When Paul mentions in his letter to the church in Thessalonica that he and his companions earned their living by their own labour while carrying out their mission there, the apostle first of all wishes to recall certain moral standards. Indeed, why should a church community feed people whom it neither invited nor expected as guests, especially if those people intend to remain in the city for a long time?

Custom required hospitality for three days. Anyone could ask for lodging during that time without even explaining in detail who he was, where he came from, where he was going or why he had set out on his journey. But if a guest wished to stay longer, he could do so only with his host's consent. Anyone planning to remain on a mission for a long time had at least to give advance notice of his arrival, or, better still, arrange his stay in the city with the community or with the particular people with whom and at whose expense he intended to live. Yet there was a great temptation, under cover of talk about God's work, to take advantage of the not entirely voluntary hospitality of one's hosts, offered out of respect not so much for the guests as for the One in whose name they spoke.

But that was not the only point. This is also about simple responsibility, responsibility for God's work. And that is already a spiritual question, just like any question of responsibility or irresponsibility. This is simply because no spirituality is possible without a responsible attitude towards one's own life. The conviction that a local church community or one of its members is obliged to help you carry out the mission entrusted to you by God is an example of irresponsibility, and quite a striking one. Indeed, whether a task is entrusted by God or by a human being, the person responsible for it is that person alone to whom it was entrusted, and no one else.

One can count on help only if that same task has been entrusted not only to oneself, but also to someone else. If nothing of the kind has happened, one cannot count on anyone's help. It will, of course, be wonderful if voluntary helpers appear. But one cannot demand their appearance from either God or other people. And if there are no voluntary helpers, it means one must do one's work oneself, alone if necessary, provided, of course, that one is certain it has truly been entrusted by God.

Today's reading continues the theme of the Kingdom, but now in a somewhat different, eschatological aspect. Eschatology is often confused with apocalyptic, yet they are not the same. Eschatology is a rupture in time and history through which the Kingdom can be seen; apocalyptic is a philosophy of history in which history is viewed as the process of the world's movement towards the Kingdom.

Jesus often speaks of the coming of the Kingdom as a rupture in time, when the former order of things comes to an end. It then becomes clear that, in the face of the new reality revealed at the moment of rupture, former assessments and criteria prove inadequate. This is manifested first of all in a change of priorities: if outward proximity previously played the decisive role, spiritual relationships now do.

When speaking of outward proximity, of course, one must not have only territorial or geographical proximity in mind. National, religious, and every other kind of proximity determined in one way or another by the structure and laws of the untransformed world is also implied here (vv. 25-28). Spiritual proximity, by contrast, becomes decisive (vv. 29-30). This is why the path into the Kingdom proves narrow (vv. 23-24): it begins in a world not yet transformed, living by laws very far from the laws of the Kingdom, but in order to enter the Kingdom, one must begin living by its laws here and now.

This is neither a whim nor a test of loyalty. One can follow the path into the Kingdom only by living according to its laws. For the Kingdom itself, in our world which is not yet fully transformed, depends on those who seek it. It is no accident that Jesus draws His listeners' attention to the fact that at first the Kingdom is completely imperceptible in the world that rejects it and becomes visible only at the end, when the world is transformed (vv. 18-21). Only the person who bears the Kingdom within can find it, and such a person cannot live according to the laws of the world lying in evil. This is why the path leading into the Kingdom proves narrow. But at its end lies the fullness of life awaiting everyone who follows this path to the end.

We have read many times already that Christ's Kingdom is not like all our human "kingdoms." It is like salt in food, like yeast in dough, like a seed in the ground that has not yet sprouted. It is real, but not visible to the "naked eye." It cannot be defined by our concepts, but its presence irreversibly changes this world.

That is exactly why it is so hard to limit "membership" in this Kingdom, however much "chosen ones" of every kind try to do so. The question asked of Jesus about the number of those being saved, that is, the participants in God's Kingdom, in essence means a demand to mark the boundaries of salvation: "who is inside, and who is outside?"

This question remains unanswered: instead of a limited sect, there is a call for everyone. Yes, entering by the "narrow gate" is hard, and the chance of being left out is quite real. But the gate is not closed; it is merely narrow. And everyone for whom this is truly important and necessary can find himself at Christ's feast with those who have also passed along this path.