NOTES for Mat 9:35-38

From the comparison of the crowds of people with sheep without a shepherd, human logic draws this conclusion: a good overseer should be placed over them, and let him restore order. But Christ, the good shepherd, chooses for Himself twelve helpers from among those being shepherded. It is important to Him that people be not unwilling slaves, but coworkers.

The number twelve symbolizes the fullness of the humanity called by Christ, but it is also the number of the tribes of Israel. The Church, the renewed people of God, is created according to the pattern of the original Israel. This is emphasized even by the fact that at first the apostles are not recommended to go to the Gentiles; they are to become established in their calling among the Israelites.

The calling of the apostles was not a reward for any merits; they differed little from those around them. But in exactly the same way Abraham was called by God not according to merit, but because of his openness to God and his ability to follow Him. Such are the apostles too: not supermen at all, but seemingly ordinary people whose weaknesses and imperfections the Gospel does not hide. But the Lord, having called them to follow Him, gave them the opportunity to overcome their own limitations.

Here, incidentally, is the answer to a frequently asked question: why did Christ choose Judas as one of the apostles? Did He really not see what kind of person Judas was, that he was capable of betrayal? Then where is God's omniscience?

Of course, He saw all this, just as He saw many potential falls of the other called ones, falls that remained unrealized and therefore unknown to us. In exactly the same way He sees our hearts today, whatever they may be filled with. Yet He continues to love all of us, giving each person a chance to turn away from habitual filth and become clean. The same chance was given to the apostle who did not use it.

The words about those who reject the apostles' preaching sound severe. But is this a threat, or a warning about danger? After all, Sodom and Gomorrah have already been punished, and perhaps for that reason no new punishment threatens them. But those who even now do not intend to leave their sinful inclinations are turning away from salvation by their own choice.

“Jesus had compassion on them.” How precious these manifestations of His feelings are to us! But His compassion is active: He calls the disciples to pray that God send His laborers into the harvest, and He Himself sends them out to preach. This is not yet the preaching that He will command them after His Resurrection; but the training of those who will later become the first fruits of Christ’s Church and carry the Word of God throughout the world must include a practical part. The disciples’ task on this occasion is limited: only to prepare the way for Jesus’ subsequent arrival in the towns of Israel. Yet even for such a mission they need a special gift, a special power, and Christ endows them with that power. At the same time, He makes it clear that this ministry has nothing in common with our ordinary human prudence; the disciples will appreciate this experience later, when they begin to proclaim the Gospel among all kinds of people, including those who are hostile.

Where and when does the Kingdom of Heaven begin, the Kingdom the Apostles went out to preach? It begins wherever the Gospel proclaimed by the apostles comes, where the Lord Himself is present in the gracious gifts of the Church. It begins where a person dies to the law of sin and is born to life in Christ. The other question is when it begins... When not only the preaching about the Kingdom reaches us, but the Kingdom itself comes in our hearts and changes our life?

Sending the apostles out to preach, Jesus entrusts them with doing the same thing He Himself did throughout His earthly ministry: bearing witness to the Kingdom that has drawn near. And He gives them a universal principle not only for witnessing to the Kingdom, but also for life in it: freely you received, freely give.

This is not about a witness being unable or forbidden to receive anything from his hearers. He needs food and shelter, at least for the time he spends in a given city or village as he bears his witness. It is about something else: witness to the Kingdom cannot be a matter of personal gain. And the point is not simply whether someone takes payment for talking about Christ, about the Kingdom, or about one's own spiritual experience. The point is the very attitude toward what one is bearing witness to and bringing to others. A fallen person, consciously or unconsciously, considers everything within reach to belong to himself. Something ownerless is possible in the fallen world only if it brings no practical benefit to anyone or is beyond human reach. The instinct of ownership tolerates no vacuum, and every available gap is filled very quickly. A fallen person is inclined to treat the Kingdom as something "his own" in the earthly sense, that is, as something he can dispose of at his own discretion, even if in theory he understands and agrees that such an attitude is inappropriate and impossible here. A fallen person always wants, often without realizing it, to separate off a piece of the Kingdom and carry it away.

But there can be no such "Kingdom for oneself"; the very nature of the Kingdom does not allow it. Everyone who shares in it can receive it wholly, in all its fullness, but only on one condition: it must be available just as wholly and fully to each neighbor who shares the life of the Kingdom with him as it is to him himself. Such readiness to share with everyone everything one has received by being joined to the Kingdom is an indispensable condition of life in the Kingdom and witness to it. And no wonder: none of us has deserved or earned even a grain of the life that we receive in the Kingdom, all of it, as much as there is there. We truly have no right to the Kingdom. We receive it freely, not as property, but for open-ended and unpaid use, together with those who want to share it with us. Just as open-ended and just as free.

The healing of the blind men spoken of in today's Gospel reading is, in a certain sense, very typical. As they approach, the blind men call Jesus the Son of David, offering their initial confession. As happens almost always, He asks a question about faith, and then says, according to your faith be it done to you. As in other cases, He asks them not to spread word of the miraculous healing. This is important because, as the Lord performs more and more miracles, people face a growing temptation to make Him an earthly ruler, so this request is entirely clear.

But what does it mean for the blind men themselves, who, incidentally, were not able to fulfill it? What does it mean in the broader context of a person's calling to proclaim and glorify the great works of God? What is it like for a person to become a participant in a miracle of God's mercy and then receive a command to be silent about it? We, of course, do not know the true motives of what happened, but, looking in the mirror, we can guess something. In particular, perhaps the matter is simply ordinary boasting. This is how we take pride in knowing some famous person. We collect completely useless autographs of rather dubious celebrities. Why? To boast. If a celebrity paid attention to me, then there is something in me. And we imagine the Creator as a kind of super-celebrity. Since He healed us of blindness, it means we are good in some way, better than others. How simple. And how foolish. For God is not a celebrity; He is not trying to appear before people's eyes more often, nor is this needed by the One who created heaven and earth. But the main thing, and the hardest thing for us, is that His mercy has no cause in us. He healed the blind men not because they were better than others, but because each of us is unique to Him.

An undisclosed miracle can become the content of deeply personal, secret relations with God. There is something that only You and I know, and by this we become so close. To possess this is vitally important. The day will come when He says to you, as to Nathanael, "...when you were under the fig tree, I saw you," and your very metabolism will become life. But if you publicize the miracle, violating Christ's request, then there are no personal relations, and the miracle becomes the autograph of a celebrity, grows dim, and is forgotten.

So, after all, does a miracle convince? As it turns out, not everyone and not always. Faced with manifestations of God's power, the power of the Kingdom, that Jesus made entirely obvious to everyone, it would seem impossible not to believe in the miracle. But apparently one can bear witness to the Kingdom, yet it is impossible to prove its reality to someone who does not want to believe. The Pharisees, for example, invent ever new explanations for something that, in essence, needs no explanation at all but only needs to be accepted. They have no wish to accept it, and therein lies the whole problem.

One might think that the Pharisees, of all people, since they professed messianic hope, should only have rejoiced at the appearance of the Messiah and the Kingdom in the world. And they probably would have, had Jesus acted as the Messiah was supposed to act according to those same Pharisees' ideas. But the problem was precisely that Jesus did not conform to those ideas and had no intention of doing so.

Then what could not fail to happen did happen: the logic of opposition demands escalation, and eventually escalation came. Previously the leaders of the Pharisaic movement had tried to explain Jesus' miracles and healings in more or less neutral terms. Now they move to direct and very serious accusations, in effect accusing the Savior of paganism and demon worship. The calculation is simple: if you strike, strike with all your strength and without restraint; if you accuse, make the accusation as difficult as possible to answer.

Nor is this merely a desire to rid themselves of Jesus. His accusers, it seems, are trying to convince not only others but themselves that they are right. To do so they need the gravest possible accusations, and it no longer matters how plausible those accusations are. In such a situation the mind will accept any argument as long as it justifies rejecting what cannot reasonably be rejected. They seek to frighten not only others but themselves, and to frighten themselves so thoroughly that there can be no road back and no one will even dare think that this Man might be from God.

Such intimidation requires a taboo that blocks, even at the subconscious level, every attempt to view the situation differently. The accusation of demon worship was just such a taboo—a taboo that became the last refuge of religiosity opposed to the Kingdom.

Every time a healing takes place in the Gospel, a miracle occurs. It is not merely a miracle of a medical or psychological nature; rather, it is a miracle of revelation about God, showing that He is not as we imagined Him. In nearly all the healings described, Christ truly acts by destroying existing religious notions: He touches the uncleanness of illness and death, He accepts outcasts and the disabled, and He makes not a person's righteousness but their faith the condition for the miracle... Therefore Jesus' Good News concerns not only what God does, healing, forgiving, and raising the dead, but, more importantly, what He is like. For on the path of faith and hope in God, what most often stands in our way are our distorted notions about Him: that He will not rummage in our earthly filth, that He will not want to deal with people like us, and that if He does, He will act according to our ideas of good and evil. Yet we have Good News: there is hope that He is different.