Notes for  3 August 2026

Our doubts seem quite justified: asking is practically all we do, yet we certainly do not receive everything. Precisely—today's verse is about this. It does not say, “Whatever you ask for, you will receive.” It also says something about prayer and faith. But is asking God not prayer? It is, and yet the word “prayer” is still stronger than a mere name for our endless “give me, give me.” Throughout the biblical context, prayer is communion with God: the fulfillment of our need to be together with Him, not merely to receive something. The right way, therefore, is not simply to ask and call that prayer, but to abide in prayer—in communion—and then, in the course of that prayer, to ask for something.

Another point concerns faith. Here it most likely means our trust in God's absolute goodness: our agreement that what He wants for us is far better than anything good we can devise for ourselves. Our petition in prayer will then become a search for precisely what God wants to give us. His desire and ability to give it to us will meet our consent to receive this good gift—grace—and so the promise Jesus gives in today's verse will be fulfilled.

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.

Today's reading tells us how Jesus calmed the storm that arose on the Lake of Gennesaret while His disciples were crossing to the other shore. And it is usually this very fact that makes the greatest impression on the reader, for in this way Jesus' power over the forces of nature, which are beyond the control of an ordinary person, is emphasized.

Yet here too what stands before us is once again nothing other than a manifestation of the fullness of the Kingdom. It truly begins to penetrate our world, which is not yet fully transformed, and to change its nature. In essence, what we see here is not the calming of the storm, but its disappearance in the peace in which the Kingdom always abides. It differs from mere calming in exactly the same way as the healings performed by Jesus differ from ordinary cures achieved by purely medical means. Jesus does not cure diseases; He simply brings a person into the Kingdom, where there is no place for them, and the person is made well. The same is true of the storm: bearing the Kingdom within Himself, Jesus does not calm it, but transforms nature, making it part of the Kingdom, where there is no place for a storm. It is no accident that He Himself does not sail, but walks on the water. Apparently, in the Kingdom the very nature of water changes so greatly that a person can walk on it, whereas in our untransformed world he can walk in this way only on land.

One might, of course, suppose that only Jesus Himself was capable of this, but that is disproved by the fact that Peter too was able to walk on the water just like his Teacher (vv. 28–29). But only for as long as he looked at Jesus. As soon as he looked at the raging lake, fear seized his heart and he began to sink (v. 30).

Here again we see a manifestation of the Kingdom. Indeed, Peter could walk on the water as long as he looked at Jesus and abided in the Kingdom together with Him. It was the only reality for Peter, and so he could walk on the water and the storm did him no harm, for there is no storm in the Kingdom. But as soon as he allowed fear to take possession of his heart, that fear instantly separated him from the Kingdom. It disappeared, leaving only the raging elements around him. And had it not been for the Saviour's outstretched hand, things might have ended very sadly for Peter (v. 31). It is no accident that, as Jesus reaches out His hand to His disciple, He immediately asks him about his lack of faith. Today, as the Kingdom penetrates our world more and more deeply, our own faith alone determines whether it becomes for us a genuine and supreme reality or remains merely a beautiful dream and an unattainable ideal.

These words are addressed not only to those who are just setting out to follow Jesus, but also to the disciples themselves—and to us. Does the thought never “occur” to us as to which of us is the greatest? Or do we never feel the urge to “forbid” someone who thinks differently? Or to ask God to send fire from heaven upon our enemies, “as Elijah did”? Do we always know what spirit we are of? Many of us have not only “put a hand to the plough,” but have already ploughed half the field. And yet are we looking back again?

In John's account of the crucifixion, the Saviour's solitude on the cross is striking. The evangelist does not mention the apostles standing at a distance; indeed, he describes nothing except the cross itself and what happens at its foot, perhaps because he himself was standing there at the time (vv. 25–27; many commentators believe that when John mentions the unnamed disciple, he is speaking of himself). But the apostle also says nothing about the conversion of one of the robbers crucified with Jesus or about the Saviour's words mentioned by the other evangelists. Judging by John's testimony, Jesus uttered only two words on the cross: “I thirst!” (v. 28) and “It is finished!” (v. 30). Before that, in two short phrases, He entrusted His Mother and the disciple standing by the cross, probably John himself, to each other (vv. 26–27). Apparently, John singles out in the Saviour's words only what concerns him personally and what seems to him most important. It appears that in these two words of Jesus the evangelist sees the meaning of everything that is happening.

The picture described by John was probably not merely a memory of the events at the cross, but the fruit of many years of reflection upon them. For the evangelist, it seems, “It is finished!” meant more than the mere fact that the Saviour had completed His earthly mission, although when standing at the cross the apostle probably had to understand His words in precisely that way. But later, after encountering the Risen One and receiving the revelation he described in the Book of the same name, John apparently understood that Jesus was also speaking of the end of history, of that end of time for which many were waiting and which very few noticed. John does not mention the signs described by the other evangelists: the storm that turned day into night, the earthquake, or the torn veil of the Temple. For him everything was contained in one word, “It is finished!”, spoken by Jesus at the moment of His death on the cross.

But there was something else that struck the apostle. Jesus was dying on the cross like the most ordinary human being. The One Who, during His earthly ministry, could feed thousands with a few loaves suffered from thirst, from the same ordinary thirst that anyone in His place would have experienced, and could do nothing about it. He could do nothing not because He had ceased to be the One He was born among people to be, but because an ordinary human death was also part of His earthly ministry, just as much as the miracles and manifestations of the Kingdom that were impossible for anyone else in the world.

John does not mention the mocking calls addressed to Jesus to come down from the cross, of which the other evangelists testify. Perhaps he did not hear them, for of all the apostles only he was so close to the crucified Teacher, and it is quite possible that he had no attention to spare for the crowd standing at some distance. But he undoubtedly understood the main thing: everything that was happening became possible only through the free will of the Saviour of the world, Who consented to it all for the sake of those He wished to save. Such was the price of salvation and the price of the Kingdom.

As we can see from today's passage, everyone who belongs to the people of God is subject to certain moral obligations, in addition to the many ritual prohibitions intended to protect an immature faith from the influence of foreigners. It is usually thought that Christians have it easier in this respect: sow whatever you like with whatever seed you like, sew (or buy) clothes made of anything you like, eat whatever you like (just be careful not to break the fast!), and so on. That is true enough, but the concessions apply only to ancient ritual commandments and everyday prohibitions. When we remember that we must not only refrain from robbing our brother but must also love him as ourselves, and that we may not even look at our neighbour's wife with lust, it is time to reflect: if you have decided to begin a new life, a new relationship with God, to love with all your heart and keep that heart pure, then you must prove trustworthy and not turn back.