Preached on Sunday, July 14, 2024, the Eighth Sunday after Pentecost, at Trinity Cathedral, Little Rock.

“Immediately the king sent a soldier of the guard with orders to bring John’s head. He went and beheaded him in the prison, [and] brought his head on a platter…” (Mark 6:27–28). One can only wonder how Colin chose hymns for a Gospel reading like that one. And honestly, one can only wonder how anyone can say anything at all about this passage from Mark’s Gospel.

For one, it’s difficult to say something about this passage because it’s just so strangely dark and disturbing, even for the Gospels (books that, I need not remind you, have at their heart the torturous death of an innocent man). Even for the Gospels, this passage is dark and disturbing, strangely detailed, too: John the Forerunner, cousin of our Lord, taken prisoner, his body decapitated, and his head served on a platter fit for a king. Even weirder still, this scene comes not in the frightening, final days of our Lord’s way upon earth. No, this scene comes amidst the miracles of Christ––many healings and feedings––and amidst those memorable parable-teachings––mustard seeds and lights under bushel baskets. Amidst all of this Gospel goodness breaking out across the Galilean countryside, we hear of this terribly troubling event, this, the martyrdom of Saint John the Baptizer.

Many of us here know all too well how difficult it is to speak to these kinds of moments: the ones that seem to come out of nowhere, the ones that are just awful, even when everything else seems to be just glorious. What’s there to say? Moments like this leave us shocked and speechless, perhaps like John’s disciples, who come to retrieve their teacher’s body and bury it in a tomb, without so much as a thought or a word. How can we say anything?

And! And it’s difficult to say anything about this passage, I think, because of what causes this terrible thing to happen in the first place. Notice what sets all of this into motion. John is taken into police custody because of his protests against Herod marrying Herodias, wife of his brother, Philip. “It is not lawful for you to have your brother’s wife,” John protested (Mark 6:18). Herodias held a grudge against John, but Herod feared John. Herod knew him to be righteous and holy, and so, he protected him. But an opportunity presented itself to the begrudged Herodias: a birthday for her husband, Herod, jam-packed with the “who’s who” of his court, his government, and the whole of Galilee. Herod’s daughter––also named Herodias––comes in to dance, the whole party is wooed, and right there, Herod’s resolve breaks: “Ask me for whatever you wish, and I will give it…Whatever you ask me, I will give you, even half of my kingdom” (Mark 6:22–23) Mother and daughter conspire and make their demand: “the head of John the Baptist on a platter” (Mark 6:25). “The king was deeply grieved,” Scripture tells us, but such grief wouldn’t outweigh his “regard for his oaths and for the guests” (Mark 6:26). And just like that, John is killed.

It might just be me, but the things that cause this terrible scene to unfold leave me at a loss for words: Herod’s weakness for being entertained, his lust, his buckling under peer pressure. How is it that a powerful, seemingly principled man sells out his conscience when faced with such seemingly insignificant, internal forces? How do these forces have that much of a hold on him? How is he that weak? How is he that ignorant of the consequences?

That’s what makes this passage just so difficult to say something about: these forces seem so quiet and insignificant, but they cause such pain and disaster. Here, that includes the murder of a man the king knows to be holy and righteous. But such unspeakable things happen in our day, too, and in all sorts of ways. We need not look very far: men in power sacrificing their principles under the weight of seemingly insignificant forces. And of course, not only powerful men, but all of us: we all find ourselves in those moments of baffling weakness, surprising ourselves by our petty cruelty that can come out of nowhere. How do these forces have that much of a hold on us? How are we this weak? Do we not know the consequences? What in the world can we say about any of this?

Here’s what the Christian says: “all of this is what we call ‘sin.’” This is the kind of power that sin has over this world and over each one of us. Sin’s power is quiet and corrupting. Augustine of Hippo often called sin a “sickness,” a kind of disease that infects us, lurking and festering and causing all kinds of damage. Sicknesses don’t always present outwardly, but they can destroy us inwardly, and eventually, can have drastic consequences on those around us––and so it is with the power of sin. Just this is what happens to Herod, and just this is what happens to you and me, and our entire earthly lot. We’re at a loss for words because this strangely secretive and seemingly insignificant force takes advantage of us and causes us to do things we just can’t understand.

Now, none of this is to give an excuse––not for Herod and not for any of us here. There are no excuses when it comes to sin, even when we Christians speak of sin as a sickness, as a power that has its silent hold on us––Augustine insisted on this, too. Our sins are our own faults––period, full stop. No, this isn’t to give an excuse, but to give it a name, to remind ourselves that this condition has a diagnosis: we are sinners, and the impact of the sin we carry can be simply staggering, even surprising ourselves.

Now, the death of John clearly anticipates the death of Jesus. That seems to be what Mark’s Gospel has in mind: the Forerunner goes ahead of the Eternal Son, even toward death by the power of sin. The death of the Baptizer gives us a glimpse into what’s about to unfold––no, what’s always been unfolding, “from before the foundation of the world” (Ephesians 1:4): all of the careless, chaotic, sin-drenched cruelty of this world comes crashing down on the cross of Jesus Christ. This silent force disrupting our lives, this sin which plagues humanity, finds its end on Calvary. The quiet force of sin will be done and dealt with––has been done and dealt with!––once and for all. As anticipated by the death of John, and as accomplished by the cross of Christ, sin is finished business.

But of course, sin doesn’t always feel like finished business, now does it? Stories like this one from Mark remind us that anticipation is comforting, but there’s something still unresolved. There’s a “not yet” about it all. Sin is done and dealt with, and yet, it is alive and well, in subtle ways and in enormous ways. And, as the old Prayer Book puts it, “the burden…is intolerable” (BCP 331).

And here’s where I want to leave you this morning: just this is why we make our confessions, day by day, week by week, confessing for things known and unknown, things done and left undone, our thoughts, words and deeds, not because sin hasn’t been dealt with by our Lord, and also not because confession will keep us from sinning once more. No, we confess our sins because, in doing so, we anticipate the complete realization of all things: all sin being put away forever, and no torment ever touching us again. When we confess our sins, we “set our hope on Christ” (Ephesians 1:12), to use Paul’s fine phrase. So he writes to the Ephesians: “In [Christ], we have redemption through his blood, the forgiveness of our trespasses, according to the riches of his grace that he lavished on us…This is the pledge of our inheritance toward redemption…” (Ephesians 1:7–8, 14). This is the drama of our redemption from the terrible bondage of sin: announced and anticipated by the prophets; accomplished by the free grace of Jesus Christ; and continually remembered by the faithful with repentant hearts. And may such remembrance and repentance be ours this day. Amen.