Notes for  21 July 2026

During His earthly ministry Jesus was more than once asked tricky questions and offered tests of ingenuity from the theological study aids that existed at that time. There were, of course, certain traditional answers to these tricky questions, though how convincing they were is another matter. But Jesus uses even them to bear witness to the Kingdom. That is what happened with the question put to Him about a woman who had married many times, probably referring here to the custom of levirate marriage. As can be seen, the Sadducees, and above all evidently the representatives of the temple priesthood, used this example to refute the possibility of the general resurrection in which the Synagogue believed, and first of all, of course, the Pharisees.

It is not hard to see that the main misunderstanding here is connected not with some theological subtlety, but with a wrong understanding of the Kingdom and its nature. And Jesus, without entering into abstract reasoning, draws His interlocutors’ attention precisely to this point. He tells them directly: you understand neither the Scriptures nor the way God acts in the world. And He adds: in the Kingdom of God they neither marry nor are given in marriage, but abide like angels in heaven.

The answer is remarkable. It remains only to understand just how angels “abide in heaven.” But here Jesus, as can be seen, gives His interlocutors no additional explanation. Only one thing is clear: it is not like the way of life in the untransformed world. And the point is not to try to understand what marital relations are like in the Kingdom. The point is to realize that it is unlike anything that happens in our world, and not to try to extrapolate earthly laws onto the Kingdom.

Meanwhile, judging by the question posed to Jesus, such extrapolations were common practice in the Jewish theology of that time. Jesus, as can be seen, invites His interlocutors to set aside the cliches familiar to them. And He does this not so much for their own sake, since they asked the question only to “trip Him up,” but for the sake of the listeners, because the conversation was public. It was necessary to let them understand that the Kingdom is in fact wholly different. At least those among them who can and want to hear.

The image of Martha and Mary has become a classic in Christian tradition, symbolizing two kinds of Christian service—the active and the contemplative—and at the same time establishing their priorities, for the Savior speaks quite unambiguously about what matters most in service. His words are usually understood as pointing to what Mary was doing as she listened to Jesus' words without being distracted for even a minute. Yet “one thing” and “many things” also allow a somewhat different interpretation. It is no accident that Jesus speaks of the “many things” as something that causes a person anxiety and distress—at least, that is what follows if the Greek text is read literally.

Martha busies herself with many things; she is constantly thinking about something that troubles her and deprives her of peace. She has no time to listen, not because she is occupied with household tasks, but because of this constant anxiety that robs her of inner peace. Her many tasks worry her precisely because she is wholly immersed in them: inwardly she rushes from one task to another, anxious that she will not have enough strength for everything she thinks she must do. It is her anxiety, not the number of tasks, that exhausts her so completely that she no longer has the strength to listen to the Savior.

There is only one way out, and Jesus points to it: leave the many for the one, for the central thing that sustains a person—a relationship with Him, with Jesus. When this relationship becomes the center and focus of a person's inner life, all outward affairs are also arranged around that center. The person is no longer scattered or fragmented into a multitude of self-projections connected with everyday tasks, but remains inwardly whole and gathered around the one thing that truly fills both the person and all his work with life.

The prophets spoke often about the sins and crimes of God's people. Yet their words contained not only rebuke but always hope as well. The time of Micah, a younger contemporary of Isaiah of Jerusalem, was a spiritually ambiguous age. King Hezekiah, who then ruled Judah, did much to combat pagan cults, prohibiting public worship of pagan gods in his country. Yahwism became popular, and the preaching of Micah, as well as Isaiah, contributed greatly to this.

But destroying pagan altars and sanctuaries proved far easier than changing people whose souls and hearts largely remained as they had been. Their sins remained as well. For the overwhelming majority of new believers, Yahwism amounted to magnificent religious ceremonies and cheerful festivals; they thought rarely and reluctantly about observing the commandments God had given, about the Torah. Religious enthusiasm by no means brought rapid spiritual change in society. The old sins did not release people. Habits were overcome slowly and with difficulty, even when people sincerely wanted to become different.

Here we see what the priestly books of the Pentateuch say so often: the consequences of a deliberately committed sin weigh upon a person even despite repentance, just as they weigh upon a people when the sin was committed by the whole nation. It was then revealed to the prophet that the situation could be changed only by a special, joint, and purposeful spiritual effort by God and His people. Micah says nothing about the trials awaiting the people, as Isaiah of Jerusalem does, but he understands that it will no longer be possible to overcome the consequences of the people's sins without an upheaval—perhaps a catastrophic one. Yet the prophet understands something else too: God does not need calamities for their own sake. He merely wants to give His people a chance to begin history with a clean slate, and for that the people themselves must become a clean slate. In the end, all historical upheavals are needed only for this—and so that in this new history the renewed people may succeed in welcoming the Messiah God promised them.

In their conversations with Jesus, the Pharisees often challenge Him over how He treats various prescriptions and traditions. The Sabbath occupies a central place in these disputes. What may and may not be done on the Sabbath?

In the mind of a Jew of that time, answering this question required serious knowledge of the Law and the commentaries of authoritative teachers. But the way Jesus poses the question turns a theological discussion into a direct challenge to the conscience, which is not limited to teachers and theologians: what may be done on the Sabbath—good or evil? Save life or destroy it? The Gospel teaches us to frame the questions that concern us in precisely this way, for conscience is often the best adviser, even in theology.

The evangelist describes the reasons for unbelief in Jesus quite exhaustively. He divides all unbelievers into two categories: those who do not want to see the truth and those who are simply afraid. The second case is more or less understandable: in every age fear and cowardice have been among the chief obstacles on the path of righteousness, preventing those who walk or want to walk that path from making the right decisions. The first category is more complicated. It is probably hard to imagine a person who in ordinary life voluntarily blinds himself or simply closes his eyes so that, no longer seeing the reality around him, he can replace that vision with fantasies. And understandably so: in everyday life the consequences of such an act can be most unexpected and unpleasant. Yet in spiritual life many people apparently make just this choice, and quite often, although the consequences here are hardly less serious. Why is that?

The Athenian philosopher Socrates, who lived five centuries before the birth of Christ, seems already to have understood the reason for such behavior. He said that people often take a small good for a great one and a great evil for a small one, as well as the reverse, simply because what is large looks smaller at a distance than it really is. This applies to spiritual life just as much as to everyday life.

Giving up comfortable and familiar views and a settled worldview, especially a religious one, is at the very least uncomfortable. The day of Judgment seems so distant, so small compared with this discomfort, that... it is disregarded—perhaps in the hope that by the time it comes, things will somehow have settled down, worked themselves out, and resolved themselves, and that we will somehow enter the Kingdom after all at little cost, without any particular sacrifice or loss.

And it is best to get rid of those who, as the saying goes, care far too much. There will be no quiet life with them anyway. How to get rid of them is merely a technical question.

The blessing and curse of which God speaks are expressed with utmost simplicity in the Book of Deuteronomy: they are life and death. We rarely discuss religion in such terms. We better understand talk of peace of mind, a moral foundation, and so on. Nevertheless, the nature of the relationship with God has not changed in three and a half thousand years: with Him there is still life, and without Him death. We begin to understand this only in extreme situations, when we have to cry out, “Lord, save me!” Then the question of religion moves from the plane of “how to fast,” or even “how to pray,” to the plane of “to be or not to be.”