Returning to Our First Love: On St. Cyprian, Lukewarmness, and the Path of Thanksgiving

For this year’s Parish Feast, I have the blessing of giving a short talk on St. Cyprian of Carthage and one of the major controversies that shook the Church during his lifetime. As part of my preparation, I revisited the life of the saint in the Great Synaxaristes and came across a striking description of his conversion, recorded by his biographer, the Deacon Pontius.

Deacon Pontius introduces the story of his bishop with these words:

“The doings of a man of God should not be reckoned from any point except from the time that he was born of God. He may have had pursuits previously, and liberal arts may have imbued his mind while engaged therein, but these things I shall pass over. For as yet they had nothing to do with anything but his secular advantage. Now while his faith was in its first rudiments, he believed that before God nothing was worthy in comparison of the observance of continency. For he thought that the heart might then become what it ought to be, and the mind attain to the full capacity of truth, if he trod underfoot the lust of the flesh with the robust and healthy vigor of holiness. Who has ever recorded such a marvel? His regeneration in the waters of Baptism had not yet enlightened the new man with the entire splendor of the divine light, yet he was already overcoming the ancient and pristine darkness by the mere dawning of the light.” (Life of St. Cyprian by Deacon Pontius)

These words stirred something in me, for by the grace of God, I too was once brought into the Holy Orthodox Church from the world. I remember those early days of conversion vividly, and so might some of you. I do not speak as one who had attained holiness—far from it—but I recall the nearness of grace, so real, so abundant, that to give up everything for Christ and His Church seemed not a sacrifice, but a joy. My prayers felt alive. No length of service or vigil seemed too long. There was a flame within that burned for God and for the life of the Church.

But then—slowly, almost imperceptibly—it faded.

This is not a rare experience. It is common to both converts and cradle Orthodox alike. That fiery first love wanes. The zeal that once lifted us into the heavens gives way to dryness. The thoughts creep in: “The zeal is gone. I don’t enjoy Church. I feel numb during prayer. I can’t stop doing the things I know I shouldn’t. I’m spiritually depressed.”

Even the great Apostle Paul was not immune to this inner conflict. In his epistle to the Romans, he lays bare the battle we all face:

“For what I am doing, I do not understand. For what I will to do, that I do not practice; but what I hate, that I do… I know that in me (that is, in my flesh) nothing good dwells; for to will is present with me, but how to perform what is good I do not find.”(Romans 7:15,18, NKJV)

When St. Paul cried out in suffering, the Lord did not simply take away his affliction. Instead, He gave him something far greater—strength in weakness and the assurance of grace:

“…a thorn in the flesh was given to me, a messenger of Satan to buffet me… Concerning this thing I pleaded with the Lord three times… And He said to me, ‘My grace is sufficient for you, for My strength is made perfect in weakness.’”(2 Corinthians 12:7–9, NKJV)

God does not abandon us in our weakness. In fact, it is in weakness that we are most able to cling to Him. When all else fails—when we feel empty, lost, and undeserving—He is still there. But in our fallenness, we often begin looking elsewhere for relief: distractions, compromises, or worldly comforts. We look for ways to escape spiritual fatigue without addressing the sickness itself.

So what is the remedy for this lukewarmness, this spiritual exhaustion?

St. Ignatius Brianchaninov, one of the great 19th-century Russian spiritual fathers, points us toward a healing path: thankfulness.

“Set yourself a goal to thank the Lord daily for your cup—that is, for your infirmities, for all your struggles. Your sorrowful thoughts are especailly dissipated by thanking God; when such thoughts come to you, "thanksgiving" is voiced in plain words, with attention and often, until your heart feels relief. Sorrowful thoughts bring no benefit: they do not diminish sorrows, nor do they bring help; they merely upset the soul and body. This means they are from demons and must be driven away. Sorrowful thoughts are chased away by thanksgiving to God. Giving thanks calms the heart, bringing consolation and, finally, heavenly joy. Such is a pledge and foretaste of joy eternal. If you will give thanks, your reward will be suited to you.”(*St. Ignatius Brianchaninov, “On Thankfulness”)

Thankfulness is not sentimental optimism. It is a spiritual act of war. To give thanks in the midst of weariness, confusion, and sorrow is to declare that God is good—always. It cuts through despair and reminds us of grace. It is a discipline that, when practiced consistently, reawakens us to the blessings we have forgotten.

And this daily thanksgiving naturally leads us to the Great Thanksgiving: the Holy Eucharist. The Divine Liturgy, whose very name means “Thanksgiving,” is our true provision for the journey. It is the strength in our weakness, the fire in our coldness, the life for our deadened hearts. In the Holy Mysteries, we are nourished with the very Body and Blood of Christ, and we are restored.

If we desire to rise from our spiritual falls—if we long to return to the freshness of our early zeal—we must begin here: with thankfulness. Not just an emotional gratitude when things go well, but a determined, prayerful thanksgiving in all things, every day, even in our trials.

As St. Paul exhorts us:

“In everything give thanks; for this is the will of God in Christ Jesus concerning you.”(1 Thessalonians 5:18)

May we, through repentance and thanksgiving, be restored once again to the joy of our salvation, and persevere on the path that leads to Christ, who is our life, our peace, and our reward.