Notes for  23 July 2026

On the basis of the Greek text, Paul’s words can be understood in two ways: either a person confident in his knowledge does not really know anything, or all the knowledge of such an expert, whatever and however much he may know, is worth nothing compared with the true knowledge of which he has no idea. In essence, here the apostle returns again to the theme of poverty that he has already touched on more than once in his letter to the Christians of Corinth. He also returns to the theme of “foolishness for Christ’s sake,” or, more precisely, to what this world considers foolishness when it looks at Christians and their life. For the poverty of which Paul speaks after Jesus Himself, and of which one of Israel’s great prophets, Isaiah of Jerusalem, had spoken centuries before Christ came, presupposes a corresponding attitude not only toward property or social status, but also toward knowledge, religiosity, piety, and even one’s own ascetic “achievements.”

For God’s poor person, none of these things has independent value, including knowledge: not only theoretical and speculative knowledge, but even mystical experience, which at first glance reveals far more than any speculation. God’s poor person understands perfectly well that all these things in themselves, including knowledge and even mystical experience, do not bring him closer to God. To be in God’s presence is the one thing in spiritual life that has meaning and significance, and it does not depend on the human being. A person can only ask for such nearness and strive toward it, but he cannot attain it or earn it by his own powers in such a way that it would belong to him by right or by merit.

And if that is so, then any human knowledge as such is worth nothing; and the person who thinks that he knows something, first, does not understand what is chief and real in spiritual life, and second, is mistaken by taking for real what is not real. The second, as a rule, follows from the first. This is the spiritual delusion of which the apostle reminds us, considering it quite dangerous: for it creates the illusion of spiritual life and a spiritual path where in fact there is neither the one nor the other.

“If any man will come after Me, let him deny himself, and take up his cross, and follow Me.” Where the Russian text has “go,” the Greek text uses “ἐλθεῖν,” the aorist infinitive of “ἔρχομαι”—to go, to come. The literal meaning, then, is: whoever wishes to come after Me. This is not about simply walking somewhere behind Him, but about following Him to a definite goal. One can walk without any special effort or commitment, but if you want to follow Him all the way to the goal, then the conditions He sets come into force. These are Christ's own words about what we are to do.

Deny yourself. We can renounce only wealth that we possess or could potentially possess. It is impossible to renounce the process by which icebergs form in Antarctica. But the icebergs themselves—yes: what do I need them for? To renounce something means to give up claiming authority over it. It is impossible to renounce being a living human being. But it is possible to give up control over that person's life—your own life. To deny yourself means accepting as right and good not the aims and circumstances in life that please you, but those that God chooses to give you. For most of us this means first of all consenting to remain unnoticed and refusing to be guided by our own vanity or that of others.

Take up your cross. In the Gospel, the cross always names what happens when the divine comes into contact with this sinful world. When we sense hostility, we usually either run away or respond in kind—and often do both at once. Christ does neither. He accepts pain and suffering as the inevitable companions of love and innocence in a world stricken by sin. It follows, incidentally, that if you want to take up your cross, merely agreeing to do so is not enough. You too must acquire love for others and innocence; that is, you must stop doing evil and begin doing good.

And follow Me. Contrary to common opinion, eternal life cannot begin after death. It either begins here already or does not begin at all. Following Jesus can begin only in this life; otherwise it will be too late. For us human beings, the chief thing in this following is to seek God's guidance, to seek the rule of the Holy Spirit.

What is a parable? Why does Jesus use parables when speaking to the people? Why are the disciples given knowledge of the mysteries of the Kingdom, with Jesus explaining the meaning of His parables to them, while He seemingly leaves the others in ignorance? To answer all these questions, it is important to understand what parables were used for in antiquity—and in the East during the Middle Ages and later, right up to the present day.

It might seem simplest to explain everything directly; then no one would have any misunderstandings. In fact, however, such a head-on approach is only partly useful, and not merely because it discourages people from thinking by offering them ready-made answers. Another problem is that with this kind of teaching the student often does not even develop any questions. He has no idea what to ask, because the teacher decides for him what he needs to know. A parable works differently.

Above all, it enables a person to see the unfamiliar in the familiar, the unexpected where everything has long seemed known and understood. It teaches a person to ask questions—and not idle ones. Some questions are asked for their own sake, simply to pass the time in a more or less learned and more or less friendly conversation. A parable teaches us to ask questions that have become urgent because what was familiar has, if not collapsed, at least begun to sway. Urgent questions are questions asked from within this kind of swaying reality.

A person is free, of course, and can brush the parable aside. His reality will then stand firm again—or at least so it will seem to him. In that case the parable will remain for him merely a tale, a fable, or an elegant paradox unrelated to his own life or to life in general. Jesus says of such people that seeing they do not see and hearing they do not hear.

Those inclined to listen must first become aware of the questions that arise from the parable and formulate them for themselves—to understand what they find unclear and unfamiliar within what is clear and familiar. A person can and must do this work himself; no hints are needed. Until he has done so, he remains among those whom the Savior calls “outsiders.” Once the questions have been formulated, they are asked—as Jesus' disciples ask them.

Only then is it possible to speak directly; then a person will hear and understand, each according to his measure. This is exactly how Jesus acts. He is no teacher in the worst sense of the word, one who forces his knowledge upon everyone who has not managed or been able to escape. He speaks only to those who are ready and want to hear, while leaving the door open for the others in case they too should want to enter.

Comparing the Sermon on the Mount in Matthew and Luke makes it clear that Luke generally presents it in less detail. Of course, hardly any of the evangelists transmitted Jesus' words verbatim. At that time it was customary to compile the sayings of teachers and preachers, shaping them into a special kind of literary text and sometimes into entire collections. Even taking this fact into account, however, it is obvious that Luke singled out what he considered most important in Jesus' sermon. For the evangelist, the most important thing is the absence of condemnation. “Judge not, and ye shall not be judged”—these are the Savior's words that Luke considers most important in the whole Sermon on the Mount. Why these particular words? Matthew, for example, has many other themes that are no less important.

Yet the absence of condemnation really can be considered a measure of the quality of a person's inner life. This is not about making an assessment, of course, but precisely about condemning. It is entirely natural to assess a person's particular action in a given situation. Condemnation is another matter: it concerns not the action but the person himself. A person thus becomes the judge of another person, although God never appointed him to be such a judge. A person's path, its outcome, and its evaluation are the prerogative of God and God alone. Even if someone is clearly heading straight for the lake of fire, only God can sentence him to that lake.

Any human being can only state the fact that a sinner is moving in that direction. Why, then, do we pronounce judgment so readily where no one has given us the right to do so? Evidently because we do not see the situation as God sees it and do not use the same criteria—not absolute criteria but relative ones. We see a person not in the fullness of the life God has given him, but only in his particular present condition. We apply certain formal criteria, usually moral and religious, to this condition and naturally obtain a completely distorted picture of reality. But this is no surprise: as long as our life is determined not by the breath of life God has given us but by our own nature, nothing else can be expected.

If, however, we live the life of the Kingdom, such a distortion of reality simply cannot occur. If it does occur, it means that we are still far from the Kingdom, as the evangelist bears witness to us.

Jesus has gathered His disciples for the final meal, the meal of the covenant. He gives them a new law unlike the old one. His commandment concerns love within His community. It is so easy, after all, to love those who share your beliefs, your brothers...

But the Lord tells them that one of them is a traitor. His commandment now becomes almost impossible to fulfill: how can they love one another if any one of them may suddenly prove to be an enemy? Each tries to distance himself from the dreadful stigma of traitor, but Jesus stops them. He predicts that they will all prove unfaithful—and very soon, before morning.

The disciples, and after them all believers, are not divided into good and bad, faithful and unfaithful. They are united by one human weakness and one incomprehensible commandment: to love one another without trying to guess who will prove to be an enemy, and to imitate the love of the Teacher, who loves them unconditionally.

Even today people appear within the Christian community who try to turn us away from the faith. Advertisements on television and in newspapers offer us the services of “Orthodox” fortune-tellers, healers, and other “believing” miracle workers. The Old Testament commandment offers a simple solution: death for the apostate.

But how can this be reconciled with the commandments to love our enemies, forgive, and not condemn? When we condemn others, we ourselves may be condemned for unfaithfulness—and who is without sin? Only one way remains, the simplest and at the same time the most difficult: learn to separate a person from his sin; love the person and do not condemn him, but hate and condemn unfaithfulness, apostasy, and temptation. And, of course, stand firm in the faith ourselves (1 Cor. 16:13).