What Belongs to Caesar and What Belongs to God

Pharisees set a trap for Jesus with a query about paying tax to Caesar. Like much in the Gospel, this has a story on its surface and a far greater one in its depths.

Note from Father Gordon MacRae: One of the most frequent religious questions in the Google database of searches is also the Gospel at Mass for the 29th Sunday in Ordinary Time. With that question, the Pharisees laid out a trap for Jesus.

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Prisoners often come to my door with questions. Sometimes they simply don’t have the ability to search through the library for answers and sometimes they just assume that a guy my age must know at least something about almost everything. My friend, Pornchai Moontri, when he was here with me, used to sometimes chime in with answers of his own.

One day a prisoner asked me, “Do you know any Latin? Pornchai shot back, “Of course he does. Latin was his first language!” The implied meaning was that I am old enough to remember when Latin was spoken on the streets of the Roman Empire. The prisoner didn’t get the joke so he didn’t laugh. I got it, and I still look forward to my quid pro quo moment.

But Pornchai may not have been entirely wrong. I went to a public high school as a teen growing up on the North Shore of Massachusetts in the 1960s. (Yes, locals still call it the “Noath Shoah”). I graduated from Lynn English High School when I was only one month seventeen in 1970, and what I most remember about those years is Latin. At Lynn English I studied basic, intermediate, and advanced Classical Latin with Miss Ruggiero who also moderated the “Latin Club” of which I was a charter member.

Latin was not my first language, but I became proficient in my first language, English, only because I studied Latin. I owe a great debt to Miss Ruggiero because she was never satisfied with our merely learning the discipline of Latin declinations and conjugations. We also had to study in depth the setting in which it was spoken: the vast Roman Empire that had spread throughout the known world.

The Roman Empire

The Roman Empire lasted for only five centuries. One of them, the one we now call the First Century A.D. (Anno Domini, Latin for “the Year of the Lord”) includes the Roman occupation of Judea during the birth, life, death, and resurrection of Jesus, and the life of the Early Church.

The Empire began to spread from the city of Rome to the rest of Italy and neighboring regions to become the Roman Republic about 500 years before the birth of Jesus. In 49 B.C., Gaius Julius Caesar, a Roman military strategist and politician, prevailed in a civil war and became dictator of the Republic. He ruled for only five years when he was assassinated on the Ides of March (March 15). The month of July was named in his honor. Caesar’s longtime military deputy, Mark Antony, and Caesar’s grandnephew, Gaius Octavius, defeated Caesar’s assassins and rivals. Then they turned on each other. At the battle of Actium in 31 B.C., Octavius prevailed over a plot by Roman governor Mark Antony and the Egyptian princess, Cleopatra, Caesar’s former mistress who took up with Mark Antony. It’s one of the great soap operas of history.

In 27 B.C. the Roman Senate proclaimed Octavius to be the Roman Republic’s supreme leader giving him the title, “Augustus,” meaning “exalted or holy one.” Most historians cite 27 B.C. as the date the Roman Empire was born. Its first Emperor took his title and added “Caesar” in honor of his great-uncle, Julius.

Caesar Augustus thus meant, “Caesar the Exalted Holy Roman Emperor.” It was a title and not a name. Augustus was also given the titles, “Pontifex Maximus,” supreme head of the state religion, and “Pater Patriae,” Father of the Fatherland.

The month of August was named in the ancient Roman Calendar in honor of Caesar Augustus. It’s easy to see the Roman influence not only in the Latin language of the Church but in the religious titles later assigned by tradition to the papacy. It’s a crime against history to allow Latin to fade from Catholic Tradition, for Christianity transformed it from the language of Earthly powers to the language of the Church. I once wrote of the meaning of this loss in the life of the Church in “A House Divided: Cancel Culture and the Latin Mass.”

From 27 B.C. forward, “Caesar” became the title for a string of Roman rulers. Three are mentioned by name in our New Testament: Augustus, who reigned at the time of the birth of Jesus (see Luke 2:1); Tiberius, in whose fifteenth year as Emperor Jesus was baptized by John at the Jordan (Luke 3:1); and Claudius (Acts 18:2), who commanded that all Jews leave the city of Rome. Others, such as Caligula and Nero, are not mentioned by name but had a profound effect on early Christianity.

By the birth of Jesus, Augustus centralized power by turning to the Equestrian Order, Roman citizens with wealth, power, and property, and sustained their loyalty by appointing them governors over the various regions of Roman occupation. When Jesus was about 14 years of age, Tiberius succeeded Augustus as Emperor, and later appointed one of the Equestrian Order, Pontius Pilate, as governor of Judea.

In some ways in the early years of the advance of Rome into Palestine, the Jews saw it to their advantage. It was a chance to free themselves from the oppression of the Seleucids, the Greek dynasty under Antiochus IV Epiphanies who overtook the Jerusalem Temple in 167 B.C. and replaced the Torah in the Sanctuary with the cult of Zeus.

This is a story of great imperial oppression and Jewish resistance that is laid out in the First Book of Maccabees (1 Macc 8:1-6) which spoke positively of the advancing Romans and an alliance with the Jews to expel the Greek oppressors. It is the story of the Jewish Festival of Hanukkah. A century before the birth of Jesus, Rome became the dominant force in the Mediterranean region, having replaced the Hellenistic Greek influence that sought to destroy the Hebrew language and expression of faith.

Caesar and Christ

So when I came to the Gospel reading for the Twenty-ninth Sunday in Ordinary Time, I was struck by the answer Jesus gave to the religious scholars of his day, the Pharisees, who had set out to entrap him. Armed with a thorough knowledge of Hebrew Law, they asked Jesus if it is permissible for Jews to pay the census tax to Caesar.

The brief story that the Gospel tells in Matthew 22: 15-22 is a good story on its face, but if you are willing to venture a little deeper under into its depths, the result is fascinating. So sometime before or after you hear the Gospel for the 29th Sunday in Ordinary Time, invest a little of your own ordinary time for a careful reading of the rest of this post.

It is impossible to fully understand the dynamic in this account between Jesus and a group of Pharisees without some exploration of its setting. First, the story on the surface:

“The Pharisees went off and plotted how they might entrap Jesus in speech. They sent their disciples to him, with the Herodians, saying, ‘Teacher, we know that you are a truthful man and that you teach the way of God in accordance with the truth. And you are not concerned with anyone’s opinion, for you do not regard a person’s status. Tell us, then, what is your opinion: Is it lawful to pay the census tax to Caesar or not?’” The trap is set.

“Knowing their malice, Jesus said, ‘Why are you testing me, you hypocrites? Show me the coin that pays the census tax.’ Then they gave him the Roman coin. He said to them, ‘Whose image is this and whose inscription?’ They replied, ‘Caesar’s.’ At that he said to them, ‘Then repay to Caesar what belongs to Caesar, and to God what belongs to God.’ When they heard it, they marveled; and then they left him and went away.”

— Matthew 22: 15-22

Why were the Pharisees plotting against Jesus at all? It began in an earlier chapter of the Gospel, Matthew 12. The Pharisees challenged Jesus over his disciples plucking grain on the Sabbath because they were hungry. The chapter then culminates in his Sabbath Day healing of a man with a withered hand. Using the Pharisees’ own expertise in Hebrew Law and the Prophets, Jesus challenged them to consider the prophetic meaning of “I desire mercy, and not sacrifice” (quoting from the Prophet Hosea 6:6). Stymied by the challenge, “the Pharisees went out and took counsel against him on how to destroy him.” (Matthew 12:14).

The next encounter between Jesus and the Pharisees is the account of their question about whether the Hebrew Law permits Jews to pay a census tax to Caesar. When Jesus asked to see the coin that would be used, and then asks whose image is on this coin, he cut to the heart of their trap with one of his own.

The coin was a denarius stamped with the profile of the Emperor, Tiberius Caesar. The tax was deeply offensive to the Pharisees because of a law set forth in the Book of Exodus:

“You shall not make for yourself a graven image whether in the form of anything that is in heaven above, or that is on the earth beneath… You shall not bow down to them, or worship them.”

— Exodus 20:4-5

To pay a tax to Caesar using the coin of the realm, one engraved with Caesar’s image, was considered a direct affront to the Hebrew Law, and yet the Roman occupation required it and it was the price Jews paid for freedom from the oppression of the Greeks who committed a far more serious abomination: total desecration of their Temple. So paying it was an accommodation that the Jews begrudgingly obliged despite the Mosaic Law.

But what these Pharisees wanted to know from Jesus was not whether or not to pay the tax, but his opinion on whether it was in accord with the Law of Moses. The trap was set no matter how he answered. If his opinion was that it was lawful to pay, then it would be a public insult against the Law of Moses which could be used to discredit him. If he said it was not lawful to pay, then it would have been a public insult against Rome which could be used to accuse him of insurrection.

But in the end, Jesus trapped the entrappers by saying something that caused them first to marvel, and then to simply go away in silence. His trap had multiple tiers. The first was to play upon the word, “image.” The coin bore the image and likeness of Tiberius Caesar. Therefore, for Jesus, it belonged to him.

To pay the tax is simply to render to Caesar what belongs to Caesar. It would be a clearer violation of the law against graven images for a Jew to keep the coin. But the Pharisees would also see in this a subtle reference to a passage in Genesis with great authority:

“So God created man in his image; in the image of God he created him.”

— Genesis 1.27

Hence the second part of Jesus’ challenge: “Render to Caesar the things that are Caesar’s and to God the things that are God’s.”

This meant not just their obedience to the Law, but their very selves. The gist of the implication is even stronger. This higher duty, for Jesus, is incumbent not only upon these Pharisees, but even upon Caesar himself, and that was a revolutionary thought that put the Pharisee’s in a stupor.

For the Pharisees to challenge him in any way after this would have required their affirmation that Caesar is an ultimate authority that surpasses even the will of God. So they were left to marvel, and then they just left. This places an entirely new meaning on the accommodations to Caesar made by religious authorities of Jesus’ time — and perhaps even our own.

Somehow, between this scene in the Gospel of Matthew that is proclaimed at a Sunday Mass, and the Gospel of John that we will hear in Holy Week, came the final descent of faith and the cost of believing culminating in the scene before Pilate that became one of my most read Holy Week posts, “The Chief Priests Answered, ‘We Have No King but Caesar.’”

It was the ultimate accommodation to Caesar from which there is no return. As for the vast Roman Empire that tried to make its Emperor god, the successor of Peter remains in Rome to this day. The successor of Caesar is but a footnote on history.

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The dotted line in the map above marks the perimeter of the Roman Empire at the time of Jesus.

Note from Father Gordon MacRae: You might want to pay a visit this week to our new feature on the Home Page, “Special Report,” to read my post, “Synodality Blues.”

For more forays into the deeper wells of Scripture visit these posts on Beyond These Stone Walls:

Saint Luke the Evangelist, Dear and Glorious Physician

The Passion of the Christ in an Age of Outrage

The Chief Priests Answered, “We Have No King but Caesar”

Behold the Man, as Pilate Washes His Hands

The Eucharistic Adoration Chapel established by Saint Maximilian Kolbe was inaugurated at the outbreak of World War II. It was restored as a Chapel of Adoration in September, 2018, the commemoration of the date that the war began. It is now part of the World Center of Prayer for Peace. The live internet feed of the Adoration Chapel at Niepokalanow — sponsored by EWTN — was established just a few weeks before we discovered it and began to include in at Beyond These Stone Walls. Click “Watch on YouTube” in the lower left corner to see how many people around the world are present there with you. The number appears below the symbol for EWTN.

Click or tap here to proceed to the Adoration Chapel.

The following is a translation from the Polish in the image above: “Eighth Star in the Crown of Mary Queen of Peace” “Chapel of Perpetual Adoration of the Blessed Sacrament at Niepokalanow. World Center of Prayer for Peace.” “On September 1, 2018, the World Center of Prayer for Peace in Niepokalanow was opened. It would be difficult to find a more expressive reference to the need for constant prayer for peace than the anniversary of the outbreak of World War II.”

For the Catholic theology behind this image, visit my post, “The Ark of the Covenant and the Mother of God.”

The Chief Priests Answered, ‘We Have No King but Caesar’

The Passion of the Christ has historical meaning on its face, but a far deeper story lies beneath where the threads of faith and history connect to awaken the soul.

There are few things in life that a priest could hear with greater impact than what was revealed to me in a recent letter from a reader of These Stone Walls. After stumbling upon TSW several months ago, the writer began to read these pages with growing interest. Since then, she has joined many to begin the great adventure of the two most powerful spiritual movements of our time: Marian Consecration and Divine Mercy. In a recent letter she wrote, “I have been a lazy Catholic, just going through the motions, but your writing has awakened me to a greater understanding of the depths of our faith.”

I don’t think I actually have much to do with such awakenings. My writing doesn’t really awaken anyone. In fact, after typing last week’s post, I asked my friend, Pornchai Moontri to read it. He was snoring by the end of page two. I think it is more likely the subject matter that enlightens. The reader’s letter reminded me of the reading from Saint Paul’s Letter to the Ephesians read by Pornchai a few weeks ago, quoted in “De Profundis: Pornchai Moontri and the Raising of Lazarus”:

“Awake, O sleeper, and rise from the dead, and Christ will give you light.”

— Ephesians 5:14

I may never understand exactly what These Stone Walls means to readers and how they respond. That post generated fewer comments than most, but within just hours of being posted, it was shared more than 1,000 times on Facebook and other social media.

Of 380 posts published thus far on These Stone Walls, only about ten have generated such a response in a single day. Five of them were written in just the last few months in a crucible described in “Hebrews 13:3 Writing Just This Side of the Gates of Hell.” I write in the dark. Only Christ brings light.

Saint Paul and I have only two things in common — we have both been shipwrecked, and we both wrote from prison. And it seems neither of us had any clue that what we wrote from prison would ever see the light of day, let alone the light of Christ. There is beneath every story another story that brings more light to what is on the surface. There is another story beneath my post, “De Profundis.” That title is Latin for “Out of the Depths,” the first words of Psalm 130. When I wrote it, I had no idea that Psalm 130 was the Responsorial Psalm for Mass before the Gospel account of the raising of Lazarus:

“Out of the depths I cry to you, O Lord!
Lord hear my voice!
Let your ears be attentive
to my voice in supplication…

”I wait for the Lord, my soul waits,
and I hope in his word;
my soul waits for the Lord
more than sentinels wait for the dawn,
more than sentinels wait for the dawn.”

— De Profundis, Psalm 130

Notice that the psalmist repeats that last line. Anyone who has ever spent a night lying awake in the oppression of fear or dark depression knows the high anxiety that accompanies a long lonely wait for the first glimmer of dawn. I keep praying that Psalm — I have prayed it for years — and yet Jesus has not seen fit to fix my problems the way I want them fixed. Like Saint Paul, in the dawn’s early light I still find myself falsely accused, shipwrecked, and unjustly in prison.

Jesus also prayed the Psalms. In a mix of Hebrew and Aramaic, he cries out from the Cross, “Eli, Eli làma sabach-thàni?” It is not an accusation about the abandonment of God. It is Psalm 22, a prayer against misery and mockery, against those who view the cross we bear as evidence of God’s abandonment. It is a prayer against the use of our own suffering to mock God. It’s a Psalm of David, of whom Jesus is a descendant by adoption through Joseph:

“Eli, Eli làma sabach-thàni?
My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?
Why are You so far from my plea,
from the words of my cry? …

… All who see me mock at me;
they curse me with parted lips,
they wag their heads …
Indeed many dogs surround me,
a pack of evildoers closes in upon me;
they have pierced my hands and my feet.
I can count all my bones …
They divide my garments among them;
for my clothes they cast lots.”

— Psalm 22

So maybe, like so many in this world who suffer unjustly, we have to wait in hope simply for Christ to be our light. And what comes with the light? Suffering does not always change, but its meaning does. Take it from someone who has suffered unjustly. What suffering longs for most is meaning. People of faith have to trust that there is meaning to suffering even when we cannot detect it, even as we sit and wait to hear, “Upon the Dung Heap of Job: God’s Answer to Suffering.”

The Passion of the Christ

Last year during Holy Week, two Catholic prisoners had been arguing about why the date of Easter changes from year to year. They both came up with bizarre theories, so one of them came to ask me. I explained that in the Roman Church, Easter falls on the first Sunday after the first full moon after the vernal equinox (equinox is from the Latin, “equi noctis,” for “equal night”). The prisoner was astonished by my ignorance and said, “What BS! Easter is forty days after Ash Wednesday!”

Getting to the story beneath the one on the surface is important to understand something as profound as the events of the Passion of the Christ. You may remember from my post, “De Profundis,” that Jesus said something perplexing when he learned of the illness of Lazarus:

“This illness is not unto death; it is for the glory of God, so that the Son of God may be glorified by means of it”

— John 11:4

The irony of this is clearer when you see that it was the raising of Lazarus that condemned Jesus to death. The High Priests were deeply offended, and the insult was an irony of Biblical proportions (no pun intended). Immediately following upon the raising of Lazarus, “the chief priests and the Pharisees gathered the council” (the Sanhedrin). They were in a panic over the signs performed by Jesus. “If he goes on like this,” they complained, “the Romans will come and destroy both our holy place (the Jerusalem Temple) and our nation” (John 11 47-48).

The two major religious schools of thought in Judaism in the time of Jesus were the Pharisees and the Sadducees. Both arose in Judaism in the Second Century B.C. and faded from history in the First Century A.D. At the time of Jesus, there were about 6,000 Pharisees. The name, “Pharisees” — Hebrew for “Separated Ones” — came as a result of their strict observance of ritual piety, and their determination to keep Judaism from being contaminated by foreign religious practices. Their hostile reaction to the raising of Lazarus had nothing to do with the raising of Lazarus, but rather with the fact that it occurred on the Sabbath which was considered a crime.

Jesus actually had some common ground with the Pharisees. They believed in angels and demons. They believed in the human soul and upheld the doctrine of resurrection from the dead and future life. Theologically, they were hostile to the Sadducees, an aristocratic priestly class that denied resurrection, the soul, angels, and any authority beyond the Torah.

Both groups appear to have their origin in a leadership vacuum that occurred in Jerusalem between the time of the Maccabees and their revolt against the Greek king Antiochus Epiphanies who desecrated the Temple in 167 B.C. It’s a story that began Lent on These Stone Walls in “Semper Fi! Forty Days of Lent Giving Up Giving Up.”

The Pharisees and Sadducees had no common ground at all except a fear that the Roman Empire would swallow up their faith and their nation. And so they came together in the Sanhedrin, the religious high court that formed in the same time period the Pharisees and Sadducees themselves had formed, in the vacuum left by the revolt that expelled Greek invaders and their desecration of the Temple in 165 B.C.

The Sanhedrin was originally composed of Sadducees, the priestly class, but as common enemies grew, the body came to include Scribes (lawyers) and Pharisees. The Pharisees and Sadducees also found common ground in their disdain for the signs and wonders of Jesus and the growth in numbers of those who came to believe in him and see him as Messiah.

The high profile raising of Lazarus became a crisis for both, but not for the same reasons. The Pharisees feared drawing the attention of Rome, but the Sadducees felt personally threatened. They denied any resurrection from the dead, and could not maintain religious influence if Jesus was going around doing just that. So Caiaphas, the High Priest, took charge at the post-Lazarus meeting of the Sanhedrin, and he challenged the Pharisees whose sole concern was for any imperial interference from the Roman Empire. Caiaphas said,

“You know nothing at all. You do not understand that it is expedient for you that one man should die for the people, so that the whole nation should not perish”

— John 11:49-50

The Gospel of John went on to explain that Caiaphas, being High Priest, “did not say this of his own accord, but to prophesy” that Jesus was to die for the nation, “and not for the nation only, but, to gather into one the children of God” (John 11: 41-52). From that moment on, with Caiaphas being the first to raise it, the Sanhedrin sought a means to put Jesus to death.

Caiaphas presided over the Sanhedrin at the time of the arrest of Jesus. In the Sanhedrin’s legal system, as in our’s today, the benefit of doubt was supposed to rest with the accused, but … well … you know how that goes. The decision was made to find a reason to put Jesus to death before any legal means were devised to actually bring that about.

Behold the Man!

The case found its way before Pontius Pilate, the Roman Prefect of Judea from 25 to 36 A.D. Pilate had a reputation for both cruelty and indecision in legal cases before him. He had previously antagonized Jewish leaders by setting up Roman standards bearing the image of Caesar in Jerusalem, a clear violation of the Mosaic law barring graven images.

All four Evangelists emphasize that, despite his indecision about the case of Jesus, Pilate considered Jesus to be innocent. This is a scene I have written about in a prior Holy Week post, “Behold the Man as Pilate washes His Hands.”

On the pretext that Jesus was from Galilee, thus technically a subject of Herod Antipas, Pilate sent Jesus to Herod in an effort to free himself from having to handle the trial. When Jesus did not answer Herod’s questions (Luke 23: 7-15) Herod sent him back to Pilate. Herod and Pilate had previously been indifferent, at best, and sometimes even antagonistic to each other, but over the trial of Jesus, they became friends. It was one of history’s most dangerous liaisons.

The trial before Pilate in the Gospel of John is described in seven distinct scenes, but the most unexpected twist occurs in the seventh. Unable to get around Pilate’s indecision about the guilt of Jesus in the crime of blasphemy, Jewish leaders of the Sanhedrin resorted to another tactic. Their charge against Jesus evolved into a charge against Pilate himself: “If you release him, you are no friend of Caesar” (John 19:12).

This stopped Pilate in his tracks. “Friend of Caesar” was a political honorific title bestowed by the Roman Empire. Equivalent examples today would be the Presidential Medal of Freedom bestowed upon a philanthropist, or a bishop bestowing the Saint Thomas More Medal upon a judge. Coins of the realm depicting Herod the Great bore the Greek insignia “Philokaisar” meaning “Friend of Caesar.” The title was politically a very big deal.

In order to bring about the execution of Jesus, the religious authorities had to shift away from presenting Jesus as guilty of blasphemy to a political charge that he is a self-described king and therefore a threat to the authority of Caesar. The charge implied that Pilate, if he lets Jesus go free, will also suffer a political fallout.

So then the unthinkable happens. Pilate gives clemency a final effort, and the shift of the Sadducees from blasphemy to blackmail becomes the final word, and in pronouncing it, the Chief Priests commit a far greater blasphemy than the one they accuse Jesus of:

“Shall I crucify your king? The Chief Priests answered, ‘We have no king but Caesar.”

— John 19:15

Then Pilate handed him over to be crucified.

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A Personal Holy Week Retreat at Beyond These Stone Walls