I've always loved fall, not just because the heat of summer fades, but because it feels more like a new beginning than New Year's ever did. The church begins the new ecclesiastical year quietly and tenderly. The first major feast day we celebrate is the Feast of the Nativity of our beautiful Theotokos. Wrap our heads around that—we celebrate the new year not with fireworks or resolutions, but with birth. With the arrival of the one who said "yes." The one who changed the course of humanity.
Recently, Fr. Tom reminded our Threshold group of the story of Adam and Eve. One question from that story has been echoing in my heart ever since: "Where are you?"
But the Lord God called to the man, and said to him, 'Where are you?' And he said, 'I heard the sound of thee in the garden, and I was afraid, because I was naked; and I hid myself.' —Genesis 3:9-10
Where are you? Not just physically. Where are you spiritually, emotionally, or relationally? Where have you hidden? And why? Who told you that your vulnerability was shameful? That you had to earn love, keep it all together, smile through burnout?
We live in a world of deceptive voices. Some of which are extremely loud, but some very subtle. They sound like influencers, algorithms, even well-meaning friends and family. They whisper: "You're too much. You're not enough. You should be ashamed." And we listen. We reach for the bottle, the vape, the food. We lash out, not because we hate, but because we fear being seen. We hide behind sarcasm, jokes, silence, or the ever-popular "fake it 'til you make it."
When the body speaks what the mind can't
Sometimes the body speaks what the mind can't. We carry pain we don't understand, and it leaks out in ways we can't control. I think of Job: "The night racks my bones, and the pain that gnaws me takes no rest." (Job 30:17) Or the woman who bled for twelve years. She was ritually unclean, unable to touch others, worship, or belong. Her suffering was physical, emotional, and spiritual. And yet, she didn't ask for it to stop. She reached for Jesus, believing He could heal her. And He did.
Her story speaks to anyone whose body has betrayed them—whether through illness, trauma, addiction, or anxiety. To anyone who's been told their suffering is too messy, too long, too complicated. Gabor Maté writes, "The body remembers what the mind forgets." Before we had words, we had sensations. A newborn doesn't ask politely for milk; they cry, they flail. And how the caregiver responds becomes embedded in the child. The body knows what the mind hasn't yet named. It's a marvel I am still trying to wrap my mind around.
Thinking about stepping into this new ecclesiastical year, maybe it isn't asking us to be strong. Maybe it's asking us to be soft. To be found. To be held. Healing doesn't begin with hiding; it begins with honesty. With reaching. With letting someone see the parts of us we've been taught to cover. To see us naked.
Vulnerability, as Brené Brown reminds us, is not weakness. It is the birthplace of connection, of healing, and of faith. Shame cannot survive being spoken aloud. When we choose to show up, messy, unfinished, and unsure as we are, we make space for grace.
Faith, then, is not just belief. It's trust. It's saying, "I don't have all the answers, but I'm still reaching for Christ." It's letting ourselves be seen by God and by one another.
"O Lord, you have searched me and known me... Where can I go from your Spirit? If I ascend to heaven, you are there. If I make my bed in the depths, you are there." (Psalm 139:1, 7-8)
You are not hidden. You are not forgotten. You are not too much or not enough. God sees you, messy, unfinished, unsure, and He stays. Let yourself be found. Let yourself be held. Let yourself be healed. As we begin this ecclesiastical new year, let's not "fake it 'til we make it." Let's say yes like Panayia. Let's answer the question "Where are you?" with courage, honesty, and hope.
Originally published in the Holy Apostles E-bulletin. Subscribe here.
