NOTES for Mar 11:12-33

Those who came to trade in the temple had no intention of defiling it. They were quite devout people who had put up for sale what pilgrims needed for the rites. The transformation of God's house into a den of robbers happened unnoticed, contrary to the conscious will of those gathered there, as everyday practical concerns accumulated like dust and covered over the very thing for which the temple exists.

When we come to God with our everyday needs, we are not committing a sin, for He Himself invited us to ask for them. But when we come to the temple only with practical needs, forgetting the selflessness of our relationship with God, we risk becoming those same "practical people" who made the temple a place of commercial deals.

The story of the fig tree that withered at the Savior's word is a vivid demonstration of what spiritual power is and where it comes from. The sentence may seem unjust, since it was not yet the season for fruit, and some evangelists even make a point of noting this. According to the laws of the fallen world, that is so; but with Christ the whole fullness of the Kingdom draws near to the fig tree: its power, its love, its life. A person is free to choose, but the same cannot be said of a tree: either it becomes part of the Kingdom, and in the Kingdom, according to the prophet's testimony, trees bear fruit year-round without interruption, or it perishes, dies, deprived of the life it did not accept. Why such a thing is possible at all remains an unanswered question for now, one of the sad mysteries of a fallen world lying in evil.

Perhaps the issue is learning to abide wholly and completely in the present moment, in that "here and now" where alone the contact of time flowing in this dimension with the fullness of the Kingdom's times and with God's eternity is possible. Meanwhile, the fallen world in a certain sense constantly lags behind itself, behind its own being, behind the dynamics of its own existence. The best-known manifestation of this lag is entropy, and it is entropy that prevents the fallen world from existing in rhythm with the time God has appointed for it.

The manifestation of entropy at a specific point in creation can place that point outside the spiritual influence being exerted on it in God's time, and then it finds itself outside God's world. The same can happen to a person if he falls out of God's present, allowing spiritual entropy to take possession of his heart and soul. Falling out of God's dynamic always begins with the loss of trust in God, and then it inevitably entails the immersion of a person's spiritual "I" into his own psyche, above all into old psychic wounds, traumas, and grievances, which usually, among other things, also prevent him from forgiving the very offenses committed against him.

At the social level, spiritual entropy appears in particular in the triumph of form over spiritual meaning, of custom over the content of spiritual life, which Jesus fights when He drives the merchants out of the Temple. Of course, they had no place there, and the Torah forbids trading in the Temple courtyard, but the established custom proves stronger even than the Torah's prescriptions, especially once people grow used to it and it becomes part of tradition. It is against this tradition with a lowercase letter that Jesus speaks, for He understands where the spiritual roots of such violations lie and what the triumph of such a tradition means in the spiritual life of the community.

The Gospel story-parable about the withered fig tree begins by mentioning that Jesus, after leaving Bethany, felt hungry. There is, of course, nothing surprising in this: human nature is human nature, and it makes its demands. But in the life of the Messiah everything was not so simple, even if we speak of His earthly path. The God-man has absolute command of His human nature; for Him, in principle, there can be no situation in which He gives in to His human nature out of weakness.

In this case, hunger and thirst are not forced necessity, but the result of a conscious choice. Approaching the fig tree, Jesus offers it the chance to satisfy His hunger. At first glance this may seem strange. But He Himself said that every participation in His life makes the participant part of the Kingdom He brought into the world. If this is true of people, then it can be thought true of the rest of creation as well. Of course, the participation will be different in each case, but that does not change the essence of the matter.

For the fig tree to give its fruit to the Messiah is the same chance to participate in the life of the Kingdom as it is for a person to receive the Messiah in his home. Of course, a tree is not a human being; it cannot understand the situation in a human way, nor can it make a choice or decision in a human way. A tree is limited by the natural laws God established for it. But sometimes these laws can work differently. For example, when the Kingdom is near. And sometimes they may not work differently; this depends on many reasons. But if they do not work differently, it means the Kingdom passes by, with all that follows from that.

"Forgive, and you will be forgiven" is a principle known long before Christ came. But in our fallen world it is usually taken to mean mutual indulgence: close your eyes to my sins, and I will close mine to yours, and we will not spoil each other's mood with mutual reproaches and claims. Of course, such an arrangement usually works only as long as the interests of one of the parties are not seriously affected, but quite often it still helps preserve decency and the appearance of normal relations. In everyday life, this is often what is called "forgiving your neighbor his sins."

But Jesus undoubtedly means something else: for He was never tolerant of any sin, although He always forgave the repentant sinner. He plainly proceeds from the fact that we are all sinners, and each of us needs, on the threshold of the Kingdom, to be forgiven those sins of which we repent and for which we grieve. But then we have no moral right to demand an accounting from others: either we begin to reckon up sins, and then there can be no question of the Kingdom, or we allow ourselves to be judged and cleansed from sin by the One who alone can do this; then the road into the Kingdom is open to us. The choice is ours.

What, after all, is the connection between faith and forgiveness? And do unbelievers really have no ability to forgive at all? Of course, if by faith we mean what is most often meant by it, namely religiosity and everything connected with it, the questions asked may appear, at the very least, strange. But if we see in it what most authors of the biblical books saw, namely faithfulness, much immediately becomes clearer. At the same time it is important to keep in mind that faithfulness in this case, judging by the context, applies not only to relationship with God, but also to relationship with one's neighbor; in any case, Jesus never says that He means only faithfulness to God or to Himself, as Messiah or as Teacher. And that is no surprise, because faithfulness is indivisible. Either it exists, and then it permeates every relationship, whether with God, with Christ, or with one's neighbor, or it does not exist, and then it is nowhere and in nothing. Moreover, faithfulness is unconditional, because at its foundation lies that spiritual wholeness which, for life in the Kingdom, to which Jesus calls the faithful, must be absolute.

Only this makes forgiveness possible: forgiveness is not indulgence toward the sin of one's neighbor, which often makes one close one's eyes to the obvious (unless, of course, it concerns the one closing his eyes directly), but the ability to see in one's neighbor that image of God which gives even the greatest sinner hope for salvation, a hope that remains until the day of Judgment. This is what the Savior calls us to: to live the life of the Kingdom and to look at our neighbor with the eyes of a citizen of the Kingdom. And to forgive the neighbor's sins until God carries out His judgment.

Only two things does the Lord call essential for prayer in today's Gospel reading. He speaks of faith and forgiveness. It is very important that Christ is not speaking about faith that the God to whom our prayer is addressed exists. That, generally speaking, is self-evident. Nor is the Lord speaking about faith that the prayer will be heard, though that too is important. Rather, He emphatically speaks of completely childlike trust in God: believe that you will receive what you ask for, and it will be yours. Here lies the boundary between prayer and magical spells, between communion with our loving heavenly Father and forcing ourselves into a state of ecstasy. And the second thing the Savior commands us is this: for prayer to take place, it is necessary to forgive. For it is forgiveness that creates the "territory" of communion where man and God have something that unites them. God forgives us, and if we try to forgive one another, then our common language with God is built up.

Jesus does not ask us of course to cast mountains into the sea. In fact, if we really have faith in God, that is trust in God Who created seas and mountains, then we will not dare to remove mountains He created! If that is the case, what is He talking about then?

Jesus uses this description of "mountain cast into the sea" above all as an image of what is absolutely impossible to be made by human strengths, but possible to be made by God. Therefore, Jesus speaks one more time about a genuine faith - "evidence of things not seen” (Heb.11 1), binding Man to God in such way that miracles begin to occur in that man’s life - the manifestations of the actions of God’s power.

Doubt opposes such a faith; this doubt can be very simple: but can God do what I ask Him? Such a doubt is certainly easier to surmount. But there are more delicate doubts; for example: is God listening to my prayer? We need here an internal image of God, not only an Almighty God, but also a loving God. Here is an even more complicated example: do I have enough faith in order that what I ask gets realized? Such doubt is an entrance to the vicious circle, making us to be self contained, separating us from God. We can destroy it only by a resolute effort – reject egocentric thoughts and turn to God; but this is too difficult for us, harden by our egoism.

Here is a remarkable example of what can result from pulling quotations, even from the Gospel, even from the words of Christ, out of the context in which they stand. People who read this verse almost inevitably ask again in distrust: "How is that? And if I ask, believing that I will receive, say, for the death of my enemy? Will that also happen?"

But Christ here is not saying what one may ask for and what one may not; He is speaking of how to ask. He is speaking of the power of faith in prayer, not of what prayer should be directed toward. That is also addressed, but in another place; see Matt. 7:11; Luke 11:13. We read as though we wanted not to understand Christ, but to catch Him in His words. And He is trying to teach us trust, the ability to live not by what has already happened, but by what is happening right now, at this very moment of our communion with God.

Two questions were asked: one the Savior asked the elders, and the other the elders asked the Savior, and neither received an answer. But how different the meaning of these two non-answers is! Above all, the motivation differs: fear for one's position in the first case, and messianic dignity in the second. But the main thing is that the silence of the teachers of the Law and the chief priests shows that they do not wish to accept either the Good News itself or God's help in understanding it, which the Forerunner manifests; their non-answer says nothing except that they do not believe.

Jesus' non-answer, by contrast, says a great deal. First, He affirms John's mission as Forerunner, proving that those who do not accept John do not accept Jesus either; and second, it is a prophecy about His own earthly end - an indication that it will be like John's. In other words, this reveals the most important thing about Christ's earthly ministry.

The question of authority concerned, of course, not the formal legal side, but the spiritual one. The people listening to Jesus, deeply religious people, ask it because they want to know where He gets the power by which He performs His miracles and healings. Jesus asks them a counterquestion that would seem unrelated to the topic: a question about the washings ("baptisms") that John performed. In reality, however, there is a connection, and it concerns the meaning of the question asked of Jesus, above all its spiritual meaning. Those listening to Jesus, representatives of religious authority and teachers of the Torah, called here "scribes," want to know from whom Jesus received the authorization that allows Him to do what He does.

It might seem strange to speak of authorization in the work of God, but religious consciousness always remains true to itself, and for a religious person even the action of God's power is genuine only when it fits within the framework of certain religious criteria. God can act only "correctly," and if there is a manifestation of power acting "incorrectly," then that power cannot be God's. The question asked of Jesus was precisely a question about criteria; they wanted Him to justify the "correctness" of the power by which He healed and worked miracles.

In such a context the counterquestion about John's washings was entirely appropriate. The point is not only that the power there and here was one and that its Source was one. The point is also the ability to see and recognize. The one who could not or would not see the spiritual authenticity and purity of what John was doing would not see the spiritual authenticity and purity of what the Savior was doing. Meanwhile, those listening to Jesus did not want to see the obvious. They were more concerned with what people would think of them than with the truth. In such a spiritual state one will not see what is real, and this is what Jesus points out to the priests and teachers of the Torah who are listening to Him.

Behind Mark the Evangelist's account of the dialogue between Christ and the chief priests, who asked Him about the source of His authority, stands a deep difference in approaches to salvation. The chief priests suppose that the promise of the Messiah and of the salvation He gives to people should simply be fulfilled, to the greater satisfaction of the Jews. The Lord Jesus, by turning to John's baptism, reveals to us that for this promise to be fulfilled our repentance is necessary, that is, the recognition that there is something from which we need to be saved and that we are unable to save ourselves from sin and death. The chief priests mainly have in mind the national salvation of one chosen people, while the Lord speaks of things common to the whole human race.

According to the testimony of ancient Christian authors, Mark, at the request of the Roman Christians, accurately wrote down what the apostle Peter said in his preaching. Why did the apostle include this account in his testimony about Christ? From this point of view, another contradiction comes to the foreground: the chief priests are concerned with a thoroughly earthly question of authority, while the Lord speaks about the essence of the Good News. The chief priests need proofs so they can bow before their authority and avoid making a choice themselves. As for the Lord's words, we can find an explanation in the Gospel of John: "If anyone wants to do His will, he will know whether the teaching is from God."

The Lord refuses to speak about His authority to the chief priests and scribes, who do not want to accept the call to repentance that came from the mouth of John the Baptist. The Lord, who always finds the most precise words for everyone who questions Him, refuses to answer those who are deceitful before Him. And in this deceit, in the refusal of the call to repentance, no meeting with God takes place - perhaps this is what the apostle Peter told his listeners, and this is why Mark the Evangelist included this episode in his narrative.

The Pharisees do not need the truth. They consider possible answers to Christ’s question, but even for themselves they do not ask: what, then, is the truth? Their customary intellectual game, sorting through possibilities—this answer will lead to such consequences, while that one will produce this or that result—has obscured the need to stand face to face with the truth and accept it.
This is an ancient temptation and one of the most contemporary. The subtlest logical moves and combinations of virtual models become a habitual means not only of knowing the world but also of escaping reality. We then risk turning away not only from what surrounds us, but also from the One Who is the Truth.

The parable of the fig tree puzzles many readers: why, in fact, did it have to wither, since the time for it to bear fruit had not yet come? At the same time, the story of the withered fig tree is usually not connected with the cleansing of the Temple, the account of which it frames. Meanwhile both stories form a single whole, and the key to them is the Savior's words about faith that moves mountains. What is faith here? Confidence in God's existence? Certainly, but that is only the foundation. Trust? Yes, of course: without trust in God one cannot speak of spiritual life at all. Yet both the one and the other are only preliminary conditions for the action called faith. The action itself is connected with recognizing the Kingdom as an undoubted and unconditional reality present here and now.

If any technical terminology were appropriate in this case, it would be most accurate to speak of a person's "switching" to perception of that reality which is called the Kingdom and which is always present in him. It is almost impossible to do this by oneself, or more precisely, almost impossible to remain in the state called the Kingdom, but with Jesus everything is possible. So it was with Peter, for whom the Kingdom remains reality as long as he looks at Jesus. And not only a purely inner reality: beginning to perceive it within ourselves, we very soon learn to perceive the Kingdom outside as well. Then everything listed becomes possible, including mountains that move. This is no surprise, because nature in the Kingdom is absolutely obedient to man. So too the fig tree: it withered not because it failed to bear fruit, and not as punishment for disrespect toward the Messiah, but because it did not become part of the Kingdom.

It proved useless for the Kingdom there and then, where and when fruit was expected from it. Contact with the Kingdom never passes without consequences. The one who does not acquire the fullness of life offered to him may well lose even the small part of it that he has. The only question is whether this will happen as quickly as it did with the fig tree. And the surest road to not entering the Kingdom is trading in the Temple. In every sense of that expression, from the literal to the most symbolic of all possible senses. Not because a person does not need money, since while we have a relation to this world we will need some amount of it, but because money has no place in the Kingdom. One can and should thank God for a successful deal if trade is our profession, but our gratitude must not become a deal. Otherwise the Kingdom closes itself to us, with all the consequences that follow.

When reading the Gospel story, many people ask: why did Jesus treat the poor tree so unfairly? After all, it was none other than God Himself who established the very laws of nature according to which every tree bears fruit in its proper season. That is how it was, is, and will be; that is how it ought to be. But there are, of course, exceptions to the existing order of things. In fact, such exceptions are what we call miracles. The Kingdom entering the world is a miracle by definition. That is why miracle accompanies the Savior everywhere: He is the One who brought the Kingdom into the world. But what if He is near and no miracle takes place? Is that possible? Of course it is; in fact, it happened often, because not everyone who met Jesus became a witness to or participant in miraculous events. One can pass by the Kingdom without noticing it, at least as long as it has not yet been revealed in all its fullness, transforming our world completely. But to pass by the Kingdom means to lose the fullness of life contained in it. That is why the fig tree dried up: it did not become part of the Kingdom, and now we can hardly answer the question of why that happened. But through the example of the fig tree we can understand what awaits us if, like it, we remain without any share in the life of the Kingdom. It is a stern example, but a spiritually useful one.