Today's reading consists of two parts that at first glance are not directly connected with each other. The first part is the account of the withered fig tree (vv. 18-22); the second gives the conversation of Jesus with the chief priests and elders in the Temple (vv. 23-32). And yet there is a connection between these two events, although it is not immediately obvious.

It is no accident that the account of the withered fig tree ends with a conversation about faith that, according to Jesus, can move mountains (vv. 21-22). Clearly, faith here is not only trust in God and in the One whom God sends into the world, but also a definite spiritual state. And the second part of the passage is devoted precisely to what prevents a person from acquiring and keeping that state.

The conversation with the chief priests and elders begins with the question, already discussed more than once, of who gave Jesus the authority to do what He does (v. 23). Jesus, as had happened before, answers a question with a question: was the washing ("baptism") with which John washed people true or false (v. 25)? Then Jesus' interlocutors begin thinking about how to answer Him (vv. 25-27). But they are clearly concerned not with the truth of John's ministry, but only with the possibility of getting out of a delicate situation without losing face. And in the end, as often happens in such cases, they avoid answering (v. 27).

Then Jesus also refuses to answer their question. There is no game here: in fact, with such an attitude toward the matter, trying to explain anything to these people is truly pointless. They are not interested in truth; their own opinion is more important to them - whatever they may say about spiritual life, purity of faith, and other things of that sort.

The parable Jesus tells about the two sons (vv. 28-32) characterizes the situation as well as possible: one can talk about faith and spiritual life as much as one likes, but if there is no sincere obedience to God's will, all of it is only words. And what prevents obedience is a lack of resolve and inner wholeness.

After all, Jesus' interlocutors cannot be called complete unbelievers. But this is not unconditional faith; it is faith with reservations and allowances. Such faith is worth little. It certainly cannot move mountains. The only thing such faith is good for is serving as self-consolation for those who would like to consider themselves believers without sacrificing anything. But such faith has nothing to do with the Kingdom.

The Lord continues His path to Golgotha, which is already felt in His clashes with the chief priests and elders, in His parables and conversations with the disciples. He entered the city as King. He must either be received by the people as the long-awaited Messiah or perish in a clash with the hypocrisy and rigidity of the leaders and the unfaithfulness of the people, in a struggle with the kingdom of darkness. Where Christ comes, no room for compromise remains. The fig tree that bore no fruit withers; Israel, which did not hear the preaching of John, cannot receive the Savior. More and more clearly it becomes visible that the conflict can end in only one way: the death of the Rebel.

We, together with the Israelites of the beginning of the first century, stand at the very center of these events. Christ enters us, or will yet enter us, in exactly the same way He entered Jerusalem. And He will encounter, or has already encountered, hypocrisy and rigidity in our hearts in exactly the same way. Like them, we are always on the edge of a choice: to kill the Messiah and wither like the fig tree, or to receive Him, hear His word, become as He wants to see us, and so obtain His mercy and the Kingdom.

The question the chief priests and elders ask Jesus after He cleanses the temple of commerce is given in a somewhat polished form. In essence, they are not asking about the source of Christ's power, because that would require them to imply the existence of that power, and neither the religious nor the public leaders want to do that. The Greek text here does not use the word kratos, power or might, which is usually used in the meaning of authority. Instead, the chief priests and scribes ask about exousia, permission or right. The same distinction is noticeable in other languages, for example in Latin. Thus the chief priests are speaking rather rudely: "By what right are You giving orders here? And who gave You this right?" Such a formulation of the question makes it much more familiar to us, because we constantly encounter it in our everyday life.

And therefore an important nuance is seen in Christ's answering question. When He asks them about the origin of John's baptism, He is asking about the rights of Heaven. "Does God have rights in your world, and what are they? Does God have the right to do anything at His own discretion?"

In our time we all know very well about human rights. In their ancient time the chief priests thought more about the rights of society and the state. But no one thinks about the rights and freedom of God. The ministry of John the Baptist thus becomes an example of the Creator doing something on His own initiative, at His own discretion, and outside the framework of human customs. And therefore the evasive answer of the chief priests, which they wanted to make nonnegative so that people would not think they were denouncing someone authoritative among the people, turns out not to be positive: "We do not know," they say, "whether God has rights or not." Do we know?