NOTES for Mat 8:14-23

Our God, the God of harmony and order, dearly loves what we call the "golden mean" or the "royal path." He, who holds the universe in balance, knows how difficult it is to find balance. And for us, people who do not possess His wisdom and vision, it is practically impossible not to slide into one of the extremes that open before us. This kind of tightrope walking is beyond our strength, especially since we are trying to walk this rope not as saints, leaving everything behind in trust in God, but with all the bundles of our own ideas about what is right and what is not, with all our cultural and other baggage. Perhaps these things are useful in some respects, but on the way to God they only cloud our sight. And then we become very much like the person in today's Gospel reading who approached Jesus second (see Matt. 8:21-22): it is very hard for us to part with what separates us from God.

This call, which appears cruel to many, to leave one's unburied father and follow Jesus, conveys very precisely what the Lord truly wants from us. He proposes that we not cling to this world, but, having weighed everything, renounce temptations and set out on the path toward happiness. Yet this must be done in a measured way, because against one extreme, not daring to follow Christ, there is always another: to run headlong without knowing where, making a mess in the process and deeply wounding those around us. Christ gently checks such an unbridled follower (see Matt. 8:19-20) and calls him to a measured decision.

It turns out that following God requires at the same time both radicalism, the resolve to follow Christ leaving everything behind, and a serious act of will, the utmost collectedness. What remains is to learn to find balance...

It is hardly accidental that Matthew emphasizes that the sick were brought to Christ when evening had come. This can indicate that people were afraid to come in daylight. But it can also testify that all this was taking place on the Sabbath and that people came immediately after the end of the Sabbath rest, without losing a minute.

Let us note that Peter's healed mother-in-law immediately began to serve, and in this way she not only returned to the household concerns familiar to her, but also began to serve Christ in the way familiar to her. We do not meet any further mention of her anywhere, and nowhere is it said that Christ sent her to any special ministry. But one can serve Christ in any place, amid ordinary occupations.

Yet those who want to be near Him He confronts with the reality of difficulties. Jesus warns the scribe who promises to follow Christ wherever He goes about the hardships and about the fact that one should not count on comfort. That answer is understandable. But His answer to another disciple, who wants to bury his father, causes perplexity. Here too, thanks to commentators who know ancient customs, we can understand that the disciple's father is alive, which means the disciple intends to sit at home for years instead of following Christ.

Yet it is impossible to avoid forever the choice of whether to follow Christ or not.

The evangelist Matthew chooses an astonishing quotation from the Old Testament to explain the countless miraculous healings performed by the Lord Jesus Christ. From the whole vast "victory" tradition of the Old Testament, which tells of the coming kingdom of the Messiah, he recalls the strangest and most difficult prophecy of Isaiah about the rejection of the Messiah, the prophecy of the Cross. All these healings, in the evangelist's thought, happen because Christ "took our infirmities and bore our diseases."

Human thinking is arranged in such a way that we imagine the healing God as a kind doctor, differing from Doctor Aybolit only in that He can heal everything. But this is far from an exact or complete idea. Christ heals because on the Cross He takes upon Himself our infirmities and diseases. The instrument of healing is the Cross of Christ, on which He shares our sufferings. The apostle Paul writes in First Corinthians: "...you were bought with a price. Therefore glorify God..." (1 Cor. 6:20). Remembering this price is necessary so that we do not remain ungrateful.

The evangelist sets apart a group of sayings of Jesus Christ: His brief replies addressed to various people and meant to change their ideas about life at the root. Here are two remarkable examples: the words that "the Son of Man has nowhere to lay His head," and about "the dead burying their dead." In the first case, a new disciple, burning with a passionate desire to follow the Teacher through fire and water, suddenly learns that on this path he will have to envy "foxes and birds of the air," and that the fate of the Teacher and His disciples will not at all correspond to his ideas about the life of a renowned and wise person. In the second case, the disciple learns that the distinction between the dead and the living recedes into the background compared with the transformation awaiting Jesus' disciples, so that against their background all the rest turn out to be "dead." But most striking of all is that these two sayings follow one after the other in the Gospel, revealing the contrasts of the Heavenly Kingdom: the despised and humiliated Teacher turns out in reality to be the center of life.

What do Jesus' words mean about the home He does not have? Of course, they could be understood to mean that after He began His ministry Jesus led the life of a wandering prophet, who by definition could not have a permanent dwelling. This way of life was characteristic of some prophets, though certainly not all.

But the point, after all, is probably not only the way of life Jesus was leading at that time. The point is the very essence of the Kingdom He brought into the world. A home is not only a dwelling; a home is above all the place experienced as the place where one feels at home, in one's own place. And Jesus' Kingdom is not of this world. He can feel organically, naturally, and truly at home only there. Here, in the untransformed world, He cannot have a home in the full sense of the word.

Of course, He could find temporary shelter for Himself and always did. And this is no surprise: Jesus could have felt at home in this world only if this world had become the Kingdom. Perhaps when He returns at the end of time, that is how it will be, for He will return to a transformed world that has become part of the Kingdom. Until then, everyone who seeks the Kingdom turns out to be a wanderer in our world, which is being transformed but has not yet been transformed.

And Jesus' words, "let the dead bury their own dead," bear the best witness to this. Few things testify so vividly to the evil in which the world lies as triumphant death, and few things bind a person to the world in its untransformed state as strongly as the graves or tombs of dead ancestors. It is no accident that in the process of resurrection the tombs become empty: the dead come to life, and their temporary shelter is no longer needed either by them or by their loved ones. The empty tomb is a sign and symbol of the triumphant Kingdom. The closed tomb, not releasing the dead person, is a sign and symbol of triumphant death. And Jesus calls His potential future disciple after Him, away from the tomb where death triumphs, into His Kingdom where life triumphs.

In full accordance with his purpose, the evangelist Matthew presents two short stories concerning the way Jesus builds the community of His disciples, the future Church. Although these are only two particular cases (let us once again note how unique Christ’s relationship is with each person), we may still draw some conclusions for ourselves. What do we expect when we set out on the path of following Christ? Naturally, that things will become better for us! And this is right—but in what sphere does this “better” lie? Jesus’ terse answer to the scribe shows that it certainly does not lie in the sphere of everyday comfort. And His words also seem to carry a note of sorrow…

The second scene always causes difficulty for those who have only recently begun reading the Bible. How can Jesus be so callous, almost cruel, in the face of death? Of course, Jesus is not opposed to burying close relatives; in this shocking way He makes people reflect on what they take for granted. Then, as in our day, many people tended to regard death as almost the chief event in life and to honour the dead instead of caring for those people while they were still alive. In any event, Jesus, who opens in Himself the path to life, confronts every person with a clear choice between life and death. The Gospel does not say what this disciple chose. What do we choose?

Jesus' words about the dead who should be left to bury their dead can seem too harsh. Yet He is speaking here about the very essence of the new life that entered the world with Him. The situation itself raises questions. It is not very clear whether this concerns a father who has already died and is awaiting burial, or an elderly man whose son is asking permission to live with him so that he will not be left alone in his old age. But in any case one thing is clear: the issue is helping a person live to the end. To die peacefully. To accompany him on his final journey.

In short, it is about everything that, one way or another, is connected with death. But Jesus brought the fullness of life into the world. A fullness the world does not know. What we habitually call life here turns out in reality to be deferred death. Gradual dying. The only question is how far we manage to postpone the end that is inevitable in a fallen world. The Savior offers an alternative to all this: the fullness of life. It can be accepted, but then we will have to leave behind that semblance of life to which we are so accustomed.

To stop dying and begin to live. This is strange, unclear, unfamiliar. More than that: it seems impossible. Even today. Even for Christians. And today in hospitals and hospices Christians help other Christians live out their days. They accompany them on their final journey. And they keep seeking new ways to reconcile these departing Christians with inevitable death, which, for these very Christians, in the normal order of things, simply should not exist.

And if it does exist, if today this problem stands before Christians finishing their earthly path as sharply as it did before Jews in pre-Christian times, and at times even more sharply - not even as for Jews, but as for genuine pagans - then something is wrong with our Christianity. With life and death. With the path. With the Kingdom, not in general, but in our life. If both those who depart and those who remain feel with their whole being that what lies ahead for the departing is not the path of the Kingdom, but death and death alone, then in truth neither the one group nor the other has ever lived the life of the Kingdom. And Jesus directs us precisely toward such a life. This is not maximalism, because only that life deserves the name of life without qualification. And only it is worth living.

Today's reading brings us back once more to the main theme of all four Gospels: the theme of the Kingdom. Before us are two stories: the stilling of the storm (vv. 23-27) and the healing of the possessed, the demon-possessed (vv. 28-34). The events appear very different, since in one case Jesus is dealing with a force of nature, and in the other with people and dark powers. But in essence, in both cases the point is how the Kingdom of God, which Jesus bears in Himself, transforms the world around Him.

To those around Him it appears that He possesses some superhuman abilities or some special powers given Him by God, and that for this reason He can work miracles that no one else can work (v. 27). But in fact the issue is not powers or abilities. The world around Him is being transformed; that is why the storm grows calm and the demons cannot endure it and run away (v. 32). No power, not even the power of God, affects the world in this way: it can, of course, change many things in it, but in this case the point is no longer simply change, but complete transformation, so that the very laws of creation change. According to the laws of the untransformed world, a storm cannot grow calm without a cause. Strictly speaking, in that world it does not grow calm, but in the Kingdom there is no storm; and then everything depends on which reality the person in the midst of the storm becomes a participant in: the reality of the fallen world or the reality of the Kingdom. And here everything is determined only by faith, by trust in the One who brought this Kingdom into the world (v. 26).

But if there is no faith, even manifestations of the Kingdom by themselves will not replace it. This was the case with the Gergesene demoniacs: the manifestation of the Kingdom was plain, and the demons, naturally unable to endure it, felt this very quickly (v. 29). But with the people everything turned out to be less simple. It was hard not to believe the eyewitnesses' story (v. 33), but this story clearly made a paradoxical impression on the local residents: they asked Jesus to leave them in peace (v. 34). And the point was hardly that they felt sorry about the lost herd.

Of course, the inhabitants of those places were pagans and hardly thought much about the Messiah or the Kingdom. But they did understand one thing: Someone had entered their life and had brought in Something with which living as before would become impossible. If He remained among them, their whole life would change radically. And this, evidently, they did not want.

Here Jesus encountered the chief obstacle on His path: people's unwillingness to receive the Kingdom that He offers them. And then He leaves. For if a person refuses the Kingdom, the Savior has nothing more to give him.

The disciples were ready to follow Christ wherever He went. They got into the boat after Him in order to accompany Him. But even while following Christ, the disciples for too long did not understand Him. It is noteworthy that, describing the disciples' reaction to Jesus calming the storm, the evangelist writes: "And the men marveled, saying..." For at the moment when the disciples do not understand the Teacher, they cannot be called disciples.

Christ's sleep in the middle of the stormy sea is striking not only because He preserves astonishing self-control amid the raging elements, while all the disciples are alarmed. Another meaning can also be seen in this image: it recalls God's rest after the completion of creation, when the world was already developing according to the course appointed for it. Even while at rest, the Lord remained the Creator and Lord of the moving universe. And here one can also discern His coming Resurrection, when, rising from the repose of the tomb, He will again bring the bewildered apostles to their senses.

When the disciples wake Christ, who is sleeping during the storm, and ask for rescue, He rebukes them for fearfulness and little faith - but only for those. Believing people should not have been afraid, but they certainly should have turned to God, which in this case meant waking Christ. This is an important detail: of course the disciples should have awakened Him; what else were they to do? What they should not have done was fear and panic, rushing about in anxiety.

We often think that trust is expressed by curling up beside the Teacher on the same cushion in the boat and also trying to fall asleep, pretending that nothing is happening. No, that is not the disciples' task. We are called to conquer fear in our hearts and not give in to falling apart. Only in this way can we present our life to God, so that He may work His miracles and save us.

What, then, actually happened during that crossing of the Sea of Galilee? A miracle? God’s supernatural intervention in the events of our untransformed world? One can probably view the situation that way too. And yet all the miracles performed by Jesus during His earthly ministry are signs of the Kingdom. Could this demonstration of authority over the elements also be regarded as such a sign? What does it prove? The strength and authority of the Saviour Himself? Probably so. But only that? To answer the question, we must try to understand what power calmed the storm. The power of God? The power of Jesus Himself, who bears within Himself all the fullness of God? Or something else? And most importantly: did the storm actually subside? At first sight, the question may seem strange. But what, in fact, is a miracle? Is it simply a change in the laws of nature that occurs at a particular place and time? Such a change would instantly destroy our world, because the world exists only because the laws on which it is founded operate in it invariably and everywhere. Yet this world was created by God together with the laws on which it rests. Does God, then, contradict Himself? Hardly. It is more reasonable to suppose that, in this case, other laws belonging to another world come into play because that world has suddenly touched ours. But the Kingdom is precisely such a world! It lives by other laws, different from those of the untransformed world, and it touched our untransformed world through Jesus, who brought it to us. The world around Him lives by the laws of the Kingdom, not by the laws of the untransformed world. And there are no storms in the Kingdom; its nature is wholly subject to the spirit. While Jesus sleeps, the Kingdom does not manifest itself at all, because His will takes no part in what is happening. But the moment He wakes, the world around Him becomes the Kingdom. And the storm subsides, because there is no place for it in the Kingdom.

Against the background of the disasters that beset humanity, these words both rebuke and bring hope. Can the terrible calamities that befall the world really be explained by something so simple? Are people's death and suffering the result of God's anger at our lack of faith? And why does the Lord say this, merely to frighten us?

And if we were not of little faith, then what? Christ's words about our fearfulness imply that the causes of disasters depend little on us, otherwise why would we be afraid? The Lord therefore is not saying that calamities are sent as retribution. Nevertheless, we are called to such faith that we can take responsibility for the world in which we have been placed and resist the forces of disintegration. Our lack of faith is, in essence, a refusal of this calling.

It is no less important that the Lord is speaking not so much about things that have already happened as “for the future.” In practice, this means for us that faith, that is, trust in God, can make us invulnerable to these causeless, “entropic” calamities. We have the means to resist them: trust, prayer, and love for people. This gives hope because these means are truly available to us.

It is interesting: whom, after all, does Jesus call “sons of the Kingdom”? In traditional Semitic usage, whether Hebrew or Aramaic, this expression denotes those who belong to the Kingdom. If so, judging by the context of the saying, one must conclude that Jesus is speaking about His own people, about the Jews, about the people of God. It is clear that belonging to the Jewish people does not in itself guarantee salvation or entry into the Kingdom: it is only a good foundation on which one can build one’s salvation. Yet the meaning of the Saviour’s words seems to be that He speaks of those who belong to the Jewish people as already possessing the Kingdom, but as capable of losing it under certain conditions. What, then, does He mean? And what Kingdom could have been spoken of before His coming into the world? Perhaps the answer lies in the very history of the covenant—the history of God’s relationship with His people. From the beginning, that history implied not only a beginning but also an end, a fulfilment, and therefore the Kingdom. According to the Creator’s design, the destiny of everyone who belongs to the people of God should be fulfilled in the Kingdom. The whole history of the covenant has meaning only in this context. And the Kingdom embraces not only our present but also our past and our future; it includes the fullness of the ages and all existing time. For the Kingdom, apparently, there is no past, present and future in our sense: what is real for it is only what forms part of it, and from the Kingdom’s point of view the whole world is divided into what belongs to the Kingdom and what does not. The time of our world plays no special role here, so that if someone or something is related to the Kingdom, even potentially, then from the point of view of those who dwell in the Kingdom, that person or thing also belongs to it. Our untransformed world begins to perceive their belonging to the Kingdom only when the Kingdom is revealed to it in the fullness necessary for such understanding. It is therefore not surprising that Jesus, looking at the situation precisely from within the Kingdom, sees the whole people of God, and each of its members individually, as belonging to the Kingdom. Yet, on the other hand, the history of this people also unfolds in our untransformed world; in essence, it is—or at least ought to have been—the history of that people’s transformation. As long as this process is not complete, the journey into the Kingdom is not complete either. This means that it is still possible to turn away from this path and not enter the place to which it led.

How strange we would look if we came to a doctor with a broken arm, asking for help but not allowing him to touch it. The same can be said of our prayer asking for help, but without faith...

In response to the centurion's request, Jesus did not say something like "let what you ask be done for you" or "your servant has recovered; go." He says: "Go; and as you have believed, let it be done for you" (Matt. 5:13). In this way He tells us the main thing: it is not enough simply to ask; faith is necessary. It is faith that fills the request with "power," makes it real and full. For if one asks someone for help without believing that it can be given, one will scarcely receive it. Besides, if we do not believe that the Lord can help us, we in effect close the road to Him, that is, we simply do not give Him the opportunity to provide that very help.

That is why Christ said: "Have faith in God. For truly I say to you, whoever says to this mountain, 'Be taken up and thrown into the sea,' and does not doubt in his heart, but believes that what he says will come to pass, it will be done for him. Therefore I tell you, whatever you ask in prayer, believe that you have received it, and it will be yours" (Mark 11:23-24).

The evangelist Matthew leads his account very consistently. Having told us in chapter 4 what Jesus' public ministry consisted of, remember: the preaching of the Gospel of the Kingdom, healing, and the building of the Church, he gives an example of the preaching in chapters 5-7, and now tells about healings and other miracles.

There were many miracles, and Matthew selects for his account those that seem to him most revealing and important for a Jewish reader. In the healing of the leper, the significant moments are Jesus' touch of the sick man; one must not touch a leper!; and the command to show himself to the priest and offer the sacrifice. Jesus does not neglect the law of Moses, but surpasses it by mercy. In the case of the centurion, Jesus communicates with a Gentile; one must not associate with Gentiles!; but what, in fact, distinguishes a Gentile from a Jew? Faith. And the Lord shows that the centurion's living faith is stronger than Israel's traditional and bookish faith.

We see that the miracles are performed by Him not at random, but as a continuation of His preaching, and the apostle Matthew, as is his custom, gives an Old Testament foundation for this ministry of Jesus with a passage from the famous 53rd chapter of Isaiah.

In the Gospel we can find many stories about miraculous healings and the casting out of demons from different people. These miracles are usually called "signs," that is, they serve to show something. For example, in today's stories the miracles are meant to illustrate the fulfillment of Isaiah's prophecy about the coming of the Messiah, who was to "take upon Himself our infirmities and diseases."

For the first readers of the Gospel, who knew these prophecies by heart, the allusion was completely clear: these healings are only the beginning of the work of saving the world, which Christ accomplishes in history through His voluntary suffering (Isa. 53). Thus the context of this prophecy, and Matthew's references to it, leads us beyond the bounds of a particular miracle, which in general has little to do with us personally, and brings us into the history of the world's salvation, where all the events in which the prophecy was fulfilled have their place, and into our own life, when Christ saved our life, healed our sickness, and conquered evil around us or within us.