Thorns in the Flesh
Byzantine Divine Liturgy (Nineteenth Sunday after Pentecost)
Readings: 2 Cor 11:31–12:9 / Lk 6:31-36
Community life is like a rose garden.
From a distance, it looks lovely and beautiful, but once you’re living in it, you’d better watch out for the thorns!
We hear St. Paul today speaking about his famous “thorn in the flesh.”
We don’t know exactly what he meant by this.
Some believe it was an interior, personal struggle, maybe a besetting sin or temptation—the kind that we all struggle with at times.
But more often than not, especially in community life, the thorns that prick our flesh are not just interior struggles, but the imperfections of others.
My brother, my sister, can be a thorn in my flesh.
I can be going about my day when my sleeve snags on the thorn of somebody’s rude comment, an unjust criticism, or an annoying request.
Certainly, as St. Paul reminds us, God permits us to be pierced by these thorns to keep us “from becoming too elated.”
It’s what St. Therese called a “martyrdom by pinpricks,” deflating our pride little by little.
When I pause and take a breath before responding to a hurtful word, I might realize that I’m not as important as I think am.
Perhaps their criticism has some merit.
Maybe their request is reasonable, even if it comes at a bad time.
So we see these thorns, then, are part of God’s providential care for us.
Although they sting, the pain comes from feeling our own weakness more acutely, and it humbles us, bringing us back down to earth—to reality.
But it’s not only a medicinal measure; the thorns are not only there to pop the self-inflated balloon of our ego.
The Lord wills for us to live among thorns so that we can learn to love well.
As He tells us in today’s Gospel, loving well means more than just loving those who love me and treat me well.
Loving well means loving others when they hurt us, when they lash out in fear, when they act cold or grow silent, when they’re rude or thoughtless or selfish or even outright mean.
It doesn’t mean becoming a doormat, giving others whatever they want.
But loving well means engaging with them when they’re at their worst and still striving with all our hearts to give them the very best of ourselves: to put love where there is no love, to return a blessing when they fire off an insult, to pursue them with kindness when they withdraw in isolation.
If we’re going to love others well—strangers, the people in our pews, or even the enemies of the Church—we need to practice here, in community.
So the Lord, in His mercy, gives all of us thorns, and He allows us to practice loving our brothers and sisters, even when their thorns prick my flesh and draw my blood.
We learn to love as He loves right here among the thorns—not just enduring them, but being crowned with thorns, just as He was crowned, so that we, too, are marked in our flesh with the wounds of suffering love.
The only love worthy of the name is the love that allows itself to be pierced by my beloved’s woundedness, and yet does not wound them in return, but only pours out mercy and forgiveness.
Deacon Mikhael, my brother, let this love be the heart of your diakonia.
Yesterday, you were conformed to Christ the Servant through the Sacrament of Holy Orders.
You’re already doing many things, and your diaconate will bring new responsibilities, but remember, the most essential service you can offer the Body of Christ is the service of suffering love.
And as we prepare to receive the Body of Christ, broken for us, and His Precious Blood poured out for us in this Divine Liturgy, let’s ask Him for the grace to love well: to give, and not to count the cost, to fight, and not to heed the wounds, to toil, and not to seek for rest, to labor, and not to ask reward, save only that of loving Him, Father, Son and Holy Spirit, always, now and ever, and unto the ages of ages. Amen.