NOTES for Mat 21:18-32

Today's reading consists of two parts that at first glance are not directly connected with each other. The first part is the account of the withered fig tree (vv. 18-22); the second gives the conversation of Jesus with the chief priests and elders in the Temple (vv. 23-32). And yet there is a connection between these two events, although it is not immediately obvious.

It is no accident that the account of the withered fig tree ends with a conversation about faith that, according to Jesus, can move mountains (vv. 21-22). Clearly, faith here is not only trust in God and in the One whom God sends into the world, but also a definite spiritual state. And the second part of the passage is devoted precisely to what prevents a person from acquiring and keeping that state.

The conversation with the chief priests and elders begins with the question, already discussed more than once, of who gave Jesus the authority to do what He does (v. 23). Jesus, as had happened before, answers a question with a question: was the washing ("baptism") with which John washed people true or false (v. 25)? Then Jesus' interlocutors begin thinking about how to answer Him (vv. 25-27). But they are clearly concerned not with the truth of John's ministry, but only with the possibility of getting out of a delicate situation without losing face. And in the end, as often happens in such cases, they avoid answering (v. 27).

Then Jesus also refuses to answer their question. There is no game here: in fact, with such an attitude toward the matter, trying to explain anything to these people is truly pointless. They are not interested in truth; their own opinion is more important to them - whatever they may say about spiritual life, purity of faith, and other things of that sort.

The parable Jesus tells about the two sons (vv. 28-32) characterizes the situation as well as possible: one can talk about faith and spiritual life as much as one likes, but if there is no sincere obedience to God's will, all of it is only words. And what prevents obedience is a lack of resolve and inner wholeness.

After all, Jesus' interlocutors cannot be called complete unbelievers. But this is not unconditional faith; it is faith with reservations and allowances. Such faith is worth little. It certainly cannot move mountains. The only thing such faith is good for is serving as self-consolation for those who would like to consider themselves believers without sacrificing anything. But such faith has nothing to do with the Kingdom.

In this conflict between Christ and the Pharisees, the difference between their understandings of faith is revealed most clearly. The Pharisees demand clear arguments from Jesus: He must show visibly “by what authority” He can take charge in the Temple. This demand amounts to yet another request for proof from God, for a miracle. Instead, Christ confronts them with a fundamental question about faith, using the example of John, who called the people to repentance. At the time, there were people who needed no miraculous proof of John's prophetic mission: they understood in their hearts that his words were right. They were those “tax collectors and prostitutes” (and many others) who were ready to return to God, be reconciled with Him, and begin a life unlike the one they had lived before. But if that readiness is absent, then all that remains is to play at proofs and argue about authority...

Many people reading these Gospel lines feel sorry for the fig tree, for it is entirely unclear why it had to be withered. Admittedly, those who are puzzled do not pay attention to the many branches thrown the day before beneath the feet of the donkey on which Jesus entered Jerusalem. This mass of greenery, destined to wither, must surely have exceeded the mass of the fig tree. And that is not even to mention the trees cut down for firewood every day.

Nevertheless, such reasoning certainly does not remove the question: what does the event with the fig tree mean? And how are we to understand the words addressed to the disciples, saying that they will be able to do the same? Are they really to be understood as a call to punish those who displease them? Such a superficial interpretation would contradict all the other Gospel episodes. Elsewhere in the Gospel (Lk 13:6-9) there is a parable about a fig tree that the vine-grower tends to the very end. Here too we have a visible parable. For we are all called to bear fruit, and if this fig tree is condemned, it is not because it is incapable of bearing fruit, but because every possibility of correcting it has been exhausted. Notice that Jesus does not pronounce words of condemnation in anger. He does not hurl a curse, but speaks calmly about reality.

The barren fig tree is an image of what we can bring upon ourselves if we do not share what the Lord has given us. For if we do not want to feed someone or serve one who needs us, we ourselves wither, having refused to draw life-giving strength from the One who gives us all the more, the more we give to others.

What is the connection between the withered fig tree and the Savior's words about faith? And why does Jesus treat the tree He met on the road so harshly at all? After all, in nature everything happens in its own time, and it is foolish to take offense at that or be angry about it.

And yet the point is the Kingdom. The Kingdom that accompanies Jesus everywhere. And in the Kingdom there is no change of seasons as we understand it. Fruit can appear on a tree at any time. More precisely, it appears when it is needed by the one who comes to the tree. If there is no fruit, that means only one thing: the tree lives not by the laws of the Kingdom, but by the laws of the untransformed world, the world where there is no true life. In essence, the Savior's words merely state a sad fact: the fig tree did not enter the Kingdom. Why? That question remains open, and it will remain open until the end of time. But the disciples' question and the Savior's answer are truly very interesting. The point is exactly what can allow a person to avoid the fate of the withered fig tree: faith.

Faith is a capacious concept. It includes faithfulness, trust, and confidence in the rightness of the chosen path. But at the foundation of everything are will, choice, and resolve, the things that form the basis of spiritual life. This will and resolve determine what a person will be before God and people and to what degree the Kingdom will be opened to him. And Jesus draws His disciples' attention to one very important aspect of the will, understood not as a psychological effort but as a spiritual act: it is indivisible. True faith, understood precisely as spiritual will, is always equal to itself; the concepts of "more" or "less" are out of place here. It may be tiny from the point of view of the untransformed world, "like a mustard seed," but in it are the whole fullness of spiritual choice and the whole spiritual potential of a person, which can work miracles. And, of course, it can open the road to the Kingdom for the one who walks it.

Our doubts seem quite justified: asking is practically all we do, yet we certainly do not receive everything. Precisely—today's verse is about this. It does not say, “Whatever you ask for, you will receive.” It also says something about prayer and faith. But is asking God not prayer? It is, and yet the word “prayer” is still stronger than a mere name for our endless “give me, give me.” Throughout the biblical context, prayer is communion with God: the fulfillment of our need to be together with Him, not merely to receive something. The right way, therefore, is not simply to ask and call that prayer, but to abide in prayer—in communion—and then, in the course of that prayer, to ask for something.

Another point concerns faith. Here it most likely means our trust in God's absolute goodness: our agreement that what He wants for us is far better than anything good we can devise for ourselves. Our petition in prayer will then become a search for precisely what God wants to give us. His desire and ability to give it to us will meet our consent to receive this good gift—grace—and so the promise Jesus gives in today's verse will be fulfilled.

Answering a question with a question is quite a common practice in a Jewish setting. But Jesus, of course, would not play with words. Evidently, behind the counter-question He asks lies something important, something on which His interlocutors' very ability to understand Him depends. And it apparently concerns John the Baptist. Jesus' interlocutors begin thinking hard: what can they say so as not to lose out? They clearly did not want to acknowledge John as a prophet; they probably still doubted his prophetic calling. On the other hand, the people saw John precisely as a prophet, while the Pharisees always played the role of spiritual leaders and teachers, so it was obviously not in their interest to come into conflict with public opinion. Hence the answer in the finest tradition of political manoeuvring: no comment, “we do not know,” although, of course, given the stature of John's personality, it was entirely impossible in Judea not to “know” or have an opinion about his activity.

And Jesus, of course, understands all this perfectly. In turn, He refuses to answer the question asked by the Pharisees. This is not because He wants to conceal anything, but because it is obvious to Him that answering is pointless: these people will not hear Him anyway; they want a predetermined answer that would confirm their own ideas. If the answer is different, it, just like the question that has just been asked, will remain without comment and without consequence.

In essence, it is not so important exactly what answer Jesus would have heard to His question. The main thing is that an answer should be given, an honest, sincere, and unambiguous one, whatever it might be. Any such step could have become the beginning of further discussion, perhaps a very tense one. But evading it immediately and completely cuts off every possibility of further communication.

The point is not even that Jesus' interlocutors are dissembling before Him; after all, it is not particularly difficult for Him to understand what they really think and mean. The point is that they are dissembling first of all before themselves: about the fact that what they need is not an answer but confirmation, and that what interests them is not the truth but their own preservation as spiritual leaders. This is a genuine spiritual dead end, and all discussion is useless here.

The question the chief priests and elders ask Jesus after He cleanses the temple of commerce is given in a somewhat polished form. In essence, they are not asking about the source of Christ's power, because that would require them to imply the existence of that power, and neither the religious nor the public leaders want to do that. The Greek text here does not use the word kratos, power or might, which is usually used in the meaning of authority. Instead, the chief priests and scribes ask about exousia, permission or right. The same distinction is noticeable in other languages, for example in Latin. Thus the chief priests are speaking rather rudely: "By what right are You giving orders here? And who gave You this right?" Such a formulation of the question makes it much more familiar to us, because we constantly encounter it in our everyday life.

And therefore an important nuance is seen in Christ's answering question. When He asks them about the origin of John's baptism, He is asking about the rights of Heaven. "Does God have rights in your world, and what are they? Does God have the right to do anything at His own discretion?"

In our time we all know very well about human rights. In their ancient time the chief priests thought more about the rights of society and the state. But no one thinks about the rights and freedom of God. The ministry of John the Baptist thus becomes an example of the Creator doing something on His own initiative, at His own discretion, and outside the framework of human customs. And therefore the evasive answer of the chief priests, which they wanted to make nonnegative so that people would not think they were denouncing someone authoritative among the people, turns out not to be positive: "We do not know," they say, "whether God has rights or not." Do we know?

We are used to thinking that the more power a person has, the more significant his role in society, the more he must be concerned about what others will think of him. In the modern world this is called by the fine word "image," that is, translated from English, "appearance" or "representation." The word may be new, but the problem of choosing the right strategy for building an image was clearly relevant two thousand years ago as well. The chief priests are in a difficult position: either recognize John as a prophet and thereby, as people now say, disavow all their previous statements, or once again say aloud something that would most likely lower their standing sharply.

And that is precisely why Jesus refuses to continue the conversation with the Pharisees. It is pointless. They cannot even honestly say what they really think. A terrible paradox: the creature is speaking with the Creator, but is concerned only with its own image, not with remaining the image of God.

The forefather Jacob was not afraid to wrestle with God and received a blessing, but fear and self-absorption block us from God. What path do we choose?

The Lord permits no evasions by which we might avoid openly and directly professing our faith and our position in life concerning one question or another. Yet we are more inclined to wait for signs from Him, trying to escape responsibility, for if we act or speak in whatever way suits us, all our falsehood will become evident. The elders likewise try to force Jesus Himself to answer His own question about John, secretly hoping to catch Him in something. “We do not know” is a very convenient position; in saying this, the elders continue to wait for some sign from Christ. Perhaps He will say that John's baptism was from God, and then they can accuse Him of being a self-appointed impostor. Perhaps He will condemn John, and then they can find common ground with Him. Christ is speaking with the elders and scribes, but they are not speaking with Him: they are neither communicating nor conversing with Him, but trying to “resolve the problem.” The Lord, however, does not allow this. With Him, only direct and open dialogue is possible.

Jesus' short parable of the two sons illustrates as clearly as possible one of the fundamental laws of spiritual life: a true intention is one that is carried through to completion. One might, of course, say that even the theoretical agreement of one son, who readily expressed his willingness to obey his father's will, is important in its own way. One might also point out that this son, who ultimately failed to do what he had promised, may not have intended to deceive his father at all. How many times in the life of every one of us have seemingly good plans and intentions remained unrealized in the end, not because of external circumstances and not because we abandoned them, but because we simply forgot them without even noticing how or when it happened? And this often happens precisely to people who are quite respectable, decent and successful.

Yet those who lack such qualities can sometimes, paradoxically enough, do more good and prove closer to the Kingdom. This is probably due in no small part to the fact that the “tax collectors and prostitutes” mentioned by Jesus know perfectly well that all is not right with them and that they must devote themselves entirely to the task before them once an opportunity to change something has appeared in their lives. If they let it pass now, another opportunity may never come. And if these people decide to use the possibilities that have opened to them, they will use them to the fullest and make this the chief purpose and meaning of their lives. Their will is wholly devoted to solving just one task. They will not scatter their efforts; nothing will appear in their lives that could distract them from what matters most, and if something does appear, they will simply pay no attention to it. They know what threatens them if they fail to use the chance they have been given. Their will is directed towards one goal and focused on solving one task.

Yet it is precisely the will that determines the quality and content of spiritual life. Whoever makes the Kingdom his chief goal will certainly find it. Respectable religiosity, however, may be of no help, for every religion is the work of human hands and minds. No religion has any direct relation to the Kingdom, although the Kingdom is certainly not closed to religious people. An indefinite “yes” may remain indefinite forever. And a definite “no” can turn into an equally definite “yes.”

"The road to hell is paved with good intentions," everyone knows this folk wisdom. Why is that so? The parable of the two sons leads us to reflect on this. We readily agree in words to do good, because then we enjoy the thought of our own righteousness. But we all lack constancy, patience, and diligence. And we become like seeds that fell on rocky ground. "The spirit is willing, but the flesh is weak," the Lord says at another time. But let us also think about the amazing gift of repentance that has been given to us. The possibility of a clean slate is always left to us. It is never too late to reject evil.

However, the idea of the unfulfilled good intentions of the son who said, "I will go," is only one possible interpretation. Another meaning can be ostentatious piety, which lets a person skim along the surface of life without entering into the depth of its problems.

Perhaps the great difficulty of our life with you is that we know too well what we ought to be. And most paradoxically, this comes from such a wonderful thing as knowledge and love of the Law.

We try on the costume of virtue and like ourselves very much in it. That is why it is so hard for us to admit our weakness, our unworthiness, our sinfulness before people. It is even hard for us to refuse a person who asks us for something, when we cannot fulfill the request, because we do not want to put ourselves in the position of someone who did not help another person in need. That role is unpleasant to us.

The parable we are talking about today has many meanings. But here is one of them: always be completely honest before yourself and before the one who asks you for something or comes to you with something. Sometimes one hears that this parable teaches that deeds are more important than words. No way. In fact, the second son sinned twice: first, by not telling his father the truth about his inner unwillingness to go work, and second, by not going to work. Therefore, on the contrary, this parable is about how important words are, the first sin, and about how important deeds are, the second sin.

Did the first son sin? I would say he did not. Yes, he grieved his father. But he was honest in speaking of his unwillingness; he was honest in describing his inner state, though he could not help understanding that it was unseemly. Let us strive for the same honesty. Of course, one should try to hide one's bad thoughts from people so as not to tempt them; the point is something else: not to promise more than we can actually do. This is difficult, because the request always exceeds our abilities and we always want to be kind to everyone. But let us understand that this is impossible and stop admiring ourselves, because we make those suffer who do not understand why we were so kind and then nothing came of it.

Today's composite passage from the Gospel of Matthew tells of two similar actions of the Lord Jesus Christ that caused no small astonishment among those who witnessed them. Both of these moments - the driving of the merchants from the Temple and the withered fig tree - fit within the framework of the "prophetic actions" well known in the Old Testament. These actions are performed at God's command and serve as a kind of visible parable. The prophets performed them in order to convey some revelation to their contemporaries, and to do so in a way that would be remembered for a long time.

The driving of the merchants from the Temple is directly the fulfillment of what was said about Christ in the Psalms and the prophets. This action is interpreted quite unambiguously as the fulfillment of prophecies, and therefore literally the next day the chief priests and elders ask Christ: "By what authority are You doing these things?" The Lord does not give them a direct answer, but His disciples, as the evangelists testify, understood Him well and remembered forever.

The withered fig tree most often raises the question: "for what?" The fig tree, of course, is guilty of nothing, but from ancient times the tree was a symbol that the prophets also used often. They spoke of Israel as God's planting, needed exclusively in order to bear fruit for God. If this does not happen, the existence of this planting loses its meaning. This is what the Lord directs His disciples to.