Sermon preached at Evensong on the Third Sunday after Trinity 2025

Genesis 29: 1–20, Mark 6: 7–29

The death of John the Baptist, as we heard in the second lesson, was a sordid affair. Sources suggest that Herod marrying his brother’s wife—which John had argued against and was imprisoned for his pains—would have been the very least of the sexual irregularities going on in that Royal Household. Herod’s ludicrous promise to his dancing daughter, offering half his kingdom, fuelled presumably by alcohol and, I fear, the dark excitement of transgressive desire, sets in train a tragic and macabre sequence, culminating in a dish that displayed the gory truth behind this birthday boy and his hold on power. The head of a prophet, on a platter, brutally silenced.

Can we imagine John that evening, down in the prison? Could he sense the distant revelries, resonating down to the stones of his cell? How early could he hear the approaching guard? What went through his mind? Was he being called up again to speak with Herod? What particular immorality would he have to address this time? Speaking truth to power has never been easy, even for a prophet. When did it become plain that the soldier’s intentions were grim? How did John cope with the sudden mortal fear? Did he find strength, knowing that the Lamb of God was still at large; trusting that this final decrease, his death, would not be the end of that story, or his?

John is the forerunner of Christ in his death as much as in his active ministry, although he couldn’t have known that, only trusted it as the soldier approached. John is the handy scapegoat for all the tussles and rivalries, and sexual infidelities in Herod’s court, which is a microcosm. John foreshadows in small scale what Jesus will suffer on a wider political, even, we believe, cosmic scale. John is the innocent victim, whose sacrifice makes a kind of peace between Herod and his wife and quietens (for now) any doubts his distinguished guests might have about the veracity of his oaths, his grip on power.

Of course, what Herod fears—a fear to which he gives voice—is that John will somehow return, that he will be raised. Herod rightly intuits that the return of the scapegoat—the one on whom his sins were solemnly, violently laid—can only reveal John’s innocence and uncover the injustice of his murder; it can only show Herod the truth about himself, the truth about his relationships and his power that John’s death was meant to keep hidden, quiet.

What Herod doesn’t realise (can’t imagine) is that the one whom he thinks is John raised, raised to bring judgement upon him, this Lamb of God is the one, the only one, who can offer hope to a debauched Monarch, or to a condemned prisoner; or indeed, to anyone.

The two readings we heard this evening don’t, on the surface of it, appear to have much in common. We heard, in the first reading, the circumstances by which Jacob, whilst fleeing his brother’s entirely understandable anger, (having been cheated by Jacob, whose very name figuratively means ‘deceiver’), meets Rachel, the daughter of his uncle Laban. Jacob is about to find the boot upon the other foot, as Laban will then deceive him into marrying, not the delectable Rachel, but the less appealing Leah (despite her lovely eyes). The deceiver is about to be deceived.

We are told that Jacob was happy to offer seven years of labour in order to gain Rachel’s hand in marriage, because of his great love for her. But what kind of ‘love’ do we think this was? We are told that Jacob, somewhat presumptively kissed Rachel almost the moment he saw her. Yes, she was a cousin, but do we get a sense that this was more than just family affection? What about that gratuitous macho display of rolling the stone away from the well to allow Rachel’s flock to drink? It seems likely that Jacob was driven by some more basic instincts, as he weighed up the relative merits of Rachel (graceful and beautiful, we are told) and her sister (with the lovely eyes).

Of course, marital relations between cousins would have been no cause for scandal back then, but we shouldn’t sanitise what is going on here. Jacob is a young man, driven by powerful urges, which his uncle is going to use to his own advantage.

Herod, gazing upon his dancing daughter, is going to be played by Herodias, who no doubt knows very well the proclivities of her new husband. Male desire links these two readings—the power of it, and, ironically, its vulnerability.

Both Jacob and Herod end up acting irrationally, behaving in ways that would confound their better judgement. Herod has murdered a man he admires, and Jacob offers up his best years serving a conniving uncle.

No doubt we (not just the men among us, or indeed just the young) are meant to hear a cautionary note in both these stories. Be careful with your desires; don’t let them rule you.

Of course, it isn’t just sexual desire we need to keep a handle on. Our desire to possess, more generally, can lead us equally into deceptions, jealousies and rivalries with one another.

Like Herod, we find it hard to imagine a way out of our ways of operating with one another, our patterns of desire. We fall for our desires again and again, putting all our hope in them, leaving us, generally, unsatisfied.

But the Lamb of God, in whom John hoped, offers something different, unique. He is the one who comes to us, the scapegoat risen from death, having carried the weight of all sin, and desires only peace for us. Peace, and an invitation to follow, to learn (slowly, falteringly perhaps) how we may desire the things that are worth desiring—those things that do not pitch us into rivalry and deceit with one another—to set our minds, as we find in Colossians 3, on things that are above, not things that are on the earth. 

We are given the Holy Spirit specifically to strengthen us in this following; in this tutoring and refining of our desire. It is an especial challenge given the materialism of our age; a materialism that reduces everything, people included, into things to possess and to deceive and compete for. But may we never lose hope that there is another way, a way prepared by the courageous Baptist; the new and living way that Christ, our God and not our rival, has opened for us by his death and resurrection; a refocusing and refining of our desire by the Holy Spirit, so that we may be led not by the nose (or worse) but by the very best and very finest of our God-given powers.