One Christ rules over all of it. He is the constant, the root that nourishes every estate and every vocation.
There’s no neat division between our faith and our life out there in the “real world.” We can’t hide in our churches, praying while the world tosses and turns around us, nor can we live as though our vocation in the world is somehow separate from the Christ we claim to follow. Martin Luther’s teachings on the Two Kingdoms and the Three Estates lay it out: everything belongs to Christ, and every person’s calling plays a part in the spreading and completion of his kingdom.
Luther’s idea of the Two Kingdoms isn’t some dualistic split between sacred and secular; it’s an acknowledgment that God rules over all things but in two distinct ways. On one hand, there’s the kingdom of the world—secular authority, government, society, the forces that keep things running and prevent chaos from swallowing us whole. It’s rough, it’s rugged, it’s imperfect. Then there’s the kingdom of God, the spiritual realm, where Christ reigns directly through his word and sacraments. But here’s the catch: both kingdoms belong to Christ, and he’s the ultimate King in both. We aren’t called to live in one and ignore the other.
If you’re looking for a plain illustration, imagine it’s like the old Germanic tales of Yggdrasil, the World Tree that held up nine realms on its boughs, each with its own order and purpose but connected by a central trunk. The Two Kingdoms work the same way—they’re two branches, distinct but united under the same root, under the same Christ. The worldly kingdom might seem messy and corrupt, just as the branches of Yggdrasil twisted through the chaos of Midgard and Asgard, but make no mistake: Christ’s roots go deep, through both kingdoms, and they nourish all of life.
Now, let’s add in the Three Estates, which Luther taught were the family, the church, and the state. Each of these estates is like one of those nine realms on Yggdrasil, all different, all carrying different responsibilities but rooted in the same faith. Each estate has its own task: family nurtures, the church teaches, and the state governs. None of these estates exists in isolation; they’re woven together, each with a purpose in our lives and vocations.
The family estate, for example, isn’t just about dinner tables and family outings. It’s the cradle of life itself. It’s where we learn love, trust, service—how to be human in a world that doesn’t always value those things. Luther’s notion here is clear: the family is a vocation, a calling from God. It’s not a soft landing pad but a battleground of its own, where faith has to hold up against the world’s corrosion. In Germanic myth, you have the hero Sigurd learning to fight, to love, and ultimately to sacrifice—all within the bonds of family and kinship. That’s family in the fullest sense, and it’s where every Christian begins their life in Christ’s calling.
Then there’s the church, the estate that brings you into the deeper mysteries, the one that teaches you that you are rooted in something greater. The church estate guides, admonishes, and equips. But it’s not there to make you comfortable—it’s there to train you for the battle ahead. The church is in constant training, God preparing us to face whatever spiritual battles come our way, inside or outside its walls. God then sends you out strengthened by himself and angelic ministers, with convictions rooted in his grace and truth.
And the state? In Luther’s view, the state is an estate that wields the sword, maintaining order in a chaotic world. We can get uncomfortable with that language, and yet, Luther insists that the state’s role is God-ordained. It’s not there to do the church’s work; it’s there to keep the peace, to enact justice (however imperfectly), and to serve the public good. Now, in Germanic tales, the state might be symbolized by the ruthless yet just king, a figure like Charlemagne or Alfred the Great, a leader who understood the heavy responsibility of ruling a restless people. They weren’t perfect men, and neither is our government, but they were necessary. When the state keeps its boundaries, it serves the church by keeping the world steady so we can preach Christ without distraction.
Now, here’s where it all ties together: One Christ rules over all of it. He is the constant, the root that nourishes every estate and every vocation. This isn’t about putting on different hats and taking them off at will; it’s about living every part of life in a seamless faith, a faith that acknowledges Christ’s reign in all areas. It’s all one tree, and Christ is the root, the trunk, and the branches. And us? We are the fruit he produces.
So how does this look in real life? It means that as a parent, you’re raising children not to be “good people” but to live out their faith in the family and beyond. In the church, it means you don’t sit back passively; you engage, wrestle with the Word, and grow in grace in truth. In public life, you respect and obey the state but never put your ultimate trust in it. You don’t look to the state to solve all your problems because you know the state is just one of Christ’s servants, not the Savior. And when those boundaries blur or threaten each other—when the state tries to be the church, or when the family abandons its responsibility to the church or state—we hold fast to Christ’s reign and draw the lines as Luther did.
“Two kingdoms, three estates, one Christ.” This isn’t a slogan; it’s the hard, beautiful work of living out our faith in every sphere. There’s no place where Christ’s reign doesn’t reach. So next time you step into your vocation—whether it’s feeding a family, engaging in the church, or acting in public life—you’re free to do it with the conviction that you’re not just serving a job or a duty. You’re serving the One who holds it all together. And in that, there’s no division, only Christ, uniting all things in himself.
