crooked story—new words, even new scriptures—we have not truly been healed. We have only changed the decoration. The path itself remains bent. One day that story will be brought into the light. This is what the Apostle means when he says, "Awake, O sleeper, and arise from the dead, and Christ will shine upon you." As St. Jerome once observed, St. Paul seems to be paraphrasing Isaiah here—especially that great prophecy where the crooked ways are made straight. This theme runs deeply through Advent and the Nativity Fast. One small personal ritual during this season is listening to Handel's Messiah. Through that music, the words of Isaiah become alive: the great darkness that covers the earth, and the light that rises to overcome it. But darkness is not overcome by changing words alone. If all we do is rename our brokenness with religious language, the world's darkness will only pollute us more deeply.

So the first discipline of the Christian life is this: we must let go of our story. Our fallen story becomes a way to protect the ego, to justify ourselves, to excuse the very things Saint Paul warns us against. Salvation begins with humility, with letting go of our justifications, with abandoning the need to construct a story that protects us from the world or grants us domination over it. We are called to let go and stand before the Lord in silence. Not to explain ourselves, not to defend ourselves—but simply to be our story before Him in quiet awe. If we do that work faithfully—and for many of us this must be done daily—then the reconstruction of the story can begin anew. This is where the disciplines of the Church come in: the prayer rule, the psalms, the prayers given to us by the Holy Spirit through the Church. These do not shame us; they heal us. They allow us to see our shortcomings not as excuses to hide, but as wounds that need restoration. This is how our crookedness is straightened so that we can be healed.

The Lord also gives us Scripture to interpret our story. In Isaiah 60 we hear of darkness and of a light that rises. Israel is called a light to the nations—but whenever Christians hear that language, our minds are drawn immediately to the Prologue of the Gospel of St. John. And there, light is not mere illumination. It is transformation. It is grace. It is the energy of God entering the world. And when Scripture moves back and forth between Christ and Israel, it is not a mistake—it reveals our participation in this great movement of salvation. Just as we are healed by grace, so the world is transfigured by that same grace flowing from the Body of Christ into all creation.

The Lord also teaches us through parables. Many parables may not resonate with many of us because of their agricultural contexts, but we can understand a banquet. We understand meals. We understand invitation. And in this parable, we are the ones who were called—and we came. We may not have been the first invited. We came blind, wounded, ashamed, hiding behind excuses. But the invitation came, and we showed up.

Yet getting through the door is not the end of the story. The Lord teaches us what it means to live inside the banquet. When you enter the house, do tell the master how he should run it? Do you take the highest seat as if it belongs to you? No—He says take the lowest place, and let the master raise you up if he wills. This is the posture of true humility. If we were the authors of our story, it would end in darkness. But instead, we are invited into a feast that never ends. And none of our fallen tools—control, manipulation, ego-protection—belong in the Father's house. This is why the psalmist says he would rather be a servant in the house of the Lord than sit among kings. That is our true inheritance. There is no such thing as a low seat at that table. Every place at that feast is glory beyond imagination. The only way it becomes distorted is if we try to overlay God's story with our fallen one.

So yes—do we want to be healed? Of course, we do. That is why we are here. Do we want to grow into our inheritance? That is why we came. But it is not enough merely to arrive. We must live your part in the story.

There is a false humility that sometimes creeps into us—especially if we have been wounded or manipulated. We become afraid to acknowledge anything good about ourselves or even our relationship with God, as if gratitude were pride. But that is not humility. We need to be ashamed of what truly needs repentance and bring it into the light. But we should never be ashamed of our relationship with the Lord. Do not pretend the banquet is a shack just because we know we do not deserve it. Hold both truths together: the infinite distance between God's glory and our brokenness, and the infinite mercy by which He draws us into His glory. Following St. Silouon the Athonite, we should keep our mind in hell – and despair not. The lowest seat at that table is greater than any throne the world can offer. It is the seat prepared for us in the council of God. There is no low place there—only mistaken stories that make us think otherwise.

So during this season, let's spend time with the Lord in silence. Let's let go of the instinct to create stories that justify, control, and fix everything. These wandering thoughts only deepen confusion. We need to seek peace and pursue it quietly at the feet of God. Then we can come out from that silence and allow His Word to reconstruct us.

Our Lord is not manipulative. He does not heal through domination. If there is one relationship in which we can finally release our need for control, it is our relationship with Him. If we skip silence, we will guard ourselves even against God, and the crooked ways will remain crooked—only renamed with religious language.

Go in silence before the Lord. Come out and allow His Word to heal you. Then, in that peace, allow your relationships with others to be healed as well. This is how the world is remade: not by power, not by manipulation, but by peace.

St. Seraphim of Sarov put it simply: "Acquire the Spirit of peace, and thousands around you will be saved." When peace grows in the heart, the handles of manipulation fall away. The saint no longer needs to prove anything. There is no hunger for worldly approval. The only desires left are to love, to serve, and to receive love. These are not tools of control—they are mechanisms of grace.

We still have time to prepare for the Lord's coming. Let this be the beginning. And as part of this renewal of our story, we still have time to come to confession. The Church teaches us to come during every Lenten season, and yes, that can be frightening. Authority in this world has often been abusive or manipulative. But confession is not that. It is not tyranny—it is liberation. The Lord does not want us carrying this weight. He wants us free. This is the Church's gift to us. We must not leave it unused.

Let the Lord heal you. Let Him tell you your true story. And then, at last, relax into its glory.