Though I Wear the Cassock, I Still Struggle

​“Though I Wear the Cassock, I Still Struggle”: A Confession from the Heart of an Orthodox Monk

Yes, I wear the cassock. Yes, I live in obedience, in simplicity, in prayer. I’ve forsaken the world to follow Christ, but not because I’ve conquered sin or mastered virtue. Not because I walk around glowing in holiness or immune to temptation.

I am a monk. But I am also a sinner.
And I carry that contradiction every day like a cross slung over my shoulder. It weighs on me in the silence of my hermitage, in the chanting of the Psalms, in the long hours of prayer when demons whisper and the ego roars.

This isn’t some pious sentiment. It’s the unvarnished truth. I wear the black of repentance not because I am holy, but because I am not. My life is a witness not to my victory, but to my need for Christ’s mercy. And the longer I walk this narrow path, the more I realize how far I still have to go.

Every sunrise brings a fresh awareness of how much in me still needs to be healed. How easily pride creeps in, how deeply the passions cling, how often I fall short of the love that I preach. And every evening, as I lay my head down, I whisper the Jesus Prayer, not as a ritual, but as a cry from the depths:

“Lord Jesus Christ, Son of God, have mercy on me, a sinner.”

Orthodoxy Is a Lifelong Return to Christ
One of the most beautiful, and most challenging, truths of our Orthodox faith is that repentance is not a moment. It’s a way of life. Every day is a new chance to turn. Every day is a new chance to return.

Saint Isaac the Syrian wrote, “This life has been given to you for repentance. Do not waste it on anything else.”

Orthodoxy doesn't offer shallow slogans or quick fixes. It offers the Cross. It offers the slow, painful, beautiful process of being transformed from the inside out, not by our strength, but by grace.

And central to that process, central to the spiritual struggle of every Orthodox Christian, is forgiveness.

Forgiveness Is Not Sentimental—It Is Warfare
Let’s not soften the truth.

Forgiveness is not some tender, teary-eyed emotion we conjure up to feel better about ourselves. It’s not whispering “It’s okay” when it’s not okay. It’s not the polite performance of someone pretending not to be hurt.

Forgiveness is spiritual warfare.

It is violent, first and foremost, against our own pride, against the old man within us who wants to rage, to retaliate, to hold on to wounds like medals of honor.

To forgive is to fight the devil, not with swords or rage, but with the Cross.

Do you want to see what forgiveness looks like? Look to Golgotha.

Not to a throne, but to a crucified God. Naked. Beaten. Betrayed. Abandoned. Hung between thieves. Mocked by soldiers. Denied by friends.

And yet, He said nothing but this:
“Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do.”

He didn’t wait for an apology. He didn’t require an admission of guilt. He offered mercy at the precise moment He was being murdered. That is forgiveness. And that is the standard we are called to imitate.

The Martyrs Forgave. The Saints Forgave. Christ Forgave.
In the ancient martyrologies of the Church, we find story after story, not just of courage, but of forgiveness.

Saint Stephen, the first martyr, cried out with his last breath, “Lord, do not hold this sin against them!”

Saint Ignatius of Antioch pleaded not to resist those who would tear him apart.

Saint Maria of Paris died in a Nazi concentration camp after offering herself in place of a fellow prisoner.

And again and again, the saints show us: forgiveness is not optional. It is the shape of love crucified. It is the breath of the Kingdom of God.

If Christ forgave those who pierced His flesh, who are we to cling to the sins of others?

Forgiveness Is a Doorway to Healing
Let me say this clearly: forgiveness is not denial.

It doesn’t erase the pain. It doesn’t excuse abuse. It doesn’t call evil “good.”

Forgiveness doesn’t say, “It didn’t matter.”

It says, “It matters, but I will not let it make me bitter.”

Forgiveness doesn’t mean you stay in harm’s way. It doesn’t mean you forget what happened.
It means you refuse to let the trauma write the final chapter.

In the words of the elder Thaddeus of Vitovnica: “As long as you harbor resentment, you are chaining yourself to your enemy. When you forgive, you break that chain.”

Forgiveness is how the nails are pulled out, not of Christ’s hands, but of our own hearts. It is how the poison begins to leave the soul.

The Cost of Forgiveness—and the Power
Make no mistake: forgiveness will cost you.

It will cost your pride. It will cost your ego. It may cost you the comfort of being “the victim.” But what you gain is freedom. Resurrection. Healing.

Forgiveness isn’t weakness.

It’s resurrection power.

The devil flees when we forgive. Grace floods in. And a little piece of the Kingdom of God is born in the rubble of our pain.

A Final Confession
I still struggle with this. I still wrestle with my wounds and my own stubborn heart. I still fall. But every morning, I put on this cassock again, not as a costume of perfection, but as a confession of need.

I put it on because I’ve chosen the narrow way. The hard way. The Christ-shaped way.

And I beg God to make me worthy of it, not by hiding my struggles, but by offering them to Him in repentance, in tears, and in hope.

Because the cassock doesn’t make me holy. Christ does.

And I pray that one day, when I stand before Him, empty-handed, bruised by my failures but clinging to His mercy, He will look upon me with love and say:
“Blessed are the merciful… for they shall obtain mercy.”

Lord Jesus Christ, Son of God, have mercy on me, a sinner.
And teach me to forgive.
Even as You forgave.
Even from the Cross.
Even still.