For Jesus and Paul, the state was never ultimate. Both acknowledged its place, but both pointed to a higher law inscribed on the heart — a law fulfilled in love, not coercion. To undergo metanoia is to see through the illusion of secular dominion and to recognise that true sovereignty lies within, where conscience and love govern more deeply than any empire.
The word “law” runs through both Jesus’ teaching and Paul’s letters. Yet what they meant by it was never single or simple. On one level, law was secular: the decrees of rulers, the machinery of empire, the power of Caesar. On another, it was inward: a principle written on the heart, summed up in one word — love.
Anyone who lives by this personal law of love no longer needs compulsion. They are, in effect, above the law, not because they are lawless but because they are guided by a higher principle. This is what makes both Jesus and Paul, at heart, anarchists of the spirit: not rebels with swords, but free men who relativise the state and refuse to give it ultimate authority.
Jesus and Secular Authority
Jesus’ most famous confrontation over secular law comes when he is asked about paying taxes to the occupying Romans:
“Render to Caesar the things that are Caesar’s, and to God the things that are God’s.” — Mark 12:17
This is not mere cleverness. It is a radical refusal to grant Caesar supremacy. The state has its realm, but it does not touch the soul. What belongs to God — love, conscience, truth — is beyond the empire’s reach.
In the Sermon on the Mount, Jesus radicalises the Jewish law itself. “You have heard that it was said … but I say to you” (Matthew 5). Murder, adultery, retaliation: each is taken from outward act to inward motive. Law ceases to be external regulation; it becomes the transformation of the heart.
At the centre is love:
“You shall love the Lord your God with all your heart … and your neighbour as yourself. On these two commandments hang all the law and the prophets.” — Matthew 22:37–40
For Jesus, love is the fulfilment of law. It renders external codes secondary. One who loves is free — guided not by fear of punishment but by compassion.
Jesus here appeals not to the machinery of the state, nor to the endless arbitration of courts, but to a higher law that renders much of secular redress redundant. If wrong is done, the disciple’s response is not to call in the magistrate but to forgive, again and again. The point is not arithmetic but principle: forgiveness has no limit.
This radical counsel runs parallel to his other sayings: “If anyone slaps you on the right cheek, turn to him the other also… if anyone would sue you and take your tunic, let him have your cloak as well” (Matthew 5:39–40). What the state demands—legal restitution, the right to property, the enforcement of contracts—Jesus overturns with a call to relinquishment. Possession is no longer the measure of justice; love is.
Yet this is not foolish indulgence. Jesus is also acutely aware of how litigation ensnares. In another place he counsels: “Settle matters quickly with your adversary who is taking you to court” (Matthew 5:25). That is not capitulation but realism: better to resolve a quarrel directly than to hand it over to the slow grind of secular law. Here again, the higher law of love translates into a practical avoidance of legal entanglement.
From the standpoint of empire, such behaviour looks absurd. Who would willingly give up cloak and tunic, or settle a claim without pressing for full redress? Yet in the logic of the kingdom, this yielding is resistance of the most subversive kind. It denies the state its coercive power by refusing to play the game of retaliation. What Caesar claims to guarantee—order, security, justice—is exposed as hollow when men and women choose to forgive “seventy times seven” instead of perpetually suing for their rights.
This is where the anarchic streak in Jesus becomes visible. He does not abolish secular law by force; he relativises it by appealing to a law above it. The state cannot compel a man to forgive, nor can it outlaw generosity. In this sense, Jesus is not urging passivity but creating a new sphere of action where the authority of Caesar no longer applies.
I am reminded of a small but telling incident from my own experience. A friend once “lost” a camera and immediately accused two others of having stolen it. When the first denial came, suspicion shifted to the other. What began as a quarrel among friends turned rancorous, and soon fists were raised. The matter ended up with the police and then with a solicitor. Months of bitterness and wrangling followed. The final bill for legal costs was around £2,000 — while the camera itself had been worth no more than £250.
This is precisely the trap Jesus points to. Once an injury is passed into the hands of law, the costs—financial, emotional, spiritual—can multiply grotesquely, while the real issue remains unresolved. Forgiveness or direct settlement may seem costly in the moment, but it prevents the corrosive cycle of accusation, escalation, and litigation that drains far more in the end.
Paul and the Law of the Heart
Paul, writing in the wider Roman world, grapples with the same tension. Outwardly, he urges order:
“Let everyone be subject to the governing authorities, for there is no authority except that which God has established.” — Romans 13:1
This advice reflects his context. Paul was not a free prophet in Galilee but a travelling preacher under Roman rule. Open defiance of authority would have crushed the fragile Christian communities. His counsel to submit is pragmatic — a way of surviving under empire — yet his deeper message points beyond, to another kind of law.
That deeper emphasis is clear:
“When Gentiles, who do not have the law, do by nature things required by the law, they are a law for themselves … since they show that the requirements of the law are written on their hearts.” — Romans 2:14–15
Here the Spirit replaces the code. Conscience is the true judge. Later he sums it up in one sentence:
“The entire law is fulfilled in keeping this one command: ‘Love your neighbour as yourself.’” — Galatians 5:14
What “Love” Means
It is important to stress that when Jesus and Paul speak of love, they do not mean sentiment or emotion. The Greek word agapē signifies a deeper commitment: steadfast goodwill, active concern, the will to seek the flourishing of the other.
This is why love can be called a “law.” It is not about feelings but about principle — a higher order of obligation, freely chosen. One who lives by agapē is not antinomian but supra-nomian: above the law, because guided by something more exacting than external regulation.
Paul presses the point further:
“It is for freedom that Christ has set us free. Stand firm, then, and do not let yourselves be burdened again by a yoke of slavery.” — Galatians 5:1
The slavery he names is not only sin but every external compulsion — political, legal, or religious — that binds the human spirit.
Love as Anarchism
Placed side by side, Jesus and Paul converge on one truth: love is the true law. Anyone guided by it is, in effect, “above” the law, because they no longer need threats or punishments to behave rightly. They embody a principle deeper than statutes.
This is anarchism in the highest sense: not chaos, not rebellion, but life ordered by the inner flame of love. The state becomes relative. It may command taxes, impose order, even wield violence — but its authority is provisional, not ultimate.
Metanoia: The Inner Revolution
The word Jesus uses again and again is metanoia — usually translated “repentance,” but the Greek is far stronger. It means a transformation of mind, a reorientation of the whole self. To undergo metanoia is to step out of the framework of fear and compulsion and into the freedom of love.
This has political consequences. A people who live by metanoia are no longer easily ruled. Rome could crucify bodies, but it could not dominate consciences remade by the Spirit. Metanoia creates citizens of another kingdom — one without Caesar, courts, or armies, because it is ruled by love.
Clearing Away the Layers
Mauro Biglino has observed how centuries of theology have encrusted the Bible with interpretations that obscure its raw voice. He writes:
“The thick theological incrustation deposited on the Bible for more than two thousand years prevents us today from reading it for what it is: an amazing piece of ancient literature that could contain extraordinary truths about our past.” — Mauro Biglino, *Gods of the Bible*, p. 31
He is right to this extent: even harmless doctrines have often been tools of power, blunting the radicalism of the text and enforcing obedience.
But once the layers are cleared away, what emerges is striking: a vision of humanity guided not by decree but by conscience, not by compulsion but by love.
Why This Still Matters
The contrast between secular law and the law of love is not confined to the first century. Modern states, like Rome, claim inevitability. They regulate, tax, and punish, presenting themselves as the guardians of order. Yet the inner law still relativises all this.
To live by conscience is to recognise the state as provisional, not absolute. To live by love is to resist being ruled by fear. Jesus and Paul challenge not only the empire of their day but every empire since.
When metanoia is personal, it frees the conscience; when it is shared, it creates unity of purpose that no state can control. This is the real revolution Jesus and Paul foresaw: not the overthrow of rulers by force, but the transformation of humanity from within, until love itself becomes the only law.
