Why the Journey to Christmas Begins in Rome

Rediscovering Advent’s True Meaning in a World of Suffering and Divine Promise

December 1, 2024
First Sunday of Advent, Year C
St. Stephen’s UMC, Burke, VA
Romans 8:18–25 (NRSVUE)*
*A Sermon Series on Fuquay’s The Way to Bethlehem

For this season of Advent — a time of anticipation and preparation for the coming Christ — we will base our sermon series on Rob Fuquay’s book titled On the Way to Bethlehem: An Advent Study.

Throughout this series, we will visit four key places, starting with Rome, then moving to Jerusalem and Nazareth, and finally arriving in Bethlehem. My prayer is that as we embark on this journey together, the Spirit will guide us closer to the humble manger in Bethlehem, where we encounter Love Incarnate — God-with-us — the one named Wonderful Counselor, Mighty God, Everlasting Father, and Prince of Peace.

You may wonder why we start with Rome. All the other locations seem straightforward. The Gospel of Luke begins in Jerusalem, where the angel announced Elizabeth’s pregnancy to Zechariah who was serving in the temple. Then it moves to Nazareth, where the same angel announced the pregnancy news to Elizabeth’s much younger cousin, Mary. Afterward, Mary and Joseph had to travel to Bethlehem, where Jesus was ultimately born.

So, why does this Advent journey start in Ancient Rome?

Just like how people consider Washington D.C. as a focal point of America’s power and influence, Rome symbolizes the power and influence that makes up its empire which stretched vastly across Europe, North Africa, and the Middle East, including the regions of Judea where much of the New Testament narrative takes place.

This Roman Empire is often regarded as one of the most successful civilizations in human history. During the period of the Pax Romana, which means “Roman Peace” in Latin, the empire experienced centralized governance, economic prosperity, cultural flourishing, and relative stability — all the things we, humans, across time, hope for in their governments.

A key factor contributing to the period of the Pax Romana was the infrastructure developed under the reign of Caesar Augustus. During his forty-year rule, Augustus oversaw the construction of approximately fifty thousand miles of highways, creating an extensive network of roads that facilitated travel and communication. This network boosted trade, streamlined administration, and enabled the spread of ideas across the empire. Additionally, these roads allowed Roman legions to move swiftly, ensuring rapid responses to uprisings and external threats, thereby solidifying Rome’s control over its vast and diverse territories.

While the Pax Romana brought unprecedented peace and prosperity to Roman citizens, it came at a steep cost for many, particularly noncitizens and marginalized groups. High taxes were levied to sustain Rome’s massive military and ambitious infrastructure projects, disproportionately burdening conquered peoples and lower classes. Enslavement was widespread, with millions of individuals from conquered territories forced into servitude to fuel the empire’s economy and labor needs. Noncitizens lacked the legal protections and privileges of Roman citizens and were frequently exploited or oppressed under imperial rule. For many, the Pax Romana was not a time of peace but one of subjugation, inequality, and suffering under the heavy hand of empire.

Mary and Joseph were among those living under Roman occupation as Jews, part of the conquered peoples and noncitizens of the empire. And their journey to Bethlehem was not one of choice but of obligation, prompted by a decree from Caesar Augustus, calling for a census. And this census was a common tool of an empire, often used to increase tax revenues to support its vast ambitions.

So, imagine how these conquered people, including Mary and Joseph, felt as they trudged toward Bethlehem. There might have been a sense of helplessness as they complied with orders, knowing they had no choice. Perhaps there was skepticism and fear, wondering what new demands or hardships might further complicate their already difficult lives. Perhaps they felt resignation and complacency, accepting their reality that the only way to survive was to serve the empire without resistance. Or maybe they felt the weight of defeat and hopelessness, quietly echoing the psalmist’s cry: “How long, O Lord?” (Psalm 13).

Although we are no conquered people, perhaps we can relate to them in some way — especially to the feeling of helplessness before the forces that shape our lives. On a systemic level, we recognize policies and systems beyond our control that bring harm, prioritize profit over people, and perpetuate inequality or suffering, impacting countless lives, especially those who are marginalized and voiceless. On a personal level, we acknowledge forces that harm us and leave us feeling defeated, despite our deep longing for change — whether it be chronic illness, long-term addiction, destructive habits, abusive relationships, or loneliness. Scripture calls these forces, which operate on personal, systemic, and cosmic levels, “principalities and powers” (Eph 6:12). These forces can feel like chains of bondage and captivity, leaving us yearning for liberation and longing for a hope that can break through and set us free. This is the very starting point of our journey: Rome represents the seat of these principalities and powers, a place where “our hopes and fears are released and sometimes collide.” Thus, Advent begins with longing — longing for change, longing for freedom, longing for justice, longing for peace, longing for deliverance, longing for salvation, longing for the Savior.

Out of Israel’s longing for a Savior, Jesus Christ was born.

But that is only half of the Advent story.

The other half of the story is

that out of our longing for a Savior, Jesus Christ will come again.

Isn’t that the mystery of faith we proclaim?

Christ has died; Christ is risen; Christ will come again.

So, let me ask you:

• What do you long for in your helplessness?
• What is your Rome — the place where your hopes and fears are released and collide?
• What makes you echo the groaning of the psalmist: “How long, O Lord?”

The Apostle Paul speaks to our experience of longing in today’s scripture, written to the house churches in Rome who were expecting Jesus’ return within their lifetime. Their waiting for the coming of Christ met with the harsh reality of suffering. As you know, they were the church in Rome, the very seat of principalities and powers. Once again, in the midst of suffering, they longed for change, redemption, and restoration; they groaned for their Savior.

Paul writes to their experience, emphasizing that it is not just they but the whole creation that groans together for salvation, as if enduring the pains of labor. In other words, their shared suffering is not the end — it is a hopeful anticipation of new birth and new life. Although all they could see and feel now is indescribable pain, Paul encourages them to wait in eager longing and hope, for a wonderful gift of future glory is on the way.

And this expectant groaning of labor pains still applies to us today. We continue to wait in hopeful anticipation for new birth and new life, even in the face of the present sufferings in our world, which we experience and for which we intercede. And we remain hopeful because of the first fruits of the Spirit: the glimpses of God’s kingdom, the moments when the Holy Spirit moves among us, and the gifts of grace we witness every day through Christ. In other words, we remain hopeful because our God intercedes for us in our collective suffering.

Consider the glimpses of God’s kingdom, the moments when the Holy Spirit has moved among us, or the gifts of grace we have witnessed. These phrases often describe experiences that exceed our expectations and understandings. These capture divine surprises that defy our skepticism and cynicism. These embody the extraordinary love we receive from those who reflect Christ. These first-fruit experiences are what keep us hopeful in our suffering. And our state of hopefulness in labor pain produces in us not only trust and firmness in the faith, but also a different way of living. Through our words and actions, we reveal an alternative way of being in the world through sharing the gifts of the Spirit with those around us.

Again, I find Paul’s metaphor of labor pain brilliant. I remember being in a delivery room for almost twenty-four hours, being next to my wife as she endured intense pain and extreme fatigue. And we were there pushing for this baby to come out in hopeful anticipation, without any idea of what this baby would become, what gifts she would bring to our family, or how her presence would alter our lives.

As Paul writes in today’s scripture, hope that is seen is not hope, but we hope for what we do not see. And we do so with endurance, steadfastness, and perseverance — which are what the translated word patience tries to convey. I think this is both the most beautiful and frustrating part of our Christian journey: we do not hope for what is seen but for what we do not see. Our hope lies not in absolute certainty but in humble mystery. Our hope flourishes not in human preference but in divine imagination.

This is the very movement of our faith journey, revealed through the story of Advent. Out of Israel’s longing for a Savior, Jesus Christ was born in the most unexpected way possible — in a lowly manger as a helpless baby. Out of Creation’s longing for a Savior, Jesus brought salvation to us in the most unexpected way possible — through death on a cross and resurrection. Out of our longing for a Savior, Jesus has and will continue to reveal himself to us in unexpected ways. And out of the whole Creation’s longing for a Savior, we believe Jesus Christ will come again in the most unexpected way possible.

Dear church, let me ask you these questions once again:

• What do you long for in your helplessness and suffering?
• What is your Rome — the place where your hopes and fears are released and collide?
• What makes you echo the groaning of the psalmist: “How long, O Lord?”

Whenever we think about these things, we often wish — perhaps most of the time — that God would just act like a human empire, issuing decrees to put a swift end to our misery and all human sufferings. We wish God would just tell us imperatively what to do so we no longer have to deal with all these problems.

But, as the book On the Way to Bethlehem beautifully describes,¹

God does not decree. Rater, God births. God sends a baby, a Son. A Son who would be killed by the empire under which he was born, suffering a Roman crucifixion. Why? So that something new could be birthed in our hearts. Whatever change needs to happen in our world begins with our being born again. For what does creation wait for with eager longing? “For the revealing of the children of God.” [That’s] us, born again.

Despite how much we might wish the church could operate like an empire, the church is called to be more like a harvest field — patiently spreading the seeds of God’s kingdom in all soils, with hope that those seeds will sprout and grow in our hearts. Only then can we be born again, yielding a harvest of fruits to be shared with the world.

As we begin this Advent season, I pray that seeds of divine imagination take root in our hearts. May the story of Christmas be more than an occasion to revisit an old tale. May it become an invitation to leave behind our “Rome” with hopeful anticipation. As we draw closer to O little town of Bethlehem, may Christ be born anew in our hearts, and may we, too, be renewed and born again in Christ.

In the name of the Father, of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.

¹ Rob Fuquay, On the Way to Bethlehem: An Advent Study, 21–23.

Rev. Minoo Kim is an ordained elder in the United Methodist Church, currently serving in the Virginia Annual Conference. Follow his Medium publication to receive his latest sermons or check out his website minoowkim.com for his latest content. Peace!