The evangelist concludes both accounts of Jesus Christ's miraculous power with the words of the astonished witnesses: “Who is this, that He works such miracles?” Undoubtedly he wants to put this question to his readers as well. Naturally, he wrote for believers—see the Gospel's prologue, 1:1-4—who by virtue of their faith could already answer the question, calling Jesus Lord, Messiah, and Son of God.

What, then, is the point of these accounts? Another “proof” of faith, or another question posed to the reader's consciousness: who is He? Could a confession of faith alone be insufficient to touch the mystery of Christ's person? Might we need an unfading wonder before Him like that experienced by the disciples in the boat or by those who saw the possessed man healed? Could this question, “Who is He?”, addressed to ourselves and to Him, be no less important than the answer known in advance? Perhaps there are too many questions here, but the Gospel is a book that not only answers its reader but questions him as well...

The word, the seed sown by the sower, contains within itself the germ of the Kingdom of Heaven. Falling into our hearts, it begins to sprout into an ear of new life. But in this parable the sower does not act alone. Without soil—that is, without us—the seed cannot sprout. As Jesus observes, the more we participate in this process, the more fruit we bear. This produces an apparent injustice: the richer we are, the richer we become. Yet the issue here is probably not spiritual wealth, but how much of our capital—our time, attention, strength, and finally our whole life—we are willing to invest in this shared process of cultivating the Kingdom.

Today's reading offers us two stories: the story of Jesus calming the storm on Lake Gennesaret (vv. 22-26) and the story of the healing of the Gadarene demoniac (vv. 27-39). At first glance, the two stories are connected only by the external thread of events. Yet on closer examination this is not quite so. One could say that they are linked by the theme of the Kingdom, as are all the other accounts of miracles Jesus performed. But each such account has its own features, shading this theme differently and describing the appearing of the Kingdom from different sides.

So today: before us, on the one hand, is the transformation of a natural element, and on the other, the healing of a possessed person. Yet in both cases the human person, not the natural element and not dark forces, is in first place. For Jesus does not simply calm the storm; He interacts with His disciples, rebuking them for their little faith (v. 25), but even earlier He awakens from sleep (vv. 23-24). At first glance it may appear that Jesus only needed to awaken for the power of God to be revealed in all its fullness, putting an end to the storm. But if that were truly so, He would hardly have rebuked the disciples for their little faith: then they really would have had no other way out except to turn to the Teacher and ask Him to intervene in events immediately. Evidently, turning to Him was not what Jesus expected from the apostles in that situation. And if we remember that the Kingdom is first of all not a space but a relationship, everything falls into place.

On examination it turned out that even Jesus' closest disciples' relationship with Him was not so firm. As soon as the Teacher turned away, fell asleep, and left them without direct supervision in a critical situation, the Kingdom at once ceased to be a reality for them; they felt it again only when Jesus woke up and addressed them directly. This may be why the Gadarene demoniac healed by the Savior wanted most of all not to bear witness to the Messiah who had come into the world and to the Kingdom He had brought, but to stay beside Jesus so as never again to be separated from Him (v. 38). Meanwhile, what Jesus Himself needed was precisely witness (v. 39).

Still, taking into account the spiritual situation that had developed in the home region of the man healed by the Savior, it is no surprise that he would want to leave with his Deliverer. For he had already seen the reaction of his fellow countrymen to everything that had happened, including the miracle of his own healing (vv. 33-37). Here it was no longer a matter of little faith, but of real unbelief. These two spiritual states are often viewed as very close to each other; yet little faith is much closer to deep and strong faith than to unbelief. After all, little faith still presupposes faith in the biblical sense of the word, trust in the one whom or in whom one believes, and in that case the faithful person simply lacks the spiritual strength for the relationships born of faith to unfold in all their fullness.

Unbelief, as a rule, means a complete absence of trust either in someone specific or, in especially severe cases, in everyone and everything in the world. Even weak faith points the road to the Kingdom, and, gathering spiritual strength, the one who has such weak faith still has a chance to come there, especially since on this path a person never remains alone. But the absence of faith means a dead end, or a road to nowhere. If little faith is often conditioned by a person's objective abilities and capacities, especially at the beginning of the spiritual path, unbelief is always determined by choice. A choice that excludes the path to the Kingdom. And not because God wants to punish someone for a lack of trust, but because those who do not trust God choose another path - a path leading away from the Kingdom. And if the weak can be helped, then even God will not help the one who refuses to go, for He respects each person's choice and freedom. Even when that choice and that freedom mean a "no" thrown in His own face.