Once upon a time, there were two groups of people. Both held a lot of power, and they struggled against each other constantly. People grew tired of hearing them complain about one another because it seemed nothing ever changed.
One group was fiercely protective of their home territory—very interested in national security, if you will. They were deeply concerned with both the private and public lives of the people around them. This group was considered devoutly religious, though their strict focus sometimes kept them from seeing the forest for the trees.
The second group was known for aligning themselves with foreign powers. Their idea of peace came through surrendering authority to leaders far away. They were major proponents of heavy taxation. Even though they weren’t typically viewed as religious, they developed a sudden interest in religious leaders and theological issues whenever it became politically expedient.
I’m sure we all know which two groups I am describing. I am, of course, speaking about the Pharisees and the Herodians.
In today’s Gospel passage from Matthew, representatives from these two rival factions team up to corner Jesus. The Pharisees want Jesus to declare that paying taxes is unlawful. If he does, they can accuse him of disloyalty to God, claiming he puts Caesar above the Creator. They are the first group: protective of their homeland, consumed by moral behavior, and fiercely religious.
The Herodians represent the second group. They view Rome as making continued life in Palestine possible, serving as zealous allies to the occupation. If Jesus says paying taxes is unlawful, they can immediately denounce him to the Romans as a traitorous rebel.
The Pharisees and the Herodians despised each other, but they willingly form an alliance here because they share a common goal: trapping Jesus. By coming together, they attempt to force him to take a side. They approach him with faux deference: “Teacher, we know you are honest and impartial. So, tell us your opinion… Is it lawful to pay taxes to the emperor, or not?”
Jesus asks them to show him a coin. They manage to produce a Roman denarius—even though carrying Roman currency inside the Temple courts was considered idolatrous (which is why moneychangers operated outside in the courtyard). When they hand it over, the coin bears the image of Caesar alongside an inscription declaring Caesar to be divine and a high priest. Looking at this coin, Jesus famously says: “Render unto Caesar the things that are Caesar’s, and render unto God the things that are God’s.”
When both parties hear this, they are amazed, and they walk away speechless.
Why was this such a profound teaching? Was it simply because Jesus was slippery and confounded both groups? Because he could play their political game better than they could? Or was it because he gave a divine answer to a fundamentally flawed question? They asked the wrong question, but Jesus gave the right answer.
Jesus’ words pointed to a reality both the Pharisees and Herodians were trying to ignore. Regardless of who sits on the throne, what the tax rate is, or what political party holds sway, they—both Pharisees and Herodians—belong to God. Whatever they have—their coins, property, food, clothes, and very breath—all that they are and all that they ever will be belongs to God.
This is the hinge of history and faith. For centuries, Christians have tried to box this passage into a neat little divider. We talk about "church and state," imagining two separate, nicely vacuum-sealed compartments of life. But Martin Luther, looking at this text and wrestling deeply with what it means to live faithfully in a broken world, reminded us of something much more robust, messy, and real.
Luther’s doctrine of the Two Kingdoms recognized that God rules the entire creation—period. But God rules it using two distinct hands:
With the left hand—the temporal, earthly kingdom—God governs through law, civil structures, public leaders, and yes, even taxes. This realm is run by fallen people using temporal power to keep society from tearing itself apart in chaos. It is a realm of necessity, not perfection. Keep in mind that in Luther’s day, almost all rulers came to power through birthright or war. Luther trusted that God could work through human nature, even if it wasn’t the preferred method.
With the right hand—the spiritual kingdom—God governs through grace, the Gospel, Word, and sacrament. Here, God creates a new people, freed not to claw for power, but to love and serve their neighbors without condition. This was not for “special times of need”, but in all times and places.
The trap the Pharisees fell into—and the trap we fall into today—is trying to collapse these two kingdoms into one. We either try to baptize our temporal politics, pretending our preferred earthly policies or politicians are identical to the kingdom of God, or we try to retreat from the world entirely, acting as though God has nothing to do with the practical, complex realities of public life.
Both kingdoms are under God's ultimate authority, but they must never be confused. Caesar gets the coin because his face is stamped on it. But you, beloved, bear an entirely different image.
What image is stamped on you? You were created in the image of God, and in Holy Baptism, Christ’s name and cross were sealed onto your forehead forever.
This brings us straight to the heart of the Lutheran understanding of the First Commandment: "You shall have no other gods before me."
In his Large Catechism, Luther gave a definition of what a "god" actually is that cuts straight to the bone. He wrote that whatever your heart clings to and relies upon, that is truly your god. Luther explained that a god is that from which we expect all good things and to which we flee in every time of need. To have a god is simply to trust and believe in that-which-is-ultimate with all your heart.
When the kingdoms of this world demand our ultimate trust—when the state, political parties, economic security, or national identity demand the total allegiance that belongs exclusively to God—that is where idolatry creeps in. We start looking to secular power structures to save us, to give us ultimate meaning, or to secure our absolute righteousness.
The First Commandment reminds us that God will share neither His glory nor our ultimate trust with Caesar. Caesar can have our taxes, our civic participation, and our commitment to working for a just society. But our fear, our love, and our trust belong to God alone.
This is where the Gospel anchors us today.
Living in these two kingdoms can be exhausting. We feel the friction every single day between the brokenness of our political systems, our economic anxieties, and our desire to live as faithful people. We stumble. We give our allegiance to lesser things. We look to earthly powers to give us a sense of ultimate safety.
The Gospel is this: You do not have to save the world through political maneuvering, and you do not earn your standing before God through civic perfection.
Christ has already paid the ultimate cost for you—not with a perishable denarius of silver or gold, but with His own precious blood on a Roman cross. He crossed the ultimate border between heaven and earth to claim you, forgive you, and set you free.
Because you belong to His heavenly kingdom, because your sins are forgiven and your future is secure, you are free to love your neighbor in the earthly kingdom without fear. You can vote, serve, advocate for justice, pay your taxes, and stand up against oppression—not to earn God's favor, but simply because you are already a beloved, free child of the King, called to participate in how God’s will is done on earth as in heaven.
So let us give to Caesar what is Caesar's. But let us give our whole hearts, our unshakeable trust, and our joyful praise to the God who creates us, redeems us, and calls us by name.
Amen.
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