I’ve recently discovered a new favourite biscuit: mint chocolate digestives.

I’ve always been a sucker for mint chocolate, and these things are dangerous (especially for a diabetic). I’ve even been known to hide a packet at the top of the kitchen cupboard, where only I can reach it. Of course, sooner or later (normally sooner) Clare discovers my hiding place and the race is on.

That’s fine, at least until we get down to the last couple of biscuits. Then comes the difficult question: who gets the last one? With just the two of us, it’s not a particularly serious dilemma. We can usually work something out, even if one of us is secretly hoping the other will say they don’t want it.

But imagine the same situation at a church coffee morning. There’s one biscuit left on the plate, and someone asks, “Would anyone like the last biscuit?”

What do you do? If you say yes, you risk looking greedy. If you say no, you might miss out on something you actually wanted. And what happens if two or three people say yes? Who gets it? The first person to speak, the person who hasn’t had one yet, or perhaps the person who made the tea?

You could offer to share it, but then you’re faced with dividing one biscuit between several people. I’m not sure anyone would be particularly satisfied with a third of a chocolate digestive (or biscuit of your choice).

It’s a fairly trivial example, but even a seemingly simple question can be difficult to answer. The circumstances matter, as do the people involved. And sometimes a question is deliberately designed to put someone in a position where either answer could get them into trouble.

That’s precisely what happens to Jesus in this week’s Gospel reading.

In Matthew 22:15–22, Jesus is approached by disciples of the Pharisees and supporters of Herod. These are two groups we wouldn’t normally expect to find working together.

The Pharisees were concerned with preserving Jewish religious identity and faithfulness to the Law. Many would have resented Roman domination. The Herodians, meanwhile, supported a ruling dynasty whose political position depended on Roman power. They had different interests, but they were united in their opposition to Jesus.

Their question was carefully chosen: “Is it lawful to pay taxes to the emperor, or not?”

Judea was under Roman occupation, and taxation was a constant reminder of that reality. Paying taxes helped sustain the empire, including the military power that maintained Roman control. If Jesus supported the tax, he risked alienating those who resented Roman occupation. If he opposed it, his answer could be presented as encouragement to rebel against Rome.

Either answer could be used against him.

But Jesus doesn’t accept the question on their terms. Instead, he asks them to show him the coin used to pay the tax and asks, “Whose head is this, and whose title?”

“The emperor’s,” they reply.

“Give therefore to the emperor the things that are the emperor’s, and to God the things that are God’s.”

It’s an answer that has been interpreted in many different ways. But I somehow doubt that Jesus was simply telling us to pay our taxes and keep our religious lives separate from everything else. In fact, I think he is challenging precisely that kind of separation.

The coin bears Caesar’s image. But Genesis tells us that humanity is created in God’s image. This connection isn’t made explicitly in Matthew’s account, but it raises an interesting question. If the coin bears Caesar’s image, and we bear God’s image, what does it mean to give to God what belongs to God?

Some people read Jesus’ answer as dividing our lives into two distinct areas. On one side, our obligations to governments, society and the world. On the other, our responsibilities to God, faith and the Church. But real life doesn’t work like that.

Paying taxes, going to work, shopping, voting and participating in society are not activities that somehow sit outside our faith. Our relationship with God should shape how we approach these things, how we treat others and how we respond to decisions that affect our communities. We can’t simply say that something is Caesar’s responsibility and therefore has nothing to do with God.

Governments and institutions are often necessary for society to function, but that doesn’t mean they always work in everyone’s interests. Some people benefit from the way they operate, while others find themselves disadvantaged or excluded. We can recognise our dependence on these structures while still questioning how they operate and whose interests they serve.

Jesus doesn’t tell us to withdraw from society, but neither does he give us a simple rule about where Caesar’s authority ends and God’s begins. Instead, he leaves us to consider what belonging to God means when we live among people and institutions making competing demands upon us.

And this is where Paul’s first letter to the Thessalonians becomes particularly interesting.

The Christians in Thessalonica lived in a Roman world where religious, political and economic life were closely connected. Following Jesus didn’t remove them from that society. They still had to work, trade, maintain relationships and live alongside people who believed and behaved differently.

Paul tells us that they had turned from idols to serve God. Their allegiance was now to Christ, and that was beginning to shape their lives. He gives thanks for their “work of faith and labour of love and steadfastness of hope”, describes them as an example to other believers, and tells them that news of their faith has spread beyond their own city.

What Paul celebrates isn’t simply a change in what they believe. Their faith has become visible in their actions and relationships. Jesus raises the question of what belongs to God, while the Thessalonians give us an example of what belonging to God might look like in practice.

That makes me wonder what Paul might say about our churches today. What are we known for in our communities? Would people recognise something of Jesus in the way we welcome people, care for our neighbours and challenge injustice? What might Paul celebrate, and what might he challenge?

These aren’t necessarily comfortable questions, but maybe they’re worth asking. Much faithful work happens quietly, without recognition, and having a good reputation isn’t necessarily the same as being faithful. Nevertheless, Paul’s description suggests that our faith should make a difference beyond what happens on a Sunday morning.

Our society places considerable value on wealth, success, independence and productivity. None of these is necessarily wrong in itself, but what happens when they become the measures by which we judge the worth of another person? What happens when someone who cannot work is treated as less valuable, or economic success becomes more important than the wellbeing of people and communities?

If we believe that every person bears God’s image, then these questions are part of our faith too. Sometimes responding faithfully means working within existing structures to make them better. Sometimes it means challenging practices that cause harm, and sometimes it means recognising that we ourselves need to change.

But knowing what to do isn’t always straightforward, particularly when different needs and responsibilities come into conflict. And perhaps that’s where we might wish Jesus had given us something a little more specific.

Which brings me back to those mint chocolate digestives.

Jesus doesn’t tell us whether we should take the last biscuit, leave it or offer to share it. There isn’t a biblical rule for dealing with the last mint chocolate digestive, and perhaps that’s just as well.

The loving response might depend on whether someone else hasn’t had a biscuit, whether everyone else has already eaten three, or whether we’re the person who hasn’t had anything to eat all morning. And if three people all want the same biscuit, we may have to accept that there isn’t an answer that will satisfy everyone.

What matters isn’t simply following a rule. It’s recognising the needs of the people around us alongside our own, and making a judgement about what love might require.

Of course, most of the decisions we face in life are rather more serious than choosing who gets a biscuit. Jesus doesn’t provide us with a rule for every situation, but that doesn’t mean every choice is equally good, or that faithfulness means avoiding difficult decisions. Sometimes love requires us to take a stand, while at other times we may need to listen, reconsider our assumptions or acknowledge that we’ve got something wrong.

This is where I find God’s grace so important. We don’t have to get everything right before we can participate in God’s work. We can make mistakes, learn, repent and change without God’s love being withdrawn from us. Nor are we expected to work everything out alone. Faith is something we live together, helping one another to discern how best to respond.

Paul’s description of the Thessalonians reminds us that faith, love and hope can shape the life of a whole community. They hadn’t found a way to escape the world around them. Their belonging to Jesus was changing how they lived within it, and others had begun to notice.

The coin bears Caesar’s image, but we bear God’s image. Perhaps the challenge isn’t to find a ready-made answer for every situation, but to allow that belonging to shape our decisions, our relationships and our responsibilities to one another.

Whether we’re facing questions about justice, the needs of our communities or simply who should have the last biscuit, perhaps the question we need to ask is:

What might love require of us here, in this particular situation?