NOTES for Luk 20:1-26

Should a Christian pay taxes? Christ's words about tribute to Caesar have often been understood as justification for a kind of “reasonable balance” between secular and religious life. Caesar, it is said, has his claims on us, and God has His. But Caesar and God are incomparable, both in their power and in our responsibility before them. God alone created us and gives us life. God alone must we serve and worship. We have received everything from God.

Many people think that we must first render “to Caesar what is Caesar's,” and then give God whatever remains. But if we first render to God His “due” (and we owe Him far more than we possess—remember the parable of the talents), what will be left for poor Caesar? Of course, a Christian must take part in the life of society, including paying taxes to the state, but this is not service to Caesar (one cannot serve two masters); it is service to society, to people, to our neighbours, and therefore service to love and to God. Thus Jesus' words about tribute continue His parable of the vineyard: we cultivate God's vineyard and must give Him its fruit.

Such is the difficult fate of Christian revelation: all the time, everyone who could fish something out of it for himself tried to use it for his own purposes. But its true divinity consists in this, that these attempts never succeeded completely, and sooner or later they failed.

Such also is the fate of those who try to present the Christian gospel as a textbook of revolution and Christ as the chief revolutionary of all times and peoples. Such attempts have been made more than once in the history of European culture. Yet precisely to them one can present the words of today's Gospel reading: "render to Caesar the things that are Caesar's." The apostles Paul and Peter were probably inspired by these words when they spoke the following words to the people of God. "Therefore be subject to every human authority for the Lord's sake, whether to the king as supreme, or to governors" (1 Pet 2:13). "Let every soul be subject to the higher authorities, for there is no authority except from God, and the authorities that exist have been established by God" (Rom 13:1).

Only in one case is submission to the authorities impossible: when authority appropriates divine powers for itself; what is God's can be given only to God. That is why the early Christians went, on the one hand, against the words of Peter and Paul, but on the other hand, if one looks more deeply at all three quotations mentioned here, it becomes clear that they were walking the only true path.

Luke repeatedly emphasises the persistence with which representatives of the official religious circles ask Jesus the same question again and again: ‘By what authority do you do these things?’ (vv. 1–2). And again and again, Jesus does not answer directly. Yet, from a human point of view, the question could be considered quite appropriate: Jesus has just entered Jerusalem in triumph, and an enthusiastic crowd has greeted him as the Messiah; now, once more, he is behaving in a wholly incomprehensible way, and no one knows what to expect next from this strange Man who persistently refuses to fit into any framework.

Jesus, of course, does not refuse to answer in order to surround himself and the situation with an air of mystery, which he always avoided. Evidently, he does not answer because his mission really did not fit the frameworks familiar to his questioners. He is the Messiah, but not the Messiah the people expected; he could also be called a Teacher, but not in the sense in which religious circles used that word. Of course, those frameworks could have been expanded, but only with the questioners' agreement. Jesus tries to do this; it is no accident that he asks them about John's washing or ‘baptism’. An honest answer to this question determines how far Jesus' interlocutors will be able to understand and accept not only John but Jesus himself. But they refuse to answer, preferring to evade a difficult and unwelcome question; Jesus then understands that further conversation is useless (vv. 3–8).

His only answer is the parable of the vineyard (vv. 9–16), whose meaning, judging by their response ‘May it never be!’, his hearers understood perfectly. But Jesus leaves his listeners no false hopes: his remark about the cornerstone makes everything unmistakably clear (vv. 17–18). It is then that they want to kill Jesus, to get rid of this uncompromising Preacher (vv. 19–20), who, as has now become entirely clear, will not leave them alone or make any compromise. They also tried to trap him through his refusal to compromise (vv. 21–22): their question deliberately put the respondent in a losing position. To answer ‘yes’ meant being branded a traitor and collaborator; to answer ‘no’ was, under Roman law, tantamount to calling for rebellion, with all the consequences that entailed.

Here too, Jesus remains true to himself: he bears witness to the Kingdom, but not the Kingdom his hearers dream of; he bears witness to the one he himself has brought into the world. Thus, fitting into no framework and accepting no compromise, the Saviour who brought the Kingdom into the world gradually found himself alone, and his mission became a way of the Cross.

Bible readers often understand the question about authority put to Jesus by representatives of the Temple leadership as a kind of trick, an attempt to silence Him or make Him publicly acknowledge the authority and primacy of the priesthood in matters of spiritual life. Yet the question was sincere in its own way, though of course not in the sense in which Jesus Himself could have answered it.

It is no accident that He answers a question with a question, asking His questioners about John’s baptism. John’s baptism was a kind of spiritual touchstone that tested a person’s sincerity, whatever social group they belonged to. One had either to acknowledge the obvious action of God’s Spirit or evade the answer so as not to appear a blasphemer. Those who questioned Jesus about His authority likewise preferred to evade the answer. In this way Jesus lets them know that they have no right to ask Him the questions they are asking. No right before God.

There are questions and answers that presuppose absolute sincerity. One can ask God any question, for example, but on one indispensable condition: being ready to hear any answer, perhaps one entirely unexpected by the questioner. Without such readiness it is pointless to ask: God does not usually answer someone who is not prepared to hear any answer. But sometimes even the most ordinary people are asked questions whose answers can be heard only when one is ready for anything. This is all the more true when it concerns Jesus. And the point is not that, on hearing what they do not wish to hear, people will most likely ignore the answer or even pretend not to have heard or understood it.

The point is that an answer given by God always entails consequences. It is not merely information: it is God’s will in action. And a person who has received an answer from God becomes part of that action, part of God’s plan. This is not an answer one can simply take note of and then go on living as though nothing had happened. But if someone resists God and does not want the answer they have heard, they become God’s opponent. It is no accident that immediately after the dialogue about authority, the Evangelist gives the Saviour’s parable of the vineyard, whose meaning was perfectly clear to all who were listening to Jesus.

It is as though Jesus were saying to His questioners: you are already resisting God, so at least do not ask unnecessary questions; do not invite trouble here and now. He understands what a direct answer would mean for them. Of course, sooner or later everyone will have to stand before God. But Jesus does not hasten events. What matters to Him is not bringing the day of Judgement closer, but bringing the Kingdom into the world, so that as many people as possible may have time to be saved before that day of Judgement. That is why He acts as He does: not destroying, but saving.

The chief priests and scribes who ask by what authority Christ acts have become entangled in their own speculations. Jesus therefore not only refused to answer the question but also made the scribes understand that people who are indifferent to truth cannot hear and receive it. After all, they could have answered the question Christ put to the elders of the people in one of the two ways indicated in the question itself: either from heaven or from people. ‘We do not know’ would, of course, have been a possible and acceptable response if their ignorance had been sincere. But the scribes do not even wish to consider privately which answer is true. Instead, they rack their brains over the situation they will find themselves in and how they will look with each possible answer. In doing so, however, they show their indifference to the will of the One who is Truth itself.

That is why the parable of the wicked tenants, in whose characters the leaders of the people recognised themselves, aroused their anger. Yet in telling a parable about people who replace service with the exploitation of an advantageous position, Christ addresses not only those listening to Him but all of us. If we regard the Church as a source of earthly well-being, sooner or later Christ will get in our way and we will want to do without Him. But then we too will be driven out of the vineyard.

There is a certain fatalism in the parable of the vineyard tenants: the chief priests must kill the Son who was sent, just as their ancestors killed and persecuted the prophets. But there is a way out of this fatal circle, for every listener to a parable can identify himself with one character or another and see how he must act in order to follow his chosen path. In this sense, each of us freely chooses his own path, while the parable merely points out the existing alternatives and the way out of the situation. Here too the question is posed squarely: the chief priests can either identify themselves with those who killed and persecuted the prophets, or refrain from doing so and gain the opportunity freely to recognize in Jesus the Anointed One, the Christ. But they prefer not to take risky steps and simply to remove the Jesus who offended them. If only we knew how to use parables for their intended purpose and see in them not a statement of a future tragedy, but a challenge, one more occasion to choose...

The question about authority, asked of Jesus by the Pharisees, as can be seen, returns to them like a boomerang: He, in turn, asks them a counterquestion, one that they not only find difficult, but are simply afraid to answer openly. Where does this fear come from? Of course, there are "uncomfortable" questions that people do not want to answer, questions usually met, in one form or another, with the traditional "no comment." But when the Pharisees asked their question, should they not have expected a counterquestion?

Could they have foreseen that to an "uncomfortable" question they would receive an "uncomfortable" answer? Yes. Yet perhaps they still did not expect that this Preacher would play by rules other than the ones they had established. Behind the question about authority stood something quite understandable and definite, something in roughly the same sense as when the representatives of the Sanhedrin had earlier asked John the Baptist: who are you? A prophet? The Messiah? What should we report about you? And if you are neither one nor the other, on what basis do you do what you do? Jesus is asked about authority in evidently the same sense, with the expectation that He will declare Himself a prophet, the Messiah, or at least someone who has the right to do what He did in the Temple when He drove out the merchants.

He is not going to fit Himself into their framework. He asks a question about the substance of the matter: by what authority did John do what he did? He understands perfectly well, of course, that John, like every true prophet, received authority from His heavenly Father, and if the Pharisees recognized John as a man of God, they would have to look differently at His ministry as well. Of course, the issue here is not proving something to someone or justifying Himself in anyone's eyes.

The point is that, for the Pharisees themselves, such a view, a view "outside the rules," was essentially the only possible chance to see Christ Himself and His Kingdom in the true light. But they had to begin by rejecting all human fears, anxieties, and prejudices. In essence, by asking the Pharisees the question about John, Jesus invites them to do exactly this. But they refuse: they are afraid. And by this refusal they too make their choice. Far from the best choice, but a fully conscious one.

The scene described in today's Gospel reading is remarkable for the Savior's wisdom and, one may even say, wit. Yet let us try to enter into its theological meaning, because unlike our ordinary human habit, Christ shows wit not for the sake of wit itself.

Why does He speak specifically about John? The main point is that John appears as the Forerunner of Christ not only in the historical, event-based sense, but also in the spiritual sense. He proclaims repentance, without which coming to Christ is impossible. That is why the Lord gives those who question Him no answer: giving it would be meaningless, just as it is meaningless to explain integral calculus to someone who has not yet mastered arithmetic.

The fact that John brings us only to the first step is also shown by the episode from the book of Acts (19:1-6): "He said to them, Into what then were you baptized? They answered, Into John's baptism. Paul said, John baptized with the baptism of repentance, telling the people to believe in the One coming after him, that is, in Christ Jesus. When they heard this, they were baptized in the name of the Lord Jesus."

And although now we are not formally baptized with John's baptism, since spiritually it has been joined to Jesus' baptism, in practice we live through it as that very repentance which brings us into the church. Let us remember that our Lord, who has no need of repentance, also passes through baptism by John in order to show us the way, for He is "the way, and the truth, and the life." And it is precisely this way that He recalls to the chief priests, scribes, and elders who question Him.

In essence, the chief priests ask the Lord Jesus, as He teaches in the Temple, an entirely legitimate question: by what authority is He doing this? From ancient times, prophets and preachers from among Israel had spoken in the Jerusalem Temple, proclaiming God's Word and preaching to the people. They too were asked similar questions, and the prophets usually said that they preached by right of their calling by the Spirit of the Almighty. Sometimes they were expelled, but very often Israel's religious authorities were satisfied with this answer. Thus Hosea—in the sanctuary of the Northern Kingdom—Nahum, Habakkuk, Malachi and some others were Temple prophets. The Lord Jesus Christ's answer is qualitatively different. He turns to the chief priests and asks them about the source of repentance. Was John's baptism from heaven, John through whom God's Spirit drew people's hearts to meet the Lamb of God in repentance? In essence, Christ's counter-question concerns the power or authority of the Holy Spirit, the inward testimony one can accept only through experiencing an encounter with God in repentance. It is precisely this question that the chief priests refuse to answer. And with that refusal begins their plot against Christ, which will lead Him to the glory of the Cross and Resurrection, while for the chief priests and scribes it will end in the destruction of Jerusalem.

Why was John there? Why did the Lord need a Forerunner? What is the theological, philosophical and existential meaning of this? It seems so clear to us: repentance—that is the meaning of his message. He was to bring the repentance without which the restoration, the renewal of the Covenant is impossible; he was to turn hearts towards God so that those hearts could see God.

This is good and clear, and it is indeed so. But why could the Lord not come Himself and call people to repentance? In fact, He did call them to repentance and spoke of His long-suffering, as, for example, in the parable of the three-year-old fig tree (Lk 13:6–9). It follows that this interpretation does not exhaust all the meanings of this person's role. For this reason, the familiar and understandable reflection above on John's role as one calling to repentance, as a voice crying in the wilderness, has validity only a posteriori; if we want to understand the situation a priori, we must reflect more deeply on this man. And perhaps today's text will allow us to do so.

We know well, if only from the disciples' words (Mt 17:11), that everyone expected Elijah to come before the Messiah; therefore, it had to happen in accordance with what was written. But such an explanation only frustrates today's rational mind. If that is true for you as well, let us turn to Psalm 85 (84 in the Russian numbering). Every line of it matters to us now.

Since we cannot quote the whole psalm, let us listen to its most important words. The ending: ‘Mercy and truth will meet; righteousness and peace will kiss; truth will spring from the earth, and righteousness will look down from heaven; the Lord will give what is good, and our land will yield its fruit; righteousness will go before Him and set its feet upon the way’ (Ps 85:10–13). There is no direct indication here of some person who must come. Perhaps this is not about a person at all. It simply says: righteousness shall go before Him, as the Slavonic puts it. The point, however, is that all these words of the psalm we have quoted are profoundly words of the Nativity. Perhaps you do not see it now, but later you will: our land shall yield its fruit; truth has shone forth from the earth; righteousness has looked down from heaven—all these are words about the Nativity. But then the righteousness that ‘shall go before’ is John.

And look: mercy and truth have met—all this seems to speak of that longed-for encounter on the banks of the Jordan. But what is the beginning of the psalm about? Repentance, the turning away of God's wrath from us, forgiveness. And finally, at its centre stand the words: ‘Show us Your mercy, O Lord, and grant us Your salvation.’ What is this request, so humble yet so bold, asking for? Is it not for the coming of Christ? And so the Lord has granted us mercy and salvation. He is here, He is with us.

Yet these words of the psalm contain no direct indication of what the Forerunner must be like. This disarms the critics of an a posteriori interpretation, while giving us a new a priori meaning—theological, philosophical and existential—of John's message.

But we promised that today's parable would somehow help us, and yet we seem to have said nothing about it. It speaks of precisely this, however; it binds us closely to the whole fabric of the psalm. Let us look at it. First, Jesus places His authority, the basis of His authority, alongside John's ministry—not in dependence on it, but precisely alongside it. Second, Jesus speaks of this just as implicitly, likewise giving the critics of an a posteriori interpretation no tools to use. Yet how much He gives here to a loving heart, ready to respond to His call and hear what is almost inaudible.

The question Jesus asked the Pharisees about John and his preaching with baptism was, of course, not accidental. It was not accidental precisely because it became the answer to the question about Himself, about His authority and His ministry. In essence, the Savior's question becomes for the Pharisees speaking with Him a test of sincerity and honesty, first of all before themselves. It would seem that the issue concerns things not only different, but incomparable: John, though great, is only a prophet, while Jesus is the Messiah and Son of God.

But this difference is not so important in this case. What matters is only what the Pharisees asking Jesus about His authority are ready to see and hear. And they would best answer this question for themselves. The question about John precisely leads them to such an answer. Here the issue is not the Messiah, but only a prophet, yet a prophet whom the people honored and against whom it was dangerous to speak.

It is quite possible that if the same Pharisees had directly answered Jesus what they thought, "from men," His answer to them would have been different. He deprives no one of freedom; He requires only honesty and sincerity. A person can be mistaken, can see everything in a wrong light; more than that, from the point of view of the Savior Himself all people are mistaken to one degree or another, since no human being sees reality as He sees it.

In every concrete situation, as much is open to Him as to His heavenly Father, and no human being can say this about himself. But what matters to Him is not our infallibility, but our inner wholeness. The very wholeness inseparable from sincerity and honesty before oneself, and therefore before others. Jesus asks the Pharisees a question whose answer should have shown them themselves whether they had this wholeness. And it turned out that Jesus' interlocutors failed the test.

They did not answer His question not because they did not know the answer, but because they were afraid. And yielding to fear is the simplest and most widespread way of destroying that very inner wholeness. But then it made no sense for Jesus to answer the question posed by His interlocutors: He would have had to speak in one way or another about the Kingdom, where a person with a divided heart and divided thoughts cannot enter. The Pharisees' answer to Jesus' question became also the answer to the question they themselves had asked. A sad answer, but the only possible one.

There was a significant difference between the leaders of the Pharisaic religious brotherhood and those who could conditionally be called "ordinary people," in particular in how they perceived certain people and events. Of course, when speaking of "ordinary people," one must still remember that they were not entirely ordinary. An illiterate Jew in Gospel times was a great rarity, as was a Jew who did not read or even study the Torah and the Prophets, what today we would call Sacred Scripture.

Every synagogue necessarily had a religious school where all local boys, and sometimes girls as well, were taught not only literacy but also elementary work with the sacred books, including a special practice of prayerful, or meditative, reading. The culture of working with the sacred books was quite widespread in Jewish society, and among the teachers of the Torah, whom the Gospel usually calls scribes, the majority were occupied precisely with teaching this work to children and adults, often for free or for a very modest fee.

On the other hand, there were also academies in the Jewish world where the Torah and other sacred books were studied in the greatest detail. This was a special world of experts, educated theologians, sophisticated commentators on sacred texts, sometimes entering such subtleties and reaching such depths that ordinary readers of the Torah did not even suspect them. Unfortunately, this rather closed little world of academic theologians had, as often happens in such cases, a considerable measure of learned snobbery, which made them look on the ordinary readers mentioned above as ignorant of the Torah.

And this same learned snobbery made them treat, if not with contempt, then at least with suspicion, those who might be called popular spiritual authorities, among whom, incidentally, John the Baptist belonged. Of course, such restraint was often justified: mass religious consciousness is not very discerning in choosing its religious leaders. But prior distrust sometimes prevented both academic scribes and educated leaders of religious brotherhoods from recognizing genuine people of God, as happened in the case of John the Baptist.

And then the leaders of the Pharisaic movement had only to maneuver between their own distrustfulness and even a certain spiritual fastidiousness on the one hand, and popular sympathies on the other, for open expression of their position could have ended badly for them. Yet such maneuvering does not promote either spiritual integrity or full spiritual life, and the Savior's question should have made His interlocutors think about this simple but non-obvious truth.

The parable of the vineyard, like all parables of this kind, concerns above all the people of God: in the prophetic tradition they are usually symbolically called the vineyard. In this context the meaning of the parable becomes entirely clear, and everyone listening to Jesus understands it. More than that: those whom what He said directly concerned understood perfectly that it concerned them; the cry "May this never be!" is the best proof.

The Savior's answer to this "May this never be!" is also unambiguous enough: He reminds those listening to Him about the cornerstone. The image of the cornerstone appears constantly in Jesus' parables, and its meaning lies in the fact that such stones, used in building a house as the corner elements of a strip foundation, were good for nothing except the purpose for which they were intended. There is no doubt that, in speaking of the cornerstone, Jesus has Himself in mind, thereby making His listeners characters in the parable He has told. As we can see, He wants to make those listening to Him understand that each of them stands before a choice from which there is no escape.

Many people would have liked Jesus to turn out to be one among many - prophets, preachers, teachers of the Torah - in short, an ordinary man. Then He could be listened to without really heeding Him, and accepted without truly accepting Him, as we always do when inwardly we disagree with the speaker. In that case, polite, formal acceptance means only agreement with the other person's right to have his own opinion, a point of view different from ours, one that at times is, in essence, of no concern to us. But the one putting forward that point of view must then also recognize our right to our own understanding of truth, different from the one he proposes. He must allow what today is called pluralism, acknowledge the relativity of every truth and every opinion, including his own, and then in turn he will be allowed to speak, like everyone else.

Had Jesus agreed to such rules of the game, He would perhaps not have had to die on the cross. But that is precisely the point: He could in no way agree to them, not because He absolutely had to prove something to someone and win all the disputes into which His listeners drew Him, but because accepting such rules would have been false testimony for Him and the collapse of His mission.

After all, He brought the Kingdom into the world and revealed to the world the fullness of God, and this was no longer simply one opinion among many, or even one revelation among many: He truly revealed to the world the whole fullness of truth and the whole fullness of revelation. All the great sages and prophets who came before Him asked questions and expressed opinions; He did not ask questions, He answered them, and He Himself became the answer to every possible question. And He could be accepted only as such: any other attitude toward Him would be deceit.

Of course, if a person truly does not realize Who is before him, the matter can still be set right: what is not realized today can be realized tomorrow. But if the issue is an unwillingness to accept the obvious, an unwillingness to give up one's own right to an opinion in the face of the living Truth, the situation is a dead end: the Truth cannot stop being truth, no matter how much someone may want it to. What remains is either to accept or to reject. Either to regard this strange Teacher as the One He Himself considers Himself to be, or to treat Him, at best, as a madman, and at worst, as a conscious apostate and blasphemer claiming what no human being can claim. A choice had to be made: there was no third option.

The parable of the Lord’s vineyard was first told by the prophet Isaiah at the end of the eighth century before the birth of Christ. Returning to it on the eve of His Passion, the Lord draws attention to certain details that make this parable not only an image of Israel’s relationship with God, but also an image of the fall into sin in general. “Let us kill him, and the inheritance will be ours”: these words could serve as the grim slogan of all humanity in its opposition to God. Yet first and foremost the Lord is speaking about the chief priests and scribes, the leaders of the people. They regard the people of God as their own allotment, given to them “for their support,” as it was called in ancient Rus’. The absurdity of what is happening also lies in the fact that the tenants in this parable try to pretend that the true Owner does not exist, that God will not see their deeds. But God does not disappear because some people would like to be rid of Him. Therefore, for the chief priests, the Lord whom they rejected becomes the cornerstone without which the whole edifice of the Jewish religion, built over centuries, collapses.

For Jews at the beginning of the first century AD, the tax to Caesar was a humiliating sign of dependence on the Romans. If the Lord had said that it should be paid, He could have been accused of lacking patriotism (at that point the chief priests would urgently have become patriots). If He had said that it should not be paid, He could have been accused of inciting rebellion (in that case the chief priests would have had to present themselves as constructive collaborators with the Romans, which, in the end, is exactly what they did). Christ's answer is striking first of all because He clearly distinguishes the sphere of earthly ordering of life, to which all forms of national and supranational authority belong, from the sphere of the life of the spirit. The Lord does not reject the state and does not call for a religious reorganization of state governance. His answer places the life of the spirit and worldly authority on different planes.

On the one hand, this gives us the ability to see the real usefulness of authority for ensuring the normal life of society, as the apostles will later write in detail. On the other hand, Christ's answer frees His disciples from deifying authority and rejects the claims of earthly authorities over people's spiritual life. For that era this was an unprecedented revelation, and it was precisely for this that the Roman state persecuted Christians.

The most important thing in Christ's words is the call to render to God what is God's, to be no less concerned with fulfilling our duties before the Creator of the world than before its temporary rulers. And this is the hardest thing of all.

Before us is an attempted provocation carried out under a mask of piety. We see how false piety, severed from a genuine walk before God, turns into resistance to Him. The very construction of the sentence, which begins from afar and is strewn with false compliments, exposes the lack of straightforwardness in those asking the provocative question. But God is not mocked, and Christ not only escaped the trap laid for Him with dignity, but also set out, almost in passing, the principle on which relations between faith and the state should be founded.

Spiritual life and government belong to different spheres and must not be confused. Living in a state, we are called to obey its laws and not detach ourselves from the reality of civic life. But it is unacceptable to replace Gospel principles with political ones or to declare that every action of earthly rulers conforms to God’s will. In the days when the question was asked whether it was lawful to pay tribute to the Roman emperor, he demanded to be honored as a god. Christ does not object to paying taxes, which is the duty of every citizen, but if the emperor requires his subjects to commit a grave sin, no concession is permissible.

The question put to the Saviour in order to trap Him and place Him in an impossible position had nothing to do with whether taxes needed to be paid or evaded. Indeed, it could have been asked, and made sense, only in the particular circumstances of first-century AD Judaea. The issue was not whether one ought to pay taxes, but whether a devout Jew was permitted to do so.

Framing the question in this way might seem strange were it not for the particular circumstances. Judaea was then part of the Roman Empire, and taxes were collected by the Roman authorities for their own benefit. Hence the corresponding attitude towards tax collectors as collaborators, with all the consequences that followed. But while attitudes towards the collectors—the publicans—were clear enough, since they were seen as outcasts and renegades, the payment of taxes was a less clear-cut matter. The radical Zealots opposed any cooperation with the Roman authorities, including paying taxes, but this position automatically placed them outside the law: under Roman law, calling for refusal to pay taxes was tantamount to treason and rebellion.

The more moderate Pharisees held that, since payment was coerced and compulsory, taxes could nevertheless be paid to avoid death. Although the Zealots differed from the Pharisees on this point, they did not press them with unnecessary questions, at least publicly. All the more so since many Pharisees, while not daring to support the radicals openly, nevertheless sympathised with them in their hearts; and the Zealots knew that, if needed, they could always count on support from their less radical like-minded allies—within the bounds of what was possible, of course.

The provocative question was put to Jesus precisely to place Him in a situation where there was no ‘convenient’ answer: publicly calling on people to pay taxes to the Romans meant just as publicly recognising and approving the occupying power's rule, while calling for refusal to pay them was equivalent to calling for rebellion, with all the consequences of such a call. Yet Jesus, as always, answers completely ‘outside the rules’: He speaks not of politics but of the Kingdom. To whom does money belong? To the one who mints it? Then leave it to him.

For the Kingdom, the question of taxes is irrelevant: a person's life in the Kingdom does not depend in any way on whether they pay taxes or not, just as it does not depend on whom exactly they pay them to. All this concerns only what does not, and never will, extend beyond the untransfigured world. No money will ever become part of the Kingdom's life, and there will never be any taxes there. All taxes paid in this world will remain here. If so, one can remain an inhabitant of the Kingdom while paying taxes to any earthly government. Or paying them to none.

A very logical answer, isn't it? But is that so we cannot say we have one King, that all we have belongs to God? And so we should give nothing to Caesar (in a more common form - to the State)?

If everything for us really belonged to God, any thought, any act, not only ours, but also for all those who surround us; it would really have been the Kingdom of God, the Kingdom of love; there would have been no properties, money (remember the Church's first days of existence), there would have been no violence, no crimes and in general no bad actions - and we wouldn't have needed the police, the army, the state employees, the government in whole. Then it's true, everything would be divine and belonging to God.

But such is not the case in practice. Let's look honestly how many our acts are motivated by love, and how many by something else. And if of us nobody is able of living according to God's will, then at least a certain human institutions maintaining order in the world, and not giving it to tumble in chaos are necessary; It is the money, government, "Caesar". Unfortunately, all these institutions always begin to claim that maintenance of order in the society doesn't enter their competence as regards the conscience, faith, man's spiritual freedom. And here, in all clearness the principle of Jesus should be applied: "unto God the things which be God's".

Today, even when we have no desire to “catch Jesus” in His words and simply ask Him honestly the questions that trouble us, we still often frame those questions in an “improper” form, sharply, as an “either-or.” Thus the simple question of whether to pay taxes becomes (not for everyone, of course, but for some) the dilemma: “Should I love the state with all my soul or hate it with all my soul?”... And the simple answer that the state may lay claim only to money, never to the soul, turns into the most difficult task of “rendering to God what is God's and to Caesar what is Caesar's.” In the same way, we are ready to construct the most astonishing conjectures about “life after death” and the “state of the departed,” yet cannot understand that for God there is no death and therefore no division between the dead and the living. Why is everything so difficult for us? Perhaps we simply lack experience of God's life and the ability to look at the world through His eyes.