NOTES for Mat 21:22

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.

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.

The Lord continues His path to Golgotha, which is already felt in His clashes with the chief priests and elders, in His parables and conversations with the disciples. He entered the city as King. He must either be received by the people as the long-awaited Messiah or perish in a clash with the hypocrisy and rigidity of the leaders and the unfaithfulness of the people, in a struggle with the kingdom of darkness. Where Christ comes, no room for compromise remains. The fig tree that bore no fruit withers; Israel, which did not hear the preaching of John, cannot receive the Savior. More and more clearly it becomes visible that the conflict can end in only one way: the death of the Rebel.

We, together with the Israelites of the beginning of the first century, stand at the very center of these events. Christ enters us, or will yet enter us, in exactly the same way He entered Jerusalem. And He will encounter, or has already encountered, hypocrisy and rigidity in our hearts in exactly the same way. Like them, we are always on the edge of a choice: to kill the Messiah and wither like the fig tree, or to receive Him, hear His word, become as He wants to see us, and so obtain His mercy and 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.