Mark 6:14-29
Just about every person
who has ever had the pleasure of working a menial job has had the same sort of
daydream at least once. Now, the job may have been different—maybe he was a
dishwasher at a big chain restaurant, maybe she mopped the floor at the local
grocery store, maybe they took drive thru orders and salted the fries—whatever
the case, they likely (at one time or another) had the whole thing laid out in
their minds, and they were just waiting for just the right moment, just the right
incident to set the whole thing into motion. I had heard my fair share of such
stories, though I had never witnessed any firsthand. They all usually followed
the same pattern: worker has been ridden hard by his or her boss about
something seemingly meaningless like the direction she sweeps the dirt on the
floor or the way he stocks the shelves in the supply closet, until that one day
when it’s all too much and the worker snaps, begins telling the boss everything
she thinks about him, lets him know just how horrible he really is, how much
everyone really hates him but no one has the guts to tell him. It’s usually a
somewhat dramatic affair, and depending on who is telling such a story, it
either ends with nothing really happening as everyone goes back to work, or (in
the more dramatic stories) the worker yells, “I quit!” as the store erupts in
applause and the boss slinks back into his office, shamed by the fry cook who
just called him out on all his shortcomings. Those sorts of stories are the
kind folks often like to hear when they’re feeling a bit depressed and
oppressed, especially at work. They’re the kind of “truth to power” stories
that feel grounded in reality, like there might be a small glimmer of hope for
those who seem to be on the unending side of misfortune.
After all, don’t we all
like a good story about some underdog speaking truth to power, a story about
someone who stands up for what’s right in the face of dire consequences?
Whether it’s a story about a worker walking out of her job with her head held
high after putting the manager in his place, a story about a witness before
congress telling those out-of-touch politicians to pull their heads out of
their—offices and pay attention to the problems of real folks, or a story about
a long-haired, country preacher who tells the governor his marriage is an act
of immorality and winds up with his head on a plate—don’t we all like a good
story of someone speaking truth to power? I mean, isn’t that what this story
before us this morning is?
Herod, one of the
tetrarchs of Judea (that is, one of three sons of Herod the Great—the one from
the nativity story—who had some sort of political power over the region of
Judea) had married Herodias, his brother’s wife, and John the Baptist has
called him out on his very public and very obvious sin. In verses eighteen through twenty we’re told, “John had been telling Herod, ‘It
is not lawful for you to have your brother's wife.’ And Herodias had a grudge
against him, and wanted to kill him. But she could not, for Herod feared John,
knowing that he was a righteous and holy man, and he protected him. When he
heard him, he was greatly perplexed; and yet he liked to listen to him. "
John speaks the truth to Herod about the sin of his marrying his brother’s wife
(who, by they way, practically has the same name as him…but whatever), so Herod
(most likely at the urging of Herodias) has John imprisoned, but not killed,
because Herod is sort of intrigued by the other things John has to say.
Now, we know the rest of
the story, right? John’s been imprisoned, and while he’s spending time in his
cell, Herod throws a party, where his daughter (who is also named Herodias in
this text, but in other traditions is called Salome or is referred to as the
daughter of Herodias) dances for him and his guests, and he is so, let’s say,
taken by her dancing that he promises her whatever she wants, so after asking
her momma what she wants (remember, Herodias has a grudge against John), the
daughter asks for John’s head on a platter, and Herod (not wanting to embarrass
himself after making such a lofty promise without following through) has John
beheaded. Therefore, the moral of this story is “speaking truth to power is
necessary, but it is dangerous and could get you killed.” That’s it. We’ll have
the invitation now, a benediction, and then we can all go home...right?
But if that’s what this
whole story is about—John calls Herod out on his apparent sin and winds up dead
for his boldness—if that’s all there is when it comes to speaking truth to
power, then all this is about is how important it is to be right and having the
courage to die to prove it, and there is no way that’s all this is about.
There’s no way that’s what all the gospel is about. I mean, that’s what we’re
talking about, right? the gospel? It’s why Mark includes this story in the
first place, because even though Jesus isn’t in the story at all about John and
Herod and Herodias, it’s the very news about Jesus reaching Herod that sparks
the man’s memory about John. It’s the news about Jesus and his gospel that
makes Herod fear that John himself has come back from the dead—new head and
all—to haunt him. This isn’t a story about being right and dying just to prove
it. This isn’t a story about sticking it to the man and winding up dead for
being so bold. No, this is a story about speaking truth to power as a way of
calling out the very absurdity of power as it is driven by lust, selfishness,
fear, and sin.
When John tells Herod, "It
is not lawful for you to have your brother's wife," John is
stating the letter of the law, the law which Herod no doubt knew before he
carried out the maneuvers required to marry Herodias, so it’s not John’s
identifying Herod’s faults that land the preacher in jail—Herod and everyone
else already knew what Herod was doing. No, what lands John in jail and
eventually with his head cut off, has nothing to do with his pronouncement of
sin and everything to do with the embarrassment it brought, with the shame that
came with his public proclamation. It wasn’t about the truth of the law; it was
about the revealing of wrong motivations, the revelation of selfishness, and
the fear that someone might have found a crack in the ruler’s power and now
others might exploit it. John was killed because he embarrassed Herodias by
showing just how limited and foolish out ideas of power really are, because
they couldn’t help but be afraid of what John’s words might have let loose upon
them and their “power.”
See, Herod begins to
think John has come back from the dead because Jesus seems to be doing the same
thing John did—revealing the absurdity of power, turning our ideas of strength
on their heads by showing what real power looks like in the strength to resist
retaliation and instead offer grace and forgiveness. Herod thinks John has come
back from the dead, because he hears of Jesus doing and teaching some of the
same things John did, because Jesus teaches that real strength, real power, is
found not in the ways one is able to execute orders and prisoners at the whim
of his dancing daughter but in the strength it takes to love and pray for our
enemies in a way that is more than just a religious veneer of lip-service.
Herod thinks John has come back from the dead, because like Jesus, John spoke
truth to power by revealing that we are all—every, single one of us—actually
and entirely powerless, which means we all actually need each other, that we
all need God, that we all need to love one another without all of this petty,
meaningless, useless desire for power over one another.
That’s why Herod seems t
be haunted by the ghost of John the Baptist; it’s why he can’t help but think
that Jesus is really just John, back form the dead, because, for Herod, John
was a symbol of the truth all of us in any position of power eventually come to
realize: we’re actually completely powerless, and we’re only getting by on the
collective fear, shame, and selfishness of those around us. We’re all too
afraid to admit we’re weak, all too afraid to admit we need help some days just
to walk outside, all too afraid to tell someone we love them, all too afraid to
let things go, to look weak, to look stupid, to be wrong, to need someone just
to hold us and tell us we’re loved. That’s what Herod was afraid of when he
heard John and when he heard Jesus. That’s what was really haunting Herod—not
the ghost of John the Baptist, back from the grave to follow him around and
point out his mistakes. No, Herod was afraid that John (and of course, Jesus)
knew what he already knew, that he was really powerless, just like we all are.
You see, speaking truth
to power isn’t just about some opportunity to make truth claims in the presence
of those who need to hear them. Speaking truth to power isn’t just about
calling out some politician on his or her lies or trying to prove that you are
more right than someone else. No, speaking truth to power is about speaking
that truth that we are all—every, single, beautiful and broken one of
us—powerless. That there really isn’t a thing we can do by ourselves, on our
own, without it being somehow tainted with the dirt of our own selfishness and
sin. Speaking truth to power is about admitting that first and foremost to
ourselves and understanding that we are powerless, that we need each other,
that we need love—to give and receive love. Speaking truth to power is about
calling out the absurdity of our very ideas about what power is, because it’s
not about saying we’re right and being willing to die to prove it. It’s about
saying we’re loved and being willing to die to prove that. Amen.
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