Notes for  21 August 2026

The Savior's earthly ministry begins with His baptism and the descent of the Holy Spirit upon Him, followed by trials in the wilderness. At first glance this may seem somewhat strange, for Jesus was born into the world already bearing within Himself all the fullness of God. What could He receive when God's breath descended upon Him? What did He lack? And what was the meaning of the trials He then underwent in the wilderness?

Had He needed simply to walk the earth, even revealing to the world the entire fullness of the divine and the human, and then leave this world as everyone who had lived here before Him had left it, perhaps none of this would have happened to Him. But He is the Messiah, and He had to reveal the Kingdom to the world in all its fullness. It was not enough for Him simply to be born the God-man. That was a necessary condition of the ministry entrusted to Him, but the ministry itself consisted in something else: His uniqueness had to cease being something that belonged to Him alone and had to be opened to the world. He was not merely to reveal Himself as King, but also to open the way into His Kingdom to everyone who sought it. Together with Him, something greater than Himself had to enter the world—greater not in fullness but in scope.

And this greater reality, His Kingdom, had to be opened to the world in His unity with the Father. The Holy Spirit—the fullness of the Father's breath—made this revelation of the Kingdom to the world possible. The trials in the wilderness that He underwent immediately after the descent of the Holy Spirit upon Him became a test not simply of Him as a man, or even as the God-man, but as the King He was to become over that Kingdom.

It is no accident that all these trials were connected in one way or another with the single central question: what kind of King will You be? How will You rule: according to the laws of the fallen world, making use of human weaknesses and vices, or as the King of God's Kingdom? The right choice meant the establishment of the Kingdom; the wrong one meant collapse at the very beginning of His ministry. And this was Jesus' completely free choice, free in a human way—the choice with which His ministry as Messiah began.

The original meaning of fasting in Yahwism and, consequently, in Judaism was associated with sadness, grief, misfortune, and mourning. Its most widespread form was fasting for the dead: after a person's death, relatives and friends would normally fast for at least one day, and often longer. Fasts were sometimes self-imposed not only by individuals but also by communities — religious communities or even entire cities — if, for example, they faced the threat of enemy invasion or a natural disaster such as an epidemic.

Later, contrition for one's own sins also became a reason to fast: a person was presumed to grieve over them as the greatest of misfortunes and therefore to fast. In the religious life of Gospel times, particularly among the Pharisees and the followers of John the Baptist, a practice of weekly fasting, usually twice a week, had developed. It was assumed that a person should spend these days in repentance.

As often happens, a spiritual practice that was beneficial at first degenerated over time into a pious religious custom, and a compulsory one at that. To appear before fellow believers on a fast day as someone who was not fasting, for example by being cheerful, laughing, or dressed festively, meant provoking at least bewilderment, if not condemnation, among those around. Hence the question to Jesus about His disciples, who did not observe the fasts. Jesus restores fasting to its original meaning: in the spiritual sense, fasting means above all the grief and anguish of being forsaken by God, when a person weeps not only over his sins but also because through them he has lost God and the possibility of communion with Him.

By speaking of Himself as the Bridegroom, an unmistakable allusion here to the wedding feast as the messianic banquet, the Saviour points to the meaninglessness of formal fasting when there is no genuine reason for it. As long as He is with His disciples, there can be no question of being forsaken by God and therefore no place for true fasting. The time will come when the disciples are left alone, and then their time to fast will come, but it will happen when it happens.

Ezekiel's vision of a field strewn with dead bones, which God brings to life by breathing the breath of life into them, is usually associated with faith in the universal resurrection at the end of time, on the assumption that this is what God is showing His prophet. Yet it is apparently not about this after all. Of course, faith in the universal resurrection and in the Day of Judgement must already have existed among the Jews at the time of the Babylonian exile, when Ezekiel was allowed to see what he saw. But God does not disclose to the prophet an image of the Last Judgement, but something else: the destiny of God's people. He shows Ezekiel the spiritual path that the people would have to travel. Dead bones: that was the spiritual state of the Jewish people when they found themselves in Babylon. And this is understandable, for if it had been otherwise, the historical destiny of the people would also have been different. In any event, the national catastrophe of the exile could then probably have been avoided.

But judging by what God allowed His prophet to see, no spiritual life was left among the people at all. Everything had to begin again, starting with the small community in Babylon and its spiritual renewal. Then, after that renewal, it would grow, in essence, into a new people, into that very post-exilic Jewry whose history continues to this day, the same people who would have to meet the Messiah promised by God.

Such a renewal could not, of course, be achieved by human efforts alone. God's direct intervention was needed; a miracle was needed. And the spiritual renewal of the people that took place in Babylon truly became a miracle, just as all subsequent Jewish history was a miracle, a history which, humanly speaking, simply could not have existed. The Babylonian kingdom absorbed and assimilated many small peoples, including the Jews' neighbours: the Ammonites, Moabites, Philistines and Phoenicians. All the more was the small community of Jews deported from Jerusalem doomed to assimilation in a metropolis such as Babylon was at that time.

Yet it was not only preserved, but was renewed spiritually and gave rise to a new Jewry. It was this miracle that God allowed Ezekiel to see, at a time when all of it still lay ahead. But what he saw inspired hope, the hope that what seemed to be the end of the people's historical journey was only the beginning of a new stage, leading the people directly towards the Messiah and to the threshold of the Kingdom.

What is meant by the minas of silver—or talents in another version—in this parable? These are not merely “talents” such as the ability to play the violin or multiply four-digit numbers in one's head. Clearly, they are everything that has been given to us. (And what has not been given to us?) Every good thing that appears in our lives, even occasionally, can serve as suitable currency for acquiring the Kingdom of God. Not that it can be bought, but one can “invest” in it.

Zacchaeus, for example, did not spare his money or his reputation as a respectable “bandit,” as people would say nowadays. Many did not spare their lives or, at least, their comfort and “worldly happiness.” Yet we often begrudge even a smile to a passer-by. We begrudge the strength needed to help those close to us, and the time needed to tear ourselves away from the bustle and think about eternity.

Spiritual stinginess leads to bankruptcy even faster than material stinginess. This is because, first, the return on spiritual transactions is much higher and, second, spiritual valuables cannot be kept as cash—they quickly lose their value. Therefore, the Gospel calls us to put someone else's “funds” into circulation as quickly as possible, especially since we have nothing of our own.

Today's reading offers us a parable of Ezekiel whose meaning concerns the difficult relations that developed between Judea, which was a vassal of Babylonia, and Egypt (vv. 11–15). By the time the sermon quoted here was delivered, the prophet was already living in Babylon, although Jerusalem had not yet been destroyed, as it would be later.

Ezekiel found himself in Babylon with the first group of Jerusalem's deported inhabitants in 589 BC. The city was then taken by the Babylonians, but was not completely destroyed. A Babylonian garrison and a local administration loyal to the new authorities were left there. Two years later, however, in 587 BC, a revolt broke out in the city, organized with support from Egypt, which was then at war with Babylonia. But as Ezekiel had warned (v. 17), Egypt was unable to provide the rebels with substantial aid. The revolt was suppressed, and the city and the Temple were razed to the ground, as was customary in those days when dealing with rebellious cities.

Like the other prophet Jeremiah, who was a direct witness and involuntary participant in these events (Jer. ch. 52), Ezekiel repeatedly warned that the rebels' plans were not destined to succeed and that the revolt would end in defeat and great bloodshed (vv. 18–21). Such a position must probably have seemed collaborationist and unworthy of a patriot to many people.

Ezekiel understood what many others, including the leaders of the anti-Babylonian revolt, did not. He understood that history could not be turned back. The success of the revolt could mean only one thing: a return to the past, to the state of the people and the country which had, in fact, led to the catastrophe. But God did not need a restoration; He did not want His people to return to their former life. He needed to lead the people forward, through repentance and conversion towards spiritual renewal, without which a return to the land of their fathers and the restoration of the city and the Temple would have had no spiritual meaning.

But this was not easy to understand, for the popular religious consciousness of the pre-exilic era was by no means inclined either to repentance or to reflection in general. On the contrary, shortly before the city's fall in 589 BC, attitudes of complacency and self-satisfaction prevailed there, heavily infused with a distinctive religiously coloured nationalism which many mistook for Yahwism. And God, of course, could not allow His people to return to such a state. He intended to lead them forward, towards spiritual renewal, even against the wishes of those who wanted to turn back.

One of the main themes we encounter in the Gospel of Mark is that of calling and our response to it. The point here is not spontaneity: these four were apparently already acquainted with Jesus (this is one way to understand Jn 1:35-51). After all, we ourselves are not reading these lines for the first time. What is striking here is something else: how briefly the evangelist speaks of it. Indeed, a calling, a conversion, is only the very beginning of the path. Much more will be said about the words and deeds of Jesus, the disciples' hesitations and denial, and the joy of the Resurrection.

Yet, on the other hand, without this episode there would have been no Gospel at all. What would have happened if no one had followed Jesus?

In our own time, Christ's work in this world continues. And this time, the disciples without whom nothing would happen are you and I. That is why it is so important for us today to realise once again that the Lord has called us to follow Him, and to find within ourselves the courage to climb out of the boat and go after Him.