The Pax Romana was a phrase coined by perhaps the most successful authority figure in world history. Directly translated it means the “Roman peace,” and it was a phrase dreamt up and made common by Caesar Augustus, the first and by most considered the greatest Augustan emperor of the renowned Roman Empire. When his great uncle Julius Caesar died without a son to be heir, he left the rule of Roman society to the 18-year-old Octavian.

Later, after Octavian had vanquished all threats to the throne, the Senate awarded him with the name Augustus, which when translated carries the religiously loaded definitions of “majestic one,” “great one,” or “venerable one.” Augustus called for god-like admiration and submission from all his subjects, from the greatest of senators to the lowliest of slaves.

Under his rule, the Roman military gained victory after victory, acquiring land and more land, and subjecting people after people. Augustus’s subjects grew exponentially in diversity and quantity, increasing the taxation income at his disposal, allowing him to build stronger armies and more sophisticated infrastructure. By the time Augustus died in AD 14 the Roman Empire was militarily impenetrable to outside forces, culturally robust in exquisite tradition, geographically united through state-of-the-art highways, and religiously devoted to the Greco-Roman pantheon of divinities. And the Pax Romana was fully in place and going nowhere.

Yet near the middle of the reign of Augustus, unbeknownst to the king, something took place that would threaten to turn his kingdom on its head. While Augustus sought to flex his imperialistic muscles to the world by having the full number of his subjects counted and made known, a young Jewish couple, occupying the lowest rung of Roman society, and living in perhaps the most uninfluential corner of the Roman Empire, travelled to their place of family heritage to be counted. While they were there in submission to the king of Rome, a baby was born to them. Humble, meek, vulnerable, and exposed to the dangers of infancy, no one could have imagined that the influence of this unassuming baby would far exceed that of the king who ruled the world he was born into.

Even as this child grew older, and then began to travel through his irrelevant pocket of the empire proclaiming the coming of a new, heavenly kingdom on earth, no one could have imagined his message, or his supposed kingdom, would ever take root in any meaningful way. His message was too unconventional, the way of life he taught and modelled too “un-Roman.” It was a message and method doomed to fail from the beginning, sure to implode on itself amidst the powers and glories of Roman civilization.

The strength of Rome under Caesar Augustus was built on the foundation of clearly defined classes, with every citizen striving to advance upwards on the societal ladder through unwavering submission to those in the higher classes, and ultimately to the king himself. Those in higher classes had more status, more honour, more authority, and were not shy in demanding reverence and respect. The unfailing devotion and dedication of those seeking higher status drove the success of the empire. Yet this young Jewish teacher spoke to his followers, saying things like, “You know that the rulers of the [Romans] lord it over them, and their high officials exercise authority over them. Not so with you. Instead, whoever wants to become great among you must be your servant … just as the Son of Man did not come to be served, but to serve” (Matthew 20:25–28).

Augustus centered the cultural potency of the Pax Romana on indulgence and luxury. The gratification of every self-indulgent urge was made possible through the seemingly bottomless pit of monetary resources flowing from the throne of the king, who himself lived in an exceedingly lavish palace. It was expected, even admired to be a hedonist in Rome. Yet in Galilee, this pronouncer of a new kingdom embraced the life of a homeless nomad, saying things like, “Do not worry, saying, ‘What shall we eat?’ or ‘What shall we drink?’ or ‘What shall we wear?’ For the [Romans] run after all these things” (Matthew 6:31–32). He even went so far as to pronounce woes on those who were financially prosperous and lavish in their enjoyment of it (Luke 6:24–25).

In the Roman empire under Augustus, the oldest living male, the “paterfamilias,” held absolute power over his wife and children. Women and children were treated as little more than objects, to the extent that the paterfamilias could at his discretion disown his children, sell them into slavery, or even kill them by the practice of child exposure; and women found guilty of adultery could be put to death. Yet the nomad preacher of Nazareth embraced women as full equals with men both in value and influence in his new society. He made statements such as, “Unless you change and become like little children, you will never enter the kingdom of heaven. [For] whoever takes the lowly position of [a] child is the greatest in the kingdom of heaven” (Matthew 18:3–4).

Augustus expanded and ruled his kingdom through the strong arm of force. Anyone with the audacity to oppose the king was met with the sword; any nation with the nerve to become Rome’s enemy was quickly laid waste by the power of the Roman military machine. An influential Roman poet in the days of Augustus penned the words, “Roman, remember by your strength to rule the earth’s peoples!” (Virgil, the Aeneid). Yet this humble Jewish carpenter turned rabbi preached an ethic of meekness and love of enemies, condemning self-preservation through violence. He said things like, “Blessed are the meek, for they shall inherit the earth,” (Matthew 5:5). And even instructed those in his kingdom saying, “Do good to those who hate you, bless those who curse you ... [and] if someone slaps you on one cheek, turn to them the other also” (Luke 6:27–29).

In the end, Augustus reigned for forty-one years, and when he eventually breathed his last, his death was met with an unprecedented outpouring of kingdom-wide sorrow. His funeral procession from ancient Nola to his home in Rome lasted days and stretched almost 150 miles, with multitudes of loyal devotees accompanying his body. The whole empire paused life on the day of his burial to honour the provider of the culture, the prosperity, and the might of the ever-expanding imperial kingdom: the Pax Romana. Yet the Galilean preacher’s time spent establishing his kingdom was short-lived, three years at most. It came to an abrupt, grinding halt when he was condemned and executed as a common criminal, fixed to a Roman cross to die the cruel, shameful death of crucifixion. All that remained of what he had referred to as the “kingdom of heaven” was a small handful of hesitant, doubt-shackled followers, who hastily buried their master without fanfare in a borrowed tomb.

The suffocating power and relentless expansion of the kingdom built on the strategy and courage of the divine Caesar Augustus seemed poised to continue unabated for millennia; while what remained of the meekness-embracing, status-rejecting, enemy-loving, and servant-exalting kingdom of the teacher from Galilee seemed a dim flicker of flame, if not already a snuffed, wetted wick.

But things are not always as they seem.

Mustard seeds, though small, withered, and lifeless can grow into trees large enough for birds to find rest in. Yeast, outwardly displaying no substantive quality can work its way undetected through whole batches of dough. Rejected stones can become capstones. Babies born to slaves and cradled in feeding troughs can grow to start movements that infiltrate and outlast empires.

“To us a child is born, to us a son is given; and the [kingdom] will be on his shoulders.... Of the greatness of his [kingdom] and [its] peace there will be no end” (Isaiah 9:6–7; my paraphrases in brackets).