A Tale of Two Cities: Finding Our Way Home

Imagine the unthinkable. Imagine a city that for 800 years had been the undisputed centre of the world, a city synonymous with power, law, and civilisation itself, suddenly brought to its knees. In the year 410 CE, the impossible happened: Rome was sacked. The news spread like a shockwave across the known world. As the Visigoths plundered the eternal city, it felt to many as if history itself was ending, as if civilisation was bleeding out into the chaos of a new, dark age. In the aftermath, amidst the ashes and recriminations, a venomous accusation began to take root. The whispers turned to shouts in the forums and marketplaces: “This is the fault of the Christians! Rome prospered for a thousand years under the protection of Jupiter and the old gods. Since we abandoned them for this new faith, this carpenter from Galilee, we have been cursed. Where was your Christian God then?”

In response to this crisis of faith and meaning, a North African bishop, Augustine of Hippo, took up his pen. What he produced was not merely a defensive pamphlet, but a thunderous reply that would echo for millennia. His monumental book, The City of God, is perhaps the first and greatest comprehensive defence of Christianity outside the Bible itself. Forged in the fires of a collapsing empire, it became a masterwork of theology, history, and philosophy—an audacious exploration of divine providence, the depths of human nature, and the ultimate purpose of all human history. Augustine’s task was nothing less than to offer a blueprint for hope amidst the ruins.

To do this, he gave the world a revolutionary lens through which to see everything. He wrote of two cities: the City of God and the earthly city. This was the secret key. But he didn’t mean a sacred suburb versus a secular one, a "Christian" nation versus a "pagan" one. His vision was infinitely more profound and personal. He was cutting to the very core of human identity, forcing his readers, and us, to answer the most fundamental question: to which city does your heart truly belong? It is a question of ultimate allegiance, foundational love, and unshakable hope.

Sixteen centuries later, the Goths are gone, but the questions remain. Here in Melbourne, we may not face barbarian hordes, but we navigate our own complex pressures, our own personal and societal crises that can feel just as disorienting. The siren call of the earthly city is as loud as ever, promising fulfilment in career, property, and pleasure. And so, Augustine’s ancient wisdom has never been more relevant. He speaks directly to us today, offering a lesson that is essential for navigating life in 2025: a lesson about understanding our true identity as citizens of heaven, who are living as pilgrims on a remarkable, challenging, and temporary journey through our earthly home.

Understanding Our Dual Citizenship

The Bible and the wisdom of the Church throughout history consistently present humanity as belonging to one of two societies, built on two fundamentally different loves. Augustine framed this perfectly writing: 

"Two cities have been formed by two loves: the earthly by the love of self, even to the contempt of God; the heavenly by the love of God, even to the contempt of self. The former, in a word, glories in itself, the latter in the Lord." (Book XIV, Ch. 28)

This distinction is the very heart of our spiritual journey. Let's first consider the earthly city, the society built on the "love of self, even to the contempt of God." This isn't just about simple selfishness; it's a foundational orientation of the heart. It’s a life where the self is enthroned as the ultimate authority and beneficiary. Its anthem is "my will be done." This love of self fuels what Augustine calls the "lust for rule"—the deep-seated desire for control, for power, and for self-aggrandisement. We see this all around us, can't we? It’s in the relentless pressure to climb the corporate ladder, the anxious obsession with curating a perfect image for online validation, and the subtle but pervasive message that our worth is measured by our achievements, our possessions, our influence, or our postcode. This worldview tells us to look out for number one, to build our own kingdom, to glory in our own strength and accomplishments. It is a society that, when it comes right down to it, has no room for God, because the throne of the heart is already occupied.

In stark and beautiful contrast stands the City of God, which we, the Church, are called to be. This heavenly city is defined by the "love of God, even to the contempt of self." This doesn't mean self-hatred or thinking we are worthless. Rather, it is a glorious re-ordering of our loves. It’s about dethroning the self and enthroning God, recognising that He alone is worthy of our ultimate worship and allegiance. It’s a self-forgetfulness that comes from being utterly captivated by the beauty, grace, and love of God. The citizens of this city find their glory not in their achievements, but "in the Lord." Their identity isn't built on the shifting sands of public opinion or personal success, but on the solid rock of being a beloved child of God. We live by faith, understanding that our time here is a temporary pilgrimage. We are sojourners, strangers passing through a world that often doesn't share our ultimate values or understand our ultimate love.

To embrace this is to understand that we hold a kind of dual citizenship. We are residents of Melbourne, yet our passports are issued from heaven. This doesn't mean we withdraw from the world into a holy huddle. Instead, it radically reorients our relationship with it. It means we can work, create, build, and love within this city, but our ultimate motivation has changed. Our work becomes an act of worship, not a means of self-promotion. Our relationships are opportunities to show God's love, not to gain an advantage. This dual citizenship gives us a crucial lens through which to view our lives, our work, our relationships, and our challenges, freeing us from the exhausting burden of living for ourselves.

Navigating Earthly Storms with an Eternal Anchor

One of the most difficult and unavoidable aspects of our journey is suffering. When hardship strikes—a frightening diagnosis, an unexpected redundancy, a painful betrayal by a close friend, or the slow, creeping ache of loneliness in a city of millions, it’s easy to feel lost and question everything. This struggle is intensified when we look around and see those who seem to care little for God prospering, seemingly untouched by the financial pressures and anxieties that weigh us down. Their lives, from the outside, look like a string of successes, while ours can feel like a battle.

The timeless wisdom of our faith speaks directly and unsentimentally to this reality. It reminds us that adversity is a common human experience. Calamities, sickness, and loss are part of the fabric of this fallen world; as Jesus himself said, the sun shines and the rain falls on the just and the unjust alike. Augustine, writing after the shocking sack of Rome, a catastrophe that shook his world to its core, confronted this very issue. He observed how a single disaster strikes everyone in its path, yet it does not have the same effect on everyone. He powerfully explained: 

"For the same affliction tests, purifies, and improves the good, but condemns, destroys, and exterminates the wicked... so the same violence of affliction proves, purges, and clarifies the good, but damns, ruins, and exterminates the bad." (Book I, Ch. 8)

What does this mean for us? Think of a sudden economic downturn that affects the whole city. For the person whose ultimate hope is their career and investment portfolio (the citizen of the earthly city), such a crisis can lead to utter despair, bitterness, and a frantic, panicked effort to claw back what was lost. Their foundation is shaken, and they have nothing else to stand on. But for the Christian (the citizen of the City of God), the very same financial loss becomes a crucible. It is painful, yes, but it serves a different purpose. It "purifies" by burning away our dependence on money for security. It "tests" our faith, forcing us to ask if we truly trust God for our daily bread. It "improves" us by cultivating humility and a deeper reliance on our eternal inheritance, which can never be lost. The external event is the same; the internal outcome is worlds apart.

Therefore, for Christians, suffering is never wasted. It is a form of loving discipline intended for our eternal good. It either proves our faith, revealing its genuine nature, or it improves it, strengthening and refining it as gold in a furnace. When we face the inevitable storms of life in this city—the crushing stress of the housing market, the breakdown of a cherished relationship, the pervasive anxiety about the future our children will inherit—our dual citizenship allows us, and indeed compels us, to ask a different set of questions.

Instead of the cry of the earthly city, "Why is this happening to me? What did I do to deserve this?", the pilgrim of the heavenly city can begin to ask, "God, what are you teaching me through this? How are you stripping away my pride? How can this experience make me more like Christ? How can you use this to draw me closer to you?" Augustine further reminds us that God's providence is over all things, and if the wicked sometimes receive earthly rewards, it is to teach us not to overvalue them. If God did not grant these fleeting successes to some, Augustine notes, we might mistakenly believe them to be the highest good. Their temporary prosperity is a divine object lesson, reminding us to fix our eyes on a greater, eternal prize. This perspective does not magically eliminate the pain, but it infuses it with profound meaning and unshakeable hope, anchoring us in the reality of God’s sovereign, loving, and purposeful care, no matter what storms may rage.

The True Measure of a Life Well-Lived

In a city as vibrant and aspirational as Melbourne, it is incredibly easy to have our priorities and our very definition of success shaped by the earthly city. The air we breathe buzzes with a particular vision of the good life, a vision reinforced in conversations at cafes, on podcasts, and in the glossy pages of lifestyle magazines. We are told, both explicitly and implicitly, that a life well-lived consists of a secure and ascending career, a beautiful home in a desirable suburb, and the financial freedom to enjoy the world’s finest pleasures, from laneway dining to international travel. This is the Melbourne dream, the summit of earthly happiness. But our faith does not just offer a minor tweak to this dream; it calls us to awaken from it into a radically different reality, a different understanding of wealth, value, and joy.

The Bible teaches that the true treasure of a Christian is not what we can see, appraise, and post on Instagram. It is not found in our job title, the square meterage of our home, or the balance of our superannuation fund. Rather, as the Apostle Peter writes, our truest beauty and value should be "that of your inner self, the unfading beauty of a gentle and quiet spirit, which is of great worth in God’s sight" (1 Peter 3:4). This turns the world’s value system completely upside down. It suggests that the most precious asset we can cultivate is an inner posture of peaceful trust in God, something that cannot be bought, sold, or measured by the market. Consequently, the goal of our life is not to accumulate a certain number of years free from trouble, but to live in such a way that we understand, as Augustine says, "into what place death will usher us."

We see that the “wicked”, to use Augustine’s words, those who live entirely for the earthly city, may enjoy the same temporal goods as the righteous, and often, it seems, to a greater degree. This is not a sign of God's disfavour towards us, but a crucial lesson. It should teach our hearts not to covet these fleeting things, but to fix our gaze on what is eternal. Augustine saw this very clearly when he looked at the Roman Empire. He acknowledged their earthly virtues—their discipline, their civic duty, their desire for glory—and concluded that God gave them exactly the reward they sought: a vast, powerful, and glorious earthly empire. But that was the extent of their reward. Quoting Jesus, Augustine declared of them, "They have received their reward." (City of God, Book V, Ch. 15). Their payment was rendered in full, in the temporary currency of this world.

This serves as a profound admonition for us in 2025. When we see someone achieve the pinnacle of worldly success—the corner office, the fancy pants postcode, the universal admiration—our faith allows us to see it through Augustine’s eyes and say, "They have received their reward." And then we must ask the crucial follow-up question: Is that the reward my heart truly longs for?

This is where our identity as pilgrims becomes intensely practical. We are not called to reject earthly things outright, but to use them differently. We are residents here, but our citizenship is in heaven, and so we handle the goods of this world as a traveller would. Augustine explains that the heavenly city, while on its pilgrimage, "uses the earthly peace" and all the things necessary for mortal life, but it does so with a specific, eternal purpose. It "refers that earthly peace to the heavenly peace… the perfectly ordered and harmonious enjoyment of God and of one another in God." (Book XIX, Ch. 17).

What does this "referring" look like for us? It means we can pursue our career with diligence and excellence, not to build our own little empire or to find our identity in our success, but as an act of worship to God and service to our community. Our work becomes a primary place where we live out our love for God and neighbour. It means we can live in our home—be it a rented apartment or a mortgaged house—and view it not as a status symbol to be jealously guarded, but as a base for gospel hospitality, a tool for the Kingdom, a place of rest and encouragement for fellow pilgrims. It frees us from the all-consuming anxiety of the property ladder because our true home is elsewhere. It means we can enjoy the good gifts of creation—a great coffee, a beautiful day at the beach, an exciting quarter of footy—with gratitude, as foretastes of a greater joy, without them becoming idols that demand our ultimate allegiance.

This truth liberates us from the exhausting and ultimately empty pursuit of human praise and temporal success. It sets us free from the relentless, soul-crushing hamster wheel of comparison. The eternal reward of the saints is described as something “far different” from earthly glory. It is the “true and full felicity” found in God’s celestial city, a place of perfect peace, where there is no more death, no more error, and no more sorrow. This is our hope. This is our secure inheritance. Living in light of this reality gives us a profound and steadying peace in a world fraught with competition and anxiety. It is the peace of knowing that our true treasure is held securely in a place where markets can't crash, thieves cannot steal, and moths cannot destroy. It is the freedom to be truly and radically generous with our resources, because we know we are not owners, but stewards of a King whose wealth is infinite.

This has profound implications for parenting. Let's pause and ask ourselves a hard but necessary question: in the way we raise our children, are we primarily training them to be successful citizens of the earthly city, or are we discipling them as fellow pilgrims of the City of God? The dominant culture of parenting in our city is one of intense management and anxiety. We feel immense pressure to fill their schedules with a dizzying array of activities—endless sports practices, music lessons, tutoring—all designed (dare I say it) to give them a competitive edge in the race of life.

But we must examine our motives. What is the frantic busyness truly about? Are we unconsciously projecting our own anxieties about status and security onto our children, hoping they will achieve the earthly success that we have been taught to crave? Is their packed schedule a reflection of our fear that they might "fall behind," or a way of resumé-building for a 10-year-old? When we do this, we are diligently training them in the values of the earthly city, teaching them that their worth is in their performance, their achievements, and their ability to compete. We are, in essence, preparing them to win a prize that we as Christians know is ultimately hollow.

Parenting as a citizen of the heavenly city offers a radical alternative. It doesn't necessarily mean withdrawing from all activities, but it fundamentally changes the why and the how. It prioritises the cultivation of their inner self over the polishing of their outer resumé. It means deliberately carving out space for unhurried family dinners where we talk about where we saw God's grace that day. It means making the life of our church community a non-negotiable priority, even when it clashes with a sports final. Crucially, it means letting our children see us model a joyful trust in God's eternal city. When we face a financial setback or a professional disappointment, do they see us melt down in panic, or do they see us turn to God in prayer, confident in His provision? Are we modelling that our family's ultimate security rests not in our careers or our savings account, but in our unshakeable status as citizens of heaven? The greatest inheritance we can leave our children is not a pathway to a prestigious university or a hefty deposit for a house, but a well-worn path to the foot of the cross and an internal compass that always points them toward their true and lasting home.

A Realistic and Grace-Filled View of the Church

Finally, this ancient framework gives us the most freeing and realistic expectation for our life together as the Church. While we are truly citizens of the City of God, we are still on our pilgrimage. And here on the journey, in this present age, the two cities are, as Augustine wrote, “entangled together” and “intermixed.” This is a truth we must grasp firmly, for it will save us from so much disillusionment. It means that the visible Church on earth is not yet a pristine embassy of heaven, but more like a messy, noisy, sometimes frustratingly slow construction site. There’s scaffolding up, there’s dust in the air, and the glorious final reality envisioned in the Architect’s blueprints is often hard to see amidst the rubble. We look around and see imperfection everywhere.

We encounter “false Christians,” those who share our sacraments but not our Saviour, whose lives betray the very love they claim to profess. We wrestle with painful internal disagreements. We are hurt, sometimes deeply and woundingly, by those within our own community. We face opposition from the culture around us, but nothing stings quite like the "friendly fire" we experience from within. The temptation is to despair. The temptation is to look at the mess of the construction site and declare the whole project a failure. But this is a profound misunderstanding. The mess isn't a sign of failure; it is a sign that the Master Builder is at work. The friction we experience is not a bug in the system; it is one of God’s primary tools of grace.

These struggles are designed to exercise our patience and forge our wisdom. When our faith in people or in a perfect community inevitably fails, it forces us to find a deeper, unshakable foundation. It teaches us to place our ultimate faith not in any human institution—not even our beloved local church—but in God alone, the one who is faithful and true. The pain we experience becomes the very thing that drives us to the heart of Christ. It compels us to learn the gritty, costly, non-sentimental meaning of grace. It calls us to practice a supernatural forgiveness—to love not because others are lovely, but because we have a Heavenly Father whose love is unconditional, and we are called to reflect His heart.

So, as you go about your week in this city, I encourage you to live consciously as a pilgrim, but perhaps not in the way you imagine. Being a pilgrim doesn’t mean a detached, dreary waiting for the end. It is the opposite. Because our ultimate home is secure, because our future is guaranteed, we are the freest people in all of Melbourne. We are free to love this city and its people with a radical, no-strings-attached generosity. We can seek the peace and prosperity of Melbourne not because it is our final hope, but because we serve a King who loves the people here. We are free to work with excellence, create with beauty, and serve with joy, not to build our own kingdom, but to point to the coming Kingdom of our God. Paradoxically, the more deeply we root our identity in the City of God, the better, more loving, and more transformative citizens we can be in the earthly city of Melbourne.

Let this heavenly identity give you clarity and purpose amidst the noise. Let it grant you a supernatural resilience in adversity, freeing you from the anxieties of this world. And let it anchor your hope, not in the shifting sands of earthly success or the fragile perfection of human community, but in the unshakable rock of the eternal City of God, whose builder and maker is God Himself. Let us orient every desire, every action, and every one of our deepest hopes toward that heavenly country, trusting in God's unchangeable providence and grace in every circumstance, good or ill. For we are just passing through, on our way to a joy that will never end, journeying toward our true home and our final rest.

“There we shall rest and see, see and love, love and praise. This is what shall be in the end without end. For what other end do we propose to ourselves than to attain to the kingdom of which there is no end?” - Augustine, City of God