Well, that’s a lousy story for a Sunday morning, isn’t it? Packed
with guilty fear, questions of incest, plottings of vengeance, manipulation of
children, murder… it’s hard to read. It should
be hard to read.
And in a gospel where most of the stories have a relatively
happy ending – a healing, a miracle, freedom from the demonic – it’s jarring to
come across one that ends with human evil killing a man of God.
It’s also a
gospel story in which Jesus is almost peripheral. It comes as a flashback, triggered
by the news that Jesus’ disciples are out two by two, sharing stories and
healings. As Jesus’ fame spreads, everyone speculates on where this miraculous
new rabbi has sprung from, and Herod feels haunted by his guilty conscience:
Uh-oh, the
prophet I murdered has come back to life, even stronger.
The moral of
this terrible story isn’t at the end. It’s right at the top, revealed by Herod’s
haunting: God’s power and purpose in the world can’t be murdered. God’s work in
the world can’t be halted by our human errors, our fear, our sinful
inattention. God’s will can’t be suppressed even by death.
If you think there’s some foreshadowing there, you’re right.
But it’s not just that the resurrection of Jesus will be good news at the end
of this story. It’s good news at the beginning of this dark flashback that the
Word of God can’t be killed by the government, by intentional suppression or by
the wrongs we do while we’re trying to avoid embarrassment.
Because that’s apparently why Herod killed John the Baptist.
He orders the murder of a man who intrigues and interests and challenges him –
a man who he listens to for the word
of God – in order to avoid being embarrassed, shamed in front of his guests for
breaking a foolishly extravagant promise.
It’s tragic that that’s what kills the prophet John. But it
happens all the time.
This is, perhaps, the gospel story that sounds the most like
our nightly news: tragedy caused by a messy mix of resentments, anxieties, fears
and divisions. And just like our daily headlines rarely feature healing
forgiveness, there’s no gentle healing, no clean forgiveness of the sins in the
story of Herod and John. But the good news that the Word of God persists, in
spite of sin and murder, introduces the story without cleaning it up.
Herod’s reaction to that good news is worth paying attention
to. His sense of haunting discomfort might even be familiar to many of us.
Think about it – have you ever done something you wish you
hadn’t?
Raise your hand if you have never felt bad about a decision
or an action.
Or if you’ve never hurt someone else without deliberately intending
to.
So most of us know then, what regret feels like. How it can haunt
you, like it haunts Herod, when something – even a good thing – reminds you of
the damage you wish you hadn’t done.
But did you notice, today, that regret is not the end of the
story? It’s where the story begins as we heard it today. Because the flip side
of Herod’s haunting regret is the news we
need to hear: that the stupid, mean, damaging, inattentive hurt we’ve done –
our sins – cannot stop the Word of God,
the healing and grace and power of God, from filling the world and growing
stronger.
Jesus comes, bearing forgiveness and healing and inspiration
and resurrection, not to erase our regrets, but to bring us into God’s story in
the midst of them; into the working out of God’s purpose in the world, even
while we’re still tangled in our messy human weakness.
Mark sets this messy story right in the middle of the mission
of the disciples. It’s triggered by their going out in the world, full of power
to heal and teach and invite joy. Then we recall the murder of John, followed
immediately with the disciples coming to Jesus to report on their success in
healing and spreading good news. I wonder if Mark wants us to see Herod –
sinful, messy, broken Herod – in the midst of that good news, and to rejoice
for him that he hasn’t killed the
word of God.
Just as we should rejoice that none of the hurtful things you
and I have done, or left undone – as we’ll confess together in a few minutes –
can suppress or stop or even slow down the power and purpose of God in the
world.
We confess our sins so that we can see that truth, and let
go of the fear of guilt that holds us back from rejoicing in and sharing God’s
redeeming purpose.
We confess our sins, and remember this messy gospel story, so
that we can dance in the presence of God.
Just like David.
In the fragmented excerpt of his story that we read this
morning, we hear about David dancing in the streets, and about the feasting,
music and dance that celebrate bringing the Ark, the physical symbol of God’s
presence, into Jerusalem. But when all the parts of that story are told, you
notice that David’s dancing happens right in the midst of messy, petty, human
sin.
There’s the embarrassment, the shame, that Michal feels at
the sight of David’s naked exuberance, and that she tries to share with him,
burdening the celebration with greasy human fears about status and pride.
And there’s the missing bit of today’s story: where the
power of the Ark kills one of its bearers, and David abandons the symbol of
God’s presence in someone else’s house out of fear, and doubt, and maybe guilt.
The biblical historians aren’t as specific about David’s motivation as Mark is
about Herod’s, but one notices that David is quick to head back to claim the
ark for his own when it turns out that it’s reported to be showering its keeper
with blessings.
But whether David’s triumphal claiming of the ark is
motivated by relief of doubt and fear, or by normal human greed for free good
things, for blessings, this story, like Herod’s story, is clear that neither
human failings and sin, nor the fears and doubts that cause our wrongs, can
stop the power and purpose of God from getting to where God wants them to go. And
that dancing in the street – pure, exuberant celebration of the presence of God
– is entirely appropriate, even in the presence of shame and doubt and sin.
None of us – or very very few of us – are free of regret,
error, sin or fear. But none of that can stop or suppress or kill the power and
purpose of God.
So it’s right, a good and joyful thing, to dance anyway, in
the presence of God. It’s right to dance – or to sing, or laugh, or play or
shout, however you express exuberant joy in God’s presence – in the midst of
all that’s wrong. Because that exuberant celebration lets us turn our whole
heart and being over to God, whose purpose and power cannot be stopped, by us, by
evil, or by anything.
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