NOTES for Heb 10:26-39

According to the representations generally accepted in the “yahvéiste” environment and reflected in the Torah, man could be totally forgiven only for the sin committed involuntarily, for example, by weakness or by ignorance. If the sin was committed deliberately, that is consciously and voluntarily, one couldn’t even speak about a total forgiveness for the one who committed it. Certainly, if the sinner repented sincerely and turned to God for demand of forgiveness, God could forgive him.

But the consequences of sin, that in the language of the Torah is called filthiness, prevailed over the one who sins voluntarily all the rest of his life, affecting even very often his descendants. Everything changed with the coming of Christ: entered into the world the Kingdom, of which the laws distinguish themselves fundamentally from the laws of the non transformed world.

In the kingdom, everyone who associated himself to it receives the possibility of starting from a new page. All the sins committed formerly, stay in the previous life, which took place according to the laws of our not yet transformed world, and before the Christian recently converted lies a blank sheet for a new life, in which there shouldn’t and cannot be a place for sin.

But what, if all the same sin still penetrates into this new life together with what is not transformed yet, and thus, not yet free of the human nature sin? Then, it is obvious that such a sinner will no more find place in the Kingdom, and so he will only have what the books of the New Testament call "outer darkness" or "lake of fire".

Fortunately for us, until the process of entering the Kingdom for our world is not completed, the possibility to start anew, to try again is given to us again and again. But it does not make the situation less serious: because we don’t know, how many times we still have in reserve. And thus, every attempt may well turn out to be the last.

According to the representations generally accepted in the “yahvéiste” environment and reflected in the Torah, man could be totally forgiven only for the sin committed involuntarily, for example, by weakness or by ignorance. If the sin was committed deliberately, that is consciously and voluntarily, one couldn’t even speak about a total forgiveness for the one who committed it. Certainly, if the sinner repented sincerely and turned to God for demand of forgiveness, God could forgive him.

But the consequences of sin, that in the language of the Torah is called filthiness, prevailed over the one who sins voluntarily all the rest of his life, affecting even very often his descendants. Everything changed with the coming of Christ: entered into the world the Kingdom, of which the laws distinguish themselves fundamentally from the laws of the non transformed world.

In the kingdom, everyone who associated himself to it receives the possibility of starting from a new page. All the sins committed formerly, stay in the previous life, which took place according to the laws of our not yet transformed world, and before the Christian recently converted lies a blank sheet for a new life, in which there shouldn’t and cannot be a place for sin.

But what, if all the same sin still penetrates into this new life together with what is not transformed yet, and thus, not yet free of the human nature sin? Then, it is obvious that such a sinner will no more find place in the Kingdom, and so he will only have what the books of the New Testament call "outer darkness" or "lake of fire".

Fortunately for us, until the process of entering the Kingdom for our world is not completed, the possibility to start anew, to try again is given to us again and again. But it does not make the situation less serious: because we don’t know, how many times we still have in reserve. And thus, every attempt may well turn out to be the last.

In spiritual life, and in life in general, it often happens that a person must bear the consequences of another's choice, a choice not made by him. Bear them in a world characterized by inexorable cause-and-effect patterns. Once set in motion by someone's careless choice, they no longer obey anyone's intentions. And God has to act precisely in such a world. In a completely merciless world. Merciless, above all, because of human irresponsibility. Indeed, our world most resembles a very complex and, if wrongly managed, very dangerous mechanism. How it will work depends on us. Meanwhile we behave like children in a sandbox playing with their toys.

Taking offense at one another, we are sometimes ready to use a force that will destroy not only our offender, but also many who have nothing to do with him. Perhaps even ourselves. And this force is hatred. Hatred that manifests itself most clearly in revenge. It is hard to condemn a person who uses force to defend himself, his family, his home from evil. Sometimes in the fallen world a person truly has no other possibility to defend himself.

Revenge is another matter. Revenge is taken not for self-defense, but for self-assertion. In order to demonstrate one's strength, mercilessness, ruthlessness. In order to frighten. And few think at the same time that the mechanism they have set in motion can no longer be stopped by any human power. The sacrifice of the cross was needed to stop this monstrous flywheel. The flywheel of consciously committed sin, whose consequences were considered ineradicable.

The coming of Christ changes the situation: now everyone has the possibility of beginning a new life in God from a clean slate. But all the greater is the responsibility of the one who has begun this new life for the clean slate he has received. Before, any revenge, any self-assertion of one's destructive power, was revenge first of all against God, who certainly is in no way guilty of the cycle of sin that spun on earth after the fall. Now any sin committed by a Christian becomes a blow struck against the Kingdom.

Of course, neither God nor the Kingdom fears such blows. And God's vengeance is not human vengeance. God does not take revenge; He simply lives His own life. A life incompatible with any evil. A life that by its very existence destroys every self-assertion of evil. The life of His Kingdom, which denies every sin. Therefore it is terrible for every sinner who does not want to part with his sin. But joyful for everyone who is ready to leave his sin and step over the threshold of this Kingdom.

Continuing the conversation about Christian life, the author of the letter calls his readers not to turn aside from the path on which they have set out and along which they have already managed to travel some distance. As can be seen, the author, being a disciple of the apostle, together with him and with some others experienced persecution for Christ, which he mentions in general terms but quite clearly. Unlike his teacher, the author of the letter was not executed, but at some point the threat to his life was real.

Others were in a similar position. The fate of Paul and of other Christians may have been different if the anti-Roman uprising in Palestine, which began at about this time and proceeded under religious and, in particular, messianic slogans, had not started. The Romans then apparently began to look at the followers of Jesus in the same way as at all messianists in general: as rebels actively opposing Roman authority.

In such a situation, persecution naturally could not help intensifying, at least until the uprising was completely suppressed. And judging by the testimony of the author of the Letter to the Hebrews, many of his addressees showed themselves to be faithful disciples of Christ. But now, after hopes for Christ's imminent return had dissipated, they were evidently in some confusion, not understanding what to wait for next and, one can think, looking closely at various messianic groups and sects of a gnostic kind; gnosis in those times was no less characteristic of the Jewish environment than of the pagan one. It is in just such a situation that the author writes his letter to some Christian Jewish community, possibly a community of Roman Jewish Christians.

There could have been many such people: the Jewish community of Rome was one of the largest in antiquity, and there were many there who had turned to Christ, in particular under the influence of Paul's preaching. Of course, these people experienced everything connected with the catastrophe of AD 70 as deeply as the whole Jewish community did, whether one speaks of orthodox Jews or of messianist Christians. And the author of the letter, remaining faithful to the teaching both of the Savior Himself and of his teacher Paul, calls them not to despair and to remain faithful to what had been revealed to them at their conversion and to the faithfulness they had witnessed during persecution.

Continuing the discussion of faithfulness to the once-established covenant-union, which is inseparable from faithfulness to the Church, the author of the letter reminds his readers of the persecutions they had endured before, apparently even before the catastrophe of AD 70 (vv. 32-34). This reminder is clearly not accidental: faithfulness during persecutions is possible only when the Kingdom is an obvious and immediate reality of life for those who are persecuted, so obvious that even physical death does not frighten them. The life of the Kingdom is greater than the physical life that can be taken from a person in our world, which is not yet transformed. And now the author clearly wants to remind his addressees of the times when the Kingdom was so evident to them that no one even thought of doubting its nearness. The main source of doubt for the faithful was evidently the fact that even now, after the catastrophe of which the Savior had spoken as an event immediately preceding His return in glory, the complete and final triumph of the Kingdom was being delayed, and delayed for an indefinite time: Jesus had left His disciples no other landmarks on this matter.

Such a situation did not so much frighten many people as cool them off, so that the author of the letter had to remind them that the history of the Kingdom's formation and its revelation in our transforming, but not yet transformed, world is still far from complete. That is why he calls the faithful not to give in to despondency and disappointment, assuring them that the Savior's return is near (vv. 35-37). Of course, in this case he is not speaking about any specific dates, since even Jesus Himself refused to speak about them. The point is something else: now that what He said concerning Jerusalem and the Temple has been fulfilled, history has entered the final stretch that leads straight to the threshold of the Kingdom. Precisely now, when it seems there is nothing more to wait for, the possibility of the Savior's return is higher than ever before. And precisely now the faithful need spiritual readiness more than ever, and therefore a resolve that knows no wavering (vv. 38-39). Indeed, it would be foolish and painful to lose the Kingdom because of disappointment, cooling, and indecision at the very time when every day and every hour one can expect its complete and final triumph.

"...For yet a very little while..." Sometimes we do not want to believe this, and we say: you are only comforting us, Apostle Paul. But before this Paul says: "It is a fearful thing to fall into the hands of the living God!" (Heb. 10:31). And in the Greek text the word is "phoberon," which is somehow clearly associated with the Russian word "phobia." In Russian usage, phobia means precisely an inner painful state when there is no real external danger: just darkness or height, just an enclosed space, and so on. We have this inner state: we both want the End and fear it. Because of this uncertainty, because of our inner confusion, this End does not come.

For the Lord, as the Bridegroom, comes when love has been established. Imagine a bridegroom and bride who are preparing to be married, but the bride is afraid, unsure, wavering; she does not yet have that radiant, happy, calm love that longs to give itself in service to the beloved. Would their wedding be right in that case? Still, it would be premature.

In the same way, even if we speak only about the Church and its members, we do not yet have this deep, quiet, calm love. We still fear ourselves and frighten others. We fear punishment, vengeance, recompense; we simply fear, without ourselves knowing what, because "no one has ever returned from there." What kind of "wedding" (that is, the End) can we speak of?

But this does not mean that we are alone. We can say that we were "betrothed" by Christ's First Coming, and we need to build our relationship with Him. In any case, He is here, He is near. And of course, it is "a little while longer," because when there is love, time flows in a special way: separations are endless, meetings seem to fly by so quickly, and overall there is this feeling that there it is, just a little longer, and eternity will pour into the soul.

One of the most important principles of a Christian's spiritual life is called non-possessiveness in the language of the Eastern monastic tradition. The Western tradition calls non-possessiveness poverty and limits it by reducing it to a certain material condition. However, if poverty is understood as Isaiah of Jerusalem, for example, understood it, then it could quite well also be called non-possessiveness.

Incidentally, Isaiah's fate can serve as an illustration of the author's words, although this prophet lived eight centuries before the coming of the Savior: being an aristocrat and a wealthy man, he called himself poor, and at the end of his life, during persecutions, he really lost everything. There are even not very clear reports that the prophet ended his life as a martyr. This sense of oneself as poor regardless of the size of one's own property is what is called non-possessiveness. In such a spiritual state, the loss of this very property is indeed not perceived as a catastrophe.

A person then truly understands that the main thing for him is not property, or at least not the property he has on earth. And this is not some refusal, self-limitation, poverty for the sake of freedom, or anything similar. It is simply life in the Kingdom as such. In a reality that is arranged differently from our untransformed world. And for a person precisely this reality becomes true and absolute. Of course, in such a case a person does not necessarily have to lose everything: monastic practice, whether in the East or in the West, merely externalizes what can remain internal.

The issue is precisely one's attitude toward one's own property. When it is perceived not as a more or less inseparable part of one's beloved self, but as an instrument given by God for carrying out tasks set by God. An instrument that one does not own, but uses. And if even this instrument is taken from you, and God does not intervene, then His plan does not involve intervention. Perhaps these instruments will no longer be needed. Or God has prepared others. In any case, He knows better. And His servants need not worry: it is His world and His plan.

Over the long history of humanity, much has been said and written about courage. But what is courage from a spiritual point of view? And why is it so important? To answer this question, it is important to remember something else, the foundation of spiritual life: faithfulness. It is no accident that the Bible connects faithfulness with the relationship between God and the human person, and between God and the people of God. In Russian translation, faithfulness is sometimes called faith, but in most cases the corresponding Greek or Hebrew word means faithfulness, as well as trust.

But if faithfulness plays a key role in the relationship between God and the human person, then the same can be said of steadfastness, without which there can be no talk of faithfulness. And steadfastness, in turn, is unthinkable without courage. Of course, if we were to live in a world that knew no evil, everything might be different. It is quite possible that such a world would not know a concept like courage at all. But we, unfortunately, live in a world wounded by sin and lying in evil. And such a world, or rather the forces of evil at work in it, has no need for steadfastness. None at all, in anything.

The expression "steadfastness in evil" is, in essence, only a pretty but meaningless phrase. It means no more than, for example, the expression "he rolled down the slope with all his might." To do evil, one needs neither spiritual collectedness nor perseverance. Of course, anyone could point to great people who possessed strong will and other qualities, and who displayed them even when they did evil deeds. But they did not receive these qualities from the devil or from dark forces. They were placed in them by God, who gave them freedom, as He gives it to everyone else. And they abused that freedom, so that God's gift became a dark, evil force in them. Strength comes from God; evil comes from the refusal to direct it toward God's work.

In essence, to do evil it is enough to do nothing and to let others use one's talents and abilities, received from God. But to avoid doing evil, one has to resist and stand against those who would like to make use of gifts that do not belong to them. God's gift in a fallen world has to be defended, just as one's faithfulness to God has to be defended in it. And courage is faithfulness standing against the forces of evil. It is faithfulness that ceases to be itself without such opposition.

During the long history of the humanity much were said and written about courage. But what is courage from the spiritual point of view? And why is it so important? To answer this question, it is important to remember another thing, what forms the basis of the spiritual life: faithfulness. It is not accidentally that it is exactly with it that the Bible connects the relationships between God and man, between God and the people of God. Sometimes in the English translation faithfulness is called faith, but in most of the cases the Greek or Jewish corresponding word indicates in particular faithfulness, as well as trust.

But if faithfulness plays a key-role in the relationships between God and man, then we can also say the same thing about constancy, without which it would not happen to talk about any faithfulness. And constancy in his turn is inconceivable without courage. Of course, if we lived in a world not knowing evil, everything would probably have been different. It is completely likely that such a world wouldn’t at all have known such a notion as courage. But we live unfortunately in a world struck by sin and lying in evil. And such a world (or, more exactly, the strengths of the evil, acting in it) does not need constancy. None and in nothing. The expression "constancy in evil" is in fact only beautiful, but it is a meaningless sentence.

In order to do evil, it is not necessary either the spiritual concentration, or persistence. Of course, each could point great men possessing a strong will and other qualities, which manifested themselves even when they did evil deeds. But they receive these qualities not from the devil and not from the dark forces. They were put in them by God, Who granted them freedom, like any other. But they abused this freedom, and the gift of God became in them a dark and evil forces.

Power comes from God, evil - from the bad will to send it to God's work. In fact, in order to do evil, it is enough to do nothing and to allow others to use his talents and capacities received from God. But in order not to allow it, it is necessary to oppose and to resist those who would like to use the gifts not belonging to them. It comes to protect the gift of God in the fallen world, as well as it comes to protect in this world one’s faithfulness to God. And courage is the faithfulness resisting the power of evil. Faithfulness, which without such resistance cease to be itself.

Continuing the discussion of Christ as High Priest, the author of the letter speaks of the relationship between Him and the faithful as the essence of what the prophets of Israel called the new covenant. Indeed, the essence of any covenant-union consists, in the final analysis, in a person's sanctification by God, in the effect God has on a person, changing his spiritual life and sometimes even his nature. And the new union, that very new covenant first mentioned by Jeremiah, implied not only the Torah written in the heart, but also a measure of the Presence in the life of an individual person and of the people of God such as had never existed before.

This fullness of the Presence was connected with the person of the Savior, and therefore the author of the letter calls Him High Priest with a capital letter. But no measure of the Presence, even an absolute one, guarantees a person salvation, cleansing, sanctification, or anything else. A person is free, and in the final analysis everything is determined precisely by his choice.

The author of the letter reminds his readers that a sin committed consciously is irreparable in the sense that it is impossible to get rid of its consequences. It had always been so, and even Yahwistic purification offerings were powerless here, though God's presence at the Yahwistic altars was an unquestionable reality. The coming of Christ changes the situation qualitatively in this respect: now it is possible to be freed even from the consequences of sins once committed consciously, because, having entrusted himself to Christ, a person no longer stands alone before God with his sins.

Now Christ Himself is ready to help a person deal with the consequences of his sins, if only the person repents of what he has done and trusts his Savior. But if a person, having become a Christian, considers conscious sin possible for himself, this is equivalent to apostasy and denial of Christ, as the author of the letter reminds his readers.

And then returning back can become very, very difficult: by sinning consciously and of his own free will, a person is in fact opposing his Savior. The Savior is doing everything to free the person from the power of sin, while the person himself is at the same time handing himself over to sin's power, and doing so quite consciously. Such a life puts a wall between a person and Christ, even if previously that same person had turned to Christ quite sincerely and become His disciple. It is these foundational matters of Christian life that the author of the letter reminds his readers about.

Apparently, the catastrophe of AD 70 affected the spiritual state not only of the Synagogue but also of the Church. Many church communities were going through a spiritual and, along with it, organizational crisis during this period. It was clearly with this crisis that the author's appeals not to abandon church assemblies were connected (v. 25). One can think that this kind of practice was caused above all by disappointment and confusion connected with the destruction of the Temple and the cessation of sacrifices. It is possible that for many Christians, and first of all for Jewish Christians, the destruction of the Temple meant the impossibility not only of sacrifice but also of the breaking of bread, so that they no longer saw any point in taking part in church assemblies. This is not surprising: traditional Jewish ideas of that time did not separate one from the other, and Jews and Jewish Christians looked at the breaking of bread and at the ritual meals centered on it as a continuation of the sacrificial meal, without which the breaking of bread was thought spiritually and religiously to be completely impossible.

Meanwhile, the author of the letter calls his fellow believers to hold to the former order of church life, pointing out that even in the absence of the Temple and traditional Yahwist sacrifices, full spiritual life is still possible for Christians: the One who brought the Kingdom into the world, becoming the true High Priest for His followers, does not alter either the promises once given or the union-covenant once concluded (vv. 19-24). Moreover, the author considers leaving the Church a betrayal of this union-covenant, comparing it with apostasy, which according to the norms of the Torah is punished by death (vv. 28-31). He reminds them that the Torah allows the possibility of cleansing only from sin committed through weakness or ignorance, but not from sin committed consciously and voluntarily. And for him, voluntarily abandoning the church assembly is an example of precisely such a sin, equivalent to voluntary apostasy (vv. 26-27). This is not surprising: through the breaking of bread, which takes place in the assembly in which the Risen One directly participates, that new union-covenant is realized, the one of which Jeremiah had already spoken and which became reality with the coming of the Savior into the world. The covenant that opens to those seeking the Kingdom. Refusal to take part in the breaking of bread therefore means nothing other than refusal of the covenant, and therefore of the Kingdom.