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Here’s a sermon I preached yesterday. It’s a little longer than most of my sermons. This quote sums it all up—Blaise Pascal: “The agony of Christ will last until the end of the world; we must not slumber during this agony.”
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Title: Silent Victims. Date: July 17, 2006. Lectionary Text: Mark 6:14-29.

Another absurd murder. Another life killed. Escalating violence. Unceasing suffering.

This is the world of this past week just as much as it is the world of Mark’s gospel. John the Baptist’s beheading wasn’t necessarily a unique event during the Roman occupation of Palestine—and, you could say, it’s hard to see how it wouldn’t fit in our world today, except that we use more sophisticated methods.

For the sake of the stability of Palestine, Herod and others in the Roman administration had to douse the wild-fires of revolution spreading across the countryside by silencing protesting voices—and sometimes, like in the case of Jesus’ comrade, John, the best way to quiet the tongue, to silence a protest, was to cut off a head.

But we don’t remember this story in Mark 6 as just another example of the violence Empires think is necessary to stay afloat in a sea of anarchic terror. For some reason Mark thinks this murder is an important piece in the story of Jesus. But the funny thing about this episode in the drama is that Mark doesn’t really explain why we should think it’s important; Mark doesn’t tell us why John’s death is significant. He doesn’t explain why this bit of information fits in the plot development. Right after the story of John’s beheading, Mark returns to the disciples’ adventures as if the past 16 verses—the ones we just heard—didn’t even happen. Except that he just spent all that time telling us about it. What’s Mark up to? Why is this detailed story important?

We walk away from the text very curious. And here’s the question I think Mark forces us to think about: Is this death important to us? (repeat) If you want to say yes, like I do, then we have to ask a follow up question: How do we make this death significant to us? Mark doesn’t do the work for us. He leaves us on our own. How do we give this death significance? How do we make it important for our understanding of the story of Jesus? Let’s keep those questions in the back of our minds as we work our way through the text, like detectives.

We can be sure of one thing: Mark wants to make sure we don’t forget John’s beheading. In fact, Mark doesn’t spend anything close to this much time on any other scene in his drama, except, of course, the passion of Jesus at the end. When comparing Mark’s gospel to the others, commentators will always point out how Mark almost tells the story of Jesus’ ministry in fast-forward so he can get to the important part, Jesus’ death. That’s why Mark’s favorite word is “immediately”—Jesus performs miracles in a town, then immediately gets on a boat and gets on with the story. That’s the typical flow of the narrative. Jesus is the focal character, and Mark wants to get Jesus to Jerusalem quickly so he can start telling us about the passion of Christ.

But, for some strange reason, Mark interrupts the story he’s telling; he disturbs his pace; he makes us slow down and shift our attention from Jesus to John, that strange man from the desert. As our eyes try to keep up with Mark’s fast-paced story, we get caught on a rough edge—the cameras abruptly cut away from the film’s leading man and fix our gaze on another character, someone who appeared in the first scene (at the baptism of Jesus), and who we thought already had his 5 minutes of fame.

Surprisingly, the main character in this episode isn’t too interested with Jesus; Herod doesn’t give Jesus a second thought. He’s too busy worrying about John. Here’s 6:16—“But when Herod heard of it (that is, the news about Jesus’ growing popularity), he said, ‘John, whom I beheaded, has been raised.’” And you can feel the camera zoom in on Herod’s wide eyes as he turns his head, and stares off into the distance… as his memory replays a traumatic experience. And then, in a flashback, Mark gives us all the juicy details of Herodias’ scheme to have John killed on the night of Herod’s birthday party.

There’s a banquet. Food everywhere. Bottomless glasses of drink. The party lasts well into the night. Then there’s a seductive dance and Herod makes an oath that he must keep in order to save face with his important guests. And the story ends with John’s head on platter, for all the party to see. Herodias finally succeeds in silencing John’s protest.

And, strangely, silence is all we get from John as well. John’s death unfolds without a word from him. No chance to argue his case. His fate is decided in his absence, as he sits in prison. The passage ends with John’s disciples taking the body and laying it to rest in a tomb. And then John fades out of the story. And so does Herod. I think that’s important to notice. In Mark’s account of Jesus’ trial and death, Herod does not appear—that’s a difference from the other Gospels. Jesus is executed by the chief priests and Pilate, not Herod.

So, we know Mark doesn’t tell us this story in order to warn us about Herod, to give us a peak into the psychology of Jesus’ nemesis, the killer who will send him to the cross. Not at all. This king Herod is not important for the rest of the story. And neither is John. So, why does Mark spill so much ink over this, at best, seemingly tangential event—John’s beheading?

Ok, why is all this detective work important? Well, here’s the point I want to make, what I see as the message of this text. And it’s very profound so prepare yourself. Are you at the edge of your seat yet? Ok, here it is: John’s death is pointless. Ok, yeah, not so profound. But humor me for a moment; hear me out on this one: John’s death is pointless, it’s senseless. King Herod cuts off John’s head for no significant reason—In other words, this event doesn’t really strike us as important to the story of Jesus…

And isn’t that also the case when we hear about more deaths, more violence, around the world? There’s been so much death this past week, and it seems so senseless—somebody killed over a grudge, like Herodias’ grudge. Countless victims of war, of crime, of murder. But it’s hard to see how the names mean anything to us. Those people don’t play a role in the story of our lives, at least we don’t live and act like they do. They don’t really fit. They are senseless. Senseless violence. Victims of someone else’s madness. And that’s what Mark gives us in the middle of his story about Jesus—a senseless beheading, the product of a drunken oath.

I can only imagine what many of you might be thinking at this point: “Isaac, what a depressing message! I mean, we don’t need any help noticing the terrible violence around us. And now you’re telling us that this is just the way things go! And even Mark has to admit that! And that’s what he’s doing with the story of John the Baptist!”

Well, before you throw hymnals at me, give me a chance to bring it all together. I want to return to that question I asked at the beginning: How do we make this death significant to us? We have to ask that question when we consider John’s beheading, and when we hear and see the victims of the violence of this world.

And this is how I think Mark wants us to answer it—we have look to the end of the story: John’s death is significant because Jesus takes into himself the wounds of all victims as he breathes his last on the cross. Let me say that again, John’s death is significant because Jesus takes into himself the wounds of all victims as he breathes his last on the cross. Jesus’ crucifixion gives John’s beheading significance, and in turn makes all deaths important. When Mark includes John’s beheading in the middle of Jesus’ story, even when it doesn’t contribute anything to the unfolding drama, Mark wants us to see that every senseless death finds a place in Jesus’ story. The killing belongs in Jesus’ story even when we can’t figure out why or how, even when we fail at making connections. It’s already there. John’s beheading shows us that victims of violence, even when senseless, belong to the story of Jesus.

Mark knows that the story of Jesus must include senseless deaths like John’s, because Jesus himself, our savior, our Lord, is the victim of pointless violence. When telling the story of the trial, Mark makes it clear that the enemies of Jesus have no legitimate reason to kill him. Mark turns the trial into a joke, complete fabrication. If it wasn’t so tragic, it would be humorous—a comedy of errors. Let me read Mark 14:55-61:

The chief priests and the whole Sanhedrin were looking for evidence against Jesus so that they could put him to death, but they didn’t find any. Many testified falsely against him, but their statements did not agree. Then some stood up and gave false testimony against him: ‘We heard him say, “I will destroy this man-made temple and in three days will build another, not made by man.” Yet even then their testimony did not agree. Then the high priest stood up before them and asked Jesus, ‘Are you not going to answer? What is this testimony that these men are bringing against you?’ But Jesus remained silent and gave no answer.

Not only does Mark display the absurdity of those fabricated reasons for the killing of Jesus, Mark also highlights Jesus’ silence before those who have already decided his fate. The passage I just read ends with Jesus’ silence before the chief priests and Sanhedrin. And the next day Jesus gives the same silence to Pilate. I’ll read Mark 15:1-5:

Very early in the morning, the chief priests, with the elders, the teachers of the law and the whole Sanhedrin, reached a decision. They bound Jesus, led him away and handed him over to Pilate. ‘Are you the king of the Jews?’ asked Pilate. ‘Yes, it is as you say.’ Jesus replied. The chief priests accused him of many things. So again Pilate asked him, ‘Aren’t you going to answer? See how many things they are accusing you of.’ But Jesus still made no reply, and Pilate was amazed.

You see, there is no legitimate reason why Pilate and all the others should kill him, and so there is no reason Jesus can give to change their minds. So, Jesus dies in silence. He is a silent victim like John. And their silence reveals the madness of those who want to kill them. There was no good reason for anyone to kill Jesus; it was absurd, the product of a world drunk on power. Do you hear how John’s beheading and Jesus’ death are somewhat the same? The two stories resonate. Jesus’ trial and death echoes back into the story of John. And John’s beheading, in all its absurdity, all its senselessness, points us ahead to the death of Jesus. And from that perspective, from the cross, we can look back and see the light of Christ through John’s death.

God’s light, the hope of the gospel, is here, but it’s hard to see. Who wants to look at death? Who wants to gaze into the darkness? But that’s exactly what Mark makes us do with John’s beheading—we have to look death in the eyes, without shifting. Because Christ died like that. And once we see how Christ died like that, then we can begin to learn the mystery of a Savior, a Liberator, the Prince of Peace, who comes to us with open wounds.

The light of the good news is here, in this story, even in the darkness. “The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness cannot overcome it.” The cross of Christ calls us into a gospel that doesn’t run away from darkness, but asks us to find our suffering Jesus in the victims of our world’s violence. Let me say that again, the victims of this world’s violence help us re-learn the sufferings of Jesus. Jesus shares in the pain and death of all victims of senseless violence.

We cannot forget the scars of Jesus—it’s important to remember that the resurrected Jesus comes to his disciples with wounds… his body still bears the marks of suffering. The hope of Christ’s everlasting life poured out for the world flows in the blood that came down from the cross, from Jesus’ side as soldiers pierced his body. Jesus bears the marks of death, he takes human suffering into his body, and those marks are not erased, they are not forgotten. His body remembers with scars. His body remembers with scars.

We are this body. That’s what the Ephesians passage we read tonight is all about—Eph 1:13: “you are also included in Christ.” And as Christ’s body we cannot separate our remembrance of Jesus, and his senseless sufferings, from the suffering of all victims of a world gone mad with violence. The body of Jesus is linked, in its very fibers, to the bodies of all silent victims. Broken bodies show us again the body of Christ broken for us, the blood of Christ shed for us. When we turn our gaze into the sufferings of this world, the victims who die in silence, without a voice, we see again the agony of Jesus’ brokenness.

And then we see how those sufferings give us new eyes to look upon our wounded Savior, the slain lamb. This is a call to learn those painful stories, to listen carefully to those silent victims, to learn the absurdity of their deaths, the senselessness of the violence that sent them to their graves. For, like John, their senseless deaths witness to Christ’s death. That darkness sheds new light on the darkened cross—a cross that lays in the shadows of 2000 years, hidden from view by history, dead to our senses. John’s beheading turns us to the cross of Christ; and that cross, in turn, points us to all the death in this world. For Christ shares in those deaths; Christ shares in that pain; Christ shares in those sufferings. The mysteries of the cross continue to flow from each episode of senseless violence.

This sermon is quite different from the most recent trend of my preaching. Usually I find some way to call us to turn to our neighbor, the fellow worshiper next to you, and learn the gift of God’s love from one another. I usually talk about how we, the gathered community, the church, is the site of God’s revelation, the place where God speaks his Word of hope.

But our gospel text from Mark tonight won’t let me say that, no matter what sort of interpretive gymnastics I apply to Scripture. This message is a call to look outside of ourselves, and toward the victims of our world’s senseless violence, a world drunk on power, and find God’s broken voice in that suffering. Remember John is not a disciple of Jesus; he is not part of the community that gathered together to follow Jesus; John actually has his own disciples. So, a turn to John to see how Christ’s cross echoes in that story is a turn to a victim who suffers outside this community of disciples.

This isn’t a pleasant message, I know that. But neither is our Scripture from Mark 6 a pleasant story. And the gospel shouldn’t be an escape route from pain, suffering, and darkness. That famous line of Karl Marx should always haunt us as we attempt to live out our faith. He said, “religion is the opiate of the masses.” Christianity should not be an escape route from the darkness, a drug to kill the pain, to cloud our eyes from disturbing violence. Our mascot shouldn’t be the ostrich, who sticks its head in the ground when trouble appears on the horizon.

If our religion is different from the host of others, if our faith is at all unique, part of it has to be that we worship a defenseless, silent victim. Yes, he is resurrected. But his wounds are not bandaged, covered over, hidden from sight—they are open, and they pulse with the blood of all victims.

All that I’m trying to say in found in a quote from Pascal, writing in the seventeenth-century—here it is: “The agony of Christ will last until the end of the world; we must not slumber during this agony.”

My question for us tonight is this: How do we stay awake? How do we resist the temptation to slumber and escape to pleasant dreams when it gets dark outside?