SERMON FOR JULY 11, 2021         TEXT: MARK 6:14-29
      My daughter’s funky California high school had a remarkable drama department. As a freshman, Lucy first got involved by helping with a fellow student’s senior project — a film about zombies, which went on to win an award at the Berkeley Film Festival. Saturday mornings through the late winter and early spring I would drive her to the nearest BART station. She would board the train carrying her over-sized makeup kit and travel to that day’s location. One time she called me in desperation on her way back from a set in San Francisco. The director, and by now the love of her young life, needed extras for the scene being filmed, so she had been drafted to play zombie #17. At every stop on the train ride home some boarding passenger, surveying her torn attire, blood-stained face, and zombie-blackened eyes, offered to call the police on her behalf.  Could I just pick her up at the West Oakland station?
     By the time Lu was a senior herself, she had honed her make-up skills, built sets and acted onstage in various roles. The school’s drama teacher regularly chose spring productions that would feature graduating students. For Lucy, who was also a dancer, he chose a version of the play Salome by Oscar Wilde. Salome, although not named in the Bible, is identified by the ancient historian Josephus as the stepdaughter of King Herod who sealed John the Baptist’s doom. I worked on every school play, helping with costume changes and making sure the young actors were in place for their cues. I got Lucy in and out of her velvet finery and made sure she had the veils tucked into her waistband for the dance she had choreographed. She made her entrance, while I remained backstage. At the next-to-last performance, one of the other parent volunteers took over for me, insisting that I must see Lucy’s stunning performance. Stunning was the right word. My girl had become this bewitching creature, who entranced Herod and his guests with her dancing. And then she happily followed her mother Herodias’ lead, demanding the head of John the Baptist with an unnerving combination of girlish petulance and wicked desire.  When presented with her prize, she lifted it off the platter, letting the blood pour down her arms before she kissed the grisly face. Herod stood behind her, paralyzed with terror and disgust.      
     What a troubling story today’s Gospel tells. The news of the Baptist’s death does not bode well for Jesus. His execution sounds a threatening note early in the Lord’s ministry. Those identified as God’s prophets generally pay a heavy price; people don’t like being chastised publicly for their wrongdoing. And grave danger lies in being seen through the Baptist-obsessed lens of the ruling family. King Herod, despised by his Jewish subjects and beholden to his Roman masters, felt none too secure in his position to begin with. His brother’s widow, now his wife, hated John; she and her daughter colluded in bringing about his death; they had set the king up. Imagine the bitterness raging in that family as a result.  Herod was haunted by the deed; he feared the Baptist had come back from the grave. The king has been at war within himself, and Jesus now walks innocently into the crossfire.
     For, according to Mark’s gospel, Herod’s relationship with John the Baptist is a complicated one. We are told that “Herod feared John,” meaning not just that he was alarmed by him (and given the biblical description of the prophet, he was definitely off-putting) or afraid of the power John had among the people. The king revered him, “knowing that he was a righteous and holy man.” He acceded to his wife’s wishes and had the prophet imprisoned, but he would not commit murder to satisfy her rage. Herod protected John. And this is most interesting. Mark tells us that “[w]hen he heard him he was greatly perplexed; and yet he liked to listen to him.” Herod is conflicted, uncomfortable no doubt with John’s condemnation of his marital state, yet still drawn to the man. The Greek text uses the word “sweetly”; Herod didn’t just like to listen to John; he found sweetness in the prophet’s words. He is open to hearing more, to growing in understanding. The possibility of change in the light of God’s word is there. 
     But still Herod falls prey, not to the evil scheming of his wife and stepdaughter, but ultimately to his own pride. Mark writes, “The king was deeply grieved; yet out of regard for his oaths and for the guests, he did not want to refuse her.” Courtiers, officers and the leaders of Galilee, the base of his power, all gathered to celebrate Herod’s birthday — he could not be seen as vacillating. He has made a promise publicly to this foolish girl; and so to appear honorable before them, he acts dishonorably. He doubles down in the face of this atrocious demand, lest he be seen as weak and fearful when dealing with John. Political expedience wins out this fateful day. 
     It does so again, according to Luke’s gospel, when after his arrest, Jesus appears before Herod. “He questioned him at some length, but Jesus gave him no answer. The chief priests and the scribes stood by, vehemently accusing him. Even Herod with his soldiers treated him with contempt and mocked him; then he put an elegant robe on him, and sent him back to Pilate. That same day Herod and Pilate became friends with each other; before this they had been enemies” (Luke 23:9-12).
     The king’s abortive encounter with the holy power of God makes it plain that things have not changed much here on planet earth over the centuries. Corruption and cruelty still hold sway in the halls of power. And the failings of the likes of Herod challenge us to consider our own lives. We all have choices to make, some clearly life-changing, others deceptively ordinary. The pride that drives us, the compromises we could make, the wrongs we tolerate — these tempt us. In the time of trial God’s word of grace, perplexing and sweet, calls us to break free. Amen.