2 Maccabees 4:23–29

Verse 23 sets the scene with careful chronological precision ("after a space of three years"), grounding the narrative in historical memory rather than legend. Jason—already a usurper who had bought the high priesthood from Antiochus IV (cf. 2 Macc 4:7–10)—sends Menelaus, brother of the Simon mentioned in chapter 3, on what appears to be a routine diplomatic and financial mission. The detail that Menelaus is "the previously mentioned Simon's brother" is not incidental: Simon had been a troublemaking temple official whose treachery set the entire crisis in motion (2 Macc 3:4–6). Family lineage here signals moral lineage.

Verse 24 is the pivot of the entire pericope. Menelaus does not merely deliver the money—he leverages the royal audience to outbid his own master by three hundred talents of silver. The verb "glorified by the display of his authority" (Greek: endeixamenos) suggests a performance of grandiose self-presentation before Antiochus. The high priesthood, the holiest office in Israel, is secured the way one acquires a provincial tax contract. The author's irony is cutting: the king bestows glory; God grants none. Three hundred talents beyond Jason's already outrageous bid signals not merely personal ambition but a comprehensive desacralization of Israel's covenant institutions.

Verse 25 delivers the author's moral verdict in two devastating images. Menelaus returns "having the passion of a cruel tyrant and the rage of a savage animal"—language that evokes the antithesis of the priestly ideal. The high priest of Israel was to be a mediator of hesed (covenantal lovingkindness), an intercessor between God and people (cf. Sir 45:23–26; Heb 5:1–4). Menelaus embodies the inversion: not a shepherd but a predator, not a mediator but a destroyer. The phrase "nothing worthy of the high priesthood" functions as a theological judgment, not merely a character assessment.

Verse 26 traces a poetic justice with near-providential overtones. Jason "had supplanted his own brother" (Onias III, the legitimate high priest) and is now supplanted in turn. The author uses the same Greek root (ekballō) that appears in contexts of violent expulsion, and the flight to "the country of the Ammonites" is geographically and symbolically freighted: Ammon was ancestrally opposed to Israel and associated with apostasy. Jason—the Hellenizing reformer who had dreamed of a Greek polis in Jerusalem—ends his career as a refugee among pagans. The irony is complete.

Verses 27–28 add a grimly bureaucratic coda. Menelaus, for all his political cunning, cannot or will not deliver the silver he promised. The office was purchased on credit that he cannot redeem. The Seleucid machinery grinds on: Sostratus, the garrison commander whose role is revenue collection, summons both Menelaus and the defaulting parties to account. The mention of "the citadel" (akra) reminds the reader of the foreign military presence dominating Jerusalem itself—the physical symbol of Israel's subjugation.

Verse 29 shows the sacred office treated with open contempt: Menelaus, summoned to explain his financial delinquency to the king, simply appoints his brother Lysimachus as his "deputy in the high priesthood"—as though it were a commercial proxy. Lysimachus will later become notorious for his own temple sacrilege (2 Macc 4:39–42). The parallel appointment of Crates by Sostratus mirrors the sacred and secular in a sardonic diptych: the high priesthood and the provincial governorship are equally interchangeable bureaucratic posts in the Seleucid system. This is the nadir of Israel's sacred institutions under Hellenistic pressure.

From a Catholic perspective, this passage is a profound meditation on the perversion of sacred office—what tradition would come to call simony, the buying or selling of spiritual goods and ecclesial positions. The term derives from Simon Magus (Acts 8:18–24), but the phenomenon Menelaus embodies is its Old Testament archetype. The Catechism of the Catholic Church defines simony as "the buying or selling of spiritual things" and calls it a "serious perversion" because it treats as merchandise what can only be given as gift (CCC §2121). Menelaus treats the high priesthood—which by Mosaic law was a divine vocation, not a purchasable honor—as precisely such merchandise.

St. Gregory the Great, in his Pastoral Rule (I.1), warns with urgency that those who seek the office of bishop for advancement rather than service become not pastors but merchants of souls. He could have been writing about Menelaus. The Church Fathers consistently read the corruption of Israel's priesthood in this period as a prefiguration of dangers facing the Church's own ordained ministry—dangers that the Gregorian Reform of the eleventh century, the Council of Trent (Session XXV, De Reformatione), and the Second Vatican Council (Presbyterorum Ordinis §17) each addressed in their own times.

Typologically, the legitimate high priest Onias III—displaced by this chain of corruption—is read by Patristic tradition (e.g., St. John Chrysostom, Homilies on Hebrews) as a figure of Christ the eternal High Priest (Heb 7:24–26), whose priesthood cannot be bought, sold, transferred, or corrupted. The contrast between Onias/Christ and Menelaus/corrupt ministry is stark: one offers his life as intercession; the other offers silver to seize power. The passage thus illuminates what Catholic teaching affirms: Holy Orders is not a human honor but a sacramental participation in Christ's own eternal priesthood, which can never be commodified (CCC §1548, §1551).

The spectacle of Menelaus reducing the holiest office in Israel to a bidding war is not merely ancient history. Contemporary Catholics are called to examine how subtler forms of the same corruption manifest in their own lives and communities. The simoniacal impulse—treating sacred gifts as leverage for personal advancement—appears wherever ministry becomes a platform for status, wherever parish leadership is sought for social capital, wherever financial influence shapes pastoral decisions.

More personally, this passage challenges any Catholic who occupies a position of service—lay or ordained—to ask the question the author poses implicitly: do I bring something worthy of this office, or do I arrive with the ambitions of a tyrant dressed in sacred clothing? The Church's long tradition of reform, from Gregory VII to the Council of Trent to Pope Francis's Evangelii Gaudium (§102–109), insists that the remedy for simoniacal corruption is always the same: a return to the logic of gift, of kenosis, of authority as service. Concrete practice: examine your motivations for any role of service you hold or seek. Is it sought in prayer and offered back to God, or is it secured by the "display of authority"?