Notes for  1 August 2026

The apostle's words about comfort in suffering may seem strange at first: after all, perhaps only a masochist can take delight in suffering. History, and not only Christian history, certainly knows many examples of people who remained faithful to their cause despite every persecution and trial, and took pride in not betraying their principles in the face of it all. But if there is joy here, it clearly does not come from suffering itself and is usually not felt while the suffering is taking place. It comes when everything is over and one can look back and acknowledge one's own steadfastness in trials endured for a faith or an idea. Judging by his words, however, the apostle is speaking about something else: comfort at the very moment of suffering, comfort that grows as the suffering itself becomes more intense. This cannot be explained by the laws of the untransfigured world. From the perspective of the Kingdom and its life, however, everything falls into place. Suffering, of course, remains suffering and in itself brings no joy whatsoever. But suffering is part of the untransfigured world that lies in evil; it is itself a manifestation of that evil, and there is no place for it in the Kingdom.

Moreover, the apostle is not speaking merely about suffering, but about persecution for Christ, for bearing witness to the Kingdom. Such witness is possible only insofar as the witness has personally entered into the life of the very Kingdom to which they testify. They are persecuted precisely because, in an untransfigured world, they dare to live by the laws of the Kingdom and to call others to do the same. It is hardly surprising that the more deeply a witness is rooted in the life of the Kingdom, the more strongly the world rejects them, the more intense the persecution becomes, and the greater the suffering. Yet the life of the Kingdom is also experienced more deeply and more truly as the witness becomes more deeply rooted in it! It is this life of the Kingdom that the witness experiences as comfort. Indeed, Christian confession under persecution, like martyrdom, only outwardly resembles the sufferings and persecutions endured for an idea, of which the history of the untransfigured world has so many examples.

A martyr for an idea suffers or even gives up their life merely in exchange for the assurance that they are right and for the right to regard themselves as an uncompromising exponent and bearer of their idea. Sometimes, of course, even this is enough, for certain ideas and principles are not far from the Kingdom. But a Christian confessor suffers, and a martyr gives up their earthly life, not for the idea of the Kingdom but for the fullness of the Kingdom's life, which they would lose if they tried to preserve its wretched earthly semblance at the price of compromise—which would in fact mean renouncing the Kingdom. Paul, it seems, bears witness to this “existential dialectic,” as a modern philosopher might call it, from his own experience as a Christian witness, confessor, and martyr.

Many sayings in the Gospel ought to sound strange if we really considered their meaning. Why, indeed, should those who mourn, hunger, or suffer persecution be called “blessed”? And how can “poverty of spirit” help? Of course, a hungry person who knows that they will soon be fed is happy because they will soon receive what they long for. A person weeping in grief can likewise be happy if they are certain that relief will soon come, as can someone being persecuted who understands that they have only a little longer to endure. Yet all this is still only future happiness, whereas Jesus speaks of these people's blessedness here and now, while the triumph of the Kingdom still lies ahead.

Perhaps we can answer the question by turning to the original meaning of the word “blessed”—or, more precisely, to its Hebrew original, which described a person receiving strength and support from God. Then everything falls into place: all those whom Jesus names can indeed rely on God as they await the coming triumph of the Kingdom that the Saviour brought into the world. And the poverty of spirit He mentions (although Jesus, who spoke Aramaic, most likely simply said “the poor” here) was a necessary condition for receiving help from above: after all, we can entrust ourselves completely to God only when we know for certain that, apart from Him, there is no one and nothing else on which we can truly rely. Then the path into the Kingdom, once unbearably hard, becomes not simple but light, like the burden of which the Saviour speaks.

Today's passage is one of the places in the Bible that speaks of an obvious lack of human freedom. For the sake of an oath made before his nobles, a drunken king is ready to override both his fears and the remnants of his conscience.

The evangelists' attitude toward Herod Antipas is interesting. They seem reluctant to condemn him and regard him with a certain indulgence. Indeed, the king appears before us as a man with very little freedom: he arrests John not on his own initiative, but because John denounces his unlawful marriage; he listens to John in prison while trying to resist the intrigues of the queen, who is seeking the prophet's execution. And now he “has to” behead him, once again against his own will.

Need we say that a person commits the greatest evil when deprived of freedom, under the power of suggestion, pressure, and circumstances that they cannot, or do not want to, resist and that draw them into sin and death? Once we understand this, we begin to value anew the freedom Christ gives: the freedom to resist circumstances and human and demonic pressure; as one priest put it, the freedom “to disobey evil.”

The parallels between the Transfiguration of Jesus Christ and the accounts of Moses and Elijah going up the mountain were clear to the first readers of Luke's Gospel. On the mountaintop, both prophets heard the supreme revelation—the foundation of the message they brought to Israel (Exodus 19; 1 Kings 19). Now the apostles find themselves in their place: together with the prophets of old, they stand before the Source of revelation and, like them, hear the Father's voice from the cloud of light. This testimony is the foundation of the Gospel that they are to proclaim to the whole world: “This is My beloved Son; I delight in Him!” As in centuries past, what matters most is revealed not in theological formulas or as a secret doctrine, but in these words of Light concerning Light.

In the evangelist's account of the Saviour's condemnation, one striking feature is the desire to evade responsibility shown by representatives of both the Temple and the Roman authorities. It is no accident that Jesus refuses to answer the high priest's question about His teaching and His disciples (John 18:19–21). He understands that there can be no question of a fair trial in this case and that the whole interrogation is intended only to catch Him in His words and find grounds for fabricating a case against Him—one, moreover, on which He could be sentenced to death. In fact, everything had already been decided when Caiaphas considered it permissible to sacrifice One for the welfare of the people as he understood it (John 18:14).

Naturally, however, all those involved in Jesus' trial wanted the decision to be made collectively and with due observance of the legal formalities. Then no particular person could be accused of murder. The representatives of the Temple elite might seem to have had no one to fear, but their religious consciences were probably still uneasy: an ordinary murder would have been a direct violation of the Torah. An execution ordered by the Sanhedrin was another matter. A formally impeccable verdict of that kind would have reassured everyone, since an execution carried out under a court sentence would not, of course, have been regarded as a violation of the Torah.

One very serious obstacle, however, stood in the way of these “judges”: death sentences passed by the Sanhedrin had to be confirmed by the Roman authority, represented in Judea by the procurator. It was to him that they went (John 18:28). The leaders of the Sanhedrin apparently expected the procedure to be a mere formality and at first did not even want to go into detail, assuming that Pilate would sign the sentence without reading it (John 18:29–32).

But Pilate took an unexpected interest in the case and decided to question the accused himself (John 18:33). Jesus, who had remained silent before the Sanhedrin, testified to Pilate about what it was already pointless to tell the Sanhedrin: He answered the procurator's question about His Kingdom (John 18:34–37). Yet while the Kingdom to which Jesus testified seemed hostile to the leaders of the Pharisaic movement and the Temple elite, Pilate was simply indifferent to it, like most pragmatically minded agnostics. Like any agnostic, however, he saw no crime in proclaiming ideas of any kind, even strange or mistaken ones, and proposed that the representatives of the Sanhedrin who had come to him should release an innocent man from punishment (John 18:38–40). When he saw that they would accept no compromise, Pilate apparently decided to limit himself to the punishment prescribed by Roman law for non-citizens who broke local laws, and had Jesus scourged (John 19:1–3).

After this, he considered the incident closed (John 19:4–5). The representatives of the Sanhedrin then had to explain the case to the procurator and tell him what they were accusing Jesus of (John 19:6–7). Their explanation made a great impression on Pilate (John 19:8). The calmness and inner strength of the accused apparently made an even greater impression on him (John 19:9–11). He would probably have released Jesus had the crowd gathered in the praetorium courtyard not accused him of disregarding the interests of the empire by letting Jesus go (John 19:12). The provocation succeeded: unwilling to take responsibility or face possible accusations of sympathising with rebels, Pilate sentences an innocent man to death (John 19:13–16). Thus the cowardice and irresponsibility of some, and the hatred of the Kingdom felt by others, bring the Saviour of the world to the cross.

The commandments of Deuteronomy are chiefly intended to strengthen monotheism among the people and to sustain morality and personal responsibility for one's life. Yet the good news that love is greater than faith and hope continually breaks through the stern statutes and laws. This is especially often the case where a person's direct relationship with God or relationships within marriage are concerned (these two themes are closely linked in the Bible). Thus, in this chapter, two commandments about marriage teach us what love is: how it is connected with respect and self-giving; how it differs from mere affection; and how compatible it is with possessiveness (the ban on selling a captive wife). In time, the Song of Songs and the apostle Paul's words about marriage as an image of divine love will grow out of these commandments.