Speaking about the necessity of obeying the law (vv. 1-2), Paul mentions another aspect of the problem that, apparently, in the heat of polemics or condemnation in those days (as, indeed, today) many forgot. He reminds both Titus himself and those whom Titus was to instruct that a sinful person has no right to condemn anyone at all, that condemnation of people, even if they are sinners, is an unsuitable occupation for a Christian. The point is not only that only God can adequately evaluate a person, and not separate actions he has committed, and God will give His assessment at the Last Judgment. The point is also that fallen man has no moral right to condemn anyone. Of course, many had guessed this long before the Savior came into the world; the saying "physician, heal yourself" was known already in deep antiquity. But the main point is still elsewhere: condemnation of one's neighbor distracts the Christian from the struggle with his own sins, from being rooted in the Kingdom, and from witness.

The apostle, it is clear, calls his fellow believers to focus on solving precisely these main tasks and to leave in peace those who may deserve condemnation but on whose condemnation a Christian should hardly spend time, especially since in due time each of those who now walks the way of salvation deserved the same condemnation (vv. 3-8). Apparently, the abuse of the Torah mentioned by the apostle (v. 9) became fertile soil for condemnation. The Torah was given to man not for condemning his neighbor, but for evaluating concrete actions and deeds, both his own and others', in order to understand whom and in what one can support, and from whom it is better to keep one's distance. Yet in every age there has been a temptation to abuse the Torah, using it not as a spiritual compass that allows one not to lose spiritual and moral bearings in the world of human deeds and actions, but as a means for self-exaltation and condemnation. Such abuse inevitably led to the empty disputes Paul mentions, whose participants, mutually condemning one another, lost both the meaning of the Torah and the Kingdom. It is no accident that the apostle says that those who think about the Torah differently than he himself and those who share his mind (in the Synodal translation these dissenters are called "heretics") condemn themselves (vv. 10-11): the Torah is a double-edged weapon, so anyone who wants to aim it at his neighbor inevitably turns it against himself as well. The one who scrupulously and mercilessly counts his neighbor's sins will have to answer to God for his own, and God will count them just as scrupulously as the condemner once counted another's sins, condemning him as mercilessly as he himself condemned his neighbors. Then the Torah will become for him a path leading not to the Kingdom, but to that outer darkness of which the Savior spoke.

In every age, people have had a tendency to argue. Of course, for some this desire was stronger, for others it was less visible, but fallen man is by nature argumentative, because in the overwhelming majority of cases an argument is not simply an exchange of opinions or a search for truth, but a desire to assert oneself. Unlike many other forms of self-assertion, it comes under very respectable pretexts, so that this kind of self-assertion is often not perceived as something blameworthy even by those who would certainly condemn the same self-assertion in any other form. Besides, an argument allows a person to display intelligence, wit, eloquence, and many other qualities whose demonstration flatters self-love.

But truth, if it is born in argument at all, alas, is not born there every time. Of course, in the ideal case, when those arguing argue without any desire to show off or assert themselves at the expense of the opponent, they really can arrive at some truth. But in fallen humanity, unfortunately, the ideal argument is just as purely theoretical a model of reality as an ideal gas is in physics: in real life such arguments are as impossible as an ideal gas is impossible in nature. At best, we can speak only of the desire to find truth predominating in those who argue over the desire for self-assertion. But even such predominance is, alas, not nearly as common as it may appear. In every other case, argument really loses its meaning.

Even Jesus Himself did not try to argue with those who entered into a dispute solely in order to outargue their conversation partner: any arguments are useless there. More than that, such an argument can harm those who argue instead of helping them. When the matter reaches a struggle of self-loves and rivalry in self-assertion, those arguing, as centuries of experience show, easily and quickly forget the commandments of God, and usually remember them only when it is already too late. To get involved in such arguments means to encourage them, and that is certainly not fitting for someone called to bear witness to the Kingdom. Here the well-known saying about speech being silver and silence being gold finds its justification.

Why does the Lord love us? Because we are good? Hardly... Because He likes us? No, not that either. It is doubtful that, in our present sinful state, we are especially pleasing to Him who is goodness itself, righteousness itself... Then why? Because He loves. Why must we love our neighbors? Because they are good? That is not always so. Because we like them? That would be too easy. The Apostle Paul reminds us today that God saved us not according to our righteousness but according to His mercy. This is how we too must love: not because of any merit, but simply—to love.