Sheep Among Wolves

This passage from Matthew presents a contrast between the authorities of this world and the absolute authority of the Spirit as conflicting forces. Yet, this division extends further, introducing an even more shocking rift: the one between the disciples and their families. The suggestion that children might rebel against their parents and even ‘have them put to death’ (Matthew 10:21) is jarring, seemingly at odds with the idea of Christ as compassionate and loving. 

Before delving further into the passage, I want to consider how this idea finds a striking parallel in the story of St Francis and his father, as depicted in Sassetta’s painting.

Sassetta illustrates this familial rupture in his depiction of Francis renouncing his worldly ties. Commissioned by the Franciscans of Borgo San Sepolcro (Finaldi and Joustra 2023), this painting captures the moment when Francis—emaciated from penance, abstinence, and imprisonment—stands naked under a colonnade in front of his raging father, Pietro Bernardone. Bishop Guido of Assisi shields Francis while imploring his enraged father to restrain himself. Pietro, a wealthy cloth merchant, is held back by friends, incapable of comprehending his son’s complete renunciation of wealth and devotion to poverty. At his feet lie Francis’s discarded garments, a potent symbol of his rejection of worldly opulence.

As Bernard Berenson notes, the painting captures the contrast between saintliness and worldliness: the calmness of Francis’s side versus the violence of his father’s reaction (Berenson 1909: 23–24). Despite the contrast, the work does not lack sympathy for the father. Francis’s concerned gaze suggests compassion for his father, even in the face of their division.

Yet, the emphasis remains on the rupture itself. Francis’s future decision to wear a rough habit is the antithesis of his father’s values, underscoring the passage’s blunt message: to follow Christ is to be hated for valuing renunciation over worldly success, and divine authority over familial ties.

Francis’s nakedness offers a powerful visual response to another teaching of the Matthean Christ: ‘And why are you anxious about clothing? Consider the lilies of the field, how they grow; they neither toil nor spin’ (Matthew 6:28–29). In this moment, Francis’s humility and detachment are a living embodiment of this question, casting his choice as a radical affirmation of faith over worldly attachment.

The Gospel of Matthew records Jesus’s declaration: ‘Do not suppose that I have come to bring peace to the earth. I did not come to bring peace, but a sword’ (Matthew 10:34–35; compare Luke 12:51).

This militant image, of Christ as combative rather than pacific, finds echoes in medieval iconography. For instance, in the Visoki Dečani Monastery in Kosovo, part of a network of churches adorned with extensive fresco cycles, one finds an arresting depiction of Christ holding a sword. An association between this sword and the idea of justice is reinforced by Hebrews 4:12, which likens the word of God to a sharp sword, emphasizing divine judgment and discernment. There are perhaps additional echoes in this image of Revelation 1:12–17 and 19:13–15, in which Christ is described with a sword issuing from his mouth. That sword, too, can be identified with divine judgement, separating the saved from the damned at the Last Day, and is an artistic motif that is found (among other places) in Saint-Étienne in Bourges and the Aula della Curia Vescovile in Bergamo, both from the thirteenth century.

The Cyrillic inscription accompanying the Christ image at Visoki Dečani appears to offer a more general call to repentance and the abandonment of sin, echoing Hebrews 4:16’s call to receive grace and mercy. But this also resonates with the context of Matthew’s passage, which calls for the disciples to sever earthly bonds—whether national, familial, or material—to follow Christ fully. In this framework, the sword can be read as a symbol of spiritual division and renunciation, a necessary break from worldly ties to embrace divine authority.

The radical nature of this imagery echoes the challenges faced by those who follow Christ’s call. The depiction of Christ with a sword emphasizes that discipleship is not about maintaining harmony with the world but about making hard choices. As St Francis reminds us: ‘nothing belongs to us except our vices and sins’ (Armstrong 1999: 75).

The iconography, like Matthew’s passage, compels believers to confront the cost of true faith and repentance. The sword, as a symbol, extends beyond external conflict to signify an internal conflict in which the word of God must be called upon to carve a pathway to righteousness.

More than just a forecast of hardship, this passage also reveals the inherent conflict between earthly authority and divine power. ‘On my account you will be brought before governors and kings’ (Matthew 10:18), He says, underscoring the disciples’ role as witnesses to a higher authority.

Giovanni Antonio da Brescia’s engraving Christ Before Pilate recalls this tension between temporal power and spiritual authority.

The engraving depicts the trial of Christ. Pilate, seated on a curule chair and making a gesture of judgment, embodies earthly power, while Christ’s serene, composed stance suggests submission to divine authority. Pilate’s depiction evokes Roman imperial imagery, recalling monuments like the Arch of Constantine (Sheehan 1973: 242). The inscription on the pedestal—‘Behold, nothing deserving death has been done by him; I will therefore chastise him and release him’ (Luke 23:15–16)—underscores Pilate’s ambivalence: his recognition of Christ’s innocence juxtaposed with his inability to defy the will of the crowd. Pilate’s acknowledgment of Christ’s innocence, paired with his failure to act on it, exemplifies the limits of earthly power.

A strong reading of this passage and its artistic representation is that state and religion, nation and God, are fundamentally irreconcilable. ‘Give to Caesar what belongs to Caesar, and to God what belongs to God’ (Matthew 22:21; Mark 12:17; Luke 20:25) is often interpreted as a call to respect separate authorities. However, a more radical interpretation suggests no possible interaction or reconciliation between state and religion. The Matthean Christ offers not only a prophetic view of the disciples’ immediate persecution but also a stark imperative: one cannot serve two masters.

The Matthean message declares a confrontation between all human-constructed forces—nations, empires, and the like—and God’s action revealed in Jesus Christ. It issues a call to obey a higher authority than any earthly power—a form of ‘freedom’ from the powers and principalities of this world.

The quiet dignity of Christ in Giovanni Antonio da Brescia’s engraving visually enacts the Matthean call to unwavering faith in the face of persecution. In the stillness of Christ’s figure—poised, silent, and unyielding—we see the embodiment of spiritual freedom: a refusal to submit to the logic of empire. In this sense, the image functions both as a theological statement and as a visual meditation on the (maybe?) irreconcilable tension between the kingdom of God and the kingdoms of this world.