Christian Scripture provides two birth narratives for Jesus Christ, and they’re kind of similar, but not the same. Matthew depicts Jesus born in Bethlehem, but not much before that; the dominant earthly power in Matthew’s Gospel is Herod the Great. Luke provides lengthy pre-birth anecdotes about Mary and her cousin Elizabeth, Mary’s interaction with the archangel Gabriel, and Mary and Joseph’s relocation to Bethlehem. Luke emphasizes Rome’s earthly authority, embodied in Quirinius, governor of Syria.
Either way, this narrative emphasizes that Jesus was born into an occupied nation. Stephen Prothero describes Israelite religion and national identity as defined by occupation, exile, and the promise of return. Matthew, a Jew, and Luke, a Greek, disagree over which occupation matters more, the domination of an Idumean client king or Roman conquest. What matters, though, is that Jesus didn’t arrive during the brief window of Maccabean independence, but under the shadow of Empire.
Empires carry laws with them, and always try to standardize morality. Consider American history. The nation couldn’t survive with slavery in some regions and not others; we fought our bloodiest war to finally end the institution. Afterward, we couldn’t survive with sectional racism, so, using nonviolent means like case law and legislation, the government managed to distribute segregation and Jim Crow nationally. This national distribution was so effective that we’ve been unable to reverse it.
Laws exist to standardize national morality, and unfortunately, America demonstrates how effective that is. That’s why it matters that Jesus came during a time of national occupation: because Roman law inevitably made changes upon Jewish morality. Maybe not ordinary Jews, or not all ordinary Jews anyway, as sects arose devoted entirely to anti-Roman resistance. But those who maintained power over ordinary Jews, in fixed buildings in large cities, needed to assimilate or get cut down.
Herod’s Temple in Jerusalem served the same ecclesial role as American megachurches today, as gathering places where ethnically and philosophically diverse peoples gathered to reassert their one shared identity. Though Jews were nominally descended from Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob, in practice, anybody who followed the Levitical law became Jewish. Likewise, “Christian” describes a panoply of religious and philosophical premises; but in churches, we gather together, speak the Apostles’ Creed and Lord’s Prayer, and become one.
Yet the comparison between Herod’s temple and American megachurches carries dark implications. As Obery M. Hendricks points out, the temple priesthood wasn’t just religious leadership, it was a proxy government. The Fortress Antoninius, the command garrison of the occupying Roman legions, was built into the temple walls, and the priesthood had police authority over the Jewish citizenry. Though ordinary Jews lived with, or sometimes resisted, Roman occupation, the temple priesthood actively enforced occupying Roman law.
In the last two years, as I write, hard-right Christians have gone from denying Christian Nationalism exists, to openly embracing the term. Authors like Stephen Wolfe have published their blueprints for a religious state dominated by clergy with billy clubs. Wolfe presents this as Christian dominion, and promises to use police authority to enforce religious law, punishing heretics and atheists. But his list of supposed religious “heretics” includes feminists, BLM supporters, and even Christian Socialists.
Wolfe demonstrates how religion under occupation comes to resemble the occupying power. Gone from Wolfe’s, and other Christian Nationalists’ faith, is the prominent anti-state stance taken by former public Christians, from William Lloyd Garrison to MLK. Religion for Christian Nationalists, like for temple priests in Herod’s Jerusalem, becomes a matter of obeying laws, not of doing right by those least able to defend themselves. Righteousness and justice become whatever the state-friendly priesthood says they are.
Throughout his ministry, Jesus remained an observant Jew. He taught several of his most important lessons in synagogues, the Temple, and potluck dinners. Yet he disdained observance of law as its own moral good. Religious leaders, who earned their living enforcing laws, frequently castigated Jesus and his followers for disdaining cleanliness rituals, food protocols, and Sabbath observance. To the priesthood, law had become its own justification, regardless of its impact on the poor and defenseless.
Versus the law, Jesus presents something altogether more difficult: facing each situation as it exists, and seeking the truth. The truth for Rich Young Ruler was that he needed to part from his possessions. For the Samaritan Woman at the Well, the truth was that she needed to stop hiding from her past. Knowing the truth isn’t easy; it means going within, spending time in study, and taking a risk. But truth, not law, saves.
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