Gaius Octavius was born in 63 B.C. in Rome. When his maternal great uncle, Julius Caesar, was assassinated for subverting the Roman Republic, the young Octavian, only 18 at the time, became his heir. And though Julius is remembered as a great general and the man who set in motion Rome’s transition from Republic to Empire, it was young Octavian who actually oversaw that transition.
Initially partnering with Mark Antony and Marcus Lepidus, Octavian defeated his great uncle’s assassins, dividing the Republic into three parts. Then Octavian conquered his former allies and assumed sole rule of the Republic in roughly 31 B.C. Over the next three decades, Octavian enacted a series of laws that made Rome an empire. Deifying his great uncle and renaming himself Augustus, Octavian brought down the ancient world’s greatest Republic and rebirthed it an empire. Brilliant and ruthless, Octavian did so in a way that created stability and positioned the realm for growth—creating a 200-year period of unprecedented peace and strength known as the Pax Romana. The unified empire lasted more than 400 years, and its successor empire in the East lasted more than 1,000 more, finally collapsing in 1453 A.D.
Octavian is likely the most successful political leader in history. He was perhaps our world’s richest and most powerful man. And his legacy permeates everything from the modern political structure of Europe to our calendar, where the month of August bears his name. Despite all this, the single most well-known historical passage about Octavian regards him as little more than a footnote. That passage reads:
In those days, Caesar Augustus issued a decree that a census should be taken of the entire Roman world. (This was the first census that took place while Quirinius was governor of Syria.) And everyone went to their own town to register. So Joseph also went up from the town of Nazareth in Galilee to Judea, to Bethlehem, the town of David, because he belonged to the house and line of David. He went there to register with Mary, who was pledged to be married to him and was expecting a child. (Luke 2:1-5)
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That baby was born to an outcast teenager and her carpenter husband. He came into this world in a dirty stable in an unimportant province without fanfare or notice. Because of a prophecy, he would eventually be hunted by the King of that region—thousands slaughtered in his pursuit—and live as a refugee in a foreign land. When he returned, he would grow up in obscurity, spending more than a decade practicing his father’s blue-collar profession. While the smallest details of Octavian’s life are recorded, that baby’s life would go mostly undocumented except for his last three years of ministry.
At 30, the boy born in Bethlehem would begin preaching to the poor and disenfranchised in small towns and forgotten places. He would begin communing with prostitutes, foreigners, laborers, and the diseased. He would offer healing and hope to those people the world rejected and eventually inspire envy and hatred among his era’s religious and political elite. He would be betrayed by one of his 12 closest friends, then executed on a cross under Octavian’s successor, Tiberius. He would die penniless, homeless, and a criminal, completely unknown to the powerful emperors under whose rule he lived.
After his death, it was those same poor and outcasts who kept his memory alive, even as the oligarchs of the Empire ruled. The murdered man’s followers would be persecuted but mostly overlooked until their numbers grew large enough that emperors like Nero tried to stamp them out. But in their persecution, they flourished, for the poor and hurting will always outnumber the rich and powerful.
For 300 years, this situation persisted until the Roman emperor Constantine declared a tolerance for Christianity in 313 A.D. And even after that becoming the official religion of Rome, that faith flowered best among those “meek” people the murdered man once famously called the inheritors of the world. It was a radical subversion of the traditional morality of power. Nietzsche declared it a “slave morality”—sneeringly at its elevation of the weak over the strong. And almost every authoritarian for 2,000 years has tried to commandeer, corrupt, or destroy that faith.
But today, more than two millennia after Augustus forced that poor family on a journey to Bethlehem, billions of people around the world will sing not to Octavian but to that frail little boy the world simply cannot forget:
“Come, Thou long expected Jesus
Born to set Thy people free;
From our fears and sins release us,
Let us find our rest in Thee.
Israel’s strength and consolation,
Hope of all the earth Thou art;
Dear desire of every nation,
Joy of every longing heart.
Born Thy people to deliver,
Born a child and yet a King,
Born to reign in us forever,
Now Thy gracious kingdom bring.”
Augustus is still remembered. Scholars study him. Students read of him in history. One of my own favorite biographies is Adrian Goldsworthy’s excellent “Augustus: The First Emperor of Rome.” His empire, political legacy, and military innovations have shaped the world. Were it not for a baby born during his reign, he might be the most famous man of his time. But God and history had other plans. Augustus is now a member of the supporting cast in the greatest story ever told—the very dates of his birth and death marked in relation to that night in the manger. Octavian’s name, in the popular imagination, is forever connected to a greater king.
I believe that timing was intentional. God raised up history’s greatest politician at just the time he sent his opposite into the world. One praised the strong, the other the gentle. One ruled by force, the other through faith. One sought power, the other sacrifice. One preached loyalty, the other love.
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Two billion of us now believe that baby was God made man, a message of hope and healing to all of us who are broken. Jesus is an assurance that God all-powerful isn’t careless, hurtful, and vicious like the gods of Ancient Greece and Rome, but that instead, he cares infinitely for each human heart.
But even for those who don’t believe in the divinity of that Jewish child, there is a message worth remembering. What is important in the world is so often not what we think it is. True impact is not power wielded violently over others. It’s not born of armies or edicts, conquests or palace vaults. It’s not determined by the tastes or allegiances of the rich and powerful. It’s born of love. It’s born of submission and sacrifice.
Octavian is now studied on college campuses. Jesus is worshipped in every corner of the world. And at this moment in December, presidents, prime ministers, shopkeepers, and enslaved people alike gather to pray to and sing of a God made flesh whose rule is based not on political power but on love. When executed, Jesus said, “Father forgive them, for they know not what they do.” When pressed for a way to live, he said, “A new command I give you: Love one another.” His message well-lived would offer hope and peace to the world.
Today, while there are many good people, there are no shortage of those who would do anything for power. They may not be as talented as Octavian or as successful, but they will clamor for riches, fame, and adoration. Many of them will hurt or kill others to get there. Some will enslave others. And some of those people will be “successful” for a time. They will become dictators and presidents, CEOs or celebrities. And they will strive to be worshipped. But like Augustus, they and the morality they embrace will ultimately fade into history. And what will supplant them will be the stories of those who sought not power but compassion, not rule but liberation.
That is the message of Christmas. For believers, it’s a reverent time of reflection for that special moment in history when the all-powerful God of the universe humbled himself to restore our relationship with Him. For all people, even those who haven’t come to that belief, it is an inspiring historical narrative. Two of the greatest men in history lived at the very same time. They walked very different paths. And contemporary observers would have failed to identify which of the two was truly great.
Merry Christmas to all. May this redemptive message be the light of the world, hope for the hopeless, and an encouragement to every human heart.
