8th Sunday of Pentecost Sermon

It’s King Herod’s birthday and – in honor of himself – he’s throwing a banquet for his courtiers, when in comes his step-daughter, Herodias (known elsewhere as Salome), and dances for him. The scriptures say that it “pleased Herod.”

It seems to have pleased Herod very much, so much so, in fact, that he offered to give her whatever she asked for, even as much as half of his kingdom. That must have been quite a dance. And if you think it’s just a little bit creepy that a step-father would be so affected by his step-daughter’s dancing, let’s just say that this is one messed up family: incest, fathers killing their sons to preserve their power, and (in one case) a brother who married his own niece who was subsequently seduced by her brother-in-law whom she later married.

It was this wife, in fact, whose daughter by her first marriage was now dancing before Herod – the step-father who used to be her uncle (and is also probably a cousin of some sort). It’s okay if you’re confused by the family-tree here. You should be. I am. This family is a disaster.)

But while all this dancing and promise-making was happening in the banquet hall, elsewhere, in Herod’s prison, sat John the Baptist. John was in prison because he’d been publicly denouncing Herod’s marriage to Herodias as unlawful by Jewish law. She had jettisoned her first marriage for one that was more politically prestigious and John the Baptist was disclaiming it before everyone, making a mockery of her position in society and court.

And now, what a nice turn of events is before her:

Her husband has made a rash and foolish promise in front of everyone, that he would give his step-daughter whatever she asked for. And, flushed with excitement by the sensation she’s created, she runs straight away to her mother to ask for advice. Surely, she’s old enough to be aware that there are unwritten codes of diplomacy when it comes to gift-giving, codes that she’s too inexperienced to understand, so she seeks her mother’s council.

A smile slowly etches itself across her face, like a fissure in plaster. “Tell him you want the head of John the Baptist.”

So – young and foolish, without a thought for her complicity in evil – she races back to the banquet hall and asks for John’s head. And, with a flourish of her own devising, she mockingly adds, “On a platter!”

Suddenly Herod sobers up, regretting his promise. But it’s too late. He’s made an oath in public that he can’t retract. And so, John, the prophet of God; John, the cousin of Jesus; John, the long-awaited Elijah, returned in the flesh; John, the vanguard of God’s redeeming of all creation; John the Baptist loses his head for the sake of a silly girl and her vindictive mother. The herald of God’s salvation is done in by a teenager who’s been swept away by the discovery of her budding sensuality and the power it has over drunken old men.

The story has been memorialized often through the centuries, usually by artists who themselves seem as creepy as Herod – fixated on the sensuous young dancer. Rarely is the image captured as starkly as the photo in your bulletin insert: John’s head already cut off and served on a platter.

Whenever I read this story it fills me with a sadness.

Salome is young and naïve, caught up in her vanity and the thrill of being the center of attention. The mother, however, knows just what she’s doing. Festering in the bitterness of later years, she’s murdering a righteous man, and pleased with the triumph of her scheming.

And therein lies my grief. For when Salome runs to her mother for advice, she’s given so much more than what she was asking for. Herodias is training her daughter in how to survive as member of court. And what lesson does she impart? but to let bitterness and revenge control the day – to use whatever opportunities come her way to destroy her enemies.

And though none of us hold positions of power in royal courts as this family did, all of us who are parents have the same influence over our children. God has given us our children to raise. We are the ones who first foster in them what it means to be a woman, to be a man, to be an image bearer of God. Everything we do: how we spend our money, how we talk about people, how we prioritize our lifestyle and values – everything is grooming them one way or another. And, as in the case of Herodias, if we allow bitterness and vindictiveness and self-centeredness to grow unchecked within us, it’s not only growing in us. It’s growing in our children as well.

When I was young I was fascinated by my Nana – my step-father’s step-mother. (I guess my family’s not that different from Herod’s!) Even as an old lady, Nana was stunning – with her silver hair piled high in an impressive beehive. She would lounge before dinner for cocktails, wearing bold jewelry and costumes she’d picked up in her travels around the world. And she had that je ne sais quoi to pull it off, magnificently. She would happily have held her place in court. She mesmerized me by her glamor. But by the time I was seven or eight years old, the grown-ups in our family became less guarded with their tongues. It became “okay” for them to complain about her and what a snob they thought she was. I was crestfallen. I remember clearly the transition taking place within me: “You’re not supposed to like Nana.” “You’re supposed to make fun of her behind her back.” And that’s what I began to do. And if I’m honest, now that my kids are grown and out of the home, I look back and see all the ways I’ve done the same with them – with my sloppiness of tongue and spirit.

But if we are followers of Jesus, we’re called to live better. Our children and grandchildren, our nieces and nephews, should witness in their elders a legitimate intention to pattern our lives on the way of Jesus.

And when we don’t do it perfectly (which we won’t), they get the next best thing. They should observe in us spirits of remorse and repentance and a lived-intention to rectify the situation. They should witness their elders apologizing to one another, and to their children, for their mistakes. And they should witness elders who forgive. Just as they should see us buying food for those in need or cooking meals to deliver to families in need. It is how we actually prioritize the way we live that will chart the formative paths of our children. This isn’t “one more thing” to put on our already too-congested to-do list as parents. It is bigger than that – more elemental than that. It is a resolve to choose Christ, as our model, as our destination, and our true self.

Even if the children in our lives have already grown into adulthood, we can still care for them by modeling an ongoing commitment to our formation in Christ. If they see us releasing the bitterness we’ve held against people for years, if they see us becoming more charitable and understanding towards those we once mocked, if we actually apologize to our children for the ways we hurt them or failed them in their youth, then our growth and healing will open the door for their own hope for healing in their lives, and the lives of their children.

Our formative influence on our children never ends. It is never too late to choose the way of Jesus for ourselves, and so witness to our children the pathway of love and grace and a humility that is ready to release the hostility we have clung to for so long.

I remember a colleague telling me the story of his dying father. The thing he craved most from him was simply the recognition of how traumatizing it was when he chose to divorce his mother for another woman and to leave the family behind. He was weary of justifications and excuses. He just wanted to hear from his dad that he understood how hard it had been and that he was sorry. And by that point in his life, all my friend wanted to do was to forgive and for them to rest in God’s grace together.

How much better, though, for all of us, were we to choose the pattern of repentance and forgiveness while we still have years and years to share together – parents and children joining as true companions on the journey towards God and the way of God.

History shows us that Salome continued on the path her mother forged before her. In the years to come, she was married twice. Her first husband, Philip, was the half-brother of her step-father Herod Antipas. And so the family pattern prevailed for another incestuous generation.

May it not be so with us.

Our family trees may be less complex than Herod’s was. But all of our families have their share of pain and shame, generations of skeletons rattling in the closet: divorce, mental illness, incest; to say nothing of the ubiquitous woes of being misunderstood, dismissed, manipulated, disappointed. Each child is formed by a peculiar blend of her parents’ love and her parents’ brokenness. And as that child ages, she becomes complicit in the family legacy.

Such is the way of this broken world.

But Jesus offers us an alternative world. It’s not some idealized, super-humanity we can never attain. It’s not a world where we need to become bigger and better and stronger. To the contrary, it’s a world where we need to become weaker and more vulnerable and more honest, a world where, “I’m sorry” and “I’m scared” and “I forgive you” and “I want to do better” have the power to change everything. For that is domain of the Holy Spirit, and that is the beginning of true healing.

May the legacy we choose for our children be an ongoing commitment to our own formation in the way of Jesus, where bitterness gives way to kindness and vindictiveness is overturned by grace. And when our days are ended and our children gather to remember us, may they say that in us “mercy and truth have met together; [that in us] righteousness and peace have kissed” (Psalm 85:10).