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...

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.

"God is awesome in the great assembly of the saints; He is awesome to all who surround Him. O Lord God of hosts! Who is strong like You, O Lord? And Your truth is all around You. You rule over the raging of the sea: when its waves rise, You still them." (Ps 88:8-10) This is the text often offered to us as a parallel to the fragment of today's Gospel. But let us look at these words.

Here the Lord appears as a fearsome Judge; He appears in Power and Glory. It is hard for us to judge the original meaning of the word "awesome" among the Jews, but already in the Vulgate and in translations into modern languages we find precisely such words as "terribilis," "feared," and so on, fully corresponding to our "awesome" or "fearsome"; and therefore this is already a fact of our many centuries of spiritual life. Now let us think, by contrast, how much silence and defenselessness there is in this figure of the Lord asleep in the stern. And when He wakes and appears in Power, He is still surrounded not by a host of angels, but standing in that little boat, surrounded by a handful of frightened fishermen.

But people with a more liberal-theological outlook can tell us in response to all this that the close connection of these two texts casts doubt on the authenticity of what happened and makes it look more like some kind of parable. We will not judge who is right. Each person has his own understanding. Yet, if we receive this text so existentially, we can also receive the spiritual interpretation that arises through turning to the prophet Isaiah: "But the wicked are like the troubled sea, which cannot rest, whose waters cast up mire and mud." (Isa 57:20)

The image of the sea appears very often in the biblical text, and that is understandable: after all, the culture that became the manger for Jesus and the cradle for us is a Mediterranean culture. But the way the prophet Isaiah suggests reading this image gives us a great deal for understanding today's story about the Lord. The troubled sea is something that carries death within it, and sin is the path to death. But the Lord calms the troubled sea, because He does not desire anyone's death.

But "where is our faith?" Must we always wake the Lord? "Acquire the spirit of peace, and then thousands around you will be saved," said Seraphim of Sarov. These words of our remarkable saint seem to draw the image of today's reading, except that you must stand in the Lord's place. You are as if building a ship on which you lead everyone around you through the raging sea to a quiet harbor.