When Jesus of Nazareth told Pilate, “My kingdom is not of this world,” He wasn’t being poetic. He was naming a rupture, a severing between the power structures of empire and the new order He embodied: one marked by humility, vulnerability, and open arms rather than lush robes. And yet, in the centuries that followed, many corners of the Catholic Church still reach instinctively for gold, lace, and spectacle in their public worship.
A recent Reddit post titled “Thoughts on Pomp and Circumstance?” opened up an honest, if uneven, conversation about the place of ceremonial grandeur in the Church. Responses varied: some celebrated the beauty, tradition, and theological symbolism of ornate vestments and elaborate liturgy. Others questioned whether these aesthetics reflect the Gospel or obscure it. This essay engages the opinions favouring pomp and circumstance unapologetically from the position that the Gospel is on the side of simplicity, humility, and groundedness in lived holiness, not performative reverence or visual excess.
The heart of the matter is not lace vs. linen, Latin vs. vernacular, or Novus Ordo vs. Tridentine. The question is deeper: Do our worship practices reflect the Christ we claim to follow, or do they betray Him?
Opinions in Favour of Pomp and Circumstance
Many respondents express strong approval for traditional vestments, ornate displays, and ceremonial pomp within the Church, citing various reasons:
1) Display of the Church’s Majesty and Power
A common defence of liturgical opulence is that it honours Christ as King. Vestments, gold chalices, incense, and formal processions are said to signify His majesty, not the priest’s. The Church, some argue, merely reflects the glory of her Lord.
But what kind of king is Jesus?
When Satan offered Him “all the kingdoms of the world and their splendour,” Jesus refused without hesitation. “You shall worship the Lord your God and serve Him only.” (Matthew 4:10) Christ’s kingship does not operate on the logic of empire, status, or display. He entered history not robed in silk but wrapped in swaddling clothes. He departed it stripped of all dignity: naked, mocked, hanging from a Roman cross.
The Gospel never tells us Jesus wore anything suggestive of status. No colour-coded robes. No precious metals. His majesty was not expressed through garments but through acts: healing the sick, defending the outcast, confronting religious power. When He rode into Jerusalem, it was not on a warhorse but on a borrowed donkey. Everything about His kingship subverted expectations (and still does).
To honour Jesus as “King of the Universe” by adopting the aesthetics of worldly monarchs is to miss the point entirely. His throne is not a golden altar; it’s a cross. His crown is not gem-studded; it’s made of thorns.
2) The Identity of the Clergy
Some argue that vestments serve not to elevate the priest personally but to symbolise his role, his sacrificial surrender to Christ and the Church. The uniform, they claim, suppresses ego by directing attention to the office rather than the man. But the logic collapses under scrutiny.
In the Gospels, Jesus never signalled His identity through clothing. He revealed Himself through love, mercy, and confrontation with injustice. His humility was actual. He wore the garments of ordinary people. His final robe was not one of honour but of mockery, stripped from Him by soldiers and gambled away at the foot of the Cross.
John the Baptist, Jesus’ forerunner and prophet, wore camel hair and a leather belt. The apostles, too, bore no special uniform. When Jesus sent them out, He explicitly told them to take nothing extra, not even a second tunic (Luke 9:3). If the early Church’s leaders saw no need to visually distinguish themselves, why should the clergy who came after?
The suggestion that vestments conceal the ego may have the opposite effect: they visually centre the wearer. In a congregation of plainclothes laypeople, the elaborate vesture doesn’t anonymise the priest; it isolates and glorifies him. And in doing so, it risks shifting the centre of gravity from Christ present in the Eucharist, to Christ impersonated by a well-dressed man.
There is a deep irony in claiming that one has “given up everything” while wearing garments that no one else in the room could drape. If the goal is to disappear behind the office, why do we need gold-threaded robes to do it?
Christians should be known by their vestments, but by their love (John 13:35). If the Church needs costume to make its sacrifices visible, it may have lost sight of Christ.
3) Importance of Tradition and Continuity
One of the more anxious defences of pomp in the Church appeals to tradition. If we start stripping away vestments, liturgical flourishes, and inherited customs, we’re told, we risk a “snowballing effect”: the unravelling of continuity and identity. The post-Vatican II reforms are often cited as cautionary: the minimalist instincts of the 1960s are blamed for empty pews and declining reverence.
But this argument assumes that tradition is a static virtue, rather than a dynamic process that must be continually measured against the Gospel. Catholicism is not a museum exhibit but a body that is supposed to follow a living Christ, not just venerate the wardrobes of past centuries.
What’s often left unsaid is that many of these beloved traditions (vestments, processions, hierarchical aesthetics) arose in deeply imperial, classist, and politically compromised eras. They weren’t neutral expressions of piety but products of the Church adopting the language of power to survive or impress. If the aesthetic of clerical finery developed alongside monarchies and court culture, shouldn’t that give us pause? Jesus did not dress like Caesar. He didn’t tell the apostles to either.
Even the fear of a “slippery slope” reveals the deeper problem: that we trust the mechanics of inherited form more than we trust the living Gospel. But continuity for continuity’s sake isn’t faithfulness, it’s inertia. And often, it’s fear masquerading as reverence.
The real question is not “What did the Church wear in 1250?” but “Does this tradition make us look more like Jesus, or less?” If a tradition outlives its witness, it becomes theatre. And the Gospel doesn’t need actors, it needs disciples.
4) Beauty and Reverence
Aesthetics have long been used to defend ornate vestments and elaborate liturgies. Beauty draws people to God, the argument goes. The splendour of vestments and pageantry offers gravitas, reverence, and a glimpse of the divine. God deserves our best, so we clothe our worship in gold and lace.
But this raises a deeper question: what kind of beauty reveals God?
Our modern sense of beauty is often disfigured by superficiality. We conflate it with polish, symmetry, and luxury, mistaking appearance for essence. But the Gospel’s vision of beauty is not aesthetic; it’s ontological. The Crucifixion is not “beautiful” by any worldly measure. It is grotesque. Violent. Raw. And yet, it is the most sacred scene in history.
The same is true of the Nativity. There was no ornamentation in that stable: only blood, afterbirth, animal stink, and poverty. Yet Christians proclaim it as the moment heaven kissed earth. If we reserve beauty for the altar and not the alley, we have misunderstood it entirely.
Francis of Assisi embraced a leper and saw the face of Christ. He didn’t require stained glass or incense to know holiness. The first Christian liturgy didn’t happen beneath cathedral domes. It happened on the floor, where the Lord and King of the Universe stripped off His outer robe, knelt before His friends, and washed their feet. “I have set you an example,” He said. “Do as I have done.” (John 13:15)
Beauty in worship is not wrong. But when it begins to exclude, perform, or distance, it becomes a barrier. A distraction.
5) Otherworldly and Unique
A common refrain among defenders of liturgical pomp is that the Church must feel “otherworldly”, a sacred rupture from the everyday. The aesthetic, they say, sets it apart from the noise of the world, creating mystery and transcendence. As Fulton Sheen put it: “The Church needs to be otherworldly yet in the world… or else what’s the difference?”
But what if that’s the wrong kind of otherworldly?
Jesus never separated Himself from the world by attire, architecture, or ambience. He was recognisably human. So unremarkable, in fact, that Judas had to identify Him with a kiss. The Son of God didn’t descend robed in divine glow or clad in priestly linen. He came as an infant born amidst cattle, grew up under Roman occupation, worked with His hands, and walked among the sick and forgotten. His holiness was not costume-deep. It radiated through His thoughts, words, and actions.
To be “set apart” in the biblical sense is not to be visually dazzling, it is to be ethically, spiritually, and relationally distinct. That is the very meaning of holy. When Jesus said “they are not of the world, just as I am not of the world” (John 17:16), He wasn’t referring to aesthetic distance but to moral and spiritual fidelity.
The Church is supposed to be a scandal of love and humility in a world drunk on power and performance, not a theatre of extravagance. The incarnation is the great anti-performance: the God of the universe wrapped in flesh. If we think the Church must compensate for Jesus’ earthly ordinariness with drama, incense, and costumes, we’ve misunderstood the Gospel.
6) Symbolism and Dignity of Office
Defenders of liturgical regalia often distinguish between man and office. “The man is humble,” they say, “but the office deserves dignity.” Vestments, then, are symbols, visual reminders that the priest is not acting as himself but as in persona Christi, clothed in the weight of sacred responsibility.
Jesus was, and remains, the High Priest, the Logos incarnate, the mediator between God and humanity. And yet, He never donned ornate priestly garb. He wrapped Himself in human frailty. His office was declared in sweat, in tears, in silence before accusers. Not once did He invoke the “dignity” of His position to justify splendour. In fact, He rejected it.
If the Son of God found it fitting to kneel half-naked in the dirt to wash feet, why should His representatives be clothed in satin and gold?
The apostles were not sent out with colour-coded robes or symbolic adornments. They were told to go with one tunic, no sandals, and no bag. No script for the journey, just the Spirit and the Gospel. The dignity of their office was visible in their words and works, not their wardrobes.
Worse, when outward grandeur masks inward rot, it becomes scandalous. Jesus called the scribes and Pharisees “whitewashed tombs”, immaculate on the outside, but full of decay within (Matthew 23:27). If vestments become a way to launder human ego through the pretext of sacred office, then we are no longer worshipping God. We are dressing up our egos.
7) Historical and Scriptural Precedent
A favourite defence of pomp is its supposed biblical and historical pedigree. God commanded rich vestments for the Levitical priests. The Temple was adorned with gold and embroidery. After Christianity emerged from the catacombs, the Church Fathers developed elaborate liturgies, music, and priestly garb. Why reject what Scripture and tradition have long endorsed?
Because Jesus did.
The Levitical system was built for a priesthood that offered animals. But Jesus, the new and final High Priest, offered Himself. The entire logic of sacred space and priestly separation collapsed on Good Friday, when the veil of the Temple was ripped from top to bottom (Matthew 27:51), a deliberate signal that the age of ritual exclusivity was over.
Clinging to the aesthetics of a now-fulfilled covenant is not fidelity but regression. Jesus did not care for optics and the social proprieties of His time. He dismantled them by eating with sinners, touching lepers, and calling fishermen to spread the Good News. His instructions to His disciples—“take no sandals, no second tunic”—were concrete declarations of detachment from performative religiosity.
As for the Church Fathers: yes, many embraced liturgical beauty in post-persecution contexts. But they also disagreed, erred, and responded to the social and political pressures of their day. They were not infallible, nor unanimous. Their authority is not greater than Christ’s example. If a Father of the Church says to robe the priest in brocade, and the Son of God says to clothe yourself with humility, whom shall we follow?
Historical precedent means nothing if it contradicts Gospel witness. Jesus didn’t appeal to the tradition of the elders. He overturned it when it obscured the truth. The same test must apply to our own liturgical traditions: do they reveal Christ or replace Him?
8) Counterargument to “Humility”
When challenged on the excess of clerical finery, some defenders reach for a familiar defence: Wasn’t it Judas who objected to the woman pouring expensive perfume on Jesus? Didn’t Jesus praise her for the gesture?
Yes, but the comparison falls apart under scrutiny.
The woman anointed Jesus, not a Church leader. Her act was intimate, prophetic, and singular: a personal offering to the Son of God in preparation for His burial. Judas wasn’t wrong because he disliked extravagance. He was wrong because he resented love. To turn this episode into a blanket justification for institutional adornment is a category error. The woman’s offering was relational and immediate. Liturgical pomp is abstract and systemic.
Others argue that humility is internal, like fasting, that it need not be reflected in outward appearance. But this ignores the fact that outward appearance has always carried symbolic power, especially in worship. Paul’s instruction in 1 Corinthians 11 (that men uncover their heads and women cover theirs) wasn’t about piety as is often misinterpreted but about dismantling social markers of status. At the time, male headgear signified class distinction, while certain uncovered hairstyles signalled prostitution. Paul’s message was simple: leave your roles, reputations, and rank at the door. Come equal before God.
The same Gospel logic applies to vestments. If what we wear creates hierarchy, performance, or distraction, it’s not humility.
The Magi brought Jesus gold, frankincense, and myrrh, not so He could flaunt them, but because those gifts spoke to His identity and destiny. We never see Jesus (or Mary, or Joseph) parade these riches. There’s no Gospel account of ring kissing, perfumed robes, or ceremonially adorned apostles. And when Jesus was among the bleeding, the unclean, the poor, He didn’t ask them to change clothes before coming close.
9) Positive Impact on Attendance/Engagement
Some argue that pomp, colour, and ceremonial grandeur draw people in, that liturgical spectacle can act as a “doorway” to God. In an age of distraction and apathy, the reasoning goes, beauty and tradition can stir the soul, offering something transcendent. Without them, the Church feels too ordinary, and people leave.
But Jesus didn’t preach from marbled altars. He taught from boats, hillsides, courtyards, and the side of the road. His “doorway” to God was the corporal works of mercy. He didn’t lure people in with aesthetics. He revealed that God was already among them in the dirt, in their wounds, in their hunger.
The Church is not a theatrical venue, or a spiritual marketing agency tasked with curating an experience. Worship should not be reduced to a performance calibrated for visual impact, however solemn it might look and feel.
If the only way to keep people in the pews is through fabric and Latin, we’ve lost something far more important: the clarity of the message and the credibility of the witness.
The early Church grew not because it was visually impressive, but because it was morally magnetic. People were drawn to the way Christians lived, not dressed.
Yes, worship should have integrity. But if what’s attracting people is the ceremony rather than Christ, the engagement may be wide, but it will be shallow. A beautiful Mass might fill a church. Only the Gospel can fill a life.
10) Contrast with Modern Secularism/Protestantism
Some defend liturgical pomp as a bold stand against the tide of secularism or a rebuttal to Protestant “minimalism.” Vestments, Latin, and spectacle become symbols of tribal identity. This isn’t bland, diluted worship, the argument implies. Let them be intimidated.
But this framing (Catholic versus Protestant, traditional versus modern) is theologically lazy and a distraction from the only question that matters: Does it look like Jesus?
The Gospel doesn’t play culture wars. It never once asks us to differentiate ourselves visually from “the other.” It calls us not to intimidate, but to invite. Not to posture, but to serve. If our liturgical expression is more about distinguishing ourselves from outsiders (and even our own congregation) than embodying Christ for them, we’re doing it wrong.
Reducing Catholic priestly clothing to a visual rebuttal of Protestantism is ahistorical. Many Protestant traditions rejected clerical pomp not out of aesthetic stinginess but as a radical reclaiming of the simplicity of Christ and His apostles. Whether or not one agrees with their theology, their instinct to avoid personal spectacle wasn’t wrong but rooted in a desire for authenticity.
What the Church needs is not more reaction, but more reflection. If the power of our worship depends on how aggressively it asserts our identity over against “them,” then we’re not evangelising but cosplaying.
11) Support for Specific Orders/Figures
For some, support of pomp is personal. They point admiringly to figures like Cardinal Burke or the Institute of Christ the King Sovereign Priest (ICKSP), whose ornate vestments and solemn Latin liturgies exemplify a kind of “swagger.” In some corners of Catholic discourse, popes like Benedict XVI are praised for their “drip”, a term used unironically to describe their ecclesial fashion sense.
Let’s call this what it is: idolatry. There is nothing wrong with sensory engagement in worship. Sight, smell, sound, and movement can all be beautiful vehicles of encounter. But when these vehicles become the destination, when gold lace becomes more compelling than the Gospel, then we are no longer worshipping God. We’re worshipping vibe.
Jesus didn’t ask us to admire His wardrobe. He didn’t have one. He didn’t attract followers by “drip” or “flex.” He attracted them with His words, His wounds, and His refusal to wield power the way the world does. When people followed Him for spectacle, He resisted. “You seek me not because you saw signs, but because you ate your fill of the loaves,” He told the crowd in John 6.
Worship should not devolve into fandom. When our response to masses is to post “swag” pictures of princes of the Church, we’ve made our worship indistinguishable from celebrity culture.
The human heart is an idol factory, Calvin once wrote. And Catholicism, with its rich aesthetic history, is particularly vulnerable to turning signs into shrines. The antidote is not Puritan austerity. It is vigilance.
Christ Has No Need of Costumes
The argument for pomp in Catholic worship often cloaks itself in reverence. It speaks the language of beauty, dignity, tradition, transcendence. But strip the embroidery, and what you often find is anxiety: fear of secularism, fear of irrelevance, fear that simplicity means shallowness. So, we retreat into pageantry, mistaking it for holiness.
But Christ doesn’t need defending by aesthetics. He doesn’t need stagecraft to stay relevant. He has never depended on costumes to be compelling. The Gospel didn’t erupt in marble sanctuaries or behind gilded curtains. It was born in a feeding trough and consummated on a Roman execution stake.
We are not called to mimic the splendour of earthly kings. We are called to follow the crucified one who had nowhere to lay His head, who washed feet, who wore a crown of thorns. The dignity of the priesthood is not in how it dresses, but in how it dies to itself daily.
If our liturgy dazzles but does not disciple, if it awes but does not humble, then it is not Christ we are honouring. It is our own sense of control, our own craving for spectacle.
Let us have reverence. Let us have beauty. But let them be cruciform. Let them look like Jesus.
And if they don’t, strip them down.
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