“[T]he cathedral provokes a contemptuous world.”[1] That’s a line from a little poem by Rilke; it’s something Rodin had said. Rilke, the poet, for a time worked for Rodin, the sculptor, until they had a falling out as artists often do.

“[T]he cathedral provokes a contemptuous world.” That’s the line; they were words stuck enough in Rilke’s brain that he wrote them into poetry. They’ve got stuck in my brain too. “[T]he cathedral provokes a contemptuous world.” That’s an interesting way to put it, and in a sense that is exactly right. That’s exactly what cathedrals should do, all churches in fact. “[T]he cathedral provokes a contemptuous world.” The church is not the world, nor should it ever be. The church instead should provoke the world—like salt, like light, like holy scandal. For that’s the only way the world will be redeemed—by it’s first having been provoked.

It’s interesting that Rodin would have said it, and that Rilke would have written it down, for neither of them were believers in any recognizably Christian sense. Rodin worshipped sculpture, literally. Rodin used to read The Imitation of Christ, for instance, but each time he came across the word “God” he replaced it with word “sculpture.”[2] Sculpture was his idol. And Rilke’s relationship to Catholicism was just bizarre. They were worldlings—both of them—heathen artists, lapsed Catholics, pagans. But that’s exactly what makes that little line from that little poem even more interesting. “[T]he cathedral provokes a contemptuous world.” They recognized the cathedral was something different, that the church didn’t fit within the world and its sin, that the church was an enemy of all that—holy and hostile to all that is not holy. And that’s what I find so interesting, what gets me, that two hedonists would understand that—a truth many Christians would like, I think, to forget, that that’s what Christians and churches are called to do sometimes, and that is provoke a contemptuous world.

Not many people want that, though, do they—to provoke the world? The world’s flattery is nicer. It’s just more of a pleasant prospect to be praised and paid than to be ridiculed and persecuted. Fan mail is better than hate mail; your compliments feel better than your criticism. I wouldn’t be telling you the truth if I piously told you otherwise. But then again, I’m always a little nervous of the world’s praise. I worry about myself when I experience it; I worry about all those celebrity priests and bishops. Maybe I shouldn’t, but I do. Because I know there’s danger in it—in liking being liked by the world, in shaping one’s ministry or one’s church in such a way that it will fit more comfortably in the world.

I remember what Pope Benedict XVI said (long before he was pope), that “a bishop whose only concern is not to have any problems…is an image I find repulsive.”[3] He said that because that’s pretty much the sentiment of the New Testament. I mean, remember what Jesus said: “If you belonged to the world, the world would love its own; but because you do not belong to the world, and I have chosen you out of the world, the world hates you.”[4] Be ye not conformed to this age, Paul said.[5] “We have become like the world’s rubbish, the scum of all,” he said.[6] John, in the Book of Revelation, heard the Lord tell the church at Laodicea, “I will spit you out of my mouth.” But why did the Lord say that to them? Because those Christians in Laodicea said to themselves, “I am rich and affluent and have no need of anything.” “[A]nd yet you do not realize that you are wretched,” the Lord said to them.[7] They were comfortable in the world; they did not provoke it. Maybe their clergymen got along well with the world too; maybe some of them were famous; maybe they were praised. You see what I mean? You see why, although I prefer praise to criticism, I still get a little nervous about it?

Because we in the Church can sometimes too easily believe our own hype. We can mistake our comfort or our achievement for spiritual goodness. At the beginning of the Second Vatican Council, for instance, seeing all the pomp and worldly glory of the first Masses and opening ceremonies of the Council, the great Dominican theologian, Yves Congar, said the Church looked “prestigious and infatuated with itself, imprisoned in its own myth.”[8] Sometimes I think the Church hasn’t changed at all, only our tastes a little.

Anyway, I am only musing—and rather confusedly—out loud about problems in the Church and in my own ministry; nothing special or horrible, just ordinary problems. History lets us know how little and ordinary our problems are. But it’s just that when I read the story of Jesus, of how he got upset and made a whip to drive out the corrupt, how he turned tables over, I can’t help but easily understand why Jesus would have done that. Because perhaps, having made themselves too comfortable in the world, no longer provoking it, Jesus Christ did what he had to do; and that’s cleanse the temple of all that was corrupt. Because that’s just what God must do from time to time.

But here’s where it gets tricky, where we need to be careful. Jesus entered the temple to cleanse it; and so, thinking of this story in terms of our present circumstances, we can easily begin to think about all the things we think are wrong with the Church. Or we can even begin to think of this story in terms of all the things we think are wrong with our society, our nation. And we can begin to think about Jesus coming on the scene in all his righteous fury to teach them a thing or two, to set them straight. It’s tricky because if you meditate on this story in just slightly the wrong way, you can find yourself mired in politics and culture wars and silly ecclesiastical squabbles on Twitter; you can find yourself thinking about us and them, weaponizing the Gospel—ruining it.

Which is why it’s best to think of this story (at least at first) this way: as a story about you (about me too) but not about anyone else. Not yet. Yes, the Church needs cleansing, society needs redeeming, but it begins with you (and with me). You are a temple of the Holy Spirit.[9] Will you welcome Jesus into the temple that is you—to flip tables over and drive out what’s corrupt in you? It must begin with you (and with me). Judgment begins at the “household of God,” the Bible says.[10] “[W]hy should I be judging outsiders?” Paul asked the Corinthians.[11] He was worried about the morality of Christians, not the rest of the world. We Christians should be worried about our own morality first; and I should be worried about my morality before worrying about yours. Those ten commandments are addressed to you before they’re addressed to that person you silently judged yesterday. That’s how the perspective changes once we see this story in terms of us—of Jesus entering the temple that is you and the temple that’s me.

Which is, I guess, the question. Do you want Jesus to enter the temple that is you? Do you think you’d be able to stand it? Do you think you’d be able to let him flip over the tables you’ve got all your money on? Do you think you’d be able to let Jesus point out where you’re corrupt and where you need to change? Or am I too scared? Am I too comfortable? Am I afraid to provoke the world? These are very tough questions, which is probably why we so quickly deflect them and ask them of others. But we must learn to ask them of ourselves. For we won’t be worth much for the kingdom of God until we do. Amen.

[1] Rainer Maria Rilke, The Complete French Poems, 153

[2] Rachel Corbett, You Must Change Your Life, 263

[3] Joseph Cardinal Ratzinger, Salt of the Earth, 82

[4] John 15:19

[5] Romans 12:2

[6] 1 Corinthians 4:13

[7] Revelation 4:16-17

[8] Yves Congar, My Journal of the Council, 93 (14 October 1962)

[9] 1 Corinthians 6:19

[10] 1 Peter 4:17

[11] 1 Corinthians 5:12

© 2024 Rev. Joshua J. Whitfield