Giving Caesar the Things of God (Reflections on Pentecost 21, Year A 2026)

Then he said to them, “Whose head is this and whose title?” They answered him, “Caesar’s.” Then he said to them, “Give therefore to Caesar the things that are Caesar’s and to God the things that are God’s.” (Matthew 22:20-21)

I keep noticing that our Lord rarely gives a direct answer, even to a question as straight forward as the righteousness of paying taxes. His answer to the scheming Pharisees in the gospel reading for Pentecost 21, Year A in the Revised Common Lectionary (Matthew 22:15-22) has to make us ask, “But what really is Caesar’s and what is God’s? Are the two always mutually exclusive?” Admittedly, not every religious question is a matter of public policy, but isn’t every matter of public policy a religious question because ultimately everything is a religious question?

I know. Some people just don’t want to hear about politics in church any more than others want to hear religion in their politics. But sometimes the church and state collide. Sometimes the best way to give to Caesar is to remember everything belongs to God.

A recent news event here in the U.S. has brought to mind an example of what I mean. As you may know, it has been announced that the perpetrator of the mass shooting at Ft. Hood, Texas in 2009, a crime which took the lives of thirteen individuals and wounded thirty-two others, is scheduled to be executed in December. I don’t want to discuss here the rights or wrongs of capital punishment or livestreaming of the execution except to say I am morally opposed to both. What I want to do is share an example of a moment when what Luther called the Kingdoms of the Right and Left Hands—the church and the state—came together in an appropriate way.

I remember my wife and daughter and I were going out to dinner on the night news of the Ft. Hood shooting broke. Earlier that year my daughter Sandra, at age 34 and feeling that being a senior systems analyst for a major television network was not a sufficient contribution to society, had joined the United States Army Reserve as an enlisted soldier. Sometime during the evening, she received a text from a friend in her unit telling her the Ft. Hood shooter had been captured. Sandra exclaimed with disbelief, “It’s a f------g officer!” I think her mother and I both realized at that moment that whenever a young person puts on the uniform of our country, death and injury can come in so many different and unexpected ways. There needn’t be a war.

Some weeks later, in November, I was on my rounds as a volunteer chaplain at the Delaware Valley Veterans Home. I passed through the large activities room as many of the veterans watched the live broadcast of the Ft. Hood memorial service on a large screen projector television. I stopped to watch, and I was arrested by the way one of the army chaplains, Colonel Michael Lemke, an ELCA pastor, led the invocation.

The memorial was an outdoor event. As such, the uniform of the day was the ACU—the camouflage army combat uniform. I always thought that, as a rule, soldiers were not to embellish their dress, but Chaplain Lemke had draped a tippet over his camouflage. A tippet is a long, black, scarf-like vestment similar to the stole worn around the neck of the officiant. It is unique to the Anglican denomination, but I’ve learned that, on U.S. Army bases, Lutherans and Episcopalians often have chapel together. This breach of sartorial regulations said two things to me. First, Chaplain Lemke was there in his capacity as a pastor. This may have been an official U.S. Army ceremony, but it was also church. It was a holy moment, and God was present. Second, the black tippet served as a mourning shroud, its blackness expressing the grief and pain of the community.

The chaplain’s dress was not his only breach of army tradition that day. When Pastor Lemke read the names of those who had been killed, he read only their given names. No ranks. No surnames. The military, by using exclusively ranks and surnames, purposely removes the soldier’s individuality. Pastor Lemke, however, observed the tradition of the Church in which all are remembered and prayed for only by the name given them at baptism—the name known and spoken by their parents, spouses, siblings, and friends. As he slowly read the names—“Juanita. Michael. John”—the dead became people and not merely victims. Listening to these names spoken aloud, I felt the enormity of the tragedy. I felt the humanity. I looked around the hall, and I could feel the veterans were feeling it too.

Shortly thereafter I wrote Pastor Lemke a letter telling him how much I appreciated the way he’d handled the ceremony and how his piety and respect for liturgical tradition had moved the veterans at Delaware Valley. He phoned me at my church office and thanked me for the letter. “It means a lot,” he said. “More than you know.” We chatted for a while and discovered we’d both studied at the same seminary. He told me he would soon be reassigned and deployed to the Middle East. I told him my daughter was slated to be deployed soon too. He told me his daughter was about to start her studies at the Lutheran Theological Seminary at Philadelphia, and we promised to pray for each other’s girls.

When I remember that ceremony at Ft. Hood, I remind myself how much it matters that we are the Church. The best way we can give to Caesar is to offer him the things of God.

God bless you, my friend. Keep giving the things of God. The world needs what you offer.