NOTES for Mat 9:14-15

At first glance it is surprising: right now, during Peter's Fast, the Church reads a passage in which Jesus' disciples do not fast, while the main champions of asceticism are Christ's opponents, the Pharisees. Yet through this paradox the Lord explains to us that the whole life of a Christian, including ascetic rules, is based not on the old law but on personal relationship with Him. Whether the "sons of the bridal chamber" should fast depends precisely on the living presence of the Bridegroom, for only in Him do we find true life and reign.

John's disciples did not seem to realize that by their question they had put themselves on the same level as the Pharisees. Even they found many of their teacher's words and actions hard to understand. And although John's call to repentance surpassed any teaching of the Pharisees, what mattered to his disciples was not so much being changed through repentance as fasting exactly as the Pharisees did, that is, observing the traditional regulations.

Christ's answer gives hope, but at the same time it also causes unease. He justifies the disciples' right not to observe the letter of any regulations by the fact that He Himself is beside them. In essence, He is trying to make clear that rituals have meaning only as a means of communion with God and must not become an end in themselves when He is near. But here Christ also warns that times will inevitably come when He will not be beside the disciples, and then the disciples' outward piety will again become a way of communion with God. The parables Christ speaks here about a patch on an old garment and about pouring new wine into old wineskins are widely known; they have become proverbial sayings. But it is no accident that they were spoken in answer to John's disciples, who had only a vague idea that what Jesus had brought was not simply an interpretation of the ancient commandments by one of the remarkable preachers, but the New Life itself, come from above.

The disciples of John the Baptist do not ask Jesus about fasting by chance: after all, among the Pharisees and among members of other religious brotherhoods, fasting was considered one of the basic religious rules, without the observance of which one could not speak of piety. At the same time, the original meaning of fasting had been thoroughly forgotten: fasting symbolized above all mourning, in particular mourning for dead relatives, as well, however, as mourning connected with events on a national scale.

Of course, in the course of the development of the Yahwistic, and later the Jewish, religious tradition, fasting acquired a new meaning, one connected with spiritual life proper: in religious life, fasting came to be associated with longing for God, with sorrow caused by the feeling of abandonment by God. And, of course, fasting became an expression of the fear and trembling that seize a person awaiting the near judgment of God; such, for example, was the fast of Yom Kippur.

But often in Gospel times fasting became simply a form of religious piety, an element of religious life obligatory for everyone and no longer connected either with concrete events in a person's life or with his spiritual state. This was the case, for example, among the Pharisees, who, judging by what we know of them today, fasted at least two days a week. The especially zealous members of the brotherhood did so even more often, and these fasts were often effectively public: those fasting demonstrated in every possible way their sorrow over their own sins, their fear and trembling before the approaching day of Judgment.

Jesus, however, restores fasting to its true meaning, not a religious meaning but a properly spiritual one. Fasting is not a religious obligation and not a rule of piety; it is the external expression of a particular spiritual state, especially abandonment by God. There is nothing here to imitate and no reason to do so: the time will come when fasting will become something completely natural, but for now there is no need for it, and it is not worth portraying a sorrow that does not exist.

Jesus, of course, does not frame the question this way by chance. After all, He is preparing His disciples and followers for life in the Kingdom. In the Kingdom there is no place for playacting and imitation, even if it is saturated with very important religious meanings. Here there is no longer any need for religion, just as there is no need here for symbols and allegories. Here is life itself, moving according to its own laws.

These words may be difficult for us to understand: has the Bridegroom really been taken away from us? ‘And behold, I am with you all the days until the end of the age’ (Matt. 28:20). And it would seem that the radiant joy that fills all of Christianity is quite incompatible with the words ‘mourn’ (as in Bishop Cassian's translation) or ‘be sorrowful’ (as in the Russian Synodal translation and others). ‘Christ is risen, my joy!’ was how Saint Seraphim of Sarov greeted everyone after he had come out of seclusion, whoever came to him and whenever they came. Does this mean there is some contradiction in the Savior's words? Of course not. But let us try to understand. We should not take the words ‘when He is taken away’ too literally. It is the atheist who experiences a loved one's departure as an irreparable loss. Yet a completely different approach gradually takes shape in the biblical tradition. One example can be given (2 Sam. 12): the death of the son of David and Bathsheba, who had been Uriah's wife. David fasted while it was still uncertain whether the boy would die, but stopped fasting after his death, to the surprise of those around him. While the pendulum swings between life and death… Why does David stop fasting, although fasting is customary in a time of mourning? Not because he does not love the boy or feel grief — not at all. He accepts God's will with deep humility, fully aware that he has sinned. An innocent infant dies for David's sin. The innocent Christ dies for our sins. But He dies in order to rise again, for He is God. David fasts, but the boy dies only to be dead. Christ, however, dies in order to live, and we fast. The situations seem like mirror images. Fasting–death, death–fasting. Yet this reversal corresponds to another: David prays while the pendulum swings between the boy's life and death. We pray because the pendulum swings between our life and death.

Today's passage begins, perhaps, with the most personal moment in the Gospel according to Matthew - the moment when Jesus calls Matthew himself. Everything is described very simply: Jesus said to him, "Follow Me," and Matthew got up and, leaving everything, went after Him. Matthew does not describe his inner experiences, but they were certainly there, because at that moment his life was broken into two parts. This is how the Lord builds His Church.

After that Matthew again tells of His preaching of the Kingdom. It turns out that Christ's teaching, while not contradicting the Scripture of the Old Testament, is in constant conflict with legalistic interpretations of that Scripture. Perhaps the key to this conflict is found in verse 13.

Addressing the people, Jesus said that He came “not to abolish the Law but to fulfill it.” At the very least, this must mean that He understands this Law correctly. Yet as we read the Gospel, we repeatedly see Him enter into conflict with the Pharisees, people of special piety, and with the scribes, experts in the Law. Christ Himself explains His conduct with a quotation from the prophet: “I desire mercy and not sacrifice.” Thus, in His understanding, the Law consists in love. For love’s sake, He works on the Sabbath, associates with sinners, and even breaks fasts. The time has come when Law and mercy become one. This means that new content requires a new form, so that the “new wine” does not end up in “old wineskins.” The Gospel cannot be contained within the “only correct” worldview; it requires a readiness for openness, forbearance, and forgiveness. Otherwise, it will burst through our lives and leave us with emptiness and thirst.

Today’s reading is devoted to one of the most important themes in the Bible—the forgiveness of sins. On the one hand, we see the grumbling of the Pharisees, who are displeased that Jesus forgives sins in His own name, although only God can do this (vv. 2–7). On the other hand, we see Jesus staying in the house of a tax collector, a sinner for whom, as people believed at the time, there was and could be no forgiveness (vv. 9–11). Jesus Himself resolves the Pharisees’ perplexity by referring to the prophet Hosea (v. 13; cf. Hos 6:6). Meanwhile, these events reveal to us one of the most important features of the Kingdom entering the world: it allows everyone to begin everything with a clean slate, above all their relationship with God. From the standpoint of traditional Jewish religious life at the time, there were some sins that God never forgave a person. Indeed, Old Testament religious law did not allow for the possibility of cleansing from sin when the sin was committed in full awareness and entirely of one’s own free will. The consequences of such a sin weighed upon a person even after repentance; they bound the person like a chain from which one could be freed only at the cost of breaking the fundamental laws and principles of the created order. In antiquity, this truth was known to all peoples; Gentiles knew it no less well than Jews. They either saw no way out of the vicious circle produced by sinful actions or sought it through disembodiment, the complete liberation of the spiritual principle from the power of matter. Jesus, however, speaks of something else: He speaks of the Kingdom, where the laws of the fallen world do not apply and where, therefore, everything begins with a clean slate. Anyone who enters the Kingdom is forgiven every sin, not because sin ceases to be sin in the Kingdom, but because in the Kingdom it is only the choice a person makes here and now that determines everything for them: their relationship with God, their relationships with other people, and the quality of their spiritual life. In the fallen world, everyone has their own biography, with its dark and bright pages spread over time; in the Kingdom, each person has only one page, the first and the last, which can become either bright or dark. As long as the Kingdom has not yet been revealed in all its fullness, the page remains unfinished; when the Savior returns, He will read it, whatever it may be like at the moment of His return. All sins are forgiven to the person who enters the Kingdom. In this forgiveness there is great freedom and great responsibility.