An uninteresting collusion of circumstances locates me this week in Las Vegas, in a room not in but overlooking the Bellagio fountains (Of Claire de Lune fame, Oceans 11). The fountains are lovely, but one has only to raise one’s gaze a few degrees to behold, across the boulevard, a full skyscape of electronic billboards sufficient to justify the name "Sin City."
Sunday morning, having awakened and dressed for church before other family members, I decided to get some air and light exercise by strolling through the Bellagio — my main excuse being an interest in the prices at the highly-esteemed (I’m told) buffet there. The holiday decorations in the cavernous main lobby are splendid, of course. On the other hand, the spectacle of scattered tourists from all nations playing slots alone on Sunday morning the week of Christmas was more than a little morose. (I should have invited some to a morning worship service with me, but I didn’t.)
The church service later that morning, just a couple of miles down Tropicana, including sacred Christmas music and testimonies from various "ordinary" members of the congregation,was as genuine and touching and grounded in faith in Christ as one could wish; its spirit seemed wholly untouched by the wider environment. We were deeply grateful for our time on this miraculous little island of faith.
Then yesterday we found ourselves hiking down the boulevard toward the aquarium at Mandalay Bay (a serious hike, I found). We found ourselves passing through shopping malls, unsurprisingly. I was struck by the aggressively anti-Christian theme which is now apparently common in branding and marketing all manner of merchandise. For example, it seems that the Apostle James’ identification of "pure religion" as visiting the fatherless and widows, and keeping oneself unspotted from the world, has been surpassed now by a brand of blue jeans: "True Religion." And then there was a jacket, sort of dark and punkish in style, I suppose, but prominently embroidered with the words "King of Kings." Maybe the only way to be edgy anymore is to confront any presumed residues of transcendence out there as directly as possible.
And speaking of residues: Back at the Bellagio on Sunday, as I concluded my stroll and exited the hotel/casino, I thought I heard some familiar tones from the direction of the fountains. I rushed over to a balcony overlooking the artificial lake, and found myself in the middle of a rousing (instrumental) presentation of the Hallelujah chorus from Handel’s Messiah — of all things. In my mind echoed the words "King of Kings, and Lord of Lords" All this with fountains rising rhythmically maybe a hundred feet in the air to mark this glorious proclamation. No doubt the programmers of the music and fountains had little interest in the actual meaning of Handel’s composition. But this did not detract from my experience, which was in a way enhanced by the stark contrast with the billboards across the street. When the billboards and the slot machines are gone, and the shops — who knows? — are filled with wholesome and useful products, then maybe the fountains, in their glorified form, will still be here, and the whole city (should it somehow be preserved) will rise at once with the illuminated waters, and join in the praise: "and He shall reign forever and ever . . . "
