NOTES for Luk 13:18-35

Today's reading continues the theme of the Kingdom, but now in a somewhat different, eschatological aspect. Eschatology is often confused with apocalyptic, yet they are not the same. Eschatology is a rupture in time and history through which the Kingdom can be seen; apocalyptic is a philosophy of history in which history is viewed as the process of the world's movement towards the Kingdom.

Jesus often speaks of the coming of the Kingdom as a rupture in time, when the former order of things comes to an end. It then becomes clear that, in the face of the new reality revealed at the moment of rupture, former assessments and criteria prove inadequate. This is manifested first of all in a change of priorities: if outward proximity previously played the decisive role, spiritual relationships now do.

When speaking of outward proximity, of course, one must not have only territorial or geographical proximity in mind. National, religious, and every other kind of proximity determined in one way or another by the structure and laws of the untransformed world is also implied here (vv. 25-28). Spiritual proximity, by contrast, becomes decisive (vv. 29-30). This is why the path into the Kingdom proves narrow (vv. 23-24): it begins in a world not yet transformed, living by laws very far from the laws of the Kingdom, but in order to enter the Kingdom, one must begin living by its laws here and now.

This is neither a whim nor a test of loyalty. One can follow the path into the Kingdom only by living according to its laws. For the Kingdom itself, in our world which is not yet fully transformed, depends on those who seek it. It is no accident that Jesus draws His listeners' attention to the fact that at first the Kingdom is completely imperceptible in the world that rejects it and becomes visible only at the end, when the world is transformed (vv. 18-21). Only the person who bears the Kingdom within can find it, and such a person cannot live according to the laws of the world lying in evil. This is why the path leading into the Kingdom proves narrow. But at its end lies the fullness of life awaiting everyone who follows this path to the end.

We have read many times already that Christ's Kingdom is not like all our human "kingdoms." It is like salt in food, like yeast in dough, like a seed in the ground that has not yet sprouted. It is real, but not visible to the "naked eye." It cannot be defined by our concepts, but its presence irreversibly changes this world.

That is exactly why it is so hard to limit "membership" in this Kingdom, however much "chosen ones" of every kind try to do so. The question asked of Jesus about the number of those being saved, that is, the participants in God's Kingdom, in essence means a demand to mark the boundaries of salvation: "who is inside, and who is outside?"

This question remains unanswered: instead of a limited sect, there is a call for everyone. Yes, entering by the "narrow gate" is hard, and the chance of being left out is quite real. But the gate is not closed; it is merely narrow. And everyone for whom this is truly important and necessary can find himself at Christ's feast with those who have also passed along this path.

The Kingdom of God, the presence of Christ in our life, is often imagined as something great and bright, something impossible to miss. But in the parable of the mustard seed the Lord Jesus gives us a completely different image. The seed of the mustard tree can barely be seen with the naked eye. It is so small that it is unnoticed by an outsider, and often even by its owner.

That is, the Kingdom has already been given to us as if in potential, in the form of a tiny seed. It does not look like a great tree, like the tangible presence we long for so much. And yet, just as genetically the seed and the tree are one and the same organism, so the small particle of the Kingdom that each of us has and that must grow is the same Kingdom that appeared in its fullness in the person of Jesus.

Today we read Christ’s wonderful words about the Kingdom of Heaven. Before speaking these words, the Lord addresses the Jews in the synagogue. He has healed the bent-over woman and said: “Ought not this daughter of Abraham, whom Satan has bound for eighteen years, to be released on the Sabbath day?” Luke the Evangelist reports that all who opposed him were put to shame, while all the people rejoiced at his glorious deeds. It is at this moment that the Lord says the Kingdom of Heaven is like a mustard seed. He speaks of a small experience of compassion that increases, “grows” and penetrates our life. He speaks of an experience of truth, of genuine values, when you attach importance not to outward formalities, but to what matters in God’s eyes. This small seed of the Kingdom is an experience of that which, like compassion, does not fade with time or change with transient historical circumstances. This experience is unobtrusive, and that is why it is difficult to base our life precisely upon it. Yet it is, in essence, an experience of eternity, of God’s life, which God gives us.

Later, as the Lord is travelling towards Jerusalem, someone asks him whether only a chosen few are granted, in this life, to know this taste of eternity and encounter God in the depths of the heart. The Lord answers: strive to enter through the narrow door. Judging by these words, the prospect of entering the Kingdom depends not on whether you are among those destined for it, whether you have received, so to speak, an “admission ticket.” What matters is whether you want to enter and make an effort to do so. But the Lord leaves us no room to think he means efforts directed at ourselves: ascetic exercises or the performance of rituals. “We ate and drank in your presence, and you taught us”—these words refer to the main components of Jewish religious life, sacrificial meals and rabbinic teachings. “Depart from me, workers of iniquity”—literally, “workers of injustice, those who wrong others.” These are the people the Lord drives away: those who are unjust and merciless, who mistreat others. Thus the effort to which he calls us is an effort of mercy and compassion towards people.

When speaking of the Kingdom, Jesus often uses comparisons that suggest its gradual, imperceptible influence on our world as it undergoes transformation, changing it step by step in the right direction. At first glance, this may look like a kind of spiritual progressivism: the gradual, imperceptible spiritual improvement of individuals and society as a whole eventually produces the desired result. In reality, however, things are not so simple.

Had the world not been corrupted by the sin that entered it after the Fall, gradual spiritual progress might perhaps have been possible. But in its present state, the world cannot simply receive the spiritual influences coming from the Kingdom: it will inevitably resist them. Thus everyone who chooses the Kingdom finds themselves in opposition to the world: it is no accident that Jesus speaks of the ‘narrow gate’.

How, then, can transformation—especially gradual transformation—be possible under such conditions? Evidently, it is possible only through the participation of people who already share in the Kingdom, without waiting for the process to be completed, so as to live its life. This is precisely what Christianity is: to live the life of the Kingdom that Christ has brought into the world, and thus to share one life with Him, for He bears the whole fullness of the Kingdom within Himself. Of course, it is possible to live the Kingdom's life not because of the fallen world, but in spite of it.

Yet this is the only way to ensure the presence of the Kingdom, with its transforming breath, in our world: its bearers are its inhabitants, who carry the Kingdom's life within themselves, like the Saviour Himself, and bring it into a world undergoing transformation but not yet transformed. They bring it in despite the forces of evil, which will evidently resist the Kingdom's advance to the very end. And at the end, on the day of the Saviour's return and the Kingdom's final triumph, its inhabitants, who have borne witness to it in the world undergoing transformation, will share that triumph with the Victor whom they followed and whose path they shared.

We often confuse what depends on us, what lies within the sphere of our freedom, with what depends on God alone. We do not know when the Lord will put the leaven of the Kingdom into our dough, but we can knead it. We cannot hurry the dough to make it rise faster, but we can make sure flies do not settle on it.

We cannot decide for ourselves when the Kingdom of God will begin to grow within us. We do not know when God will sow this seed in us. But preparing the soil in the garden depends on us. We cannot do it on our own, yet God will not enter our garden without permission: He stands at the door and waits for us to open it to Him.

With God's help, we must weed the ground so that the seed of God's Kingdom is not destroyed by weeds from the very beginning. We must make sure pests do not settle in the garden. But we are not responsible for the seed itself or for how quickly the tree will grow. Most likely, we will not see it growing.

When speaking of the Kingdom, Jesus often compares it to something that at first seems tiny and almost imperceptible, but eventually becomes obvious to everyone precisely because of its size. The Savior frequently speaks of the Kingdom as a seed that needs time to sprout; once it does, it can no longer remain hidden, just as one cannot fail to notice what has grown. This concerns the antinomic nature of the Kingdom. On the one hand, it comes into our fallen world from outside, like a seed the sower casts into the earth. The seed is not born in the soil or produced by it, and the Kingdom likewise does not take shape within our fallen world as an organic part of it: it comes from outside.

Once in the earth, however, the seed does not sprout immediately, and it grows according to laws determined in part by the nature of the soil on which it fell. Once it has entered the earth, it begins to live and develop according to that earth's laws. Yet its own nature still cannot be reduced to the soil alone: the seed is far more than the soil that nourishes it, and its potential far exceeds even that of the most fertile soil on earth. The seed uses the potential of the soil in which it lands, but in doing so completely changes the character of what it uses. This new quality is realized in the plant that develops from the seed.

Without the seed, no soil could acquire such a quality on its own: it does not and cannot contain the life present in the seed, a life realized through the soil's possibilities but absent from the soil as such. In the same way, the seeds of the Kingdom, its power and its breath, entering our fallen world, sprout within it, transforming and renewing it. As with a germinating seed, the changes are not immediately visible, but once the process reaches a certain stage, it becomes almost impossible not to notice them.

Of course, someone determined to do so can ignore even a large, spreading tree, turning away and pretending it does not exist. But that is unwillingness to see, not the object's invisibility. Meanwhile, the Kingdom does not become the fallen world or dissolve into it. It merely uses what can be used for its own growth and rootedness within the world, transforming it accordingly. It is no surprise that at the end of time the world is completely transfigured, losing only what cannot be transfigured because of its own condition. This is how God acts, desiring to save everything and everyone in the world that can be saved.

Before the coming of Christ most of the Jewish believers expected that the Kingdom will come immediately the day of the arrival of the Messiah, that it will be seen by all and each, such that nobody can any more doubt of its reality. Jesus speaks differently: He compares the Kingdom with the leaven, the presence of which is imperceptible at first, and the action takes time. He speaks about the history of the Kingdom, which has already with Him entered the world, but did not yet reveal itself in it to the end, then at the beginning of its history one can completely not notice it at all, as if nothing changed with the arrival of the Savior. For many, His words seemed probably strange and incomprehensible: why, If He Himself has already brought all the fullness of the Kingdom in the world, a certain time was still needed for this Kingdom to reveal itself. Why not to reveal it all on the very day of His arrival?

If the Kingdom that Christ brought into the world was such as expected to see it most of the believers, everything would have really happened that way. Indeed, most of those who waited for the Messiah and for the Kingdom, waited for something completely earthly, even if built differently than the heathen States, but existing by the same earthly laws, by which exist all human societies. The laws of the messianic Kingdom had to correspond to the Torah, the Messiah Himself had, unlike the heathen rulers, to be a righteous King, and for the rest nobody waited for anything particular from the Kingdom, if of course we do not consider the miracles, which, as expected many believers will spill abundant flow on the Messiah and His Kingdom. Such a Kingdom could have really appeared, if it is not suddenly, then fast enough, within the life of a generation.

But Jesus spoke about another Kingdom, which had to cover the whole world, having beforehand transformed it in a way that it receives the possibility of living according to other laws. Time is needed for this transformation, that is why the Kingdom has in our world being transformed its own history, about which speaks the Savior comparing the Kingdom with the leaven. Is it possible that there was an immediate transformation of all the creation the day of the arrival of the Christ? Probably, yes: because for God nothing is impossible. But the chance to enter the Kingdom would then have been only to very few chosen ones. But God wants to save if possible everyone, and thus, the chance must be also given to each of those who are destined to be born on earth. And time is needed for that, about which says the Savior. Time, which in such a situation becomes the practical manifestation of God's love to each of us.

The narrow gate becomes very concrete when you enter the subway carrying large bags. You have to pass quickly through the turnstile, but a suitcase, two bags, and a couple of flowerpots wrapped in newspaper are hanging from you. All this is very heavy; you very much do not want to leave it behind, and you very much want to get through. But you cannot, because one thing catches on another, everything slows you down, tries to pull free, and prevents you from reaching the place where you urgently need to go. Apparently it is the same with the Kingdom of Heaven: we very much want to enter, but to do so we have to let go of everything that is not our true self.

The Lord Jesus Christ spoke these words in answer to an unknown person's puzzled question about the number of those being saved. As far as one can judge, the logic of the conversation from which the evangelist Luke recorded only Christ's words is as follows. The Lord says more than once that salvation depends on a person's thoughts and deeds, on the state of his heart, on his relation to God. He calls people to repentance and to the correction of life; in the absence of all this, salvation is obviously impossible. Many Jews of that time, though not all, believed that with the coming of the Messiah, salvation would automatically be given to all "full" participants in the Old Covenant. In part this view was determined by an overly primitive understanding of the prophets' words, and in part it was a legacy of the formal religiosity of the post-exilic era. In one way or another, the thought that salvation from sin and death would not be given to everyone and not automatically caused bewilderment in many, and even strong protest. It is in this context that the question put to Christ apparently sounds: "Will those who are saved be few?".

"If there really are few who are saved, if not all Jews automatically fall into their number, then I may not be among them!" This is the emotional subtext of the question. It must be said that "assigning" whole categories of people to the saved regardless of their personal spiritual condition is a very common thing, characteristic not only of Jewish thinking, but of human thinking in general. In answering this, the Lord Jesus Christ shifts the conversation to an entirely different plane. He does not offer new criteria for selecting those who will or will not be saved. The Lord addresses the questioner personally, saying that salvation depends on the will and efforts of each concrete person. The path of salvation must be sought, and the entrance into the Kingdom is the narrow gate, through which one can pass only by applying effort. "Strive," says the Greek text of the Gospel; "labor in spiritual struggle," the Synodal text brilliantly translates this verb. The matter, then, is not how narrow the gate is, but what the will and effort of the person himself are like.

Speaking of the Kingdom, the Savior undoubtedly has in mind the Kingdom that He Himself brought into the world, not the one usually imagined by the people listening to Him. His listeners, as a rule, imagined a strong earthly state, living according to the laws of the Torah and therefore enjoying God's protection, headed by a righteous King to Whom God had given special authority over the world and over people. Such a kingdom, of course, could also be open not only to Jews, but everyone else would in any case have to become Yahwists and accept Judaism in order to make use of what the Messiah would bring into the world.

But Jesus, meanwhile, is speaking of something else: of the Kingdom as a spiritual reality that exists independently of any earthly structures and institutions, whether governmental or social. This Kingdom enters the world through Him, and the way into it is opened by relationship with Him and with His heavenly Father. The true Kingdom of Christ is a space of relationships, above all the relationships that bind Christ with the Father. And anyone can enter the space of Their relationships, regardless of language, nationality, cultural tradition, or religious tradition. Christianity is not a religion and not even a spiritual practice, but life in the Kingdom, and therefore in the space of relationship between the Father and the Son. Here the question of who is first and who is last is not so simple. In essence, it has no meaning at all: in the Kingdom everyone receives the fullness of life that he can contain. But who will be joined to this fullness earlier is indeed an open question.

It would seem that in Judea in Gospel times there were many people whose main goal and meaning in life was precisely the expectation of the Messiah and the Kingdom. But their expectation became for them a kind of religion, or more precisely, part of their religious life, at the foundation of which naturally lay Judaism. And religion tends to become something valuable in itself and self-sufficient, often obscuring the goal for which it arose and exists.

On the other hand, there were many people in the world seeking, often without realizing it, precisely the Kingdom and its life, often not knowing where or with Whom to seek it. And if it was often very difficult for religious messianists to humble themselves before the Messiah as He is, then for seekers of the Kingdom, unburdened by any religion, it was much simpler and more natural to come to Him. And no wonder: Jesus Himself says that it is hard for a rich person to enter the Kingdom. And here it no longer matters whether we are speaking of material, cultural, or religious wealth.

The Saviour's preaching continually displeased the powerful of this world. At the beginning of this chapter, the Lord is asked about a cruel act of Pilate's. He neither approves nor excuses it, although He calls not for armed resistance, as people expected Him to, but for repentance. People's attitude towards Christ also caused considerable anxiety to Herod and to Pilate. At one point, those who have seen the miracle He performed conceive the idea of seizing Him “by surprise” and making Him king. Herod's desire to kill Christ is therefore only one expression of the attitude towards the Saviour of those whose way the Lord obstructed in one manner or another. For us, what He Himself says in this connection matters far more.

In response to Herod's threats, the Lord invites His hearers to recall certain passages from the Law and the Prophets. He says that it cannot be that a prophet should perish outside Jerusalem, recalling Israel's repeated rejection of God's messengers—a rejection that foreshadowed His own. As He said to the prophet Samuel: “It is not you but Me they have rejected, so that I should not reign over them.” The Saviour then quotes the song Moses sang after the destruction of the golden calf (Deut 32), grieving that so often He wished to gather His people as a bird gathers her young beneath her wings. For in that song Moses speaks of the people's rejection of God, who cared for them as a bird cares for its young. The Lord goes on to quote Jeremiah's prophecies and words from the psalms saying that those who betray God are left alone with their sin.

Thus Christ's rejection and execution become more than events in the lives of Jesus and His contemporaries: they take their place within the historical context of the tragic rupture between God and humanity. Christ warns that by killing Him, people “fill up the measure of their fathers' lawlessness.” Here it is especially important to hear how tenderly the Lord cares for people as He gathers them into His Kingdom, and to remember that by accepting rejection and execution, He brings the whole history of humanity's salvation to a victorious conclusion.

The Savior's words about a prophet who does not die outside Jerusalem seem somewhat mysterious at first sight. What does He mean? To state the fairly familiar fact that the lives of all prophets without exception were connected with Jerusalem in one way or another? The traditional rejection of prophetic preaching characteristic of every age? Probably these things too. But there is something else: the spiritual meaning of prophetic and messianic ministry. Ultimately, Jerusalem is a place chosen not by people but by God Himself. Every servant of God—at least before the Messiah came into the world—had to arrive there sooner or later.

Not only because pilgrimage to Jerusalem, the holy city of Yahwism, was the dream of every believing Yahwist, but also because the spiritual meaning of prophetic or messianic ministry could not be separated from the place of God's presence. Every witness of God sooner or later had to stand beside His altar. Then one of two things had to happen: he would either be received, precisely as God's witness and servant, or be killed.

There is nothing surprising in this: the activity of any true servant and witness of God, on reaching its spiritual peak, ultimately confronted not only the witness himself but also—perhaps above all—God's people with a final choice. The witness and his testimony had either to be accepted, or he had to be got rid of. The journey to Jerusalem, the spiritual center of the Yahwist community, also became a time given to the people to reflect on what was happening. Preaching in Jerusalem was the moment of the last and final choice, when the decision could no longer be postponed.

Apparently, the decision always went against the witness. It is no surprise that the Messiah sent by God follows the same path: the witness to the Kingdom, too, had to be heard precisely in Jerusalem, once again confronting the people with a choice. Yet there is an essential difference: formerly, the rejection of any given witness was merely a stage, albeit a tragic one, on the spiritual journey now drawing to its close. This time, then, “yes” or “no” became final, determining Israel's destiny until the Day of Judgment, that moment of the last choice after which there would be nothing left to choose.

An image of God’s supreme love for His hardened people, mired in sin; an image of the supreme tenderness of a bird gathering its chicks beneath its wings. It is no accident that the Lord uses precisely this metaphor, for it is the answer He gives to the prayers of the Psalter. Let us recall how many times a person there pictures God as a bird beneath whose wing one may take refuge. “Keep me as the apple of Your eye; hide me under the shadow of Your wings” (Ps 17:8). “How precious is Your lovingkindness, O God! Therefore the children of men put their trust under the shadow of Your wings” (Ps 36:8). “Be merciful to me, O God, be merciful to me! For my soul trusts in You; and in the shadow of Your wings I will make my refuge, until these calamities have passed by” (Ps 57:2). “I will abide in Your tabernacle forever; I will trust in the shelter of Your wings” (Ps 61:5). “Because You have been my help, therefore in the shadow of Your wings I will rejoice” (Ps 63:8). It is not often that a single image is repeated so many times. These words speak of a wholly special, unique relationship with God. And the Lord accepts them. But alas! Some offer prayers, while others stone the prophets.

Addressing Jerusalem, the Savior at the same time addresses the history of this city. Since David's time it had been not only the capital of the Jewish state, but also the capital of Yahwism. And it remained the capital up to the gospel age, apart from a brief interruption by historical standards during the Babylonian exile.

And in every age the same tragedy was played out in this city again and again. The tragedy of not accepting those who spoke on God's behalf. Not one of the great prophets of antiquity became a triumphant figure during his lifetime. Even Isaiah of Jerusalem, who had influence over King Hezekiah, in the end, judged by earthly standards, lost: his influence was insufficient to determine the policy of Hezekiah, who seemed favorable to the prophet. And although the stories of this prophet's martyrdom during the reign of Manasseh appear much later, it is possible that a real story stands behind them: under Manasseh there were indeed persecutions of the followers of the prophets.

Others were less fortunate: at best they were viewed as annoying eccentrics, and at worst as enemies of their country and their people, as happened, for example, with Jeremiah. Of course, later, already after the Babylonian exile, the Jews began to look at the prophets as great people; their legacy was studied and systematized, which is how the collections of the books of the Former and Latter Prophets appeared. But something remained unchanged, and precisely this something prevented many of Jesus' contemporaries from seeing in Him the Messiah promised by God. The issue is distrust, or insufficient trust, toward living revelation.

Jesus' contemporaries believed the prophets not so much because their life and spiritual experience allowed them to see the depth of prophetic revelation, but because by that time the prophets were already regarded as absolute spiritual authorities and the prophetic books had entered the canon of Holy Scripture. They believed not the Spirit, but tradition. And everything that did not fit into tradition seemed no less suspicious to these people than the words of ancient prophets seemed to their contemporaries.

There were, of course, exceptions, but they were few. The old tragedy was repeating itself again. But now the issue was no longer a prophet, but the Messiah. The One for whose sake God raised up His people and gave them historical life. Therefore the rejection of the Messiah inevitably had to become a historical catastrophe for them. And the Savior, of course, wants another fate for Jerusalem. But even He is not able to change the choice made by His countrymen. For everyone chooses his own path, whether an individual person or a whole people.