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The Evergetinos: Book Three - Chapter II, Part VIII

Philokalia Ministries

The Fathers speak about judgment with a severity that can seem almost excessive to us. They speak of grace withdrawing, of years of tears and repentance, of visions of Christ refusing worship to one who condemned his brother. We recoil at this language because we do not see condemnation as they saw it. We think of it as a minor fault of speech, a passing irritation, a reasonable assessment of another’s behavior. The Fathers saw it as an assault upon love itself. A brother is eating early on a Friday. One sentence escapes the lips: “You are eating at such an hour, and on a Friday?” Nothing more. No insult. No anger. Merely an observation with an edge of disapproval. And the grace of God departs. Why? Because in that instant the monk ceased to stand beside his brother and placed himself above him. The movement happened with the speed of lightning. One moment he was in humility; the next he had assumed the place of judge. This is the terrifying thing. Pride does not always arrive with fanfare. It can appear in a sigh. An eye-roll. A sarcastic remark. A sentence that begins, “I just don’t understand how someone could…” A comment on social media. A conversation after church. A single word: “Ugh.” The Elder says, “Ugh,” upon hearing of another’s bad reputation. A single exclamation. Then Golgotha appears before him. Christ does not rebuke him for fornication, theft, or apostasy. He says something infinitely more frightening: “Before I could pass judgment, he himself has condemned his brother.” In other words: You rushed ahead of Me. You seized what belongs to Me alone. How quickly we do this. We hear of someone’s failure, and before our hearts have even softened, we have formed an opinion. We hear of a priest’s collapse, a marriage’s breakdown, a young person’s confusion, a friend’s inconsistency, and instantly the mind produces a verdict. We scarcely pause to remember our own darkness. The holy man says, with tears, “He sinned today, but I will surely sin tomorrow.” This is not pessimism. It is truth. The one who knows himself knows that every sin lies hidden within his own heart like sparks in dry grass. Circumstances differ. Opportunities differ. Temptations differ. But the same human nature exists in all. The same weakness. The same instability. If God withdrew His hand for an instant, who among us could stand? The Fathers do not tell us to deny evil. They do not call sin virtue. They simply insist that whenever we see another fall, our first thought should be: There, but for the mercy of God, am I. And then something remarkable happens. The sinner ceases to be an object of analysis and becomes a brother who is wounded. The question is no longer, “How could he do that?” It becomes, “Lord, have mercy upon him—and upon me.” This is why the Elder says that if you see someone sinning with your own eyes, you should first cry out, “Anathema to you, Satan!” The enemy is not your brother. The enemy is the one who delights in dividing us from one another, who tempts one man into sin and another into condemnation. He wins both ways. One falls into the pit. The other stands above the pit congratulating himself. Both are wounded. The Fathers say that nothing harms Christians and monastics more than mutual condemnation. Nothing. Not persecution. Not poverty. Not weakness. But condemnation. Because condemnation makes love impossible. One cannot bear another’s burdens while sitting upon the tribunal. One cannot weep for a brother while despising him. One cannot pray from the depths of the heart for someone whom one secretly regards as inferior. The judging heart is incapable of communion. And perhaps this is why the Fathers tremble so greatly before this passion. To condemn another is not merely to commit a fault of speech. It is to act contrary to the entire ethos of the Gospel. We ourselves live only by mercy. Every breath, every confession, every Eucharist, every hope of salvation rests entirely upon mercy. How strange, then, th