Luke 7:11–16
“Young man, I say to you: Arise!”

They had pitched tents over the lawn of St. Anne’s—white cloth trembling in the wind, ropes pulled taut like prayers. On Friday, I stood in the parish hall, slicing pita into eighths. No music yet. No laughter. Only the scent of olive oil and trays clinking as the faithful prepped for Greek Fest.

And somewhere in that hush—between the dolmathes and the hummus—I remembered a silence far harder to hold.

Weeks earlier, in a cozy living room with a lifelong friend, I tried to speak of what is breaking me. Our country. Our divisions. The slow death of compassion. I spoke of mercy—not the abstract kind, but the kind that shows up when it's least deserved. The kind that transcends party lines. The kind that pays to ease suffering, even when we don’t like the person suffering.

My friend, dear and loyal, could not hear me. She offered stats. Solutions. But not silence. Not presence. Not tears. And I do not blame her. Because I have done the same.

I’ve nodded along, waiting for my turn to talk. I’ve withheld compassion from those whose policies offend me. I’ve skimmed past headlines that ask too much of my already-thin empathy.

I’ve turned people made in the image of God into theories, hashtags, and theological case studies.

And still, the Gospel breaks in.

The town of Nain was a small Galilean village, a place barely remembered—except for the miracle that happened there. Jesus, walking into Nain, sees a widow carrying her only son. A dead child. A mother already twice grieved. There is no call for faith. No request for healing.

Only loss.

And Christ, uninvited, steps into her pain.

He sees. He stops.
He touches what is unclean.
He speaks: “Young man, I say to you: Arise.”

This is not mercy by spreadsheet. This is not charity based on merit. This is divine interruption. Resurrection, unearned.

How dare He.
How dare He heal without first vetting their theology.
How dare He give back life before there’s been a doctrinal test or a background check.
How dare He ignore my boxes and boundaries—and offer grace without disclaimers.

And yet—this is our Christ.
Not partisan. Not sanitized.
Wild with love. Fierce in compassion.
Relentless in raising what we’ve buried.

I did not serve much this year at Greek Fest. Just a few hours cutting pitas, praying under my breath, smiling at strangers. But as I wiped down the table, I thought about the widow of Nain. About her silence. About how Christ met her not with slogans, but with sight.

And I thought about our country, our fractured Church, our tired hearts. About how, too often, mercy feels rationed only to the likeminded.

But what if we—me, you, us—prayed like Orthodox people?

What if we lit a candle before we argued?
What if we crossed ourselves before posting?
What if we named our enemies in prayer, not as a flex, but as a lifeline?
What if we believed resurrection still happens—at kitchen tables, in awkward church tours, between pita slices and Prodigal children?

Saturday evening, I invited a young man—quiet, skeptical, curious—to sit beside me after Vespers for a church tour. He listened as Fr. Stephen spoke of icons, and he nodded. A small thing. But I am learning: the Gospel is always small before it is loud.

Mercy begins in the silence between festival and fracture.

It is cut into eighths.
It smells like lamb.
It sings in minor keys.

And it is always—always—offered to the unworthy.

From the Divine Liturgy of St. Basil the Great:

 “Thou art the God who bringest forth the sinner to repentance,
the God of those who repent.
Thou desirest not the death of a sinner,
but rather that he should turn from his way and live.
Thou aidest us who call upon Thee in truth;
for Thou hast not rejected the work of Thy hands,
nor forgotten the image of Thy creation,
but, though we have sinned,
Thou hast not destroyed us, in Thy love for mankind.”

Glory to the One who still touches the coffins we carry.
Glory to the One who speaks life into dead places.
Glory to the One who does not wait for worthiness—only need.

Perpetua

“Your Lord is love: love Him and in Him all men, as His children in Christ.
Your Lord is a fire: do not let your heart be cold, but burn with faith and love.
Your Lord is light: do not walk in darkness and do not do anything in darkness of mind, without reasoning or understanding, or without faith.
Your Lord is a God of mercy and bountifulness: be also a source of mercy and bountifulness to your neighbors.
If you will be such, you will find salvation for yourself with everlasting glory.”
-- St. John of Kronstadt My Life in Christ