In preparation for our pilgrimage to Rome this fall, I invited the pilgrims to read a novel: Quo Vadis (kwo VAH-dis), by the Polish writer Henryk Sienkiewicz (shen-KAY-vich) written in 1896. 130 years ago. Quo Vadis is Latin for: Where are you going?
This historical novel which won the Nobel Prize for literature is set in Rome during the reign of Emperor Nero in the 1st century, the height of Roman power and, not coincidentally, the depth of its corruption. Rome at its most influential was also at its most self-referential. Everything orbited around the Emperor. Everything was filtered through what Nero wants, what Nero thinks, what Nero fears, what Nero will reward or punish on any given day.
And into that world, quietly at first, then undeniably, comes Christianity. What Christianity does, what Sienkiewicz shows us with extraordinary care, is that it turns people inside out. Through inclusion, through forgiveness, through a core commitment to the other, Christianity does what no army could: it fundamentally changes the culture, and as a result, unintentionally, begins to unravel the Roman Empire.
Rome, and Nero to the extreme, built its power on bodies. Bodies to work; bodies to move; bodies to intimidate; bodies to torture. For life, the logic of Nero goes, lives in the body, and if the body can be controlled then power can be amassed.
It is that logic that led to the Colosseum, where Nero had those who crossed him, or even just irritated him, torn apart by wild animals and gladiators. He had them publicly crucified and tortured. And if he was in a better mood, maybe just exiled them to the furthest corner of the empire. It depended on how he felt in his body, when he got up in the morning.
And the logic of Nero worked. It worked because bodies can be broken. But it was also fleeting, like a gasp, where every breath is just one breath disappearing in anxious anticipation that the next breath may never come. Rome was an empire panting. Sensing that the minute the body goes, so too does power.
And so, they double down. That is the logic of Nero… to do the same thing over and over again, and more so, expecting different results. Enter the Christians. With every Christian body broken, every martyr made, every lash employed from the dais of Nero, more Christians appeared.
Sienkiewicz captures this in a scene between the Apostle Paul and the Roman patrician Petronius. Petronius was a brilliant, charming, beautiful man who can see exactly what Nero is and yet cannot bring himself to leave the privilege that proximity to power provides.
In essence Paul says to him: No one is safe in Nero’s Rome. The closer you are to him, the less safe you become. Then Paul suggests: Wouldn’t the whole world be better, wouldn’t Nero himself be better, if he were a Christian? It is this question that runs like a thread through the novel.
Petronius agrees. He sees it. He simply cannot make the leap away from it. And when Nero finally turns against him, which is inevitable, Petronius ends his own life rather than face what is coming. He is too immersed in the logic of Nero to leave it, and yet, too tied to the privilege and the pampering of his body to relinquish it to the whims of Nero.
Petronius, it turns out, means “the rock.” His name holds the same Latin root as the Apostle Peter’s, the same word Jesus uses when he says: upon this rock I will build my church. But a name has no life beyond the body, a rock is just a stone over the tomb – unless dedicated to something bigger than the logic of Nero. Peter makes a declaration about God, and upon his name the church is built.
Which brings us to the road outside Caesarea Philippi, where Jesus turns to his disciples and asks: Who do people say that the Son of Man is? The disciples answer with what they have heard: John the Baptist, Elijah, Jeremiah, one of the prophets. All reasonable answers. All ways of locating Jesus within the existing frame of reference.
Then Jesus asks: but who do YOU say that I am?
That question is the turning point. It moves away from what other people think, what the culture has decided, what the existing categories allow. And asks for a personal declaration, a stance. Peter answers: You are the Messiah. The Son of the living God.
And that answer turns Peter (and whole the world) inside-out, inverted from the logic of the body, from the place where power is located and capable of being manipulated by Nero, toward the living God in the person of Jesus Christ.
And once that declaration is made, that Jesus Christ is the Son of the Living God said, known, and owned – then everything changes. If the declaration is true, then everything changes.
And what changes is that the center is no longer built around self-referential power. Resurrection crushes it by superseding death… Death no longer has dominion, and thus the body that is broken may rejoice (Ps 51:8), to quote the Psalmist, and the logic of Nero is defanged.
Christianity emerges, a new logic, built upon the rock of Peter’s declaration: You are the Messiah, the Son of the Living God.
This declaration changes the world. Weak words become powerful: words like grace, mercy, forgiveness, compassion, empathy, kindness, patience, hospitality, generosity. Words of weakness under the logic of Nero, but within the logic of Jesus Christ became the dynamic essence of what power really is.
And Paul’s question to Petronius reemerges: imagine how much better the world would be if Nero was truly a Christian.
And that question still inflames arguments today, because Nero keeps reappearing, even in Christian clothing – a wolf if you will. The list of Nero’s has a long lineage, burrowing its way back into the rubbish bin of history.
But when the lodestar is the presence of the living God, not the leader, not a tribe, not my body, not the stuff that is possessed, but the presence of the living God, what emerges are people who seek God by loving the things that God loves.
Sienkiewicz captures this sense in the chaos of Rome burning and Nero fiddling. The Christians run toward the flames to help all those in need. And as they do they meet people who have wronged them, people who have hurt them, people who have tortured their families, and they meet them with forgiveness, not because they were not wronged, but because Jesus Christ is the Son of the Living God.
And if that is true, if that is a core truth in all creation, then what has been done can be forgiven. Not because it doesn’t matter, but because God is the ground beneath us; God is the reference point, beyond the self, beyond the body, and therefore the other is the one through which we engage and experience the love of God: not because they are lovable, but because God is love. Forgiveness is inevitable, a foregone conclusion for the Christian, because the soul is streaming into each of us from God no matter what we think, believe, want or do. And since every person is a soul, loved by God in equal measure: Nero, Petronius, Paul, Peter, me and you alike, connected to God by grace, not earned, then forgiveness is not ours to withhold. For if there is a soul in front of us, then they are worthy of forgiveness because God is love.
This theology unfolds in Quo Vadis as the Christians rush back to save souls from the fires of Rome. Their impulse to HELP comes from the same source as forgiveness: you cannot genuinely see a soul and withhold your assistance. And because each person is a soul first, to help them is not generosity, it is recognition of the love of God.
The Christians go toward the fire. They fight the flames, pull people out, shelter refugees, tend the wounded, give away what they have. They are helpful: indiscriminately, unconditionally, generously helpful.
Forgiveness and helpfulness are two powerful Christian imperatives, among many, that brings Nero’s logic to its knees. Not because that was the intention, but because that is the response to the truth of Peter’s declaration: You are the Messiah, the Son of the living God.
And so, we end here by asking: Quo Vadis – Where are you going?
For Sienkiewicz in his novel from the 19th century, the answer is found in the scene that gives the novel its name. Peter, overwhelmed, is encouraged by others to save himself and flee the fires of Rome. The logic is simple, save your body so you can teach and preach and continue to share the message that Jesus is the Messiah the Son of the living God.
And so, he does.
But then, on the road, outside the city he encounters Jesus walking the other direction. Toward Rome. Peter asks: Quo Vadis, Domine? Where are you going, Lord? And Jesus answers: I am going to Rome to be crucified again. Peter turns around and follows.
And I suppose that is the whole point of this sermon. Because the declaration is true: that Jesus is the Messiah, the Son of the living God, then we must turn back toward the fire.
So with that in mind, I invite you to wonder, Quo Vadis? Where are you going? What fire do you need to turn back to?