Notes for  29 July 2026

Continuing the conversation about life in the Kingdom, Paul turns to the fundamental concepts of the prophetic tradition that describe the relationship between God and the people of God: mercy (“mercy”) and faithfulness (“truth”). This turn is, of course, no accident, since mercy and faithfulness remain fundamental also for those living in the Kingdom in their relationship with Christ. Speaking of the circumcised, that is, of the Jews, the apostle recalls not so much the people’s faithfulness to God as God’s faithfulness to the promises once given and the covenant once made. Turning to the recent Gentiles who have come to Christ, he recalls mercy, because unlike the Jews, God had promised the Gentiles nothing and had made no covenants with them. If the way into the Kingdom is nevertheless opened to them, it is solely as a gift to which they have no right and on which they cannot in any way count, at least not in the sense in which Jews rely on it, since certain promises had indeed been given to them.

Since the Kingdom is founded on mercy and faithfulness, the relationships among those who live in it must also be permeated with these qualities. Mercy and faithfulness presuppose condescension toward the weaknesses of those who, by definition, cannot be strong, having only recently been joined to the life of the Kingdom. For unlike an ordinary religious community, where common views and their orthodoxy are what matter, in the Kingdom the spiritual unity of the faithful comes to the fore. From the point of view of religion, what matters most are people’s views, their ideas and opinions; from the point of view of the Kingdom, what matters most are relationships, without which it is impossible to glorify God. For religion, what matters most are people’s views, their ideas and opinions; for the Kingdom, relationships without which it is impossible to glorify God. And for the sake of relationships one can make peace with many religious and worldview differences, especially since without such humility one can hardly count on the spiritual unity, the “unity of mind,” of the Church of which the apostle speaks just above, in verses 4–5.

Paul speaks of love as the one thing that exists eternally and in eternity, surpassing everything else in this respect. Paul's words here echo Jesus' own words about love as a new commandment. It would seem that there is nothing new in love: even before the Messiah came, experts in the Torah knew that its whole essence could be reduced to two commandments, the commandment to love God and the commandment to love one's neighbor. Yet the presence of love did not abolish everything else that could be present in a person's life and in his relationships with God and other people. Jesus, however, calls love a new commandment, and Paul, as if continuing the Teacher's thought, speaks of love as something surpassing everything imaginable that may be connected with human existence in the Kingdom.

Apparently something new connected with love entered the world with Christ. Before the Messiah came, love was primarily a relationship binding a person to God and to other people. It was the intention on which such relationships rested. The space of relationship itself remained natural and psychic. In the Kingdom everything is different: there love becomes the space of relationship, the environment within which all relationships exist—with God, with Christ, and with other people.

The breath of the Kingdom that embraces a person becomes for him an environment of love. At the end of time, when the whole world once again becomes the Kingdom as it was on the first day of creation, this breath will embrace everything and become the only possible environment in which renewed nature will exist. Then love will become the sole reality of every human action, every relationship, and all of life in general. This is what the apostle reminds us when he says that without love everything else loses its meaning. For then it will remain outside the Kingdom, and therefore outside God's world.

Many of us know this situation: someone close to us has died, and friends come to express their condolences. They say, “We grieve with you,” or “We will all end up there,” in one way or another acquiescing to death and accepting its finality. Jesus' words are strikingly different. He speaks of resurrection, of victory over death. He speaks of Himself as the bearer of a life for which death is not the end. More than that, He can give such life to others.

Then comes the most important question: “Believest thou this?” For each person to whom this question is addressed, the moment of decisive choice now arrives—the choice of faith. Reason cannot help, because it has nothing to do where there is no information. An adventurous temperament cannot help, because both answers are equally risky. This choice can be made only by the human heart, the center of a person's free will and his capacity for love and trust without any proof. This question is now put to every one of us: “Believest thou this?”

The evangelist concludes both accounts of Jesus Christ's miraculous power with the words of the astonished witnesses: “Who is this, that He works such miracles?” Undoubtedly he wants to put this question to his readers as well. Naturally, he wrote for believers—see the Gospel's prologue, 1:1-4—who by virtue of their faith could already answer the question, calling Jesus Lord, Messiah, and Son of God.

What, then, is the point of these accounts? Another “proof” of faith, or another question posed to the reader's consciousness: who is He? Could a confession of faith alone be insufficient to touch the mystery of Christ's person? Might we need an unfading wonder before Him like that experienced by the disciples in the boat or by those who saw the possessed man healed? Could this question, “Who is He?”, addressed to ourselves and to Him, be no less important than the answer known in advance? Perhaps there are too many questions here, but the Gospel is a book that not only answers its reader but questions him as well...

In speaking to His disciples about His path and His ministry, Jesus could not avoid telling them the meaning of the death that awaited Him. He tells the apostles: My earthly journey is complete; the time has come to part (vv. 5-6). But this is not simply a parting—Jesus leaves so that the Kingdom may be revealed to the world in all its fullness. He says: if I do not complete My earthly, human journey, then My divine fullness will also remain hidden from the world. The apostles themselves will not feel God's breath or come to know the Spirit-Comforter of whom Jesus spoke to them (vv. 6-7).

Meanwhile, the Savior tells His disciples about the coming of the Kingdom. He says that when God's Spirit comes into the world, He will become the chief witness to everything that many people did not want to hear from Jesus and His disciples: the witness to His mission, the defeat of the dark powers, and the sin of rejecting the Messiah sent by God (vv. 8-11). The meaning of this testimony is clear: it is testimony to the Kingdom and to Jesus as the Messiah who brought the Kingdom into the world. No testimony in itself deprives anyone of freedom of choice, of course, and those who reject the testimony of God's Spirit will become persecutors of the witnesses to the Kingdom (vv. 1-4). This is the chief thing; the disciples will learn and understand the rest when they enter the Kingdom and receive the revelation of God's Spirit (vv. 12-15).

Yet the disciples still do not seem fully to believe that Jesus is speaking to them about His death. They are bewildered: what does He mean? Where is He going, and why does He want to hide from them (vv. 16-18)? Jesus then speaks to the apostles with the greatest possible clarity about His death and resurrection. He warns His disciples that they are to experience great sorrow, which will soon give way to even greater joy (vv. 21-22). He promises them that the day will come when they meet again, the day when everything becomes clear to them and they have no questions left (vv. 22-23). Finally, Jesus tells His disciples directly: I came into the world from the Father, and now I am leaving the world again and going to the Father (v. 28).

After these words from their Teacher, the apostles think that at last they understand everything, but Jesus apparently thinks otherwise. He tells the disciples plainly that soon they will all scatter and leave Him alone (vv. 29-32). Yet even the flight of the bewildered disciples is of no consequence: victory over the powers of evil that hold the world captive has been won, and no suffering of the Kingdom's witnesses can now undo it (v. 33).

Israel is called God's people not only because God created it or led it out of slavery, but above all because this people must listen to the Lord's will and live by His word. Consulting soothsayers and fortune-tellers therefore becomes a betrayal of its own calling to be God's people.

We are heirs of the word given to ancient Israel. We once agreed to follow the promised Prophet (Acts 3:22) and to hear God's will through Him. If an unwillingness to hear a prophet who knew God's will only in part already leads the people away from their calling to holiness, what should we call it when we turn away from Christ and go to a “temple of fate” to listen to “psychics, fortune-tellers, and healers”? Is this not a betrayal of the Spirit of Christ, who should dwell in us too if we truly belong to God?