Chrysostom
Beloved of All
You pour out many hopes about scooters and wheelchairs, about rain and seatbelts, about arm pain and surgeries, about money owed and journeys to come. But see how these hopes shift like sand, each one born of a new fear. Yesterday the scooter worked; today you fear it will fail. Tomorrow, if you obtain a new one, another need will arise. Is there any end to this chasing after wind? The soul that pins its peace on such things is never stable, for the one who thinks he stands must take heed lest he fall, and the one who has fallen need not despair; both sickness and health, poverty and plenty, come from the hand of God, and He orders them in turn as He does day and night, winter and summer. Why then be troubled when you are sick, or anxious when your possessions crumble? Rather, marvel when you are in health and have enough, for these are the exceptions in a world broken by sin.
You hope technology will stop making viruses. But what is this but hoping that a fallen world will cease to be fallen? The root of all pestilence is not in the hands of men but in the disorder of the soul. Plunder and greed, lust and anxiety, these are the fevers that consume us. Yet you ask for a scooter while your father lies weak, and you dread your mother becoming a nightmare. Here is a sickness far deeper than any arm pain. Do you not see that your own spirit is inflamed, grasping at ease and fearing every discomfort? The rich man needs many things for his journey, but the one who can live on little is far greater. Was it not said that the Lord makes His sun to rise on the evil and on the good, and sends rain on the just and the unjust? He who feeds the birds of the air and clothes the grass of the field will not abandon you for lack of a scooter or a wheelchair. To be anxious about these things is to lay a foundation in sand; the very fear of poverty makes you grasp at what perishes.
Yet I do not say this to wound you, but to heal. For just as a physician must sometimes cut or burn to cure a sore that eats at the body, so I apply this word to the hidden tumor of your anxiety. There is a way to peace that requires no money, no labor, no long travel; it requires only the will. Unbridle your tongue from unseasonable complaints. Cast off the desire for what you do not have. When you hope for money owed and for your mother not to be a burden, you set your heart on men’s opinions and on fleeting comforts. But if you did as many things for God’s sake as you do for your own ease, you would be exceedingly blessed. Forgive those who owe you; if they delay, bear it. Love your mother even when her pain makes her difficult, and your father even in his weakness. Their presence, even limited, is a gift you overlook while dreaming of an ideal journey.
Do not say, “I need my father to talk to the right people,” as if your help came from men. He who healed Peter’s mother-in-law not only quenched her fever but restored her strength at once; no earthly physician can do that. Trust the same Lord for your parents’ bodies and for your own. As for the scooter, if it breaks and rain falls, learn to say with the apostle that you have learned to be content with little or with much. The barbarians of old needed no art but agriculture; you blush to lack a machine while your soul lacks the discipline of contentment. Train yourself now, for the court of this world is full of proud and feverish men, and you are called to be a physician to them, applying the remedies of Scripture. How can you calm another’s inflammation when you yourself are burning with care over a seatbelt?
Therefore, let your hopes be turned upside down. Hope no longer for dry Sundays and working scooters, but hope for a steadfast spirit, a quiet heart, and the grace to say, “The Lord gave, and the Lord has taken away; blessed be the name of the Lord.” When sickness spreads, pray; when money fails, give thanks; when your parents struggle, serve them without resentment. For it is not abundance that makes life secure, but a will anchored in God. If you will do this, you will find that even in a wheelchair falling apart, you are carried by invisible hands.
You hope technology will stop making viruses. But what is this but hoping that a fallen world will cease to be fallen? The root of all pestilence is not in the hands of men but in the disorder of the soul. Plunder and greed, lust and anxiety, these are the fevers that consume us. Yet you ask for a scooter while your father lies weak, and you dread your mother becoming a nightmare. Here is a sickness far deeper than any arm pain. Do you not see that your own spirit is inflamed, grasping at ease and fearing every discomfort? The rich man needs many things for his journey, but the one who can live on little is far greater. Was it not said that the Lord makes His sun to rise on the evil and on the good, and sends rain on the just and the unjust? He who feeds the birds of the air and clothes the grass of the field will not abandon you for lack of a scooter or a wheelchair. To be anxious about these things is to lay a foundation in sand; the very fear of poverty makes you grasp at what perishes.
Yet I do not say this to wound you, but to heal. For just as a physician must sometimes cut or burn to cure a sore that eats at the body, so I apply this word to the hidden tumor of your anxiety. There is a way to peace that requires no money, no labor, no long travel; it requires only the will. Unbridle your tongue from unseasonable complaints. Cast off the desire for what you do not have. When you hope for money owed and for your mother not to be a burden, you set your heart on men’s opinions and on fleeting comforts. But if you did as many things for God’s sake as you do for your own ease, you would be exceedingly blessed. Forgive those who owe you; if they delay, bear it. Love your mother even when her pain makes her difficult, and your father even in his weakness. Their presence, even limited, is a gift you overlook while dreaming of an ideal journey.
Do not say, “I need my father to talk to the right people,” as if your help came from men. He who healed Peter’s mother-in-law not only quenched her fever but restored her strength at once; no earthly physician can do that. Trust the same Lord for your parents’ bodies and for your own. As for the scooter, if it breaks and rain falls, learn to say with the apostle that you have learned to be content with little or with much. The barbarians of old needed no art but agriculture; you blush to lack a machine while your soul lacks the discipline of contentment. Train yourself now, for the court of this world is full of proud and feverish men, and you are called to be a physician to them, applying the remedies of Scripture. How can you calm another’s inflammation when you yourself are burning with care over a seatbelt?
Therefore, let your hopes be turned upside down. Hope no longer for dry Sundays and working scooters, but hope for a steadfast spirit, a quiet heart, and the grace to say, “The Lord gave, and the Lord has taken away; blessed be the name of the Lord.” When sickness spreads, pray; when money fails, give thanks; when your parents struggle, serve them without resentment. For it is not abundance that makes life secure, but a will anchored in God. If you will do this, you will find that even in a wheelchair falling apart, you are carried by invisible hands.
