Last Sunday after Pentecost Sermon

Many of you know that I have something of a fetish for the city Rome. Of all the places I’ve visited over the years, Rome – for me – is different. It fascinates me. My theory is that – as a westerner and as a western Christian – there’s a unique resonance for me there; it’s the source and origin of so much of our culture – both civic and Christian, both good and ill. And the remnants of that origin are all around you, scattered about the city – so visible and tangible. Rome is, of course, where the church in the west took root and grew and, eventually (at least for our little strand) became the church we know and recognize:

• The liturgical garments we wear derive from – and are the last vestiges of – Roman fashion.
• Our liturgies with their processions and banners and crosses lifted high have their roots in the triumphal processions of Roman generals and emperors.
• Our ecclesiastical architecture and nomenclature are all drawn from Roman sources: basilicas, naves, cathedrals…

And there’s nowhere in the world (that I’m aware of) that has such a concentration of churches. They’re everywhere – over 900 of them! And most of them are stunning beyond description. And some of them are really, really old. Rome is a city saturated with its history of being the home-base of the western church.

And so, when I’m there, it naturally becomes a place of pilgrimage. And the way I understand pilgrimage is this: It’s a deliberate choice to remove oneself from the everyday rhythms of life in order to go to some place with a distinct spiritual heritage or potential with a posture of spiritual openness and desire that says, “Here I am, God. I want to meet you.” And that’s been my experience. Both trips to Rome have been incredibly formative for who I know myself to be – especially in relationship with God. That’s why I’m leading a St. John’s pilgrimage there next spring.

But! There’s one glaring thing about Rome and its churches that is absolutely jarring for me: it’s how gloriously sumptuous they are – with all their gold and splendor – and always, with Christ enthroned in the heavens: Christ the King in all his majesty, surrounded by clouds and cupids, saints and martyrs, and the whole host of heaven. Many of these churches are from the baroque era when church architecture was absolutely over the top in all its theatricality.

So, even though the designer in me revels in the sheer grandiosity of it all, there’s also such a dissonance. I don’t really relate to that Jesus. The Jesus I seek to follow and emulate is the Jesus of the gospels – of Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John. He’s the friend of the poor, the prophet denouncing the religious systems of pride and hypocrisy; he’s the suffering servant on the cross who’d declared before Pilate, the Roman governor, “My kingdom is not of this world.” It is this Jesus, with his upside-down ways, that I seek to follow as a disciple, that I, too, might learn to give my life away in love and compassion and mercy.

And yet, there is something about these churches with their majestic, monarchial Jesuses that (though jarring) taps into something else within me that – when I pay attention – I find I am also craving. Yes, I want the humble, suffering servant and I want to fall face-down, prostrate before something/someone/some-God/some-Christ, in a state of absolute reverence and adoration. It’s not theology about Jesus I want to worship. Nor is it any good cause or institution that bears his name that I want to worship. Nor can I worship my good intentions to be like Jesus. None of these ideals are enough for me. Nor are they the appropriate objects of worship. Unto themselves they are just as much a vain idol as Rome’s gilded mosaics and frescoes could be. But, when I behold those gilded mosaics and frescos – it does open a door to me of the potential majesty of Christ, himself, that I crave: Christ, my King, the Worthy One! It is a craving to adore that beats deep within our souls.

Now, to be honest, I’m still not there. This kind of adoration can’t be forced. And I don’t want to fake it. But it’s in me, this desire.

And all the more so because of the conditions of this age in which we live: this age of skepticism and doubt, this age of shifting norms and stabilities, this age of institutional disappointments and would-be wizards behind thick curtains, this age of boredom and insipid entertainment. We want something truly worthy of giving ourselves to, body and soul. We want to worship. And adore.

Typically, like many of us, I tend to seek this majesty in nature: stars and galaxies, water in all its forms, actual clouds (not frescoed clouds) filtering through the fir trees, the cascades covered in fresh snow. And I’m not alone in this. Nature has become, for our generation, a rather universal and trustworthy source of spiritual contemplation and fulfillment. It can evoke a spirit of universal kinship. And, in its way, creation offers a kind of unsullied testament to the nature of God, her creator. And this is all well and good.

But reveling in the majesty of nature is quite a distinct thing from worshiping someone. It is quite distinct from worshiping Christ in his majesty as King. And please be clear: the Bible does invite us to enter into this paradox, that Christ is both the humble servant riding a colt up the temple mount, and – as such – the king truly coming into his kingdom. And though the crown of thorns was woven in mockery, as was the sign affixed to his cross, “King of the Jews,” they weren’t (in fact) wrong.

All those Roman frescoes and mosaics of the resplendent Christ, enthroned in majesty: these, too, are images rooted in scripture.

The Bible does invite us to seek and find this complex Christ: he who is both servant and master; he through whom this world was made and who entered this world in modest humility. It is this dual reality that lies at the heart of so much Christmas devotion and hope. Just consider how many of our Christmas carols revel in the paradox of this king, born in a stable:

Joy to the world, the Lord is come, let earth receive her king.

What child is this who, laid to rest, on Mary’s lap is sleeping? Whom angels greet with anthems sweet, while shepherds’ watch are keeping? This, this is Christ the King.

O come, all ye faithful, joyful and triumphant, O come ye, O come ye to Bethlehem; come, and behold him, born the King of Angels.

Hark! the herald angels sing, glory to the newborn king.

I wonder, though, if we’re actually more comfortable worshiping Christ, the King, as an infant than we are as Christ, “the now reigning one,” whose triumphant return we yearn for and anticipate? I think we are, for a couple reasons. First, quite simply, because of sentimentality: The creche and the customs around it are a quintessential element of the “feel-good” aspects of our Christmas traditions. And, second (and perhaps more damning), “Sweet Baby Jesus” is just that – a baby – too young to ask or demand anything of us.

So, it’s easy enough for us to reverence and give “glory to the newborn king.” And it’s reasonable, in the midst of this warmth and sentimentality, to feel a kind of universal hope and longing for “peace on earth, goodwill to men.”

But as faith matures, it asks our adoration of the Christ child to mature also – that we would choose to become disciples of this Christ. In the language of our parish mission, that we would choose (and choose and choose again) to “Be like Jesus.”

For surely this Christ, this Jesus, is worthy of emulation. He has come – fully God and fully man – to show us the true nature of God and the true nature of humanity. His way of love – his way of compassion, his way of inclusion, his way of forgiveness – his is The Way this world needs to live and to flourish.

But for many of us, this is where we stop with Jesus. We let him be prophet and teacher – condemning hypocrisies, proclaiming a lifestyle of universal love – but he remains an historic figure. We don’t know how to let him live now in us, and in this world, even though our hearts are craving such a God and king, such a savior and friend. We don’t know how to live in hope that the Christ of the gospels who so beckons us with his better way, is still alive today, to be worshipped and obeyed.

The ethics of Christ are reasonable and noble – even if difficult to follow in any given moment. But the “living Christ” calls for faith, in a way that seems illusive. Or, perhaps, even undesirable.

We’re uncomfortable with religious dogma that insists on exclusivity or superiority. We’re embarrassed by Christianity’s long history of hypocrisy and abuse.

And even though these are legitimate laments and worthy of the church’s repentance, I suspect – for many – they also serve as a kind of excuse: We don’t need to choose faith in Christ because his “faithful” have been so wretched. But, beneath that, lies a deeper issue: We don’t choose faith in a living Christ because we don’t want to be disappointed. Again.

We’ve all tried to worship; we’ve all tried to pray, and found it hollow or forced – a desire flung out into the universe, without so much as even an echo in reply, to say nothing of an actual greeting in return.

So how long do we keep trying? How long do we hope?

I can only answer for myself.

I follow Jesus because it is my heritage. It is the faith in which I was raised and through which I was formed and trained.

I follow Jesus because his way of love and forgiveness and unity is compelling and matches the contours of my own soul’s impulse for a truly human way of living together in this world.

I follow Jesus because of the hope that these same values are true of who God is and how God is living with us.

And I follow Jesus with the desire for more – more life, more love, more fullness, certainly – but also… for more Jesus.

In one way or another – and certainly whenever I’m in those Roman churches with their resplendent, majestic Christs – I am always praying, “Who are you, Jesus?” It is a prayer – not so much of doubt – as it is of yearning: to know and behold the Living One, alive and true – in me, in this world, in love; that the same Christ who showed us his Way in humility, would yet be our King in majesty, this day and forever. Amen.