A smile at a blossoming tree is not betrayal

The strength of the spirit in times of trials. Photo: UOJ

On an ordinary spring day, we walk down the street, squinting in the bright sun. Ahead, an apricot or cherry tree bursts into bloom – so fiercely that we cannot help but slow our pace. We buy a cup of coffee, take the first sip, feel its warmth and the quiet surge of energy. And in that very instant, something inside us tightens – a sharp sting of shame.

“How dare I enjoy this morning when the world is like this?” How can one savor the taste of coffee or admire flowering trees when, at that very moment, lives are collapsing somewhere, people are dying, and the news feeds overflow with catastrophe? Even the smallest smile can begin to feel like a kind of crime, and the attempt to live an ordinary life – like a betrayal of those who are truly suffering.

This feeling is familiar to many today. We rarely speak of it aloud, yet it eats away at us from within. We convince ourselves that through such shame we are expressing empathy and solidarity with the afflicted. But if we look honestly, we may see that this state is a trap of our own making.

The illusion of shared grief

In difficult times, society quickly adopts an unspoken rule: if you are doing well, then you must be indifferent to what is happening around you. Post a photo of yourself smiling – you are a cynic. Take your children to the movies – you are a traitor.

We often believe that our sorrow carries weight, that it somehow helps the world. In truth, it resembles a kind of magic – a sacrifice of our own emotional state in the hope of restoring a balance of justice.

But reality is different. Not a single wounded patient in a hospital will feel better because, a thousand miles away, you refuse to sleep, refuse to eat, and stare at the wall for hours. His pain will not lessen because you have drawn the curtains tight and forbidden yourself to laugh. There is no direct link between our despair and someone else’s salvation.

Another mechanism is at work. When you preserve your clarity of mind, when you remain alive and capable – you can actually help.

You can send money, deliver food to those in need, support a friend who is breaking under pressure, or, at the very least, pray for the suffering. But when you burn yourself out with anxiety and guilt, you risk collapsing alongside those who are already wounded. You will hardly save anyone that way – you will only add to the number of those who have lost their footing.

The Apostle Paul urged: “Rejoice always. Pray without ceasing. Give thanks in all circumstances; for this is the will of God for you” (1 Thess. 5:16–18). It is worth remembering that Paul dictated these words under constant threat of arrest, having endured prisons and beatings. He addressed communities that could at any moment face brutal persecution. For the early Christians, this joy was not a pleasant wish for good weather – it was a demanding spiritual discipline, a way of staying alive.

An Oxford lecture on the edge of the abyss

In the autumn of 1939, when the Second World War had already begun in Europe, the writer C.S. Lewis delivered a lecture to students at Oxford. The air in the hall was heavy with anxiety. Young people wondered what sense there was in studying classical literature, going on dates, or thinking about the future when the familiar world was collapsing.

In response, Lewis offered a striking thought: humanity, in a sense, has always lived on the edge of an abyss. Epidemics, wars, famine – these are the constant backdrop of history. If our ancestors had waited for perfectly safe and peaceful times before having children, building homes, and allowing themselves to laugh, we might never have come into existence at all.

The conclusion suggests itself: if, out of fear of catastrophe, we voluntarily abandon normal life, then death has, in a sense, already achieved its goal. It did not have to destroy us – we placed our own lives on hold.

Those who work as volunteers or doctors in conflict zones often share an unexpected observation. The capacity for humor and the sharp awareness of each hour’s value do not disappear there – they often become more acute. At the same time, severe depression frequently overtakes those who remain in relative safety but forbid themselves simple joys out of guilt. Constant immersion in tragedy can paralyze the will faster than direct proximity to it.

Thanksgiving on the eve of arrest

What does evil truly seek? Perhaps that life should come to a halt. That people should stop forming families, planting trees, baking bread, and looking up at the sky. That the world should fall into a kind of numbness. And when we cancel our own lives out of a misguided solidarity, we may, in part, help that numbness spread.

In the Gospel, Christ gives instruction about fasting: “When you fast, anoint your head and wash your face, that your fasting may not be seen by others but by your Father…” (Matthew 6:17–18). The emphasis here is on inner discipline. True prayer and compassion are deep interior labors – they do not require a sorrowful expression for display.

In the Orthodox tradition, despondency is often described as one of the gravest spiritual illnesses. Saint Seraphim of Sarov warned of it. Sorrow stripped of hope can easily become a destructive force.

The central Mystery of the Church is the Eucharist – a word that means “Thanksgiving.” Christ establishes it at the Last Supper, just hours before His arrest, knowing that betrayal and crucifixion lie ahead. He takes bread and gives thanks.

To give thanks to God for life while standing on the edge of the abyss – this is a profoundly Christian response to circumstances.

Recall the account in the Acts of the Apostles, when Paul and Silas were beaten in Philippi and thrown into the inner prison, their feet fastened in stocks (Acts 16:23–25). Night, pain, utter uncertainty. And at midnight, they begin to pray and sing to God.

Our task is to preserve our sight

There is an image that puts everything in its proper place. Imagine you meet a blind man who has lost his way. It would hardly help him if, in a surge of sympathy, you tightly shut your own eyes. Your voluntary blindness will not show him the path. To lead him, you must preserve your own sight.

Joy is that sight.

We smile at a blossoming tree, at the morning sun, at the people we love – not because we have become blind to others’ suffering, but because we believe in the risen God of the living. Every apple tree planted, every cup of coffee, even every well-timed joke is a small yet stubborn affirmation that life goes on.

Darkness tries to make us lower our hands and draw the curtains from within. Our task is to preserve the ability to see the light – and to share it with those for whom the darkness has grown deepest.

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