Holy Metropolis of New Zealand, 365 Broadway, Wellington (2026)

08/03/2026

The Second Triumph of Orthodoxy - The Healing of the Paralytic and the Teaching of St. Gregory Palamas (Mark 2:1–12), from the Holy Metropolis of New Zealand

"On the Second Sunday of Great Lent, the Orthodox Church commemorates one of the great luminaries of Orthodox theology and spiritual life: St. Gregory Palamas. His life and teaching bear witness to a central truth of the Christian faith: that the aim of Christianity is not simply about becoming a better version of oneself. It is about transformation—what the Fathers call theosis, participation in the divine life.

The Church places his memory immediately after the Sunday of the Triumph of Orthodoxy. This is not accidental. The first Sunday celebrates the restoration of the holy icons; the second proclaims the deeper reality that the icons point toward — the transformation of the human person by the grace of God.

For this reason, the Gospel reading today tells the story of the healing of the paralytic (Mark 2:1–12). At first glance it appears to be a simple miracle of physical healing. Yet, as the Fathers often remind us, the Gospel narratives reveal deeper mysteries of the human condition and of the salvation that Christ brings.

When the paralytic is brought before Christ, the Lord says something unexpected:

“Son, your sins are forgiven you.” (Mark 2:5)

Only later does He say:

“Arise, take up your bed, and go to your house.” (Mark 2:11)

Christ first heals the deeper sickness.

The paralysis of the body is visible, but the true paralysis lies in the mind. Humanity is wounded not simply by physical weakness but by the fragmentation of the inner life. The mind is scattered, the heart divided, the will weakened. We know the good, yet we struggle to live it. We believe in God, yet our attention constantly drifts away from Him.

In the language of the Fathers, the nous — the spiritual faculty of the soul by which we perceive God — has become dispersed among countless distractions. Modern life only intensifies this fragmentation. Our minds are constantly drawn outward by endless information, noise, and activity. We move quickly, yet inwardly many experience a profound immobility of the heart. In this sense, the paralytic of the Gospel is not simply one man in Capernaum. He is an image of all of us. He is the image of our mind.

The healing begins not with the paralytic himself, but with the faith of those who carry him. Unable to enter the crowded house, the friends climb to the roof, open it, and lower the man down before Christ. Their persistence becomes the path of his healing. The Fathers often see in these friends an image of the Church. We are not saved in isolation. We are carried by the prayers, sacrifices, and love of others. Parents bring their children to Christ. Friends intercede for one another. The saints pray for the world. Sometimes we ourselves are the paralytic, unable to move toward God on our own. Yet the faith of others carries us until we are placed before the Lord.

This is the hidden life of the Church — a web of prayer and mercy through which God continually draws humanity toward Himself.

The life and teaching of St. Gregory Palamas illuminate precisely this deeper healing.

He was born in Constantinople in 1296 into a noble and devout family during the reign of Emperor Andronikos II Palaiologos. Gifted with a brilliant education in philosophy and rhetoric, he seemed destined for a distinguished career at the imperial court. Yet Gregory felt a deeper calling. While still a young man, he left the privileges of worldly life and journeyed to the monastic republic of Mount Athos. There he embraced the ancient spiritual tradition of inner prayer known as hesychasm. The Greek word hesychia means stillness, silence, and inner quiet. Hesychastic spirituality seeks to gather the scattered human person — mind, heart, and body — into attentive stillness before God.

The central practice of this tradition is the continual invocation of the Holy Name of Jesus:

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

This prayer, repeated with humility and repentance, gradually descends from the lips into the heart. The Fathers describe this as the return of the mind to the heart, where the whole person stands before God in living communion. Hesychasm is not just a technique or psychological exercise. Essentially it is the fruit of repentance, humility, fasting, watchfulness, and participation in the sacramental life of the Church. Through this path, the heart becomes purified and receptive to divine grace.

During Gregory’s lifetime this ancient tradition came under attack. A scholar named Barlaam of Calabria accused the monks of delusion when they spoke about experiencing the divine light during prayer. Barlaam argued that God is entirely inaccessible and that such experiences could only be psychological illusions. In response, Gregory articulated a profound theological teaching rooted in the Fathers — especially Basil the Great, Gregory of Nazianzus, and Maximus the Confessor. He explained that while the essence of God remains beyond all comprehension, God truly communicates Himself through His uncreated energies. These energies are not created symbols or intermediaries. They are the real presence and activity of God Himself. Through these energies, human beings can genuinely participate in the life of God.

This participation is what the Fathers call theosis — deification, the transformation of the human person by divine grace.

When the saints speak of experiencing the divine light, they refer to the same uncreated light that shone from Christ during His Transfiguration on Mount Tabor. This light is not a physical phenomenon but the radiance of God’s glory, perceived spiritually by hearts purified through repentance and prayer. The Church confirmed this teaching in a series of councils held in Constantinople between 1341 and 1351. For this reason, the Second Sunday of Great Lent is dedicated to St. Gregory Palamas as a continuation of the triumph of Orthodoxy celebrated the previous Sunday.

The Gospel today shows us this transformation in symbolic form. The paralytic hears Christ’s words and immediately stands. The bed that once carried him becomes something he now carries. The sign of his weakness becomes a testimony to God’s power. This is the image of the Christian life. Forgiveness should not be understood in a legal sense. It is the healing and restoration of the human person. The scattered mind becomes attentive. The hardened heart becomes compassionate. The fearful soul becomes filled with peace. This transformation occurs through synergy — the cooperation between divine grace and human freedom. Through fasting, prayer, repentance, and the Holy Mysteries of the Church, the human heart gradually becomes receptive to the transforming light of God.

Why is the teaching of St. Gregory Palamas so important today?

Because the world we inhabit is profoundly restless. Our attention is constantly fragmented. The inner silence necessary for encountering God has become increasingly rare. Hesychastic spirituality calls us back to the inner sanctuary of the heart. We may not live on Mount Athos, but every Christian is called to cultivate moments of stillness, repentance, and prayer. Even a few minutes each day spent quietly invoking the Name of Jesus can begin to gather the scattered mind and turn the heart toward God. In this way, the teaching of St. Gregory reminds us that holiness is not reserved for a spiritual elite. It is the vocation of every baptised believer.

God created humanity not merely to exist, but to share in His life and His light.

The fruits of this inner prayer do not remain confined within the soul. A heart that has learned repentance becomes more compassionate. A person who has tasted the mercy of God becomes more patient, more forgiving, and more attentive to the suffering of others. The saints who practiced the deepest prayer were never indifferent to the world. Their hearts became vessels of divine love, and through them the peace of Christ entered into the lives of countless people. Thus the quiet prayer of the heart becomes a hidden service to the world. When even one human heart is illumined by the grace of God, that light begins — quietly but truly — to illumine the world around it.

This is what the Church means when it speaks of the Second Triumph of Orthodoxy. The victory celebrated today affirms that the path described by the Saints—the path of purification, illumination, and union with God—is real. The experience of divine grace is not a poetic metaphor. It is the very life of the Church.

The Orthodox tradition answers this hunger not with new theories but with a way of life. It invites the human person to rediscover the inner sanctuary of the heart, where God already awaits. The triumph of this Sunday proclaims that Christianity is not ultimately about ideas about God. It is about encounter. And that encounter remains possible today. Through repentance, prayer, the sacraments, and the quiet purification of the heart, the same grace that illumined the saints continues to be given to the faithful.

The path remains open."

02/03/2026

Sunday of Orthodoxy
“Come and See”: The Icon and the Healing of Our Sight (John 1:43–51). From the Holy Metropolis of New Zealand

"There is a simple dialogue in today’s Gospel. Philip finds Nathanael and speaks only a few words:

“We have found Him of whom Moses in the Law, and also the prophets, wrote.”

Nathanael hesitates — even resists — and Philip does not argue. He does not construct a system. He simply says:

“Come and see.”

This is the same invitation we hear in the Church on the Sunday of Orthodoxy. Not: come and agree. Not: come and analyse. But: come and see.

Because Orthodoxy, at its heart, is about sight — about the healing of sight.

When Nathanael first hears of Jesus, he responds with a skepticism that feels very familiar:

“Can anything good come out of Nazareth?”

This is more than prejudice. It is the voice of the human mind trying to measure reality according to expectations and probabilities. It is a voice we all recognise within ourselves.

Our world today prides itself on seeing clearly. We have microscopes and telescopes, data and algorithms. And yet, spiritually, we often remain blind. We see objects, but we struggle to see persons. We see surfaces, but we miss the glory that shines through them. We gather information, yet still hunger for meaning.

The Gospel, however, reveals something entirely different.

When Nathanael finally encounters Christ, the Lord says something mysterious:

“Before Philip called you, when you were under the fig tree, I saw you.”

And suddenly Nathanael begins to see — not because he was given an argument, but because he was seen first.

Here the Sunday of Orthodoxy speaks with particular power. The Church’s defense of the holy icons was never about decoration or artistic taste. It was about something much deeper:

Can matter bear God?
Can the visible world truly reveal the invisible?

The holy icon answers with a quiet but firm yes.

The world is not closed.
Matter is not mute.
Creation is capable of communion.

An icon is therefore not merely religious artwork. It is a theological event. It does not present Christ as an object to be examined, but as a Person who encounters us.

And this is why the icon can feel unfamiliar to the modern eye. Much of our daily life trains us to look quickly, to consume, to move on. The icon invites something very different: to stand, to become still, to receive, to be seen.

Christ’s final words to Nathanael are astonishing:

“You will see heaven opened, and the angels of God ascending and descending upon the Son of Man.”

In other words: reality is deeper than it appears. Heaven is not far away. In Christ, even this ordinary world is called to become transparent to the Kingdom.

The icon stands precisely at this meeting point.

But here we must speak honestly.

The greatest danger to icons today is not their destruction by hammers. It is the gradual loss of the ability to truly see.

We live surrounded by images — more than any generation before us. Screens glow in every pocket. Faces pass endlessly before our eyes. Yet many people feel more disconnected than ever.

Why?

Because many modern images train us in consumption rather than communion. They fragment our attention. They reduce persons to content. And in such an environment, even holy icons can quietly be reduced to decoration or cultural artefacts of the past.

The real question of the Sunday of Orthodoxy is therefore very personal:

Will we recover the capacity to behold?

Spiritual life begins very simply.

We slow down.
We give thanks before we take.
We allow what is before us — a person, a meal, a moment of suffering, or the face of Christ in the icon — to be received with reverence rather than managed or hurried past.

Standing quietly before an icon, we do not analyse. We allow ourselves to be seen. And slowly, patiently, our sight begins to heal. The world itself begins to soften and open before us.

Nathanael’s journey shows us the path.

He begins with judgment:

“Can anything good come out of Nazareth?”

He ends with confession:

“Rabbi, You are the Son of God.”

What changed?

Not the data.
Not the arguments.
His sight was healed.

The Sunday of Orthodoxy is not nostalgia for Byzantium. It is a living and prophetic word for our distracted and searching world.

Today the icon quietly calls us to:

recover the dignity of matter in an age of virtual life

recover the face of the person in an age of anonymity

recover communion in an age of consumption

recover wonder in an age of control

Philip’s words remain the Church’s enduring missionary method:

Come and see.

Come and stand before the face of Christ.
Come and allow your vision to be purified.
Come and discover that the world is more radiant than you imagined.

The triumph of Orthodoxy is not the victory of correct theory.

It is the quiet and patient restoration of human sight.

Because the final goal is not simply that we look at icons…

…but that, in Christ, we ourselves become living icons — faces through which the light of the Kingdom shines into the world.*

23/02/2026

Homily on Forgiveness Sunday (Matthew 6:14–21) From the Holy Metropolis of New Zealand

"The Lord’s words appointed for this Sunday are disarmingly simple. There is no parable, no narrative movement, only three brief instructions: forgive, fast, and lay up treasure in heaven. Yet the Church places them here — on the very edge of the Fast — not because they describe religious duties but because they describe the true inner structure of the human person - the hidden architecture of the heart

The Fathers consistently read such passages as revelations of how life in God actually works. Christ is not merely commanding; He is unveiling reality.

“If you forgive men their trespasses, your heavenly Father will also forgive you…”

At first hearing, this can sound conditional, almost juridical — as though divine forgiveness were a response to our moral performance. But the Fathers resist such a reading. They are remarkably unanimous: God’s mercy is not a wage paid for good behavior. It is the very atmosphere of His being.

St. Isaac the Syrian writes with startling boldness:

“God does not change toward us as we change toward Him.”

If this is so — and the Tradition insists that it is — then Christ’s words must be heard more deeply. The issue is not that God withholds forgiveness, but that the unforgiving heart becomes incapable of receiving it.

Therefore to refuse forgiveness is to harden the inner life into a closed system. The Fathers describe the heart (kardia) as the deep centre of the person, the place of communion. When resentment is enthroned there, the heart contracts. It becomes curved inward upon itself.

Thus Christ’s words are indeed diagnostic:

Forgiveness does not earn mercy.

Forgiveness makes space for mercy.

The unforgiving heart sees the world through fracture — through accusation, comparison, and self-protection. Such a heart is a like a clenched fist, it cannot receive a gift.

Forgiveness, therefore, is the first movement of Lent because it restores the heart’s capacity for communion.

Then we hear:

“When you fast, do not be like the hypocrites…”

Christ again assumes fasting as normal to human life. The question is not whether we fast, but how the fast touches the heart.

The hypocrite (ὑποκριτής) in the Gospel is not merely someone pretending to be religious. In its deeper sense, the word refers to one who performs a role — a divided person whose outer life and inner reality do not coincide.

The Fathers are acutely aware that asceticism itself can become theatrical. One may fast rigorously and yet remain profoundly centered on oneself. Indeed, the ego can feed quite comfortably on spiritual achievement.

St. John Chrysostom warns:

“What is the profit if we abstain from foods but bite and devour our brother?”

Here we begin to see the coherence of the passage. Forgiveness and fasting are not separate disciplines. They address the same interior distortion.

Fasting weakens the illusion of self-sufficiency. Hunger reveals something we normally conceal from ourselves: that our life is received, not possessed. But if fasting is performed for the sake of visibility — for religious identity, for self-assurance, even for subtle spiritual pride — it simply reinforces the very ego it was meant to expose.

St. Basil the Great reminds us:

“True fasting is the estrangement from evil, the bridle of the tongue, the laying aside of anger.”

The external fast without the inner softening becomes, in the Fathers’ language, demonic fasting — restraint without love.

Fasting weakens the illusion that we are sustained by our own satisfactions. Hunger reveals our deeper hunger — the hunger for God.

Thus, the Lord says: anoint your head, wash your face. In other words: fast in secret, in the hidden place where God alone sees. For the true fast is not performed before men but takes place in the depths where the false self begins to loosen its grip.

After that Christ says:

“Where your treasure is, there your heart will be also.”

This is perhaps the most psychologically precise statement in the passage. Christ does not treat the heart as a static thing. The heart moves. It is drawn. It is shaped by what it loves.

The Fathers speak of this in terms of desire (ἐπιθυμία), which is not evil in itself. Desire is the engine of the human person. The tragedy of the fall is not that we desire too much, but that our desire has become misdirected toward what cannot give life.

St. Maximus the Confessor teaches that the human being was created with a natural longing for God, but through the fall this longing becomes scattered among created things. We do not stop seeking life — we simply begin seeking it in places where moth and rust inevitably prevail.

There is a reason the Church also remembers the expulsion of Adam from Paradise on this day. Adam’s fall was not simply disobedience. It was the turning of the heart toward the illusion of life in itself. And what immediately followed in Genesis? Not fasting. Not ascetic struggle.

Blame.

“… the woman… the serpent…”

The refusal of responsibility — the refusal of communion — is the first fruit of the fall.

Forgiveness Sunday therefore stands as the true beginning of the return to Eden. Before we take a single step into the Fast, the Church asks us to do something profoundly simple and profoundly difficult: Be reconciled.

Not because the other person deserves it.
Not because justice has been satisfied.
But because the Kingdom of God is communion, and we cannot walk toward communion while guarding the walls of the self.

If we listen carefully, the Gospel today is very gentle. Christ does not threaten. He does not demand heroic feats. He simply describes reality:

The unforgiving heart cannot receive mercy.

The performative fast cannot heal the soul.

The earthly treasure cannot sustain the heart.

Great Lent begins not with triumph but with truth.

Tonight, when we ask forgiveness of one another, something very quiet and very cosmic takes place. The machinery of the fallen world — built on accusation, self-justification, and hidden resentment — begins, by grace, to unwind within us.

And in that small opening, the Fast becomes what it truly is:

not a season of religious effort, but a journey home."

02/02/2026

Two Men Went Up to the Temple - On Truth, Identity, and the Mercy That Restores Us -
Homily on Sunday of the Publican and the Pharisee, from the Holy Metropolis of New Zealand

"Luke 18:10–14

The Lord tells us that two men went up to the Temple to pray. He does not begin by describing their sins or virtues, nor does He immediately invite us to judge them. He simply places them within the Temple, within the presence of God, where the truth of a person is not argued or defended but simply revealed.

The Pharisee stands and prays. The Evangelist tells us that he stands and prays thus with himself (πρὸς ἑαυτόν) a phrase that the Fathers linger over with great seriousness. Although his body is in the Temple, his prayer never truly leaves the boundaries of his own self-understanding. He speaks to God, yet his words remain enclosed within a world of comparison, measurement, categories and moral accounting. His thanksgiving is carefully shaped, listing what he is not and what he has done, as though righteousness were something that could be securely possessed and calmly presented before God.

St. John Chrysostom notes that nothing the Pharisee names is, in itself, sinful. Fasting and almsgiving are good, and gratitude is fitting. What troubles Chrysostom is not the presence of virtue, but the way in which virtue has become the ground of self-assurance - He says:

“He did not condemn the publican but praised himself; yet this was enough to cast him down.”
(Homily on Repentance and Humility)

Here the Fathers reveal something profoundly contemporary. The Pharisee is not guilty of immorality; he is guilty of identity construction. His righteousness is something he possesses, manages, and performs—even before God. He has turned virtue into a project of the self.

The tax collector, by contrast, stands afar off. The Gospel does not present this as a gesture of performance or exaggerated humility, but as the simple posture of someone who has encountered the weight of truth. He does not lift his eyes, his prayer is brief: “God, be merciful to me, the sinner.” In the Greek, he names himself not as τῷ ἁμαρτωλῷ— the sinner. Not one sinner among many, not an identity label, but the one whose entire existence is exposed before God.

St. Isaac the Syrian writes:

“The man who has truly seen his own sin is greater than the man who raises the dead.”
(Ascetical Homily 34)

Why? Because such sight is not psychological shame, but ontological awakening. It is the collapse of illusion. The tax collector is no longer managing himself. He has ceased the project of self-justification. And in that moment, he becomes real.

Christ tells us that the tax collector went down to his house justified rather than the other. Modern ears often hear “justified” in legal or moral terms. But in the Fathers, δικαίωσις is not a courtroom verdict but the restoration of the human person to right relation with God.

They remind us that salvation in Christ is not about becoming “good people,” because it is about participation in the life of Christ, and not improvement.

The tax collector is justified because he has ceased to exist as a false self. His prayer does not describe him; it recreates him – it restores his relation to God. He no longer stands on what he has done, but on who God is.

We may not resemble the Pharisee in all his “good” practices yet we often resemble him in his posture. We learn to construct ourselves through opinions, moral alignments, and visible signs of being on the right side of things. At the same time, we live with a pervasive sense of shame that is not repentance, because it never turns outward toward God. It remains closed within the self, endlessly rehearsing inadequacy without ever surrendering it.

The tax collector shows us another way of being human. He does not try to resolve his inner tension. He does not seek to improve his self-image. He allows his life to be named by God rather than by himself. In this surrender, he discovers that mercy is not something added to him, but something that reveals who he truly is.

“Everyone Who Exalts Himself Will Be Humbled”

This is not a threat. It is a description of reality. Every self that is exalted collapses under its own weight. Every identity built apart from God fractures. Humility is not a virtue we add; it is what remains when illusion falls away.

St. Maximus the Confessor writes:

“Humility is the garment of divinity; for the Word who became flesh clothed Himself in it.”
(Ambigua)

To be humble is not to think poorly of oneself, but to stand naked before God without defense.

At the end - Which man do we recognize within us?

The Pharisee is frightening because he looks like success. The tax collector is frightening because he looks like truth.

And Christ tells us that only one of them goes home restored to life.

not because he was better, but because he was finally willing to be real."

25/01/2026

Zacchaeus and the Birth of Philotimo
Homily on (Luke 19:1–10) 15th Sunday of Luke, from the Holy Metropolis of New Zealand

"Initially, in this Gospel pericope, we are not told exactly what Zacchaeus did, but who he was:

“Zacchaeus was a chief tax collector, and he was rich,”
and, “He was small in stature.”

The symbolic language of the Gospel is never merely illustrative; it is ontological. It reveals not only events, but modes of existence. And it is always filled with contrasts. Zacchaeus is wealthy, yet diminished; powerful, yet small.

The tax collector’s life is ordered around appropriation—taking what does not belong to him—and thus becomes fragmented, disordered, and lonely. Rich, yes—but poor in communion.

The Fathers read his being “small in stature” not merely as a description of Zacchaeus’ body, but as a revelation of his place in the world. He is small before God and before men. He cannot see Christ—not because Christ is hidden, but because Zacchaeus’ way of life has rendered him incapable of true vision.

Yet something unexpected happens. Zacchaeus desires to see Jesus.

By climbing the tree openly, before the eyes of the crowd, he reveals a willingness to break through his own shame. This desire itself is already grace. As St. Maximus the Confessor teaches, every genuine movement toward God begins not in the human will, but in God’s prior movement toward us. Zacchaeus does not reason his way into repentance. He is drawn. And so he runs.

Zacchaeus runs ahead and climbs a sycamore tree—a grown man, a chief official, publicly exposed. This is not strategic behavior; it is kenotic. He empties himself of dignity in order to see.

Patristic tradition reminds us that salvation always passes through holy shame—not the shame that hides, but the shame that opens the heart. Philotimo is born precisely here: when shame no longer paralyzes, but pushes us toward Christ.

Just as philosophia means the love of wisdom, so philotimo literally means the love of what is honorable—not pride in one’s honor, but the shame-filled courage to respond to love. It is the movement of the heart toward what is honorable to do, whether or not it is required, obligated, or even noticed.

Zacchaeus is seeking Christ.
But it is Christ who sees Zacchaeus first.

Christ looks up. He calls him by name. In the Gospel, to be called by name is to be summoned into existence anew.

“Zacchaeus, make haste and come down, for today I must stay at your house.”

And Zacchaeus responds with joy.

Joy, in the teaching of the Fathers, is the unmistakable sign of God’s presence. Philotimo is not heavy or scrupulous; it is luminous. It arises when the heart realizes: God has honored me with His presence. Only after Christ enters the house does Zacchaeus speak:

“Behold, Lord, the half of my goods I give to the poor, and if I have taken anything from anyone by false accusation, I restore fourfold.”

This is not negotiation. It is not self-defense. It is not fear of punishment. It is philotimo.

Here we see that philotimo is an expression of eucharistic repentance—not remorse alone, but thanksgiving that overflows into self-offering. The Law demanded restitution: what was taken must be returned. Love demands more. As St. Isaac the Syrian teaches, when grace touches the heart, it creates a generosity that exceeds justice.

Zacchaeus does not give because he must, but because he cannot do otherwise. Having been honored by Christ, he now seeks to honor others. Having been received freely, he now gives freely. This is repentance not as guilt-management, but as the transfiguration of desire.

The Holy Fathers often remind us that sin is not primarily the breaking of rules, but the distortion of communion. Zacchaeus’ repentance restores communion—vertically with God, horizontally with the poor, and inwardly within his own fractured heart.

And then Christ proclaims:

“Today salvation has come to this house…
For the Son of Man has come to seek and to save that which was lost.”

Christ’s final words do not praise Zacchaeus’ generosity. They announce something far deeper. Salvation is not Zacchaeus’ achievement. It is Christ’s presence that creates salvation. Zacchaeus does not save himself by climbing, by giving, or by restoring. He is saved because he allows himself to be found.

This is the heart of philotimo in the Christian sense: not self-honor, but grateful self-offering; not moral heroism, but a life reshaped by having been loved first.

We are all, in one way or another, Zacchaeus—small, obstructed, compromised, yet secretly desiring to see Christ. The sycamore trees of our lives—our awkward efforts, our half-formed prayers, our stumbling repentance—are not despised by God.

Christ still looks up. Christ still calls us by name. Christ still insists on entering the house—today.

And when we realise He does, philotimo is born—not as an obligation, but as thanksgiving made flesh.

For in the Kingdom of God, gratitude is not a feeling.
It is a way of existence."

Holy Metropolis of New Zealand

08/03/2026

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