Jesus heals a paralytic, calls Levi; Matthew answers two accusations made against him, namely that he associates with sinners and that he does not require his disciples to fast. They pluck ears of grain on the Sabbath; Jesus defends them.
Mk 2:1 And after some days he returned again to Capernaum, and it was heard that he was at home.
Mk 2:2 And immediately many gathered together, so that there was no longer room, not even in the courtyard, and he spoke to them the word.
Jesus had withdrawn into more solitary regions; yet to remain there would have been contrary to his mission and to the counsel of God. Therefore our Gospel says that after some days he again went into a city, Capernaum. With this his first Galilean circuit came to an end, which he had begun after that memorable Sabbath with the many healings early on the morning of the first day of the week, and which he had made glorious by his Sermon on the Mount and by the miracle of the cleansing of the leper. How long it lasted we do not learn, since the time indication above refers only to the stay in solitude. He taught in the synagogue; this points to a period of several weeks. Yet it must not be overlooked that people were accustomed to assemble in the synagogue on three days of the week—Monday, Thursday, and Saturday.
The arrival in Capernaum took place in complete quiet, probably at night, since in Palestine only the morning and evening hours are well suited for travel. As soon as his return became known, people sought him out in the house of Peter, where he was staying: notable persons who already dared to enter—this time also strangers, scribes and Pharisees from Judea and Jerusalem (Luke 5:17)—and common folk who modestly remained in the courtyard before the house. As Jesus sat and taught, they stood crowded tightly together, head to head, listening motionless. Given the deep silence that prevailed while he spoke, and the strong, full-toned voice of the Oriental, every word was easily understood even outside the house in the courtyard.
He did not teach in generalities, but spoke to them of the Gospel, which the New Testament writers aptly call simply “the word,” just as we call the sacred books “the Book.” The preceding Sermon on the Mount was an inexhaustible treasury of Christian doctrines, which he could ground and further develop. Unfortunately, among the listeners there were already some who no longer followed his words with an unbiased mind; rather, scribes and Pharisees from Jerusalem had come with hostile intent.
Mk 2:3 And people came to him bringing a paralytic, who was carried by four.
Mk 2:4 And since they could not get to him because of the crowd, they uncovered the roof where he was, and when they had broken it open, they let down the pallet on which the paralytic lay.
The houses—even of the poor—had a courtyard enclosed by a low wall and separated from the street. It was a necessity, since much was left outdoors that we keep under a roof, and it was easy to construct, because in the basin of the Lake of Gennesaret limestone or basalt stone lay everywhere at the surface. If now the forecourt of Peter was densely packed with people, then even with the best will it was impossible for those nearest to get a sick man in a litter or on a pallet into the house. But the bearers, who knew the will of their sick master, were quickly resolved upon something else: they uncovered the roof and let him down at Jesus’ feet.
Mark, despite his otherwise strong inclination for vivid description, does not explain the “how” more closely—probably because it could not be done without cumbersome and unnecessary detail. Whoever had seen such a humble little house understood at once that four sturdy men—or perhaps even more, according to verse 3—could soon have their sick man on the roof. The flat tiles that formed the upper layer of the ceiling, and the plaster between the supporting beams, which consisted of mortar and reeds, were quickly and easily removed; and if the sick man could use his hands, or sat in a chair-like litter, a small opening was sufficient. The matter was therefore not impossible, and, given the longing of the sick man and the character of the Oriental, who easily overlooks such small acts of force, it was fully justified. “I will repay you tenfold,” the sick man could say to Peter for the damage, for he was a well-to-do man. Friends and members of the household accompanied him; four slaves carried him—something that does not occur in the case of a poor man.
Mk 2:5 But when Jesus saw their faith, he said to the paralytic, “Son, your sins are forgiven.”
The address “son,” “child,” otherwise used toward younger persons, does not here decide the age of the paralytic, because Jesus had in view his spiritual relationship to him and, in accordance with this, addressed him kindly as “son,” “my son,” in Hebrew. Precisely for this reason there lay in this word so great a consolation for the sick man: it already contained the assurance of forgiveness and of gracious acceptance. Jesus addressed him as he was accustomed tenderly to address his own (cf. 10:24); he regarded him as one belonging to him, as one won for the kingdom of heaven.
Paralyses sometimes occur suddenly without the usual preceding signs; thus they appeared to the ancients especially as divine punishments for public or secret transgressions. In our case the paralysis was in fact self-inflicted, though not immediately the direct consequence of great excesses. Dietary errors and imprudence, violent passions, and excessive enjoyment of strong drink not infrequently cause strokes or sudden paralyses that defy all medical art.
Mk 2:6 But some of the scribes were sitting there and reasoning in their hearts:
Mk 2:7 “Why does this man speak thus? He blasphemes. Who can forgive sins but God alone?”
Some of the listeners—scribes who had not come with good intentions—took offense at Christ’s words and said indignantly in their hearts, “Why does this man speak thus?” The “why” can be taken in a double sense: either as a question of origin, the from where, or as a question of purpose, the for what. That is, either, “How does it come about that he speaks thus—on what ground does this word of his rest?” or, “Why, to what end, does he speak thus—what does he intend by it?” Both questions lay in their intention, and to both they thought they lacked no answer.
“This comes,” they said to themselves, “from his arrogance, which makes itself equal to God, in which he does not even shrink from blasphemy.” “By this,” they further judged, “he wants to present himself as a friend of sinners and ingratiate himself with the mob. To please them he makes things easy for sinners and does not shrink even from blasphemy. He wants to be a prophet, but speaks as only false prophets spoke, and says ‘peace’ where there is no peace. He wants to be a teacher of the Law, but speaks as only those speak who do not know the Law. He blasphemes.”
Why, then, do they not tear their garments, as should happen at the hearing of blasphemy, as the envoys of Hezekiah did (Isaiah 36:23), and as the high priest himself did at the condemnation of Jesus? Why do they not bring a charge? Because, despite their prejudice against Jesus, they could not conceal from themselves that no direct blasphemy, which would have justified a charge, was present, but at most that indirect kind which they, in their theological language, called a “making small” of the divine name. For their doctrinal maxim ran: The blasphemer is not guilty unless he has pronounced the name of God. Whoever presumes to claim what belongs to God alone blasphemes insofar as he diminishes God, as it were, by making himself equal to him; raising himself to God, he drags him down and dishonors him—but he does not utter a direct blasphemy.
I have shown with reference to Matthew that there is nothing offensive or objectionable in the words of Jesus, and that the Pharisees first made them so by distortion. Mark and Luke expressly emphasize that the listeners were sitting. Thus the central space remained free; there lay the paralytic.
Mk 2:8 And immediately Jesus, knowing in his spirit that they were reasoning thus within themselves, said to them, “Why do you ponder this in your hearts?”
Since the Evangelist has already indicated the object of their inner indignation, it suffices here merely to allude to it: “Why do you ponder this—why do you dwell on it?” Jesus himself could have expressed it differently, perhaps: “What are you saying in your hearts—that I am blaspheming?” By this he would in fact already have completely removed their whole accusation. He sees the thoughts of their hearts, and thus also those of the paralytic. What more is needed to justify saying, “Your sins are forgiven”? Does not God say through the prophet, “Rend your hearts and not your garments” (Joel 2:13)? And does not the great royal penitent pray, “A sacrifice to God is a broken spirit; a broken and humbled heart, O God, you will not despise” (Psalm 51:19)? May one speak otherwise to a contrite heart than, “Take courage; your sins are forgiven,” or “are forgiven”?
Yet he goes, as he often does, a step further, and answers not only what they are asking, but also what they are not asking—indeed, what is very unwelcome to them and cuts off all further dispute—by setting forth incontrovertibly that he has the power to forgive sins, and that precisely for this reason he is the Messiah. Jesus has the power of forgiveness of sins among men; on earth this power belongs only to the Son of Man, that is, the Messiah; therefore he is the Son of Man. If the Messiah, according to all the promises and the general expectation, is to redeem, purify, cleanse, and sanctify the people of Israel, this means nothing other than that he will have the power of forgiving sins. This was so firmly established that later Judaism made it the first condition of faith in the Messiah, and that—so the Talmud seems to suggest—they did not believe in Jesus precisely because he did not have this power.
Mk 2:9 “Which is easier, to say to the paralytic, ‘Your sins are forgiven,’ or to say, ‘Rise, take up your bed, and walk’?”
Mk 2:10 “But that you may know that the Son of Man has authority on earth to forgive sins”—he said to the paralytic—
Mk 2:11 “I say to you, rise, take up your bed, and go to your house.”
Here Jesus, as also according to Luke 5:24, for the first time calls himself the Son of Man. I have discussed this at Matthew 8:20 (vol. I, p. 348 ff.) and remarked that the Savior chose this form of expression, so familiar to the Hebrew and indeed to the Semite in general, because it was a messianic predicate and at the time of Christ was used in a special way of the Messiah, as one can see from the Book of Enoch and as is evident from the mouth of the Jews themselves (Matthew 26:63–64). If one wishes to connect yet another intention with it, one might say that Jesus further calls himself Son of Man, son of mankind, in order to express that he is flesh of our flesh and bone of our bone, that he belongs to this race like the child of a mother. As the incarnate Son of God, he is not a new creation, as Adam was created in Paradise, but a son of man, born of woman, and through this kinship enabled to take upon himself the sins of this race and to blot them out in his own body. When the Oriental wishes to designate a lawful succession to the throne, he says “the sultan and the sultan’s son.”
Jesus bases his proof on a presupposition that was conceded by all, and which, when rightly understood, contains an eternal truth grounded in the very being of God: to forgive sins and to heal the sick by a miracle are manifestations of one and the same power, acting in the two realms of soul and body. When they occur simultaneously and in one and the same person, they relate to each other in such a way that, if we do not wish to see God in contradiction with himself, the visible healing must absolutely count as testimony for the invisible forgiveness and may not be doubted at all. Both acts, united, relate to one another as thinking and speaking. In speaking there lies an undeniable testimony to thinking; expressed learnedly, it is a second potency of thinking; put popularly, the harder thing. Where forgiveness of sins and bodily healing coincide in one person, the second is absolutely a guarantee for the first. This encountered no contradiction: the people rejoiced; the scribes fell silent.
Mk 2:12 And immediately he rose, took up his bed, and went out before all, so that all were astonished and glorified God, saying, “We have never seen anything like this.”
Their exclamation, “We have never seen anything like this,” justifies both their amazement and their praise of God. The verb “have seen” itself requires a grammatical complement; in their excitement the object—what they had never seen in this way—fell away. The nearest and most usual supplement would be the very general one: “We have never seen or experienced anything like this.” But I would rather supplement it thus: “We have never seen him like this.” Everything they see here in Jesus—the miracle itself and the manner in which he performs it—fills them, as no previous event had done, with awe and joy.
According to the scattered reflections of Saint Augustine, the condition and healing of the paralytic are an image of the effects of sin, of repentance, and of the forgiveness of sin: of sin in the nature of the disease, of repentance in the conduct of the sick man, of forgiveness in the manner of his healing. Human nature—so run his words—could wound itself by free will, but the wounded could not likewise heal itself. If you wish to be immoderate to the point of falling ill, you need no physician for that; for falling you suffice to yourself, but no longer for rising again. Christian faith demands firmness not only in doing good but also in enduring evil. Those who appear zealous in good works but are unwilling to suffer anything are weak; those who are held back from the good by evil desires are paralyzed. That is the bed on which the sick soul lies: the lusts of the flesh and the joys of the world. It recognizes its ruin and yet remains lying upon it; the weak soul is held down by pleasure until the Savior bids it rise.
But when will this happen? Only when it says with the psalmist, “I wash my bed every night with tears,” or when it allows itself to be carried to Jesus and lets the roof be uncovered—that is, when through faith and the contemplation of the mysteries of the Holy Scriptures it comes to him. If it cannot do this itself, let it seek the teachers of the Church; these will lift up that covering and lay it at Jesus’ feet. But when he says, “Take up your bed,” he thereby declares that the soul now has the strength to master the desires in which it lay prostrate. Just as one who limps from a wound—if I may choose this example—is healed not merely by the removal of the wound but by the restoration of a straight gait, so the heavenly Physician heals our evils not merely so that they no longer exist, but so that he grants right walking, which even when healthy we cannot accomplish without his abiding assistance. The human physician, when he has healed the sick man, leaves the further effects to nature through nourishment and the elements; God, however, when through the Mediator Jesus Christ he has healed the sick or raised the dead—that is, justified the sinner—does not abandon him unless he himself is abandoned. He heals not only to take away what we have sinned, but also to give that we may sin no more.
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